The Christmas Knight (5 page)

Edythe’s sapphire eyes darted to Bronwyn’s, her forehead puckering. “What do you mean…how? The king’s messenger told us.”

Bronwyn leaned forward in her seat. “What messenger?”

Lily sniffled and looked at Bronwyn, puzzled. “The one from the king about Father.”

“You know?” Bronwyn choked, her mind buzzing with confusion.
A messenger
, Edythe had said.
That
was how Luc had found out about her father. The herald must have traveled across Luc’s lands and had either intentionally or unintentionally disclosed the information.

Lily nodded and then buried her head back into her skirt, her bawling renewed. Bronwyn slid off her chair and went to embrace her younger sister. “It will be fine. I promise. I will make it better. You will see,” she cooed, but Lily would have none of it.

“How?” Lily demanded, brushing Bronwyn’s hands away. “Just how are you going to fix this? And you, Edythe, are you happy now? You thought I too unaware of life’s cruelty. Well,
my
being forced to
marry
will certainly end that!”

Lily’s short tirade startled Bronwyn. Much had obviously happened this afternoon to her sisters as well as her and none of it good. Before they all emotionally collapsed with grief, they had best start communicating—not shouting.

“Lily, sit up in your chair, and for the next half hour, neither you nor Edythe is to bicker with the other.” Both sisters blinked and then complied. It was rare that Bronwyn used an authoritative tone with them, but they knew better than to argue, regardless of the circumstances.

Bronwyn paced for a second in front of the fire and then stopped. “All of us are upset, but until we understand just what problems we are facing and what we are going to do, we need to remain calm, and if possible, refrain from hysterics.” She waited until Lily nodded before continuing. “Now, I need to know exactly what happened this afternoon before I returned.”

“But you know!” Lily exclaimed.

“I know about Father’s death,” Bronwyn crisply countered, wishing Lily had some ability to control her emotions. But it was like asking the rain to fall everywhere but a single spot. Futile. “I am unaware of your being forced into marriage.”

Lily opened her mouth and then raised her hand to bite her knuckle. Edythe, seeing her sister’s distress, explained, “The messenger came and told us that Father had died in an accident while at sea. But his dying wish was that Lily would marry the next Lord Anscombe. The king agreed and sent him north and he is due to arrive tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Bronwyn whispered.

“Yes! Tomorrow!” Lily wailed. “The messenger called him
Deadeye
! He is due to arrive tomorrow and by night’s end I will be his wife. Bronwyn, I can’t! They say he looks like the walking dead, never sleeps, and cannot die.”

Bronwyn held up her hand. “Just what nonsense are you spewing?”

Edythe blinked. “Didn’t you speak to the herald?”

Bronwyn shook her head. “I never saw him. I learned about Father from Baron Craven.”

“Baron Craven?” Edythe repeated, puzzled. “I thought he died several months ago.”

“He did. I was referring to his son, Luc.”

Edythe rose to her feet and shook her head. “But he’s not allowed…he’s…he’s forbidden to come on this side of Torrens. Father said we were protected…” Her voice died as she realized the full implications of her father’s death.

“With Father gone, Luc is determined to marry one of us and take over Syndlear. I am the one he wants, most likely to have his revenge for what I did.”

Now Edythe was outraged. “But you can’t! Not to him!”

Lily shook her head, confused. “I didn’t even know Baron Craven had a son. How is that?”

Bronwyn bit her bottom lip, wishing she never had to reveal the past. “When I was thirteen, Luc attacked me and would have been successful in…hurting me if Father had not arrived in time. Luc was banished from Cumbria, but it seems he was pardoned by King Stephen before his death and was given the king’s blessing that one of us would become his wife in the New Year if Father didn’t object. And with Father gone, Baron Craven plans to marry me and gain control of Syndlear, thereby crippling the defense of Hunswick and the authority of the new Lord Anscombe.”

“The New Year!” Edythe exclaimed. “But that’s less than a fortnight away.”

