The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

Genres: Medieval Romance; Viking Romance

Synopsis

As a dark winter brings a new lord to an English castle, the festive glow of Christmastide brings a chance for new love in this medieval holiday romance.

England, 1154. With their father gone, Bronwyn de Breton and her two younger sisters are utterly vulnerable at Hunswick Castle. And their troubles are compounded when a fearsome knight arrives on the king's orders to take Hunswick as his own—and the youngest de Breton daughter as his wife.

Bronwyn would never let her little sister be forced to marry a man as rough and wild as the new lord is whispered to be. Yet someone must form an alliance with him. So she steps forward, pretending to be her own sister.

The new lord is not so easily fooled. He knows Bronwyn is not the woman he has promised to marry. And yet, amidst the magic of Christmas festivities, there is no resisting the golden-haired beauty who awakens a passion unlike any he's ever known . . .

Release date: October 1, 2010

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 480

Sample

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1154 THE ENGLISH CHANNEL, SOMEWHERE JUST NORTH OF NORMANDY

Wide spacious ships with single mast sails were the primary means of traveling short distances. Ships transporting large quantities of goods drifted slowly at the speed of approximately a knot per hour. The distance between Fécamp, Normandy, the closest port to Rouen, the capital of the Duchy of Normandy, and Southampton, England, which served as the primary port for Winchester, the medieval capital of England, was nearly 130 miles, or approximately five days by sea in good weather. Travel by land depended upon horses, type and condition of the terrain, and the quantity and size of goods being transported. Journeying from Westminster to the wilderness of Cumbria crossed more than 275 miles and typically took nearly two weeks, but the trip could be made in less than five days if one traveled very light and by horse.

Deadeye.

That’s what they called the man Laon had been chasing since spring. And it was appropriate. For the famed dark-haired knight refused to wear a patch. How he lost his left eye was a mystery, and if anyone did know, they were not saying. Rather all the mumbling aboard the ship was about Laon and how he had found—more like unwillingly caught—the only man who had refused to become a lord.

The small fleet of ships had been traveling to England for two days and the seas had been exactly as expected this time of year—unwelcoming. The weather continued to fight their northwesterly course, dramatically slowing their voyage with fierce wind, creating uncomfortably large white-capped waves that constantly slapped at the wooden oak planks of the Viking-designed cog.

Laon studied the lone imposing figure standing by the ship’s side, staring at the rolling sea. The newly titled, reluctant lord was impervious to the enormous swells that made nearly everyone else on board seek the ship’s rail for temporary relief. Only today had Laon felt well enough to study the battle-beaten knight and prepare some kind of defense or explanation. But he could fabricate not a one, for Laon regretted nothing he had done. The difficult man had left him little choice. A new lord was needed, and Ranulf de Gunnar—whether he wished it or not—was the only viable Anscombe heir.

Laon did not expect to be pardoned for his actions, but he did hope for understanding. Loyalty between a man and a king was important, even necessary, but the loyalty exchanged between a knight and his liege could mean the difference between life and death. Especially in Cumbria, the remote hills of northwestern England.

So when the previous Lord Anscombe had lain dying, needing someone to find his elusive nephew and ensure he assumed his responsibility, Laon had gone, never imagining Anscombe’s heir, a favored commander of England’s new king, would be so hard to find…or to persuade. And in the end, Laon couldn’t.

So he had resorted to shrewd means to not only find, but bind the solemn knight to a life the man had made clear he did not want.

Sir Ranulf de Gunnar was the next in line to the Anscombe title and forfeiting that right would be ruinous for an already struggling people. The resulting vacuum would tempt not only northern marauders determined to steal and plunder whenever prosperity became possible, but those enemies who lived close by, waiting for a chance to gain even more land and power.

