A True and Perfect Knight Read online

  Dedication

  To three of the four men who have inspired me in my life and in my writing: Raymond T. Romain, who is the best of sounding boards and a true friend. Dr John Alford, who is the perfect professor and a great medievalist. Chip, who is my own True and Perfect Knight.

  Chapter One

  Yorkshire, May 1282

  One league from the former Dreyford Castle

  “Rumor says that the bottom of a privy is more attractive than Roger’s widow.” Privately, Sir Haven de Sessions wished the widow to the devil, along with the incessant rain.

  “No noblewoman could be that ugly, especially one from the court in Paris,” protested Soames, Haven’s second-in-command.

  Haven thought of the execution he had witnessed and his jaw tightened. “If God is just, Genevieve Dreyford’s face will expose every coil and stain in her black soul. ’Tis only right that the true nature of the woman who led my best friend to treason show on her face.”

  Soames shook his head at his commander’s remarks. “Do you suppose that is her?” He slanted his head in the direction of six sodden figures huddled some distance from the byway.

  Haven followed Soames’s glance. “Possibly. We have come almost a league from the castle. That is the distance the bailiff claimed he had taken the widow and her entourage when the new lord threw her out. But, I doubt…” His words trailed off as he peered through the downpour at the figure that stepped to the front of the pitiful group.

  The woman stood tall and straight, shoulders back, legs braced. She anchored herself, as if by sheer will alone she could defend the others. A young boy clung to her skirts.

  Could this be the suspected traitoress who had caused the downfall of his best friend, Roger Dreyford? Haven wanted to see her face, to see if she appeared as evil as he believed her to be. Distance and the obscuring rain defeated him.

  “But what, sir?”

  Soames’s question shook Haven from his musings. “But I doubt a woman like Roger’s widow would stand out in the rain or tolerate such a humble abode.”

  “Are you so sure?”

  “Of what? That she led Roger to treason? Or that she is proud and greedy as any of the Parisians we met on our way home from the Holy Land?”

  “Either or both. Even before his marriage, Roger was ever looking for adventure. The search always landed him in trouble.”

  “Aye, but the trouble was harmless for the most part.”

  “Marriage should settle a man,” Soames commented. “He told me in his letters how unappealing he found his wife. Such a marriage was not like to settle a man of Roger’s stamp.”

  “Odd, Roger never met a woman who didn’t attract him in some way.”

  “’Tis what he claimed he disliked most about her, along with her constant nagging. Her unceasing demands drove him from home.

  “Of course Roger would never lie,” Soames said dryly.

  “We both know he loved to embellish a story,” Haven said, recalling the many nights spent as squires, when only Roger’s tales had relieved the loneliness.

  “And never to his disadvantage.”

  “Aye.” Haven had to admit to his friend’s failings. Roger had been a charming rogue, never serious, but always dependable in a fight. What else but a woman could drive a loyal friend to betray the king?

  Haven signaled his men. They turned their horses from the muddy track and came to a halt before the group crowding around a fire.

  The woman bent, spoke to the child, and sent him to a stout, buxom servant near the small blaze. Then the tall woman resumed her defensive posture.

  “Who are you, and what do you here?” The words danced forth on the most exotic voice Haven had ever heard. Dark and rich, it first bit the ear like the smoke in a sultan’s chamber, then licked and soothed with sweet rasping strokes that somehow matched his rising pulse. He felt the tremors of that voice all the way to his groin.

  “I asked, what do you here?” The woman repeated her challenge.

  Haven shook his head free of her siren’s call. “I seek the widow of Roger Dreyford.”

  She studied him.

  The noisome smoke from the peat fire made his eyes water. Rain drizzled down his back and off his chin. The jingle of harness and creak of leather issued from his troop as it fanned out around the people on the ground. Bitter resentment toward this woman and his own part in his friend’s death urged Haven to trample her into the mud. He held still, unwilling to lose control. Despite his feelings, he would keep his vow to Roger and protect his family.