“I have until Epiphany to prepare.”

Edythe stared her sister in the eye. “You cannot marry him. He was a vicious boy and such a person does not change with time.”

“He is still cruel,” Bronwyn murmured, her thoughts flashing back to that afternoon, “and you are correct. I won’t marry him. And neither will you marry the new lord, Lily. While I don’t agree with your fantastical reasons to be reluctant to such a match, I think it abhorrent to force a woman into matrimony. If Father really did desire this, he was only trying to protect us. I intend to do the same, but with far less permanent entanglements.”

“We will do anything,” Edythe encouraged.

“Including leaving for Scotland?”

Both sisters jumped to their feet and the barrage of questions began. “In winter?”

“But where? When?”

“How will we know where to go?”

“Who will take us?”

Bronwyn waved for them to sit down again and calm themselves. “We will depart on Christmas Day.”

“But Twelfthtide!” both Edythe and Lily cried out simultaneously. “We would miss all the festivities! What about Saint Stephen’s Day and—”

“We need to leave as soon as possible and Christmas is the first time when people’s attentions will be elsewhere for a long enough period for us to leave without being noticed. And once out of the Hills, those who we encounter will assume we are traveling toward festivities. Rivalries will be placed on temporary truce making travel safer.”

“It cannot be another time? Later? Perhaps after Childermas?”

Bronwyn shook her head. “The risk is too great. By the time Luc discovers our disappearance, we should be in Scotland and on our way to Perth, where our cousins live. Then in the spring we will go north into the Highlands to see for ourselves just where our mother grew up.”

“But what about the new lord? He and I are supposed to marry tomorrow!”

“I doubt that. But if that is true, then you will stall him, Lily,” Bronwyn answered quietly. “You are good at dealing with men. Tell him you need more time to be accustomed to the idea. If Father encouraged the union, he cannot be a pitiless man. I have no doubt that he would respect your wishes for at least a few days and that is all we need.”

Edythe bit her bottom lip. “I assume Jeb and Aimon will be our guides.”

Bronwyn nodded. She had always loved the now old Highlanders who had served as bodyguards to her and her sisters when they were children. Jeb had lost his wife to illness years ago and old faithful Aimon had never married, considering the three of them his surrogate family. “I haven’t asked yet, but they would not refuse. To deliver us safely into Scotland if need be was Grandmother’s sole purpose in sending them to live with us.”

Lily plopped back down in her chair and twiddled her fingers. “I wonder what kind of men we might encounter in Scotland. Perhaps the reason we have not found our anyone in England is because they have been waiting for us up north.”

Bronwyn gave in to the compulsion to roll her eyes. Leave it to Lily to twist a situation into something positive—and related to love. “You will find admirers wherever you go. And you, too, Edythe, will be adored by many,” Bronwyn added with confidence as she rose and went to the door, indicating that tonight’s chat was over.

Edythe shook her head. “Lily desires not a man, but an impossibility. A person just cannot be responsible and spontaneous at the same time.”

“Well, you drive all your men away with your seriousness,” Lily countered, looking to Bronwyn for support as she strolled up to the door.

Sighing, Bronwyn leaned against the jamb and picked up a lock of Lily’s dark hair. “You, Lily, need to find a way to mature without losing your optimism, and Edythe, you set a standard so high and can be so critical of those who do not meet it.”

Edythe opened her mouth and then closed it as she joined Lily at the door. “And what about you?” she demanded. “And don’t say you are alone because you lack beauty, for you could be quite pretty if you tried wearing something other than dreary colors and keeping your hair in a net all the time.”

“Unfair, because you know that I could do as you ask, change my clothes and hair, but it wouldn’t matter. The kind of man I want doesn’t want me,” Bronwyn uttered matter-of-factly, making shooing motions to get them to leave.