A voice cried out by the ship’s mast and a young boy dressed in several layers of rags to keep warm rushed across the deck carrying what appeared to be a heavy coil of rope. Unable to see in front of him, the lad collided into the large knight’s back and would have fallen if it had not been for Ranulf’s quick reflexes and accurate timing. He gently righted the cringing boy, who avoided looking at him before taking off again.

Laon fought the urge to move back into the shadows as Ranulf turned to scan the forecastle. His single umber-colored eye quickly inspected the activity of the bow. The evidence of the eye’s missing mate was hidden beneath a closed, flaccid lid, concealing the empty wound. Most probably thought the injury was the result of an unlucky encounter with a sword, but only someone familiar with the fiery depths of hell would recognize the probable cause behind the mottled scar disfiguring the left brow and cheek. Laon was one of those few.

Moving back into the shadows, Laon attempted to covertly study his new liege lord. But as if the man understood just what Laon intended, the hard figure returned his gaze to the sea so that his back was once again all that was visible. He had given no evidence in his expression that he was aware of Laon’s scrutiny, but Laon was certain nonetheless that the newly titled lord was fully cognizant of who was around him and what they were doing. A skill he had employed shrewdly in Normandy.

Finding him had been difficult, but eventually achievable. Speaking with Ranulf, however, had proved near impossible. He moved from one battle to another, attending the duke’s court for only brief periods of time before setting out for a new location, training field, or battle. At first, Laon had believed it to be just bad timing causing him always to be where the elusive knight was not. But when it became obvious Deadeye was cleverly and intentionally avoiding him—and would continue to—Laon realized the truth. Ranulf was well aware of his cousin’s death and he had no intention of accepting the Anscombe title or the responsibility.

So Laon had done what his new lord no doubt considered underhanded, devious, and far from honorable…but it had worked. And now there would be consequences for using such tactics. Just what those were, however, Laon was having difficulty discerning.

Ranulf de Gunnar was far from young and had long mastered the ability to appear disconnected from all that was around him. It was not surprising. If one survived the wounds caused by a fire, the experience did more than just damage the skin, it changed a person inside. The pain of recovery either broke their spirit or made them stronger. That the new lord was made of the latter was obvious, but whether he had become wiser or bitter was impossible to distinguish from afar.

The wind caught the collar of Ranulf’s tunic and flipped it up, slapping him on the side of his face. He pivoted and flicked it aside. His expression remained what it had been since the inception of the voyage. No anger, no remorse, no self-pity…no warmth. Emotions were not something the man displayed. His nickname “Deadeye” led one to believe hatred and wrath marked his life’s path, but Laon suspected there was much more to the one-eyed knight than the outward shell revealed. Long-distance observation would divulge nothing more than what Laon already knew, leaving only one way to determine the makeup of Cumbria’s future.

He must talk to him.

 

Ranulf ignored the old knight who had single-handedly ripped his simple, but livable life away and replaced it with one only a fool would want. His previous life may not have been pleasant, but as a prized commander to the duke of Normandy, who in a few days would be crowned the king of England, it had been very lucrative and—most important—isolated from the general populace.

The old man advanced another step and shifted his stance to counter the movement of the ship. He was standing on Ranulf’s left just outside of his limited range of vision, but that didn’t mean Ranulf could not hear where the aged knight was and just what he was doing. Ranulf had learned to perpetuate the myth of full sight with an acute sense of hearing, which let him know exactly where the old man stood. Close, but far enough away to step out of reach if Ranulf decided to physically assault him, and yet, just near enough for conversation. Something the old man obviously hoped Ranulf would initiate.

If the scheming knight had been anyone else, Ranulf might have been inclined to talk, if only just to order him away. But he was no longer naïve to the lengths the old man would go to achieve his desires. Few men had the audacity—let alone foresight—to seek out the duke and duchess of Normandy and convince them of their cause. And yet, Sir Laon le Breton had displayed a surprising amount of audacity by doing just that. Of course, fortuitous timing had helped. Henry had just learned of King Stephen’s untimely death and his rightful succession to the throne, making the stability of England—especially in the remote areas of the country—of high importance. Having loyal noblemen overseeing distant regions would be critical to securing Henry’s reign. So Ranulf had been ordered north to his new home, his new title, and his new responsibilities…his own feelings on the matter noted, but ignored.

