Knight Of Passion

by Margaret Moore

​

Sir Kynan Morgan smiled to himself as he watched the comely wench laughing among the crowd gathered around the bonfire. She was obviously enjoying the antics of the jugglers and tumblers illuminated by the flickering light. The performers had likely come to entertain in the hall of Beauclaire Castle during the celebration of the marriage of Lord Beauclaire’s daughter that was due to take place in less than a fortnight, just as Kynan had come to participate in the tournament Lord Beauclaire was hosting as part of the nuptial festivities.

Kynan had seen many a pretty lass and lady in his travels from Wales to the king’s court, but few caught his eye as this one did. She had fine features and full lips that fairly begged to be kissed. Her curling honey–colored hair hung loose about her slender shoulders, and he could easily discern her shapely form beneath the loose–fitting, simple gown and girdle she wore.

But it wasn’t just her face and figure that caught his eye. It was the dimples caused by her merry smile, and the look of bright intelligence in her eyes as she laughed and clapped.

As a guest of Lord Beauclaire, and a man who prided himself on never taking advantage of his rank, Kynan would content himself with watching her from afar. Nevertheless he was glad he’d decided not to go to the castle as soon as he arrived in Beauclaire, but to stay a night in the village instead.

Not that it was a difficult decision. He didn’t relish spending any more time among Norman noblemen than he had to.

"Hey, Rafe, wouldn’t you like to have a go with her, eh?"

The sly, drunken whisper caught Kynan’s ear and he turned to see three youths — squires by their attire — leering at the pretty wench.

"Aye, I would," one answered, and with a low laugh, he started toward her, followed by his friends.

Kynan sauntered after them. Too much ale and youthful male vanity could be a dangerous combination.

The wench stopped smiling when she saw the young men headed her way. She turned and disappeared into the gap between two wattle and daub buildings, their second stories overhanging the alley.

The three drunken squires called out for her to stop as they gave chase. From the growing annoyance in their voices, Kynan realized the wench could be in serious trouble and quickened his pace, pulling his sword from its scabbard in one smooth, well–practiced motion as he ran. He rounded the corner and saw, in the bright light of the full moon, the young woman backed against the wall of a thatched hut, the three squires facing her in a half circle.

"I don’t call that very friendly," the one named Rafe — tall, thin and pockmarked — declared. "We’re guests of his lordship and you ought to be more sociable."

"We aren’t going to hurt you," a second squire slurred, swaying on his stocky legs. "All we want’s a kiss."

"We’ll give you a drink if you kiss us," the third one said with a besotted grin.

"I don’t want a drink from the likes of you," the wench retorted, her accent, like her dress, that of a peasant. As she spoke, her whole body tensed as if ready to spring at them and defend herself.

No tame, timid lass this, Kynan thought with approval as he drew near. "Didn’t you hear her, boys?" he announced behind them. "She doesn’t want a drink from the likes of you, and I can’t say I blame her. I can smell you from here."

The young men whirled around. They took one look at Kynan’s broad–shouldered, powerful warrior’s body and the sword held loosely in his experienced hands, then tripped and stumbled and fell over themselves in their haste to flee.

When they were gone, Kynan looked at the young woman and gave her a smile as he sheathed his sword. "I don’t think they’ll be bothering you any more tonight."

"No, I don’t think they will," she agreed. She laughed softly, the sound as merry as her smile, and a reward far finer than many he’d received. "Thank you, sir knight. Maybe they didn’t mean any real harm, but I’m grateful for your aid just the same."

Warmed by her words, Kynan said, "You’re most welcome."

"You must be here for the tournament, Sir…?"

Even though she’d rightly guessed he was a knight, she spoke with a frankness most unusual, especially from a peasant girl. Usually women either stole shy glances at him and never met his gaze directly, or they regarded him too boldly, with an unmistakable invitation in their eyes, whether they were highborn or low. This young woman did neither. She simply regarded him as she might a friend.

As pleasant as that thought was, he realized he wanted to be considered more than a mere friend. "I’m Sir Kynan Morgan."

"Come a long ways, too, haven’t you? From Wales?"

"That’s where my home is," he said as he strolled closer. He came to a halt a few feet from where she leaned back against the hut.

She ran a measuring gaze over him. Far from finding that impertinent, he wondered if she found him as attractive as he found her. "I haven’t seen you at the castle," she noted.

"That’s because I haven’t actually entered it," he admitted. "Being a Welshman, I’m not particularly fond of the company of Norman nobles, although I understand Lord Beauclaire is a fine fellow." His smile grew. "Now that you know something about me, I’d like to know the name of the damsel I’ve assisted."

She immediately stopped looking at him and stared down at her feet. Perhaps she’d suddenly remembered how a peasant was supposed to behave toward a knight, or maybe his admiration had been too obvious and he’d frightened her.

"It’s Rose and I ought to be going now," she murmured, giving him a shy smile that made him both relieved and happy even as she sidled away.

"Please allow me to walk with you, in case those drunken louts return."

"No, sir, no, I couldn’t let you trouble yourself."

He deftly intercepted her and bowed as he would to the queen. "It would be my honor to ensure that you reach your home safely, Rose."

"No!"

Her retort sounded astonishingly like a command.

As Kynan regarded her with surprise, she quickly looked down at her feet again. "You see, Sir Kynan," she continued in a deferential tone, "I’m not supposed to be in the village at all. I wasn’t to leave the castle and I’ll be in trouble with my mistress if she finds out I did." She looked up at him with a pleading expression in her beautiful hazel eyes. "You won’t tell anyone about this, will you, sir?"

