How to Train Your Knight: A Medieval Romance Novel

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR KNIGHT

STELLA MARIE ALDEN

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR KNIGHT

Copyright©2015

STELLA MARIE ALDEN

Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-61935-
804-1

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Thanks to my husband,

my best friend,

my in-house editor,

and the one who taught me to dream big.

Chapter 1

Year of our Lord 1276

“By God, drag her down here! Naked, if you must! Bread and water from now to eternity if you can’t!” Sir Marcus Blackwell slammed his fist on the well-worn table and the sound echoed back from every direction.
Of all the bad luck. Forced into marriage with a foul-mouthed, murderous widow.

He clenched his teeth when the next bout of high-pitched screams and curses exploded from the floor above. Crashes, clanging, and banging followed. He cringed as the Lady Ann’s strident screaming rang throughout the stone manor and probably into the courtyard.

“He can’t steal my lands this easily. He’ll live just long enough to rue this day. I shall never, ever, turn my people over to a blood-thirsty, gold-grabbing beast. I’d rather be cursed to hell. Nay, verily, I’d rather marry the devil himself than see myself married to him.”

Beast
? He’d strangle the minstrel who’d taken his sword’s moniker and baptized him with it instead. He was a holy crusader, deserving of respect, not an animal.

Crossing himself while counting to ten, he paced the dark hall lit by a single weak torch. Shadows danced across dark tapestries, beyond a hearth the size of two horses, and over enough tables to feed a small army. Thatch crunched under his boots, releasing a perfume of lavender and grasses. He stopped for a respite of blessed silence.
What in God’s creation have I stepped into?

When the mayhem started up again, it was from his first-in-command, Thomas D’Agostine. “The devil take it, watch out. A knife!” A dagger fell upon stone with a metallic clatter.

“Damnation. The bitch nicked me.” The smack of a hand against skin, a female yelp of pain, then the battle paused momentarily.

“Enough!” The king’s command would be obeyed. Certainly, she’d have to understand that. He stood at the foot of the massive stone staircase and waited for the thundering echoes to cease before continuing at a lesser volume. Envisioning the vile creature, he shuddered. It was far too late to retreat now. He’d wanted the land and bedding the ancient hag was part of the bargain. “I said, do her no harm. Gag, bind, and blindfold the wench if you must. For the love of God, she’s, but one woman.”

“Excuse me, sir? Am I—”

Marcus swiveled, squinted into the first rays of the rising sun, and clasped the well-worn hilt of his sword. “Brother John?” He let go of his weapon and opened both arms wide in greeting. “Forgive me, a leftover habit. Come in. Come in.”

The lone figure in the arched doorway stood still with both hands high while oversized sleeves swallowed him whole. Were all of his new subjects mad?

“I said you can lower your arms and enter. ‘Tis a simple enough request. I already explained to the elder brother that I mean you no harm.”

The boy, mayhap the ripe old age of ten and six, stepped another foot into the room.

“Now put your arms down.” He tried to smile, but the task was elusive. “Come now, even
The Beast of Thornhill
wouldn’t consider the slaughter of a holy man. Enter.”

The boy took three timid steps into the ancient Roman fortress and stood in retreat-readiness. “This morning is such a strange set of affairs. I’ve never seen lords and ladies act so—”

“I know all too well what to expect of nobility. Is that not the reason I’m here in this godforsaken, sheep-infested, hell-hole?”
What was taking Thomas so long?

“Aye, sir, but this behavior is mayhap not the way God intended your lifelong marriage to begin. You need to give the lady some time to adjust to the idea of another husband.” The whelp’s voice actually cracked. Then he shifted and reached under his brown tunic to scratch his behind.

This flea-infested boy questioned his authority?

Marcus toppled one chair after another with a fist until he was inches away from the boy’s shaking form. “Are you daft? She killed off her first husband. A noble knight. Put a dagger to his midsection while he slept. Watched his life’s blood slowly run out. Not an innocent lamb. Believe me, none of this is
my
doing. I’d rather sleep soundly in my father’s castle than worry if I’ll ever wake again.”

The boy refused to drop his gaze to the floor, which was impressive, as not many dared meet his well-honed stare. Marcus lowered his voice. “She’s lucky I don’t hang her instead of marry her. If the decision was mine to make, it’d be the first.”

