The Christmas Knight (4 page)

“Ah, yes. His absence was the reason I have not announced my claim sooner, but now that he is dead, I see no reason to delay any longer. You are mine, Lady Bronwyn. You always have been and always will be. I’m done waiting. As your husband, I can make your life enjoyable or a living hell.”

He let go and Bronwyn reached into the slit of her bliaut and felt the cool metal against her fingertips. She gripped the hilt and hissed, “I will never marry you and you cannot make me.”

“But I can and I will have you willingly or else I will take one of your sisters.”

Cold fear swept through her as she realized what Luc meant and how far he would go. “You don’t want me, you want Syndlear.”

Luc cackled and the sick sound echoed all around them. “Angel, you still don’t understand. I want
both
and much, much more.”

Bronwyn felt his cool, long fingers close around the back of her head, bringing her mouth to his. She twisted with all her might and again sought the dagger nestled in her bliaut. Pulling it free, she was just about to press the tip into his skin when a deadly arrow appeared from nowhere and lodged itself into the bark of the alder right between her and Luc’s heads.

Startled, Luc pushed Bronwyn away and ducked for cover. Determining it was a single stray, he straightened to his full height and grabbed the errant weapon, wrenching it free from the tree’s grasp. He tossed it at Bronwyn and said, “Be sure to tell the new lord that his poachers better stay clear of Torrens and Syndlear.”

Luc sauntered to his horse, grabbed his reins, and mounted. He edged the animal next to her side, but Bronwyn refused to step back. He would not make her cringe in fear. “That’s what I’ve always loved about you, angel, you never were as weak as everyone thought you to be. Until Epiphany, my lady. At the end of Twelfthtide, we shall wed and you will finally realize that I am the only man for you.”

Bronwyn stared unswervingly at Luc as he disappeared into a thicket of evergreens. She was still clutching the small heavy spear in one hand and her dagger in the other, both weapons of death. Her unusual proficiency in the latter was little known beyond her father and the late Lord Anscombe. Both men had thought that wise, believing the fewer who knew of Luc’s attempted assault, the better.

They had done everything they could to keep him away, even seeking the king’s interference. And King Stephen, being easily manipulated with his attention on preserving his throne from an ever-warring aunt and cousin, had ordered Luc to be banished from Cumbria. Luc’s father had been furious, but had obeyed for he knew Laon had powerful allies. But that had not been enough to pacify her father. So Bronwyn had been taught the art of killing, and learned to wield and throw a blade with extreme accuracy. But she had never used it against the living, and as she discovered today, having the ability to kill someone and doing so were two vastly different things. There had to be another way to avoid a lifetime of hell.

Giving herself a little shake, Bronwyn looked down at her hand and realized it was not a wayward hunter’s arrow she was holding, but a bolt. The short, heavy weapon had come from a powerful steel crossbow used by only highly skilled arbalesters.

Bronwyn looked up and studied the direction from which the arrow had come. The distance across the clearing would have challenged her best archers, making Bronwyn suspect its owner had not missed, but had hit his intended target. Whoever had shot the arrow was good. Very good. The dense collection of bushes she had been studying suddenly moved. Bronwyn rushed to investigate, but it was too late. She pushed back the prickly branches and evergreen leaves just in time to see someone disappearing on a massive black horse heading away from Hunswick and Syndlear. He was riding fast and with a large metal crossbow thumping on his mount’s hind end.

Whoever he was, he did not come from anywhere near Bassellmere or Hunswick. Another day, another time, she might have stayed long enough to find out just who had saved her.

Ranulf gripped Pertinax’s reins and let the horse do most of the work. The combat advantages of single-eye vision were limited to one—archery. The loss of his left eye made targeting an object easier. He didn’t have to worry about ignoring the secondary image one sees when aiming. On the other hand, the disadvantages of missing an eye were numerous and the ability to ride at a gallop across unknown, mountainous terrain was one of them. On any other horse, he would have been significantly more cautious. As it was, Ranulf aimed Pertinax back to camp, urged the pace into a gallop, and then began to berate himself for being every kind of fool.