How could he resist that plea? "Don’t worry, Rose. Your secret’s safe with me." He couldn’t help himself. He reached out to stroke her cheek; it was as soft as he’d guessed it would be. "I give my solemn vow as a knight of the realm."

"You would give a peasant girl such a promise?" she asked in an incredulous whisper.

As her eyes sparkled in the moonlight, it was all he could do not to kiss her. "Aye, I would. You have my solemn vow and pledge that no one will ever know we met here tonight."

Then, to his complete and utter shock, she threw her arms around him and kissed him full on the lips.

Passion and yearning came hard on the heels of his surprise, and he pulled her closer. She responded with fervor and longing, parting her lips and allowing his tongue to slide into the moist warmth of her mouth.

Good God, she was more than merely grateful for his help and surely it wouldn’t be taking advantage of her to make love with her when she was so obviously willing  —

She broke the kiss. Gasping, she put her hand to her lips, turned and ran off into the darkness.

"Rose!" he called, running after her.

He couldn’t find her. He searched the green, the streets, the back alleys, the entire village, but she wasn’t there. It was as if she’d vanished into thin air, or he’d dreamed that encounter.

And that astonishing kiss.

 

"Where have you been, and looking like that?" the middle–aged Marion cried, bustling toward her mistress as Rosamond crept quietly into the bedchamber. "Really, now, my lady, aren’t you a little old for dressing like a peasant and making merry in the village? And you getting married in a se’ennight, too."

"I just wanted a little amusement before I wed," Rose replied as she gave her maidservant a contrite smile. "When I’m the wife of Sir Dominick de Verly and chatelaine of his castle, I won’t be able to go out among the villagers and enjoy their simple pleasures anymore. I’ll have to act the lady then."

"Aye, that’s so — thank God," Marion said briskly as she poured water into the bronze ewer on the table near the curtained bed. "No more scampering off to climb trees and catch fish and generally get into mischief."

As she went to wash, Rose doubted Marion would call that kiss she’d given the darkly handsome, well built and chivalrous Sir Kynan Morgan mischief. A shameful, lustful impulse, she’d say it was, and she’d be right. Rose also knew she should be sorry and ashamed, but she couldn’t forget the incredible sensation of Sir Kynan’s lips moving over hers, arousing such —

"Nobody recognized you?" Marion asked as Rose reached for her ivory comb beside the bronze basin and ewer.

"I was careful to keep to the shadows."

Marion shook her head. "Maybe I ought to be glad you’ll be your husband’s responsibility soon. I’m not surprised I don’t have a black hair left on my head, the merry chase you’ve led me all these years."

 

Rose hurried to embrace the woman who’d been a mother to her, her own having died giving her life. "I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused, Marion."

"Well, you could have been a lot worse, I suppose," Marion said, wiping away a tear before continuing to tidy up the large and luxuriously appointed chamber. "But that’s because you’ve been lucky. I hate to think what Sir Dominick might say if he saw you dressed in that peasant’s gown and wandering about the village in the middle of the night."

"It wasn’t the middle of the night," Rose protested.

As for what her betrothed might think about her visit to the village…it didn’t matter, since he hadn’t seen her.

She was more worried about what Sir Kynan might say or do when he realized the woman he’d rescued from three drunken squires was the daughter of his host, as well as the bride — provided Sir Kynan even recognized her when she was dressed in fine silks and satins. She was sure those foolish squires wouldn’t…but Sir Kynan was older, and his intelligence had fairly gleamed in his dark brown eyes.

Yet he’d given his solemn oath that he’d keep her secret, and she hoped he wouldn’t break his word, even if she hadn’t been completely honest with him.

As she combed her thick hair, she wondered what Dominick would have done if he’d been in Sir Kynan’s place.

Of course he’d have been just as chivalrous, she told herself. Dominick was as handsome, too, although he was fair while the younger Welshman was dark. Dominick’s voice seemed harsher — but so would most men’s, compared to the Welshman’s musical lilt. And Sir Kynan’s dark hair had been shockingly long, all the way to his shoulders, like some sort of Viking’s. His clothes had been plain, too.

Yet Sir Kynan Morgan looked at you with more respect and admiration than Dominick ever has.

Rose swiftly silenced that critical inner voice. "What did Sir Dominick say when you told him I’d decided to retire early?" she asked, glancing at Marion.

Marion grinned, revealing the gap between her front teeth as she put the silk damask gown Rose had worn to the evening meal in the chest lined with cedar and closed the lid. "He was worried you were ill, like the good man he is. I told him you were fine, just tired." She gave Rose a wink. "I’m sure he won’t want you exhausted on your wedding night."

Rose blushed and said nothing as she tried to get the comb through a knot in her hair.

Marion set a stool behind her mistress and took the comb from her. "Sit down, my lady, and let me do that before you pull your hair out by the roots."

Rose dutifully submitted, folding her hands in her lap.

"So what did you see in the village?" Marion asked.

"There were jugglers who were very good," Rose replied. "I think they were Italian. There were tumblers, too, and a magician, but I couldn’t see him very well. Has my father retired?"

"Aye, a while ago, after the minstrel finished a long song about two lovers that got turned into birds."

Sir Kynan was probably an excellent singer, Rose reflected. He was Welsh, for one thing, and judging by his voice —

"There, that’s better," Marion said as she set down the comb beside the ewer. "Now get into a clean shift and into bed."