  “C’est moi. I am Lady Genvieve Dreyford.”

  Did that dusky voice tremble just the slightest bit? Haven looked her over and swallowed the satisfied gasp that tried to escape his throat. Sweet Jesu, she’s hideous.

  Purple-black splotches ringed her eyes. Her skin paled to chalk against dark, colorless clothing. Deformity stamped her features. Her face pushed out on one side. Odd streaks hollowed the opposite cheek. A lump decorated her forehead over one eye. As much as her appearance gratified, something about it bothered him. It was that lump, he decided. “Come closer.”

  She hesitated, but evidently felt that compliance was the better part of valor.

  When she stood by his mount’s shoulder, Haven removed one glove and grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. The softness of her skin shocked him. The impulse to stroke her twitched in his hand. Instead, he turned her face up to his. Astonished, he felt his eyes widen.

  She was far from ugly. He had seen lumps and bruises like those that adorned her face on battle-weary men. Beneath the swelling and discoloration lay a bone structure that Aphrodite would envy. Eyes that blazed green lightning glared out at him from beneath delicately arched brows. God created wide, bow-shaped lips like hers for only one purpose.

  Haven ignored the hardness forming below his waist. He glanced downward. Her shapeless, soggy robe hid any hint of her figure. For all he knew, her face was her only asset, and someone had done that serious damage.

  “What happened to you?” He growled the question, angry with himself that he cared even the tiniest bit about this woman’s pain.

  “I was stoned,” she said flatly.

  At the unexpected reply, Haven’s hand dropped from her face. “By whom?”

  “Why, the king’s good yeomen, of course. They thought to impress their new lord by stoning the widow of a traitor. But why should you care?” Her level voice struck blows at him. “You are a stranger and have no responsibility for me. You may even share the wish to destroy me simply because my parents arranged my marriage with a man who would commit treason.” Her beautiful lips twisted around the ugly words.

  She bent and quickly rose again. “Here.” She thrust a fist-sized rock beneath his nose.

  He stared at her. She couldn’t know that until moments before he touched her, he’d believed hanging was too good for her. That, if given the chance, he would have cast the first stone.

  More horrified by his own thoughts than her actions, he recoiled. The movement startled his mount. Haven’s steed reared and threatened to kick her to Jerusalem. She neither cowered nor retreated. He steadied the horse.

  “I have every responsibility for you, madame. King Edward commands your presence. I am here to take you to him.”

  Her pale face went ashen beneath the bruises. She was afraid. He was certain. But of what? She was already destitute, what else had she to fear? There was more to Genvieve Dreyford than met the eye. He vowed to reveal every one of her secrets.

  She tilted her chin upward and squared her shoulders. A minute amount of color returned to her complexion. She broadened her stance and raised a fist across her chest, as if by that small gesture she could prevent her destin
y. “Anyone may claim the king’s authority. I shall remain here until you tell me who you are.”

  He admired her bravado, even if he considered it foolish. She lacked both weapons and the men to defy his authority, yet she did so without hesitation.

  He advanced his horse, until his stirrup brushed her shoulder. He smelled the noxious muck encrusted on her clothes mixed with the unexpected scent of lavender. Still she did not yield, even when uncertainty shivered in her glance.

  He leaned forward in his saddle. “Madame, I am Sir Haven de Sessions…”

  Her breath hissed at his words.

  So, she recognized his name. Then she knew he was Roger’s best friend, as well as the man who had taken her husband to the king for trial and execution. Just as well. “At Edward’s order, I am to take you and all Dreyford’s surviving family safely to Chester. There the king will adjudge your fate.”

  Her lip curled. “Pah. What judgment can be found with a king whose vengeance is legend? What safety with a man like you, who would betray a friend? I will not go.”

