Hot Summer's Knight
Read Hot Summer's Knight Online
Authors: Jennie Reid
HOT SUMMER’S KNIGHT
BY
JENNIE REID
Copyright © 2014 by J.E Reid
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
January, 1195
Sir Gilbert hunched low behind his horse’s neck, desperate for the little shelter from the elements the beast could provide. Melting snow saturated his thick, woollen cloak. The rivulet of sleet inside his leather jerkin caressed his skin like the icy hand of death himself.
He shuddered, not entirely from the cold.
The tavern’s ale sat sourly in his stomach. Perhaps it had been tainted, Gilbert thought, although he’d always believed Hugh Taverner produced as good a drop as could be had anywhere between here and Bordeaux.
Fear, he knew, turned the best amber ale to acid.
The Count, known for neither his generosity nor his concern for the care and wellbeing of his retainers, had despatched the captain of his guard to the tavern at Pontville for one reason, and one reason only: to gather information. Now the sought-after news buzzed in Gilbert’s head like a nest of angry wasps, stinging his conscience, stirring up his misgivings.
Gilbert had completed his task with his customary efficiency, but the thought held no pleasure.
The news he carried would not please the Count. Fulk de Betizac liked events to proceed according to plan. Those closest to him tended to suffer most when plans went awry.
Gilbert dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. Dawdling achieved nothing. Better to get the task over and done with than prolong the agony.
Before long he caught a glimpse of Castle Betizac above the tops of the trees. The castle appealed to the soldier in him, representing, as it did, undoubtedly the best the century had to offer in efficient military technology. The serrated ridge of battlements topped a sheer, grey curtain wall, behind which loomed the dark tower of the keep. Twin towers flanked massive, iron bound gates. Above them the portcullis hung, ready to be dropped at the first sighting of an enemy.
Gilbert rode up to those gates bellowing his demand for admission to the guards on duty. Inside the castle the warmth of the guard house fire would be abandoned as well-trained men scurried to do his bidding.
Minutes later he rode under the portcullis and into the courtyard, where a groom stood ready to hold his horse while he dismounted. Gilbert barely noticed him. As captain of the Count’s guard he was used to instant obedience.
He was a big man, well over six feet tall, and with a few long strides he was at the heavy oak door of the keep. Battling a bitter wind, he wrenched the door open. Once inside, he brushed the sleet from his cape, and climbed the stairs to the Count’s chamber.
Despite the uneven stairs, especially designed to slow intruders, Gilbert soon reached the Count’s door. Too soon. He and his men may well be ordered to ride, winter or no winter, once the Count digested the news he was bringing.
He knocked, his metal-spiked gauntlet sounding loud in his ears.
“Come!” roared a voice. Sir Gilbert pushed the heavy door, and it swung silently inwards.
He paused on the threshold. This room never ceased to amaze him. Outside, the grim grey castle was all stark functionality; in here, all was luxury, luxury taken to decadent extremes.
A vast bed, laden with furs of every shade from deep brown to silver grey, dominated the room. Richly hued tapestries covered the stone walls; thick Turkish rugs, the floors. The single window, paned in genuine glass and rumoured to have cost a small fortune, admitted weak winter light. A wood fire crackled and hissed in the fireplace. The intricate carvings of its mantel and supports depicted men and women entwined in unnatural acts of passion.
The Count sat on the far side of a long table. His usual black garments, made of the finest silks and velvets, would have looked even more impressive, thought Gilbert, if the Count had allowed his manservant to brush away the days-old food stains.
The cleaning of his fingernails absorbed the Count’s immediate attention. He used the lethal tip of a small Spanish dagger. No lady’s knife this, its finely honed, gleaming steel blade bore the sheen only well-used weapons acquire.
He glanced up as his visitor entered.
“Ah, Gilbert,” he drawled, sheathing the blade in a concealed scabbard in his boot, and leaning forward, “What news, man, what news?”
Gilbert eyed the comfortable chair to the left of the table. He’d ridden long and hard through rain and sleet in the Count’s service, but he knew he’d be expected remain at attention. He shifted on his feet, being careful not to let melting sleet drip onto the precious Turkish carpets.
He cleared his throat. The sooner he got this over with, the better.
“The old Lord’s dead, my Lord Count.”
“Dead? You’re sure?”
“Positive, sir. I spoke with several people at Pontville. He’d had the wasting disease badly for nearly a year, and he hadn’t been well for a long time before that, as you know. He died peacefully, in his sleep, two nights ago. The funeral’s on the Sabbath.”
Gilbert held his breath, and waited. The Count straightened in his chair and rubbed his hands together with relish he made no attempt to conceal.