Edythe and Lily finally capitulated and she was alone again. She loved her sisters. They were incredibly different. When Lily laughed, Edythe was serious, carefree versus introspective. They were alike in only one respect: They were both undeniably beautiful. And for Bronwyn, their beauty was both a blessing and a curse. Any man who had ever shown remotely any interest in her always ended up gravitating toward one of her youngest sisters. Through them she had been able to see men for who they really were. They had saved her from making many a mistake in her younger days when she still believed someone was coming…someone who would love her and only her.

Someone who would be her hero.

Someone like the ghost who had come to her rescue that very afternoon.

M
ONDAY
, D
ECEMBER
20, 1154
T
WELFTHTIDE

Bronwyn scooped up her hairbrush, comb, and the two knitted snoods lying on the chest and placed them with her other items on the bed. There lay everything she possessed and even that was too much to pack and bring on such short notice.

Being forced out of her home perhaps should have been expected, but Bronwyn had not been prepared to be summarily shoved out the door within hours of the new lord’s arrival. And not even by the lord himself! He had compelled poor Constance to make his cowardly demands and explain that their presence—hers and her sisters’—was highly unwelcome and akin to trespassing. Bronwyn suspected that Constance, their childhood nursemaid, who was also a noted village gossip, relayed the message to vacate a bit more dramatically than the new lord intended, but it didn’t matter. Lord Anscombe had arrived and with a temper.

The door cracked open and Bronwyn spied Constance’s short frame and frizzy gray hair pop in the opening. “Are my sisters packing?” Bronwyn asked as she began folding the clothes on the bed.

“Aye, they are. I’m telling you, milady, that man will not be borne by many of us. Ordering you out of your own home—”

“It’s not my home, Constance. It never was.”

“But you have the people’s allegiance, and if he thinks he will gain our support by treating the three of you thus…well, I’m glad to be leaving.”

Bronwyn paused and looked at the plump older woman whom she had known as a child and through her worst days. “You need to stay, Constance, and so do the others. My sisters and I do not need much and it would be a shame for anyone to miss celebrating Twelfthtide. The new lord and his men will need support, and you are beholden to him. Not me.”

Constance scoffed. “The man brought no more than two dozen men with him and not a farmer, a woman, or a child. All hardened soldiers like himself. Nothing that would help replenish what they take and eat.”

“Then,” Bronwyn began with a mischievous smile, “I think a strict adherence to Advent should be followed. Father Morrell will be quite pleased when he arrives to deliver his Christmas sermon.”

“But we never fasted bef—” Constance stopped in midsentence. Her jaw dropped for a moment before it closed into a devious smile that matched Bronwyn’s. “Aye, milady. His lordship will soon realize he should have kept you running the place. Henson is too old to be a steward and doesn’t know half of what goes on around here.”

“That is because we have been protecting him, just as the new lord should.” Bronwyn finished folding her last gown and looked up. “In fact, Constance, I intend to tell him myself. Please relay to Lord Anscombe that I and my sisters will leave without incident, but we wish to be introduced first—that to dismiss a vassal in such a way is beyond rude and would not make for good relations.”

Constance turned, grimaced, and with a sound akin to a growl, said, “I’ll do it, but I doubt he’ll see you. He’s a scarred one. And not just on the outside.”

The door closed and almost immediately it opened again. Bronwyn didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Angry fast-paced chatter proved her sisters had either finished their packing or were refusing to continue. “Are you done? I want to leave within the hour.”

Edythe nodded. Lily sulked. “It’s not fair we can only bring two satchels. I cannot decide on what to take and what to leave. It is easy enough for the both of you, you each prefer to limit your wardrobes, but I love my gowns. How am I ever to choose?”

“You would have had to do so in a few days anyway when we left for Scotland,” Edythe clucked.

Not wanting to hear another argument, Bronwyn gave Edythe a look and said, “Don’t worry, Lily. I’ll have Constance pack the rest of your gowns and send them to Syndlear in the next day or two. Just make sure you have the most important item.”

Lily nodded heartily. “Mother’s tapestry was packed first, and
that
is why I have so little room,” she said, her scorn directed at Edythe before she moved to one of the two large windows on the far wall of the bedchamber. “Is that him?” Lily asked, her voice full of captivated interest.