“Mind if I join you?” The deep and even voice boomed across the short distance, cutting through the wind.

Ranulf fought the urge to look at the man and continued staring at the rolling sea. The knight’s commanding tone had been unexpected and had almost caused Ranulf to react instinctively in a deferential manner. Almost. Instead, it served as a reminder that the old man was far more than he appeared. “Better than staring at me.”

“So you did see me.”

“Studying your hard-earned prize from afar? Yes, I knew. I make it a point to know where my enemies are,” Ranulf replied, keeping his focus on the afternoon horizon. Detachment, not animosity, laced his tone.

Quiet followed and Ranulf wondered how long the battle-wearied knight was going to blatantly continue to assess him, when Laon deliberately walked around so that he stood on Ranulf’s right, and in his line of vision. Damn man was far too observant.

Ranulf shifted his jaw but remained silent, hoping Laon would take the hint. Unfortunately he did not.

“Now you can study me,” Laon offered coolly, “although I believe you have already been doing so for some time. And though you call me your enemy, you do not really consider me to be so. Otherwise, I would be dead.”

Ranulf fell to temptation and stole a side glance at the bold, candid man, who had just surprised him…again. Shoulder-length brownish-gray hair was thicker than it appeared at a distance and blew straight behind him as he faced the wind. Unusual slate blue eyes were enhanced by his pale complexion, which possessed the pasty look of someone who did not enjoy traveling by ship. But aside from the knight’s pallid skin tone, the man projected a commanding presence. They were of similar height and body build, except Laon was naturally leaner. Ranulf suspected the sinewy muscular form belied the old knight’s true strength.

Sir Laon le Breton might no longer have been practiced at wielding a weapon, but Ranulf was on his guard nonetheless. The man dominated his surroundings by controlling both conversations and situations. No wonder the duke had taken a liking to him. Another time and circumstance, so would have Ranulf, but the knight needed to understand that today he was manipulating no one. “You may not be an enemy, but you are certainly someone I don’t trust,” Ranulf clarified.

Laon shrugged his chin and nodded his head. The man was brutally candid, but Laon had a message of his own. “Unfortunate for you then that I am also your one and only noteworthy vassal, my lord.”

Ranulf closed his eyes and took a deep breath before exhaling. He was still not used to hearing the title in reference to him. Learning of Lord Anscombe’s death—a distant cousin he had never met—and discovering that his father and elder brother were no longer among the living had been too recent to fully digest. In that one moment, his life, his future had changed. And Sir Laon le Breton had ensured it was a future Ranulf was forced to embrace. In doing so, the old knight had uprooted Ranulf’s comfortable life—and he wasn’t ready to forget that just yet.

“Keep your fealty. I have my men.”

“From what I have learned, the majority of your men won’t arrive until spring. Until then you have the support of what? A couple dozen soldiers? While they are no doubt able men, I question if any of them will be very helpful in running Hunswick Castle. Have they—have you—ever had to deal with questions about candle making? Or determined what to do when the dovecote is raided by five-year-old mischievous little boys?” The old man smiled as if he knew Ranulf’s weakness. “Perhaps the fealty of an old, interfering knight somewhat knowledgeable about such things would not be so useless.”

Now that Laon had moved to his right side, Ranulf could see him patiently waiting for a response. Ranulf was unwilling to give him one. Instead, he clinched his jaw, refusing to agree or disagree. Giving up, Laon shrugged unperturbed and turned to face the sea. “You are far too young to be so severe and serious.”

“I’m a serious man,” Ranulf replied, forcing his voice to remain level and devoid of any prideful anger at the man who dared to criticize him.