That morning he had left his men under the leadership of his best friend to ride ahead and explore the lands that were to become his new home. And to think.

His original plan of persuading King Henry II to dismiss Laon’s dying request had failed miserably. The king had not only
refused
to dismiss the idea of marriage, but he had eagerly endorsed it. And to ensure that Lady Lillabet was made aware of her father’s wishes and the king’s support, Henry had dispatched two riders to ride ahead and deliver the news, forcing Ranulf to immediately begin his own journey north to not just a new home and unsolicited responsibilities, but an unwanted bride-to-be. For days now, he had been clinging to one hope—Laon’s youngest daughter would simply refuse to marry him.

He had not realized just how close he was to his new home until he had ridden by an abandoned stone keep earlier that morning. Isolated on top of a bluff, the tower and the surrounding wooden buildings had looked structurally sound, needing only a thorough cleaning and restocking of supplies. At the time, Ranulf had not suspected the tower to be Syndlear, home of Sir Laon, and pressed forward. But an hour later, the castle it guarded came into view. It was nestled against a lake at the mountain’s valley and Ranulf knew he had reached his destination.

As Laon had described, the castle’s unique layout was unmistakable once seen. Unlike Syndlear, which was a small, but orderly estate, Hunswick Castle was haphazardly sprawled along the shoreline. The mountainous terrain dictated some of the unusual design, which at a distance resembled a leather water bag being squeezed in the middle.

Along one side the lake buffered a multitude of buildings, including one that appeared large enough to be a Great Hall. Along the other side of the odd-shaped castle was an average-size gatehouse separating two towers. The one located closest to the Hall was of significant size and the other, situated on the other side of the bailey, was round but otherwise unremarkable. What was noteworthy was the stone curtain wall that connected the three structures ended there and did not encompass the whole of the castle. A feeble wooden frame continued behind the stable and other buildings where the wall stopped, and no protection at all was provided along the lakeside. The castle was totally dependent upon being forewarned.

Ranulf had ridden down to the lake to let Pertinax drink and rest and had just been about to mount and return to camp when he had overheard low moans on the other side of the thicket. Rising, he grabbed his crossbow and pushed the spiny branches aside ready to shoot if it was an animal on the attack. But he found instead a tall woman…who appeared to be singing.

Her husky voice had not been meant for caroling, and while it was by no means good, there was a haunting quality to it that kept Ranulf where he was. Neither drawing him in closer, or letting him leave. He wasn’t near enough to make out the words, but he could see her clearly.

Far from a traditional beauty, she was tall for a woman, with untamed brownish-blond hair falling far past her shoulders down to the middle of her back. The simple dark blue bliaut with its gentle scoop neckline gave the barest hint of the cleavage it hid but did nothing to disguise the willowy figure it covered. A single gold amulet rested in the graceful hollow of her throat.

A light breeze came across the clearing and caught her curls. She looked up so that her face could take full advantage of the refreshing treat and she paused. Her large dark eyes were looking directly at him, as if she had sensed his presence. Pale, her delicate oval face possessed high cheekbones, apricot-colored skin, and a generous mouth that neither smiled nor frowned. She looked like a misbegotten angel, the kind he tended to dream up naked whenever his physical need for companionship surfaced. To him, she embodied natural beauty, the kind few women—even beautiful ones—possessed and therefore made her all the more alluring.

Then she shifted her jaw.

The movement was slight, and from across the clearing, he had almost missed it. The simple twitch was not extraordinary except that it was identical to the one Sir Laon le Breton performed whenever he had been mentally chewing on something. Ranulf wasn’t staring at a village maiden; she was Laon’s eldest daughter, Bronwyn.

Ranulf grimaced and raked his hand across his head, recalling Laon’s description of his firstborn. The man had been blind. Yes, she was tall and her hair might be of a similar color, but
resembled him
? Laon had intimated his eldest daughter was plain, if not homely, saying outright that no man would ever desire her for a wife.