As Rose changed, Marion sighed and said, "I’m so happy to think you’ll be wed to such a fine man as Sir Dominick."

Rose didn’t answer.

 

…

 

"Ah, here’s my beautiful bride–to–be, and well rested, I trust?" Sir Dominick said jovially as he joined Rose in the chapel for mass the next morning.

Although Rose returned her betrothed’s smile, she realized she’d never really noticed how thin his lips were, or that fine clothes, bejeweled fingers and a smooth head of pale blond hair could be less impressive than a plain leather jerkin, woolen breeches, scuffed boots and long hair.

Without waiting for her answer, Dominick lifted her hand and placed it on his forearm, then covered it with his own. "I wouldn’t want you to fall ill, my love." He leaned close. "With only a se’ennight until we’re wed."

Only a se’ennight.

Her beloved white–haired father appeared at the chapel door. When he saw her, he hurried toward them as fast as he could these days. "Ah, Rosamond, my dear. And Dominick." He beamed at them both. "Not long now, eh?"

"Every second I must wait to claim my bride seems an eternity," Dominick said, squeezing Rose’s hand and sliding her another smile.

What woman in her right mind wouldn’t be thrilled to hear those words, or have such a man want to marry her? Rose thought, silently chiding herself as she had a thousand times last night while she lay sleepless in her bed. She’d been rightly pleased when Dominick had asked her to be his wife. Surely any little discontent she felt now would disappear once she was wed.

Then Sir Kynan Morgan sauntered into the chapel.

Her heart seemed to stop beating, even as the rest of her body warmed. He was as plainly attired as before, yet he had no need for costly apparel to stand out among the other young noblemen. His air of calm self–assurance, as if he feared no man because he had absolutely no reason to, set him apart far more than his handsome face and powerful body.

He saw her, too, and came to such an abrupt halt, the nobleman following behind nearly walked into him.

As she quickly looked at her feet, she heard Sir Kynan mutter, "I beg your pardon."

Holding her breath, she risked a glance in his direction — and wanted to sink right through the chapel floor or dissipate into the thin air like smoke, because Sir Kynan was walking directly toward her.

Judging by his expression, there was no doubt that he recognized her.

Now he would discover that the woman who’d so brazenly kissed him was no village wench, but the noble bride whose wedding he’d come to attend.

 

"Greetings, my lord," Sir Kynan Morgan said to Lord Beauclaire. "Forgive me for interrupting, but I haven’t yet had the pleasure of being introduced to this lovely young lady."

As her smiling father turned toward her, Rose tried not to blush or otherwise reveal that she’d met the Welsh knight before, and even shared a passionate kiss with him while she was under the guise of a peasant maid.

"Sir Kynan Morgan of Wales, may I present my daughter, Lady Rosamond, and her betrothed, Sir Dominick de Verly."

"Ah, the happy couple." Sir Kynan’s voice betrayed nothing as he reached out and took Rose’s hand in his. She stiffened when he bent to press a kiss lightly on the back of it, then snatched it away — but not before he raised his brown eyes and gave her a look that seemed to pierce her very heart and seek a truth she wasn’t willing to share.

Yet when he straightened, he smiled with cool politeness, as if they had only just met. "Tales of your beauty haven’t done you justice, my lady," he said before addressing her betrothed. "My felicitations, Sir Dominick. You are the most fortunate of men."

Dominick acknowledged the compliment with a haughty nod. Not pleased herself by his rudeness, Rose also saw a flash of annoyance in the Welshman’s eyes, although his expression remained serene.

"Lord Beauclaire, I wonder if I might have a word with you," Sir Kynan said. "I have some cause to fear the field for the melee is going to be too muddy at one end."

"Oh, yes, yes, of course," her father agreed and together they walked a short distance away to continue their discussion.

"As if he’s an authority," Dominick sneered. "Your father is an excellent host, my sweet, and I fear some men take advantage of that."

Rose regarded her betrothed with a raised brow. "How is Sir Kynan taking advantage of my father?"

"By having the effrontery to come here at all. That Welshman’s father was nothing but a shepherd before he achieved a knighthood. I don’t approve of allowing anyone of such low birth to participate in tournaments and neither should your father. I suggest you have as little to do with Sir Kynan Morgan as possible."

Angered by his implied criticism of her father, and the commanding tone of her betrothed’s voice, Rose fixed him with a cool stare. "Is that an order, Dominick?"

Blind to her displeasure, he gave her a patronizing smile. "Of course not, my sweet. Merely a suggestion."

"Good, for you aren’t yet my husband, or my master," she said before she swept away to join some other guests standing by the altar.

 

…

Two days later, Kynan strolled through the village on his way from the smithy to the castle. His helmet required some minor repairs, and while the armorer at the castle could tend to it, he preferred to take his custom to a man who needed it more. He was also anxious to be out of the castle for a little while. Lady Rosamund’s bright, vivacious presence seemed to fairly pervade the place, and that was becoming unbearable.

The morning after their kiss, when he’d encountered her in the chapel, he’d wondered what she’d do, only to discover she did…nothing. She didn’t ignore him, as he’d half expected she might, but she spoke to him as she would to any other guest. Unsure of what to say or do next, he’d come up with an excuse to get away from her. Unfortunately, he’d never had another opportunity to speak to her, for she’d deftly managed to avoid him ever since.

He wanted to know why she’d kissed him.