“Maybe, but wearing a perpetually solemn expression does not necessarily make a man wise. Nor does it qualify him as a leader.” The tone was light, conversational, but the subject matter hinted at the gravity to which the old knight felt.

Ranulf turned to blatantly reassess his newly acquired, yet unwanted mentor. This time it was Laon who looked out to the sea and ignored him. Ranulf could feel his pride churning, twisting inside him in a way he had not experienced in years when he realized that was exactly the old menace’s aim. The man was intentionally trying to provoke him, not to arouse anger, but to gain something else—he wanted to understand just whom he was going to serve. “Have you decided upon my character, or do you need more time?” Ranulf challenged.

Laon’s misty blue gaze surveyed the rolling waves for several seconds before he turned to reply, this time his demeanor and expression solemn. “Your temperament is obvious for the world to see.” He paused for a moment as if he were trying to decide whether he should refrain from further explanation or continue. The latter was chosen. “You are neither kind nor giving, and your manner can best be described as impersonal. When you do engage, you are rather gruff, although I wonder how much of that is habit or intentional. However, you are fair and respectful, even to those you know little or not at all,” Laon finished, pointing at the young deckhand Ranulf had assisted earlier.

Ranulf discerned no animosity in the comment reflected back. Such frankness, and from a virtual stranger, was most unusual and yet it was also refreshing. The exchange and its tone almost resembled that of a father-son conversation, the kind Ranulf always coveted but never received.

The old knight had actually looked at him when he spoke. Even some of his own men typically preferred to converse to his profile rather than face-to-face. There were many ways to disguise discomfort and over the past decade Ranulf no longer considered it an insult. But he wasn’t prepared for a stranger to speak to him and address him as if he were a whole man and not the damaged figure he knew he appeared to be. As a consequence, Ranulf found himself responding to the sincere request with atypical candor. “Your perception is correct. I am what you describe.”

“Which one? The gruff fool or the fair wise man?” Laon inquired, simultaneously releasing a half smile.

Ranulf cocked his right brow. It had been a long time since he had done any self-examination, and last time he had, the conclusion had been unsettling. “I do not know myself. I probably have the capacity to be either…depending on the conversation.”

“Fair answer. I think I might like you yet, my lord.” The half smile morphed into a full grin.

Ranulf stared incredulously at the older gentleman. In principle the knight was his vassal, and as such, his demeanor should be submissive, if not reverent. Instead, the old man emitted a presence of one who expected and deserved respect. And surprisingly, Ranulf was beginning to. “I see now how you persuaded the duke to your cause.”

“Ah, I didn’t sway him, but his wife…our new queen is incredibly lovely and quite perceptive.”

Ranulf chuckled and shook his head. He couldn’t help it. He only wished he could have been there to witness the encounter. “Yes, she is a much better choice of ally. She’s powerful, not to mention influential. It is a shame neither of you realized that you were damning a lot of people by forcing this title upon me.”

“Your predecessor didn’t think so when he bade me to find you and neither did the king.”

“My predecessor didn’t know me. My elder brother was the one groomed since birth for the role of Lord Anscombe. Not me. War was what I was made for. I belong on a battlefield. Trust me, that is where your people will wish I had remained.”

Laon shook his head. “You are no tyrant.” Then suddenly realizing what Ranulf meant, he stopped and asked, “Because of your missing eye? Its absence doesn’t bother me. Nor will it bother anyone else at Hunswick. What you will bring weighs of far more importance.”

Ranulf clinched his jaw and then forced it to relax, resuming a detached expression. “Either you are blinded by sight or by naïveté. Either way, it is not I who’ll be disappointed. I told Henry, and now I’m telling you. Be satisfied that I am going. Don’t be hopeful.”