  Haven clenched his teeth, refusing to acknowledge the hit she scored. “If you wish, madame,” he spoke with studied pleasantness. “Edward’s orders are clear. You must give me your full cooperation. Your refusal will be taken as an admission of guilt, and you shall be hanged on the spot. Either way, Roger’s sister, Rebecca, and his son, Thomas, are charged to my guardianship and will accompany me.”

  Haven watched the woman turn and call in French to the plump servant with the child. The widow bent and hugged her son before giving back his hand to the servant. Next she motioned the entire group toward the hovel of cloth and sticks, where they could stand out of the rain. When she faced him again, she folded her hands together at her waist.

  “Where are carts to carry our servants and belongings?” A thread of sorrow wove through the determination he heard in her voice. That rippling, gypsy-eyed tone, so at odds with her rigid posture, nearly undid him. He shook his head and looked at his men. They seemed unaffected. What was she doing to him? Determined not to allow her the slightest advantage, he turned his thoughts from her voice.

  Haven surveyed the messy assemblage of oiled cloth that sheltered her group, two small chests and a lute. He thought of the sorrow he had heard. No doubt it pained her to have to yield to him and admit her circumstances. “I gather you have no wish to die this day?” he remarked.

  She gave a wary smile. “No day is a good day to hang. What matter if I wait a few days? Mayhap, I would like to see the face of this king who ordered my husband’s death.”

  Haven felt his expression harden. “Roger’s attempt to kill Edward justified the king’s decision. Whoever led your husband into treason caused his death.”

  “So you say.” She dismissed his angry claim with a look. “Where are the carts?”

  “We will not take carts. Speed is vital. The king requires you at Chester before the end of the month.”

  “That cannot be done. Saint Swithin’s Day shall pass before we can get that far.”

  “We will arrive no later than Saint Peter’s Mass.”

  She began to protest.

  Haven held up his hand. “I have no time for carts, oxen and the trouble they make. You, Rebecca and Thomas will ride pillion until we can acquire more horses in York.”

  “What of the servants?”

  “Traitors have no need of servants.”

  “Surely you do not think that a child and a girl are traitors, simply because they share the name of one?”

  “What I think matters not. The king did not order servants, hence I need not bring them.”

  Her mouth twisted. She dared to smirk at him!

  “Sir knight, I doubt that your men will wish to replace Marie as nursemaid to Thomas, nor Therese, who is handmaiden to Rebecca.”

  Haven ground his teeth. The widow had a point. His troop was small, and he could ill afford to use his men as servants. “Well enough,” he conceded. “Your servants also will ride pillion, but that is all. What you cannot carry on your person you must abandon.”

  Haven’s hard glance slid away before the heat in her battered face.

  “Then I fear Sir Haven that you must hang me after all, for I will not leave without the remnants of my son’s heritage.”

  Angry at the flash of guilt he felt, Haven glared at the woman. “It would be best if the boy had nothing from a treasonous father.”

  “An oilcloth to shelter us from the rain. The clothing we need to shield our bodies, some food, a few tapestries and a lute? Oh, vraiment, sir knight, these are certain to teach Thomas his father’s treasonous folly.”

  Haven ground his teeth. Despite her derision, she did not deserve his anger. Traitor or not, she had survived much. He should have asked what baggage she had. He shouted, “Soames.”

  “Aye, sir.” His second-in-command rode forward.

  “Go to the keep. Ask for pack mules. Offer this.” Haven tossed the man a pouch full of coins. “If they hesitate, insist in the king’s name and mine. Do not come back without at least two mules.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  They waited there, in the rain, Haven, the widow, her servants and family, and his troop of armed men, until Soames returned leading two mules with pack saddles on their backs.

  “Madame,” Haven ordered, “make your preparations.”

  Except for a slight shaking of her body, she did not move from her spot an arm’s length beyond his mount. Her hands gripped her cloak, and she appeared to choke back something. More honeyed words with which to wound him? he wondered.

  “Sir Haven, we have little skill at loading packs. I beg you, ask your men to assist us.”