“And the girl? What’re they saying about the girl? Will she marry?”
“Evidently not, sir. They’re saying…” Gilbert hesitated. He’d fought on battlefields across Europe, he’d taken part in more sieges than he cared to remember, on both sides of the castle wall, but he’d never met a man who frightened him as much as this Count. This man was evil, through and through. He’d buried three wives already, so rumour said. What hope would a young woman have against him?
“Well?”
“They’re saying she intends to rule on her own, my Lord Count. She’s been taking her father’s place for nearly a year and…” he took a deep breath, and rushed on, “She intends to rule in the name of her absent husband.”
“Husband? Husband! Hah!” The Count threw back his head and laughed.
At first Gilbert was relieved; the Count’s reaction was not what he’d expected. His relief was short-lived. Not only was the sound unpleasant, great gales of the Count’s foul breath, caused no doubt by the blackened stumps of his rotting teeth, blasted into Gilbert’s face.
“But she’s a widow as well as an orphan, Gilbert!” The Count pushed his chair back, and strode to a brass-bound trunk beneath the window. From it he drew a smaller, plain, wooden box, which he tossed to his captain.
“Open that, Gilbert, open that! There’s no-one in my way now her father’s gone! You can’t count the monkish brother, his precious books are worth more to him than his heritage!”
Gilbert snapped open the box. Inside it a man’s ring, finely crafted in silver, lay in a nest of deep blue velvet.
“Note well the coat of arms, my good captain.” The Count leaned back in his chair, his smug smile reminiscent of that of a well-fed predator.
“It’s not familiar to me, sir.”
The Count laughed again.
“Her husband’s ring, Gilbert! He was slain at Hattin over seven years ago. Seven long years I’ve waited for the old man to die. Now the girl’s alone, just waiting for me to come to her rescue.”
Gilbert closed the box, and returned it to the Count.
“Do we ride then? Do you want my men to bring the girl to you?”
“No, fool, my plans are a little more subtle than that.” The Count swung his booted feet onto the table. “No, Gilbert, we will not take her now. We’ll wait until their midsummer fair, and go to her with fair words and pretty speeches. The girl will’ve had enough of managing on her own by then. She’ll welcome the attentions of her wealthy and generous neighbor.”
Gilbert wondered precisely what sort of attentions the Count had in mind. And what would happen if the girl did not agree to the Count’s propositions?
“But my Lord Count, the fair…” As soon as the words were out of his mouth Gilbert knew he shouldn’t have spoken.
“Yes, Gilbert?”
“The peasants will not appreciate it if the peace of the fair is broken.”
“Peasants – bah!” spat the Count, “what do I care what her peasants might think? They’ll soon be
my
peasants, and they’ll know who’s master then!” He turned away.
Gilbert knew when he was dismissed. Backing out of the door, he quietly pulled it shut. He never turned his back to the Count, not out of respect, but from a very real fear of finding a knife between his shoulder blades one day. He made his way carefully down the uneven stairs towards his own quarters near the gates.
Someone had lit the fire for him. He’d find out who, and thank them later. He hung his dripping cloak on a peg behind the door, and unlaced his leather jerkin.
Using his foot he hooked a three-legged stool over to the hearth. Soon the warmth penetrated his damp garments, and his spirits rose, a little. The meeting with the Count hadn’t gone anywhere nearly as badly as it could have.
He was good at his job, he knew. He was a fighting man with over twenty years experience, rarely bested with the long sword, and unequalled with his favorite weapon, the English bow. He wondered whether it might not be time to move on once more. To resume his search.
“La Bonne” her people called the young woman who now ruled half this valley in the name of her absent husband; “The Good” in his own language. Her people loved her and had loved her father, as much as the Count’s peasants hated and feared their Lord.
Gilbert sighed, and scratched his bushy blond beard. A job was a job when all was said and done. He’d stay here for a while longer, and see what happened.
CHAPTER ONE
The following summer…
“Get out of my kitchen!”
The cook’s roar was followed by the sound of breaking pottery.
Berenice finished wringing out a linen cloth to place over the dough. The intruder was standing, trembling on the kitchen doorstep, the shards of the cook’s missile at his feet. Gerard the stable boy was ten years old and small with it. He quivered with fear all the way from his shaggy brown hair to his dirty toes.
“I’ll take care of it, Robert,” she called across the room. “What is it, child?” she said to the boy.
“S-s-s-sir William s-s-sent me,” he stuttered, nervously glancing in the cook’s direction.
“Sir William sent you,” she repeated, steering him out of the doorway, into the bright sunshine of the courtyard.