Ranulf glanced back across the clearing. She was singing again, her raspy voice still not on key, but haunting all the same. It had been three years since he had been with a woman and she was creating the most lustful thoughts his mind had conjured in all that time. Tonight was going to be uncomfortable, for Laon’s daughter was stirring within him the need that had been building every day of those years.

He needed to leave quickly before she saw him, before she looked upon the disfigured face of Deadeye de Gunnar.

But again he was stopped. This time by a man. Large, with a rugged face and thick, long blond hair styled in the way of many English nobles, he resembled what every lady of the court coveted. And the nearness of his body to Lady Bronwyn’s made it clear the two were very well acquainted, proving once again all beautiful things were tainted.

A cold frisson rippled on the surface of Ranulf’s skin and he turned around to get his horse and ride away. He had just hooked the crossbow to his saddle when a sharp, unpleasant cackle pierced his ears. Grimacing, Ranulf returned to the hedge and glanced once more at the couple on the other side. This time he could see Bronwyn’s face. While he could not make out what they were saying, her expression and posture had been that of an angry, cornered cat, knowing she was comparatively weak, but fighting back anyway. The exchange was not welcomed but loathed.

Ranulf took a deep breath and debated his options, but when he saw the man roughly snatch her back into control after she tried unsuccessfully to get away, Ranulf’s decision was made. Immediately, he returned for his bow and was prepping the bolt when he saw the man lunge for her mouth. She responded with violent twists in an effort to become free. Ranulf ignored his emotional response and aimed. The arrow flew, narrowly missing the man’s scalp, but he had felt it. The imposing figure immediately let go and cowered for several seconds, waiting for more arrows to follow. Ranulf prepped another, this time with flesh as his target, but eased his grip a second later when he saw the man move to leave.

Ranulf should have escaped as well, but he had remained motionless, stilled by Bronwyn’s reaction, which was not as he had expected. Tears had not fallen nor had she collapsed in fright. Instead, anger had consumed her stance and her jaw began to twitch back and forth. She was planning revenge and Ranulf longed to know just what she had in mind.

He had been so consumed with interest he hadn’t realized her gaze had left the thicket from where the man had disappeared and was now on Ranulf’s arrow. She gently touched the heavy tip and then looked up as if she knew he was still there. Then, gathering her skirts, she started to march toward where he stood. If he hadn’t moved when he did, his first encounter with Laon’s eldest daughter would have happened much, much sooner than he had planned.

The next time he saw Lady Bronwyn, he intended to be prepared…and under full control.

At the knock on the door, Bronwyn sucked in her breath and steadied herself before exhaling. She had known this moment was coming since her return and had delayed it for as long as possible. Coming in late and missing dinner begged for questions, but sequestering herself had only ensured a sisterly inquisition. One to which she still didn’t know the answers.

How does one reveal a father’s death, a baron’s threats, and a new lord’s arrival? All of these Bronwyn had been mulling and considering since her encounter with Luc Craven, but no matter how she looked at the situation, there could be only one response.

Bronwyn slid the drawbar up and opened the door. Lily suppressed a sniffle and darted inside. Edythe, with arms crossed, slowly sauntered in after her. Both had been crying. Hard. Somehow they had found out what had happened. Had Luc rode to Hunswick after they had parted? Had someone seen their encounter and raced back with the news?

Edythe moved toward the middle of the three chairs that formed an arch in front of the hearth. Though each of them had been given their own rooms above the Great Hall by the previous Lord Anscombe, they all gravitated toward Bronwyn’s before bed each night or when something happened. The rooms had once been the bedchambers and day rooms of the late Lord Anscombe, but he had declared them too loud and had moved into the Tower Keep as soon as it had been completed. After that the rooms had become Bronwyn’s and her sisters’ whenever they visited. And when Lord Anscombe became sick, those visits changed into stays, each becoming longer than the last. Now, after living at Hunswick every day for a year, the castle felt more like home to Bronwyn than Syndlear. Maybe it always had.

Edythe waited until Bronwyn took her traditional seat before speaking. “Father is dead,” she stated without preamble.

Lily curled up into a ball on the chair and started to sob. Bronwyn sat immobile. “How…how do you know?”