Paling, Brother John stood fast. “Excuse me, Sir Blackwell, I know that rumors abound about the lady, but I can assure you, the lies are unfounded. Lady Ann is as gentle and graceful as—”

His mouth gaped open when Thomas descended the stairs and dropped a grunting, writhing, and kicking woman onto the mosaic floor at their feet. She attempted to push off the blindfold by rooting her nose into the floor under the thatch.

Marcus was momentarily too stunned to speak. “Good God. That is the she-witch?”

“Not what you expected, eh?” Thomas snickered.

“It can’t be. This woman must be her daughter. Where’s the widow?” He turned to Brother John. “Well?”

“Th-Th-That be the Lady Ann. You should n-n-not . . .” He averted his eyes from the lady and blushed like a maiden.

“But the knife? The cussing? The screeching? She can’t be more than one and twenty.” He never let his eyes stray from her form as he circled her. Twice. His father had said she was a widow and witch so he’d assumed she’d be much older.

“Aye. Do you think Lord Thornhill left that part out as a great jest? I don’t remember the king mentioning her beauty, either.” Thomas scratched at his beard.

Marcus squatted and peered in a bit closer. The morning light was still weak, but he wasn’t blind. “Beauty? How can you tell? I see only strips of cloth and a nose.”

“I could remove the bindings for you.” He stepped forward and pulled out his knife.

“God’s blood, no! Leave her blind. She’d set the devil on all of us. You heard her curse. We’ll make certain she can’t see herself married to me to keep the devil at bay.” He crossed himself once again, just in case.

Her nose wrinkled and no-doubt cursed him from under her gag. Her gypsy-black hair pulled out of its net and lay in a mane of tangled curls. Lovely, maybe. Wild, most definitely. But God have mercy, under her linen nightshirt, the outline of her body was almost visible, including a dark shadow between her legs. He took off his cloak and covered her near-nakedness with a sense of possessiveness he wouldn’t have thought impossible just moments ago.

When the brave hell-cat kicked impotently at his leathered leggings, his cloak slid off her form. Firm calves, knees, and yes, even the tops of her soft thighs were laid bare for his approval. Only on marble statues had he ever seen a similar perfect form. Blood rushed to his loins and he shifted uncomfortably. His thoughts drifted to another kind of writhing; with him on top and her ankles locked around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. He covered her again with his mantle while his friend guessed his discomfort.

Thomas hooted with glee, slapped him on the back, and wrapped a clean linen cloth around the bloody gash on his left arm. With a wince, he said, “Aye, a fine catch. No doubt she’ll breed fine boys. If you can live through it. Watch out, though. Damn quick with that knife.”

“What in Hades has my father asked of me? Maybe he was right. She
is
born of incubus.”
Damn it all.
He knew better. The spell she’d placed on him had naught to do with magic and much to do with an almost-perfect, near-naked body lying at his feet. Her fiery nature only added to the attraction.

“Bah. Foolishness. Your choices are endless. You just have no imagination.” He sniggered and toed the girl gently. “You could always bed her until she brings you a son. You could be off to London and leave her here to run your affairs. Or get the truth from her and follow that with an execution. No matter. The lands are yours as soon as you marry.”

He scratched the stubble on his face while they stared down at her. One more of the sun’s rays shot through the door and bathed her in yellow. Mayhap God’s light was a sign that he should heed well. She wasn’t a demon or witch; more an angel. “You’ve the right of it. I legally could, but she’s a lady of high birth. At least my father left my options open.”

Thomas’ face turned serious. “But the king did not.”

“Aye, there’ll be a hanging if she killed the old knight. Such a waste of a pretty thing.”

“Then you think your father was overly optimistic with his request?”

“Possibly.” While they spoke, the woman came to a seated position. Her jaw, covered in a vicious red welt, jutted out regally. He’d seen grim expressions like that before, but not at a wedding. More so at an execution. Despite being in the right, guilt tugged at his conscience.

“Up with you. Time to get married.” From behind, he circled her waist, lifted her onto her feet, and his cloak again fell to the floor. With hands under her bountiful breasts and thumbs at her back, one index finger slipped up and he let it linger. The pert nub pebbled almost instantly.

She inhaled sharply, blushed, but didn’t curse him. Mayhap the bedding would be good and they could have a semblance of a normal marriage. As if she could read his mind, she came to life and tried to squirm out of his grasp. She tottered on her bound legs, turned, and grabbed for him blindly. A tiny cry came from behind the gag and her arse headed back toward the floor.