Maybe it was her idea of a jest. If so, he didn’t find it amusing in the least.

Maybe it was the impulsive act of a woman about to wed — a last taste of freedom. He could understand that, especially when the groom was that haughty, arrogant Dominick.

What had prompted a woman like her to accept de Verly? She was polite, kind and generous to all. He’d overheard her telling the garrison commander that he was to ensure that all the paupers had a chance to take some of the food left over from the castle meals, and the castle servants treated her with respect, and often affection.

To be sure, de Verly was rich and from a powerful family with lots of influence at court, and not bad looking in a pale, washed out sort of way, but Lady Rosamund seemed far too intelligent to be swayed by looks, and not the least bit greedy or ambitious —

A woman’s panicked cry rent the silence.

Kynan looked around. He was alone in a muddy lane and, to his frustration, couldn’t tell where the cry had come from.

"Help!"

The woman was in the building on his left.

Although he was unarmed, Kynan ran to the door of the building and threw it open. Years of training told him to be cautious when he entered a dim room, but his concern for the woman urged him to make haste. He spotted a staircase just as he heard a man’s voice bark a harsh epithet, followed by the sound of a blow and a woman’s whimper of pain.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Kynan crashed into the room at the top of the stairs, to see a half–dressed Sir Dominick strike a frowzy blond woman with a backhanded blow. The woman, clad only in a shift, fell onto the disheveled bed, where she cowered like a trapped and terrified animal.

Charging forward, Kynan grabbed Sir Dominick’s arm and spun him around. "Stop!"

With a sneer, Dominick wrenched himself free from Kynan’s grasp. "Leave us, Welshman. This is no concern of yours."

Kynan glared at Dominick. "Oh yes, it is. I’m a knight sworn to protect women — all women, as are you. Is this how you honor that oath?"

Attempting to regain his dignity, Dominick straightened his shoulders. "You have no right to question me or anything I do. You’re nothing but the son of a shepherd, while my family has been noble for generations. Now get out of here, Welshman, and leave me to punish this whore as she deserves for trying to rob me."

"Nay, I didn’t!" the woman cried, scrambling off the bed to kneel at Kynan’s feet, her eyes pleading, her hands clasped in supplication. "I swear to God, I didn’t. I just asked for my money like he promised."

Kynan’s lip curled as he addressed Dominick. "You’d cheat a harlot?"

"She didn’t satisfy me, so why should I pay?"

"I done everything I could," the woman said, sniveling. "It’s not my fault he couldn’t —"

She fell silent when she saw Dominick’s wrathful expression.

Kynan looked at the Norman and raised a questioning brow. "Punishing her for your lack, are you?"

Dominick grabbed his tunic from the stool near the bed. "You’re going to rue this, Welshman," he snarled as he crossed to the stairs. "Wait until the melee."

"It’ll be my pleasure to meet you in battle, Sir Dominick, even if it’s not a real one," Kynan retorted. "Let’s see how well you do against a man."

Muttering a particularly disgusting curse, Dominick clambered down the stairs.

"Thank you, sir," the harlot said as she got to her feet. "You’re a real gentleman, unlike some as claims to be." She adjusted her shift so that her cleavage was more visible. "If you stay, I’ll show you just how grateful I can be."

Kynan turned to go. "I have other business to attend to."

And so he did. He had to warn Lady Rosamond that Dominick was a vicious, cruel man who likely wouldn’t hesitate to beat any woman who angered him, including his wife.

If he didn’t, he would be as guilty of putting her in harm’s way as if he raised his own hand against her.

​

​

"God’s blood, what’s going on here?" Dominick demanded. He sneered at Kynan, then eyed Rose. "Why are you here with this Welshman — alone?"

"Lady Rosamund was kind enough to allow me to see her father’s armor," Kynan calmly replied, while Rose’s pride and anger rose like the flare of a kindled torch in the darkness.

"What are you implying, Dominick?" she asked coldly.

Her betrothed’s eyes narrowed and his gaze darted between them. "You must admit, Rosamund, my sweet, that it’s unseemly for you to be alone with a man other than a relative."

Kynan stepped forward. "Have you so little faith in your betrothed’s honor? Or are you no better than an old gossip, seeking fault where there be none?"

As Dominick’s hand went to the hilt of the jeweled dagger in his belt, Rose stepped between them. "Sir Kynan, would you leave us, please?" she asked, not addressing him directly, but looking steadily at Dominick.

"My lady, I don’t think — "

"I do," she interrupted, still keeping her eyes on her betrothed, who stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. Perhaps, in a way, he hadn’t. "I wish to speak to Dominick alone, so please have the goodness to go."

Kynan reluctantly bowed, then headed for the door.

"Leave the door open, Sir Kynan, if you please," she said. "I may require your assistance."

"I’ll be within call, my lady," the Welshman grimly replied before he walked out of the room.

Knowing he would be close by strengthened Rose’s resolve. "Is it true you struck a woman today, Dominick?"

A momentary look of guilt flashed across her betrothed’s face before his brows lowered and his face flushed. "That’s a lie." He crossed the room toward her and took hold of her shoulders, his grip painful. "That Welshman’s been filling your head with falsehoods because he wants to bed you. He’s been watching you like a starving dog eyeing a haunch of venison."

Rose wrenched herself free of Dominick’s grasp. "You have no right to hurt me."

Dominick’s expression changed, grew conciliatory. He smiled and spread his hands. "Rosamund, my dearest love, forgive me for losing my temper. I was overcome by jealousy and I don’t trust that Welshman."