“Who?” Edythe questioned, grabbing Bronwyn’s hand as she moved to the window to see what caught Lily’s rapt attention.

Below were several new men, all soldiers, but two of them stood out. Both held themselves differently as if born for leadership. One was tall and muscular, with shoulder-length reddish-brown hair. He was talking and suddenly laughed, revealing deep dimples that changed his moderately good-looking face into one that was undeniably attractive.

“Oh, he is nothing like I thought he would be,” Lily hummed, clearly fascinated. “He looks so strong and capable and friendly.”

Bronwyn agreed, but her description of the overly large figure would not have ended there. He had a pleasant face, but there was much more to the man. A hardness that held absolutely no flexibility. The tall soldier was not to be trifled with.

His companion, on the other hand, was harder to discern. He was shorter, though only marginally so, and his broad back was much harder and more powerfully built. He sat with an eerie stillness to him, as if every movement, even a small one, was controlled and had a purpose. Bronwyn shivered and was about to resume her packing when he turned slightly so that she could make out part of his profile. It conveyed strength—brute strength—for there was no softness in his mouth or facial expression. His dark hair was thin and cut very short, which helped to disguise how it had started balding in the middle. Then she saw the Phrygian cap with its pointed tip clutched in his grasp. Just the idea of him wearing such an absurd item removed the tension that had been building studying him and she almost laughed aloud.

“Men shouldn’t be so pretty,” Edythe commented, staring at the taller, more handsome of the two. “They are either dull witted or possess an air of arrogance that is even more tiresome. And he…I don’t know. He smiles too easily and not with his eyes.”

“Oh, you’re wrong,” Lily sighed in disagreement. “Maybe I was mistaken about not getting married. I would be able to protect you from Luc and—”

Bronwyn cut her off. “The new lord could not extend such protection to all of us. And do not be swayed by a pretty face.”

“Hmm,” Lily sighed absentmindedly and gave Edythe a light elbow to the side. “Well, you have to admit he is intriguing.”

Edythe kept silent. She was intrigued, but not for the same reasons as her sister. The man was indeed handsome, but Edythe recognized something else. His mouth. He smiled without smiling. An aura of latent power surrounded him, and just as if to prove her point, one of the stable boys swaggered up to him and made a remark. What was said was unknown, but it caused the tall soldier to whip out his sword faster than Edythe had ever seen anyone move and slice it through the air, stopping just in time before he took Ansel’s head off.

Everything in the courtyard stopped, and the stable boy, visibly shaken, immediately started talking quickly, his face one of contrition. Eventually, the sword was put away and both men disappeared toward the stables. Until then, everyone had been holding their breath.

“What are we going to do?” Lily wailed as she threw herself into her hearth chair. “We cannot leave Hunswick to him! He’s a monster! He nearly chopped off Ansel’s head.”

“I doubt that very much,” Bronwyn argued. “Ansel can be very contrary and is known for being combative. He probably said something that more than deserved such a reaction. I don’t think you will have to worry about the new lord ruining Hunswick.”

“Well, then you can be me and stall for time, for I want nothing to do with him or his violence.”

“I?” Bronwyn asked, confused. “You want
me
to pretend to be
you
? It would never work.”

Bronwyn knew she was far from plain, but compared to her sisters, she was also far from beautiful. Edythe’s vibrant red coloring and her petite stature drew men to her side…that is, until they discovered her sarcastic, cutting wit, which often focused on making them feel like idiots. But even Edythe found it hard to compete with her raven-haired younger sister, whose glittering pale gray eyes all men gravitated toward.

Bronwyn was about to point out the impossibility of the farce when Edythe plopped down into one of the chairs and said, “Actually, Lily’s idea is not a bad one. The new lord doesn’t know what she looks like and you are much more likely to stay calm if his temper rises once more.”