“I’ve got you, now,” he said, catching her in midair. His hands moved up and down her back and she shivered.

He bent, shook the rushes off his cloak, and placed it over her shoulders. “You’re cold. Be your own fault, you know. I gave you time to dress. Stay still now. I can’t change what the king has commanded.”

Her small hand clutched his arm and for a moment he swore her supple body relaxed back into him. The feminine strength of her grip and the way she fit against him so perfectly gave him a jolt of confusion. Maybe it was the way she smelled of spring grasses and wildflowers. Maybe she felt like redemption. Whatever it was, he didn’t let her go.

Instead, he leaned in and grazed his lips over the top of her ear. Her hair tickled at his nose. “I am sorry, my Lady, but you’ve given me little option. This would not be the way I’d have our wedding day begin.”

Brother John cleared his throat. Both he and Thomas were staring a bit too incredulously.

“What ails you? I’m just about making the lady more comfortable.” He pulled the gag off her mouth and was rewarded with mayhap the most perfect set of lips he’d ever seen. It was all he could do not to suck at the pouty lower one.

She flicked her tongue to wet them and he might have moaned if alone. “Thank you, Sir Beast.”

“Best you not call me that again, if you wish to gain my good favor. I’m here to put those days of battle to rest, forever.” He checked the edges of her blindfold. Not because he needed to, but because he wanted to touch her soft skin again. “Can you see anything at all?”

She shook her head, no, and black curls danced around her head.

“Good. The devil may have been in earshot and eager for a new wife and I don’t share, especially with him. What were you thinking? Have you no fear of God at all?”

While he sliced the rope holding her hands together, Brother John dragged an ornately carved dais out from a corner of the room. It screeched across the floor in protest. Thatch bunched at the bottom made for an odd wedding bouquet. Where the reeds had moved aside, ancient mosaic floor tile shined yellow in the early morning light.

“Begin.” Marcus crossed his arms over his chest and locked her hand in the crease of his elbow.
Mine
.

She tugged back, but he clamped his muscles tighter, holding her firmly in place.

The sun continued on its upward climb as if nothing was amiss; shining through the many notches on the east front wall. Light striped the ceiling, revealing the crisscross of thick wooden beams. Patches of tapestries went bright, causing small pastoral scenes to come to life, then they quickly went dark again.

She gasped and paled, even as the sun bathed her face in gold. “And do ye, Antoinette Veronique DeLaque take Marcus Damion Blackwell as your lawful husband and lord?”

Her hair flew about as she vehemently indicated in the negative.

He sighed, curled his hand around fingers so delicate, he wondered if they’d break. Then his palm covered her mouth and he caressed her cheek with a thumb. “She’s no more choice in this than I do. Just finish up. And be quick about it.”

The lady could’ve come willingly. She was the one who’d put up all the fuss. She’d knifed his first-in-command, for God’s sake. But her silent sobbing had something aching inside of him and it made his innards damned uncomfortable. “Allow her to go back to her chamber to clean and dress. I’ll claim what is mine shortly.”

She held her head high and spat in his general direction. The small pile of spittle landed near his boot. “You, Sir Blackwell, are a disgrace to knighthood.”

“And thou art no lady, so I’d guess we’re well matched.”

Brother John stepped in front of them. “Would you allow me to speak?”

He picked the monk up by his shoulders and set him out of the way. “Pray continue. Share with me your vast experiences on bedding a wife.”

Patience clearly at an end, Thomas swung the wildcat over his shoulder and ascended the staircase. When the shouting started again, Marcus cringed. Watching another man touch her, even the ever-loyal Thomas, irritated. On second thought, best not get too attached. She might be dead by day’s end.

Face reddened, but with resolved tone, Brother John continued. “Have you never had a fine horse?”

“Aye.”
Where in Hades had the woman learned such foul language?

“Maybe a high-strung charger?” He raised his eyebrows.

Aye, my mare, Midnight.” Marcus sighed when the shouting stopped. Had she finally given into the inevitable? His rod twitched under his tunic, painfully obvious it’d been too long since engaging in the act.

“Mayhap in her youth she was less yielding and took her own head?”

“What? Oh, yes, the horse. Strong, yes. Had a tendency to bite and bolt. Can I assume this questioning does eventually come to a point?”