She was not the least bit mollified. "Don’t you trust me?"

"Of course! And I love you with all my heart."

What a base liar! She could see cold calculation in his eyes, not love or affection or concern. He didn’t love her any more than he trusted her. Sir Kynan cared more for her than he did.

"Although the betrothal agreement has already been signed, I’ve changed my mind," she declared. "I’m not going to marry you, Dominick."

Anger appeared in Dominick’s blue eyes. He crossed the floor between them and glared down at her, his hands balling into fists at his side — but he didn’t touch her.

"Oh, yes, you will," he snarled. "If you don’t marry me, I’ll do everything in my power to see your family humbled, ruined and destroyed. I’ll denounce your father as a traitor and have him imprisoned and executed. You know I can do that, my sweet Rosamond. I’ve got power and influence enough that other nobles, including the king, will believe whatever I choose to say.

"And as for touching you — " He tugged her into his arms and forced his unwelcome, wet kiss upon her.

She struggled to escape, to no avail. He was too strong.

When he finally let go of her, he laughed with malicious pleasure. "Fight me if you like, Rosamund. I don’t mind. Indeed, it brings a certain — how shall I put it? — spice, to our embrace. But one way or another, my sweet, we’ll be married, and you’ll come to my bed. Whether you enjoy yourself there will be up to you. Willing or not, I know I shall."

Then he cast her aside and left her.

 

…

 

Dread and anguish gnawed at Kynan as he prepared for bed in the small chamber he’d been assigned in the castle. After the confrontation with Dominick in the solar, he’d waited with bated breath for Rose to tell him that there would be no wedding. Instead, Dominick had sauntered into the hall as if he already ruled it while Rosamund, coming after him, had swept past Kynan as if he didn’t exist.

Yet he was sure she’d believed him, that she knew exactly the sort of man to whom she was betrothed. How could she possibly marry Dominick now? What hold did he have over her?

Or had he been wrong about her all along? Perhaps she was just as greedy and ambitious as Sir Dominick.

In the flickering light of a rush dipped in wax, he yanked off his woolen tunic as if it had personally offended him and threw it onto the plain wooden chest holding his chainmail.

He should leave this place. He didn’t have to stay for the melee. He wasn’t as rich as Dominick, but he was hardly poor.

Yes, he should go — but where? Home to stay awhile with his parents? Or visit his older and happily married brother? In either place he’d witness a sincere love and devotion between husband and wife of the sort he’d hoped to find someday.

The sort he’d begun to think he could share with Rose, but if she preferred Dominick —

The door to his chamber opened and Rose slipped into his chamber, closing the door behind her.

Kynan couldn’t believe his eyes — or her boldness. This was far more dangerous to her reputation than being alone in the solar with him.

"What do you want?" he demanded as he reached for his shirt.

"To be with you," she answered quietly as she walked toward him.

Suspicious, uncertain, he warded her off with an outstretched hand. "I don’t know why you’ve come here, my lady, but — "

"I told you, I want to be with you. I want to make love with you."

He stared, dumbfounded, as she pushed his hand aside. She placed her warm palms on his naked chest and slowly moved them upward as she raised her lovely eyes to look at him. In their depths, he saw a longing, a need, that made his heart soar and his pulse race.

"I’ve come to share your bed, Kynan. Please, let me stay the night."

​

"Imay yet marry Dominick, but until I do, my body is mine to do with as I please," Rose whispered, "and I please to share it with you. Take me to your bed, Kynan. Accept what I offer with no remorse or regrets, for whatever happens, I shall have none."

Sir Kynan Morgan was an honorable man, and he couldn’t be sure of Rose’s reasons for coming to him this way, but when she looked up at him and asked him to love her, it took every ounce of his inner strength not to take her in his arms without question or hesitation. "Rose, I don’t — "

"Love me, Kynan, please," she pleaded as she drew his head lower for a kiss.

The moment their lips touched, Kynan’s inner battle was lost. Fierce, fiery passion ignited within him, and he pulled her close, capturing her mouth with his.

She responded that same fervent passion. She wanted this man to be her lover, for this one night. If she had to marry Dominick, she would have this one time for her pleasure and she would reward the man who had opened her eyes to the true nature of her betrothed. With no regret.

How glorious his skin felt against her palms! As she stroked and caressed him, she could feel his powerful muscles shifting and moving beneath her fingertips. His hands were moving, too, gliding over her silken gown, skimming her body like the whisper of a breeze on a hot summer’s day.

Her knees softened as he continued the sensual onslaught of touch and kiss, his tongue sliding into her mouth and awakening a whole host of new sensations. He cupped her breast, and his thumb brushed against her pebbled nipple straining against the fabric, driving her nearly to the brink of ecstasy with only that.

But she was sure there was more. Much more.

Stepping back, she kept her gaze on Kynan’s desire–darkened eyes as she undid the knot in the lacing of her gown. He stood motionless while she pulled the laces loose. Watching him, she wiggled free of her gown until she stood before him clad only in her thin, almost transparent silk shift.

With a low growl of desire, he swept her up into his arms and carried her to his bed, setting her upon it as if she were a delicate flower.

She wasn’t a delicate flower. She was a woman filled with burning, tempestuous need, and when he lay beside her, she threw her leg over him and thrust her hips against him. She could feel his arousal, hard and ready, and that enflamed her more.