Latching on to the notion, Lily nodded her head enthusiastically. “That’s right! Edythe is right! Oh, please, Bronwyn, be me. It would only be for this morning until we leave for Syndlear and then in a few days we will be gone. Who could it hurt?”

Bronwyn licked her lips, searching for a reason to say no. Lying—even pretending—was not something Bronwyn had ever done well and did not relish the idea. “But if his lordship saw you, he would immediately know he had been deceived.”

“Then we will all wear wimples,” Edythe countered.

Bronwyn issued her a “you’re not helping” look, to which Edythe just shrugged. But her sister was right. Wearing the highly uncomfortable white headdress, which went around the head and under the chin, left only the mouth, nose, and eyes visible. The contraption would considerably reduce anyone’s ability to distinguish one of them from another, especially at a distance.

Bronwyn glanced back down at the courtyard and watched Constance leave the stables, angrily shaking her head as she sauntered toward the kitchen. The woman was incredibly loyal to Bronwyn and her sisters, and if anyone slighted them, the old nursemaid felt personally insulted. The new lord had obviously denied the request of an audience and Constance was going to her place of solace. The kitchens. The best source for gossip and food, both she believed to be equal remedies for unhappiness.

Leaving her would be hard, but Constance would refuse to stay at Hunswick if she knew their plans, even though it would be at a great personal expense to her. Bronwyn had known for some time that her old nursemaid and one of the nearby widower farmers had grown quite close of late. During her marrying years, Constance had focused so much on Bronwyn and her mother and their recovery that she had ignored any male interest or her own desires for a family. Children may no longer be possible, but Bronwyn would not deny her friend a chance at love and happiness. No, Constance had to stay.

Bronwyn was about to turn away from the window when she spied the new lord and his companion casually stroll across the courtyard, this time facing her as they made their way to the gatehouse. She could now see both men clearly, though still at somewhat of a distance.

The overly tall one was speaking but it was the other man who had her full attention. There was something about him, how he walked, how he paused when looking around, every movement impossibly controlled, how he scrutinized those who darted by him, his air of command, of self-assurance that only came from experience and mutual respect. Lily was wrong.
He
was the man who had assumed possession of Hunswick.

Without a doubt, Bronwyn knew she was looking at Deadeye de Gunnar, the new Lord Anscombe of Bassellmere.

Bronwyn leaned against the window frame, silently studying him as he made his way to the gatehouse. But just before he entered, he stopped and looked at the Great Hall, directly to the upper bedchamber windows it housed. One eye was closed, but the other was open and had caught her gaze, refusing to let it go. Her heart stammered and yet she could not look away. His face was a cold mask, hiding every emotion, and yet she knew exactly what he was thinking. He wanted the three of them gone, but especially her.

Then, a second later, he was out of sight. Bronwyn blinked and tried to gather her thoughts. Her pulse was only just starting to slow from its instantaneous reaction to him. He both excited and repelled her.

Constance had been right. The new Lord Anscombe was scarred and not just on the outside. Something Bronwyn understood better than anyone and just how it could change a person. Deadeye de Gunnar was not cruel, just unforgiving. He was no ordinary man and around him she would have to be careful. It was a good thing she and her sisters were leaving and even better that he had denied her request for an audience.

“I think you are right, Edythe,” Bronwyn mused as she moved away from the window and started to rummage through her things lying on the bed. Pulling out a white muslin mortarboard with an attached long thin veil, she grimaced and continued, “We should all wear our wimples. It would be best if we left quickly, quietly, and unseen.”

“And if he calls for me?” Lily whispered beseechingly.

“Then I shall be you,” Bronwyn confirmed. “I think you are right. The new Lord Anscombe is not one to be handled with flirtatious remarks.”

The last comment was made more to herself, but Edythe was too quick to let it lie. “And how do you think the new master of Hunswick
should
be handled?”

“At a distance,” Bronwyn answered.
And without any compassion
, she added to herself. From experience, she knew that sympathy was the last thing a person like him would want.