  Why was he not happy to hear her beg his aid? “Bergen, Lindel, Sutherland, help the servants load the animals,” Haven snarled, impatient with the added delay. “Soames assign one man each to ride with Rebecca Dreyford and the servants. You there.” Haven pointed toward the plump woman who held the boy’s hand. “Give the boy to my squire.”

  As the servant made to pass by, the widow stepped to the side and grabbed the plump woman’s arm.

  “Non, my son should ride with me.”

  Haven calmly walked his mount forward, forcing the widow to lose her hold. He looked to the servant and the boy. “Do as I have bid.”

  The boy’s eyes were wide.

  The serving woman nodded and hurried off with the child.

  Haven turned to the widow.

  “Do you see an extra horse, madame?”

  “Non, but I will not allow…”

  “I cannot constantly explain myself to you, madame.” He reached his hand down. “Be so good as to mount behind me.”

  The widow looked up at him, then down at her skirts and up again. She threw instructions over her shoulder, and the small group dispersed among his men. She grasped his hand and lifted her hem to her knees. She placed a rag-covered foot atop his booted one and pulled herself onto the horse’s rump.

  The horse sidled, and Haven had no time to think about the shape of her limbs.

  Genvieve grabbed at the knight’s cloak and the mail shirt beneath. When the horse settled, she shifted her grip to the knight’s belt.

  “Are you comfortable, madame?”

  “I am ready.” She choked out a toneless whisper.

  Speak loud and clear, Gennie chastised herself, lest the lout recognize your fear.

  He raised his arm. Several shouts came from the mounted men, assuring him that all were in place and ready. de Sessions lowered his arm. The horse started forward at a bone-breaking trot. She grasped the man’s waist tighter to steady herself.

  Still she was cold and had much difficulty keeping her seat. Winds whipped around her, and she struggled closer to de Sessions’s broad back, seeking what little shelter she could find there. She cast caution to those winds along with her voice and shouted, “If you continue at this pace, my son shall fall from your squire’s horse.”

  “Be at ease, madame. My squire
will have every care of your son.”

  By afternoon, her arms ached with the strain of riding pillion for hours on end. What would become of them? Gennie did not worry for herself. Life had dealt her such blows that hanging might be welcome, even if she did not deserve it. But that would leave her son with his aunt as his only family.

  Rebecca was barely fifteen. Old enough to bear children, yes. But the girl was too flighty and self-occupied yet to be a good mother, or even a good guardian for Thomas. Gennie shivered as the cold of worry settled over her. Unable to see her way through the terrifying situation, she sought guidance and comfort from the only source she knew would give ear to her desperate and silent plea.

  Hail Mary full of grace protect my son and succor us all. Beseech our Holy Father to forgive my resentment at being married to Roger Dreyford. Thank the Lord God for never allowing Thomas to realize his father had been a drunken sot, whose lust for excitement put his son at risk. Give me strength to keep my son safe. To raise him as a brave, honest and noble man, like the knights of the Holy Grail. Please help me learn to accept my fate, for I do not know how to protect my son. If I am dead or worse. Grant the king a merciful heart that for Thomas’s sake Edward will spare my life. I pray this in your son’s name, Amen.

  Weak with hunger and exposure, Gennie leaned against the mail-clad man before her.

  The worst moment of her life had occurred when the new owners tossed her from her home. Or so she had thought until now. At least when she had been beggared, then stoned by peasants trying to impress their new lord, she had known what was happening to her. She had known what to do.

  Now, despite her prayers, her helplessness rankled. The man she clung to was hard and big enough to shield her from the wind. But no warmth came through the cloak and steel mesh that covered his solid frame. Nor had she seen any warmth when she’d first looked into his well-armored brown eyes. His assessing gaze had calculated her value as a female and a human being and dismissed her. To him, like all the others who knew of her husband’s treason, she was worth less than the effort it took to grind her beneath his heel. She trembled with cold and worry. The constant drizzle had soaked her clothing through. Her stomach grumbled. Her life could not get much worse.