Her kisses grew more heated, and so did his while his hand slid up her leg until her shift was bunched about her hips. With anxious urgency, her fingers worked quickly to untie the drawstring of his breeches, so he could be free.

He continued to move his hand upward over her hip and waist, then gently kneaded her breast, making her squirm with delicious anticipation. She reached down, instinctively seeking him, and inched closer to meet him.

He rolled so that she was beneath him. His hands splayed beside her, he raised his head and paused to ask, "Are you certain of this, Rose?"

"Without doubt. Without question," she whispered as she grabbed his hips and pressed him closer. His shaft was against her now. One thrust, and he would be inside.

She raised her hips. "Take me, Kynan. Please."

With another low growl, he closed his eyes and did.

There was a moment’s pain, a confirmation that she was no longer a virgin, but she swiftly pulled him down to kiss, that pleasure easing her distress.

He thrust again. He was fully inside her, loving her with his powerful warrior’s body. They were united now, as she and Dominick would never, ever be, even if she became his wife.

She banished Dominick from her thoughts. Only Kynan mattered here. She would think and kiss and touch and caress only Kynan like this. Only he would ever have her heart.

Aroused, loving him with more than merely her body, she bent her knees and found purchase on the bed to meet him, thrust for thrust. How she reveled in the strength of him! How free he made her feel, wild and untamed, like a creature of Eden before the fall of man.

He bent to pleasure her breasts, licking and kissing, finally sucking her nipple into his mouth to tease it with his tongue. She wrapped her legs about him, pulling him closer, holding him tighter, as the tension built and built. Toward what end she didn’t know, until a primitive growl rose from his throat and he pushed harder, more powerfully. He was larger than before, stronger. The tension reached its peak, until her whole body stiffened and even her toes curled.

Then it snapped and she cried out with the glorious release, the sound filling the stonewalled chamber. Throbbing, bucking, she grabbed his shoulders, her fingers digging into his skin.

When the incredible feeling subsided, she nestled against him, wanting to savor these moments as best she could, knowing they might never be together like this again. "I’ve never felt anything like that in my life," she admitted in a whisper.

"Neither have I."

She looked at him with disbelief. "Surely a man like you isn’t a virgin."

"No, but there’s making love to sate your lust and then there’s making love with you." He kissed her sweat–slicked forehead, and now she saw sorrow in his eyes. "God forgive me, I should have been stronger."

"If you had been any stronger, you probably would have killed me," she replied, trying to ease his remorse. "I have no regrets, Kynan. I’ll never be sorry that I came to you tonight."

"I’ll be sorry for the rest of my life — sorry that I didn’t meet you before you were betrothed," Kynan replied, holding her close. "Oh, my lady, how I would have wooed and tried to win you then!"

The thought of betraying Dominick hadn’t troubled her; the notion that she had to marry for her father’s safety she could cope with, but when she heard that, and considered what might have been had Kynan ridden through the gates of Beauclaire Castle six months ago, the tears filled her eyes.

She got out of the bed and reached for her discarded gown. She couldn’t stay here any longer, or she’d never find the strength to leave.

"I must go," she said, not risking even a glance at Kynan, lest she be tempted to remain. "You should rest. You shouldn’t be tired for the melee in the morning."

"You’re right," he agreed as he raised himself on his elbow to watch her dress. "I want to win."

And so he did. He wanted more than anything to defeat Dominick and be able to demand a ransom from the arrogant Norman. But it wouldn’t be a payment of gold or silver or jewels, or horses, armor or weapons he’d be seeking.

He would win Lady Rosamond of Beauclaire her freedom.

​

Or die trying...

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As Sir Kynan Morgan sat on his prancing mount, Nestor, awaiting the start of the melee, he raised his visor and looked toward the battlements of Beauclaire Castle, where the ladies and men too old to fight were watching.

Some noblemen believed a mock battle was too violent for ladies to see. Kynan could understand that sentiment, for although the ends of the lances were blunted with coronels to diffuse the impact of a blow, and the swords likewise blunted, serious injury and death could, and did, occur during a melee.

Apparently Lord Beauclaire didn’t share those reservations, however, for Rose was among the spectators. She wore a white gown with a gilded leather girdle about her slender hips and her hair gleamed like molten gold in the morning sun.

Determined to free her from her betrothal by defeating Sir Dominick de Verly, Kynan lowered his visor and eyed the mounted knights lined up across the meadow, their helmets and chainmail glinting. Dominick was easy to spot in his costly armor, and Kynan was sure the Norman was marking his position, too.

Hatred for the vicious lout fairly seethed within Kynan, generating a far different heat from that he’d felt with Rose last night when he held her in his arms and made love with her.

But he felt much more than lust when he was with Rose. He cared for her and wanted her to be happy, always. He respected and admired her. Norman or not, he thought her the most wonderful woman he’d ever met, and if what he felt for her was not love, he had no name to give it.

Mounted on a snow white horse with accouterments of bright scarlet and gold, Lord Beauclaire rode into the center of the field, accompanied by two men carrying bronze horns.

"The tent for the wounded is inside the main gate," Lord Beauclaire called out, his thin voice wavering. "I pray God we don’t need it and that there are no deaths among you. When the horns sound once, prepare for battle. When they sound again, the melee will begin. Good luck to you all."

As Lord Beauclaire left the field, Kynan’s grip tightened on his lance. In his head he could hear his former teacher’s voice as if Sir Urien Fitzroy was standing right beside him. "Balance, boy, that’s the key. That and gripping with your knees."

How many times had the old warrior tried to drill those lessons into Kynan’s head? Fifty? A hundred? Yet never had he needed to remember them more.

From the edge of the field, the horns sounded a harsh blast. The knights lowered their lances in unison, like a forest of trees falling slowly.

Another blast of the horns, and Kynan kicked his heels into Nestor’s side. As they thundered across the field, Kynan grit his teeth and held tight with his knees, his lance against his body, his shield protecting his left side.

Closer they came, and closer still — and then Kynan saw with anger and loathing and disgust that Dominick was using a battle lance. The weapon had a pointed metal tip that, with the speed and weight of a destrier behind it, could run a man through in spite of shield and chainmail as easily as a knife slid through butter.

He should have guessed Dominick would cheat.

Yet Kynan gave no thought to stopping Nestor. For Rose’s sake he was going to defeat the Norman, no matter what despicable measures Dominick used.

Leaning to the left away from his opponent, Kynan held his lance at the same height and angle as if he were upright, even though the effort made the muscles of his shoulder and arm ache in protest. When Dominick’s lance harmlessly passed his head, Kynan felt the jarring crunch of his lance striking Dominick in the chest. The force of the collision sent the Norman tumbling backward, right over the cantle of his saddle.

Keeping his eye on his fallen adversary, Kynan dismounted and, with a slap on his rump, sent Nester from the field. Around him, other knights had fallen or dismounted and many were fighting hand to hand with sword or mace and shield. A few lay motionless, while squires and servants rushed out of the main gate of the castle to carry them to the tent for the wounded.

Kynan paid them no heed. Disregarding his own aching muscles, he drew his sword and watched his enemy struggle to his feet.

Holding onto his shield for support, Dominick straightened, his drawn sword in his right hand. Kynan doubted it was a blunted one. More likely it could slice through a helmet.

"You’ve lost your chance, Welshman," Dominick declared, the words muffled by his helmet. "The only way you could have beaten me was to strike while I was down."

"Being an honorable knight, I’ll strike no man while he’s down, not even you," Kynan replied. He crouched slightly, sword ready, waiting for Dominick to strike first.

That was another lesson Sir Urien had drilled into him. "Patience, boy, till you see a weakness. Don’t let him distract you with words. Make him take the first swing. That will be your chance to see what he does wrong."

Dominick began to circle Kynan. "What’s the matter, Welshman? Not sure what to do? Have you finally realized you’re outmatched?"

He raised his arm and swung his sword in a blow Kynan easily avoided. In doing so, Dominick revealed that he lifted his sword arm too high, exposing his right side. Even a rebated sword could break a rib if it was swung with sufficient force. It didn’t need to penetrate the mail to send a man to his knees.

"I thought all you Welshman were singers, but you’re a mighty pretty dancer, too," Dominick jeered. "Too afraid to meet me blow for blow, is that it?"

"Love to hear yourself talk, don’t you?" Kynan remarked, awaiting his chance. "That’s another reason Rose should be free of you."

Dominick struck again. This time, though, Kynan was ready, and as Dominick’s sword was at the peak of its arc, Kynan swung his sword with all his might, hitting Dominick below his armpit.

The Norman’s sword fell to the ground while he, with a grunt, fell to his knees.

Kynan put the tip of his own on the Norman’s chest, just below his helmet. "Yield, Sir Dominick and pay the ransom I demand."

He wondered if the Norman would refuse, but he didn’t.

"I yield and I will pay," Dominick muttered. He tossed aside his shield and pulled off his helmet, revealing a face as sweaty as Kynan felt his own to be. There was pain and disgust in his cold blue eyes as he glared at Kynan. "How much do you want?"

Before he answered, Kynan lifted his visor, the better to breathe, and lowered his sword — a little. "It is your word as a knight I seek, and a promise. I want you to swear to me on your honor, and that of your family, that you’ll release Lady Rosamond from your betrothal, and that you’ll seek no payment of a penalty from her father for doing so."

Dominick’s lip curled. "Is it not enough that you’ve taken her virginity?"

Kynan’s throat went dry. How could Dominick know that?

"You didn’t think I’d find out?" Dominick demanded as he got to his feet. "That I haven’t set a watch on her? Or will you lie and tell me you — who claim to be so honorable and noble and so much better than I — didn’t take her maidenhead last night?"

"I will not lie." And Dominick was right, Kynan realized with shame and remorse. He hadn’t been honorable.

Dominick’s eyes gleamed with malicious triumph. "I have every right to challenge you to single combat for dishonoring her."

"Yes, you do — so why did you not? Why meet me in the melee?"

"Because I would keep my bride’s immorality private. It’s not her body I want most anyway — although I intend to enjoy it — but her father’s wealth and the power that goes with it."

"You’re already wealthy and powerful."

The Norman regarded Kynan with sneering condescension. "That shows how ignorant you are, Welshman. To be safe in this world, a man can never have too much money or power."

"To be safe from what, for what?" Kynan returned. "To live in fear? To be hated?" He shook his head. "You have much more than most and you could have had even more. If your fear and greed hadn’t made you vicious, selfish and cruel, you might have been able to win Rose’s love. But you’ve lost her instead."

"Have I?" Dominick charged. "I’ll believe that when she says so, and not before. I think you’d better name another ransom, Welshman."

"I want nothing else from you."

Kynan turned on his heel and reached for Dominick’s lance, determined to give Lord Beauclaire the evidence of his potential son–in–law’s dishonor.

Then he heard the soft jingle of moving chainmail. Instinctively he spun around, swinging his sword.

While Dominick’s came slashing down.

​

​

Years of practice came to Kynan’s aid as he instinctively deflected Dominick’s shameful attack.

Even angrier and more disgusted, Kynan glared at his enemy. "Have you no honor at all, that you’d strike a man while his back was turned?"

"You’re such a fool," Dominick sneered as he raised his sword. "Dying for honor and chivalry over Rosamond. There are plenty of women, and if I’m willing to marry her still, you should count your blessings and be gone."

"I’m not fighting for honor and chivalry. I’m fighting for Rose’s freedom," Kynan answered, preparing to defend himself.

"Whatever you’re fighting for, you’re going to die, Welshman," Dominick cried as he attacked.

Kynan twisted away and Dominick’s blow missed its target.

"Why don’t you fight me, Welshman? Are you tired — or afraid?" Dominick jeered.

He swung again, but this time, as his sword swished through the air, Kynan dodged out of the way, then lunged and, with all his considerable strength, shoved his sword up and under the Norman’s arm. The chain mail gave way as Kynan’s blunted sword pierced it, and Dominick’s side. With a scream of anguish the Norman fell writhing to the ground.

"I can’t… I can’t breath," Dominick gasped as blood poured from the wound in his side.

Still gripping his sword, Kynan kicked Dominick’s weapon far from his reach.

Pain convulsed Dominick’s face. "So now you’ll take Rosamund."

Kynan shook his head. "Now Rosamund is free."

Dominick scowled, then his eyes widened a little as if seeing something shocking. And he moved no more.

Letting out his breath in a long slow sigh, Kynan’s anger and hate melted away, to be replaced by relief. Now Rose was no longer bound to this man. Then he realized that he was surrounded by several grim–faced Norman knights.

He’d just killed a wealthy and powerful Norman nobleman. Perhaps he’d be accused of murder. Mindful of that possibility, he again reached for Dominick’s lance, proof that he’d acted in self–defense against a dishonorable foe.

Before anyone spoke, Lord Beauclaire, pale to the lips, rode up. Two servants carrying a litter came with him. As the nobleman brought his mount to a halt, they quickly and silently lifted Dominick’s body and bore him away.

"This was not to be to the death," Lord Beauclaire cried with dismay.

"Sir Dominick de Verly made it so," Kynan declared, his voice loud enough to be heard across the field. He held up the lethally pointed battle lance. "He cheated, first by using this lance, then by attacking me when my back was turned."

"Can this be true?" Lord Beauclaire wondered aloud.

"Aye, it is," said another knight, stepping forward. Kynan recognized him as Sir Nicholas, a mighty Norman knight who’d been rewarded with an estate in Scotland. "In spite of that lance, the Welshman defeated de Verly and wanted only a promise in ransom. Sir Dominick refused. Then, after Sir Kynan had turned away, Sir Dominick struck at his back. Sir Kynan had no choice but to defend himself. I’m not pleased to see any man killed in a melee, but there has been no wrongdoing by the Welshman."

"It is as Sir Nicholas says," another knight agreed, and several more nodded.

Thank God there were some honest Normans here, Kynan thought as some of his anxiety fled. He hoped that Rose would understand that he’d had no choice but to kill if he was to save his life, even if it cost another man his.

Lord Beauclaire sighed. "I would never have guessed Dominick could be dishonorable, but it seems he was." The older man shook his head. "Still, it is a terrible thing to see a young man killed in a melee. Any young man. And my poor daughter… "

Lord Beauclaire suddenly fixed Kynan with a searching gaze. "What was this promise?"

Kynan saw no reason to prevaricate. "That he release your daughter from her betrothal."

"Because he wanted to spare me a life of misery," Rose called out from nearby, her voice as clear and steady as the sound of the horns.

She came hurrying toward them, her full skirts swinging about her ankles with her purposeful strides. Her bright, vibrant eyes shone with gratitude as her steadfast gaze met Kynan’s.

Between her freedom and that look, he could ask for no better reward save one — one he didn’t dare to seek. Not now, not yet, although in time….

"Rosamond, what are you saying?" her father asked when she reached them. "Was Sir Dominick not a kind and generous man and devoted to you?"

"No, he was not," she answered firmly. "He was cruel, deceitful and greedy, and he said that if I tried to break the betrothal, you would suffer." She turned toward Kynan. "If Sir Kynan hadn’t come to my aid, if he’d died instead — "

She threw herself into his arms and kissed him passionately.

"Rosamond!" her father gasped. "What are you — ?"

"He risked his life for me, Father," she said, drawing back and looking at Kynan with eyes full of love. "I owe him more than I can ever repay."

"No, you don’t," Kynan whispered, his love for her filling his heart as he took hold of her hands. "I would have no debts or even the idea of a debt between us. I would have us equals, and I would hope that some day, perhaps…." His gaze wavered and he fell silent, too overcome by his longing to say more.

"As I hope," she replied, taking his chin in her hands so that he was looking into her bright hazel eyes. "And I hope you’ll stay in Beauclaire for a long time."

"If you truly feel that way, my lady," he murmured as he took her in his arms, "I may never leave."

 

…

 

Several years later, Sir Urien Fitzroy, still hale and hearty in his fiftieth year, greeted some new pupils — the sons of Sir Kynan Morgan and his beloved wife, Rose.

The End

 

 

 

 

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