 

Ranulf emerged from the ship’s innards. His horse was faring, but like the rest of the living, Pertinax would be far happier once they reached the solid grounds of England. Ranulf scanned the back of the deck, saw the man he was looking for, and expressed a small smile before meandering through the maze of crates and barrels tied down to the wood planks. “Can you see the horizon from there?”

“I can and you’re right,” Laon answered, keeping his eyes focused on the water. “It does help, but I’m old and not made for sea travel. Like war, it’s a young man’s passion, and at eight and twenty, you should now be wishing for more.”

Ranulf took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he took a giant step up onto the rear platform. The philosophical tenor of the old man’s comment announced that he intended once again to challenge Ranulf’s perception of himself and the world. Whether Laon was trying to prepare him for his new responsibilities or convince him that he would be a good lord, Ranulf could not discern. Regardless, the attempts so far had been unsuccessful. But Ranulf secretly had to admit, their discussions over the past few days were some of the most engaging and frank ones he had had in some time. Maybe that was why he constantly found himself drawn to the man and yet rebelling against the very words Laon had to say.

Ranulf looked down at his unpredictable companion, who was sitting on one of the stacked crates, in view of the sea’s undulating horizon and yet out of the way of the water’s freezing spray. “I’m learning that a man has only so much control over his destiny. I doubt even Henry would disagree.”

Laon took a deep breath and then, after a few seconds, exhaled. “I do find it curious your consistent reference to our new king as Henry or the duke.”

“He’s not the king yet.”

“True, but King Stephen is dead and the coronation will take place soon after our arrival. Very few continue to refer to him as the duke, and with the exception of Her Grace…and you, no one calls him by his name.”

It was a gentle reminder that the duke’s status had changed, and consequently, he should no longer be referred to so familiarly. The old man was right, but it would still be a hard habit to break. “I have known King Henry for many years, more than most realize. We have a”—Ranulf paused for a moment as if to decide just what to say and settled on—“unique history.”

“But you are now a noble and he is a monarch. Your relationship must change.”

“It did. The moment he thrust my desires aside and bade me north.”

“He must have believed you would be a good leader to convince you to go.”

Ranulf’s mouth transformed into a firm, unyielding line. “I am loyal to Henry, but that does not mean I am blind to his…personality traits. The man is cunning and intelligent, but he is far from generous and only a half-wit would think him benevolent. He had his own reasons for ‘convincing’ me, as you put it, to assume my latest role.”

“And they were not for the good of his people?”

“Not exactly. More like I am to bring and keep the peace. And if that helps those that live there, then good, but more importantly, Henry seeks stability…and William a throne.” England had been suffering from a civil war for almost nineteen years and its people were longing for a strong government. Most of the English noblemen would support Henry, but altruistic peace was not what the new king sought. His brother also desired a throne and Henry intended to give him Ireland, and to do that, he needed his armies free, not fighting to maintain his sovereignty.

Laon twitched his mouth and after a moment agreed. “Making William lord of a conquered Ireland would occupy him, at least for a while. Of course, the king will need to get the newly elected Pope Adrian to agree.”

“Henry will get the blessing. The Pope’s English born and quite aware of who the duke is and just what power he wields.”

“It seems you have a great understanding of just what the king seeks and why. Does such understanding extend to yourself?”

“I know myself well enough,” Ranulf clipped, instantly regretting the rash response.

“Then just what power do you yield, Lord Anscombe?” Laon asked, turning to look Ranulf directly in the eye. “More importantly, just what do you intend to do with your authority?”

There they were. The first of today’s several probing questions. Looking inwardly and analyzing one’s own psyche was not a pastime Ranulf indulged in and he did not intend to start now. “Besides get some sleep?” Ranulf quipped back.

A bushy gray brow popped up. “Should I ask?”

“Not if you want answers.”

Laon issued Ranulf a slight shrug, indicating he wouldn’t press the issue, but was still interested in understanding the truth behind Ranulf’s attempt at a jest. Instead, Laon returned to the original point he had been trying to make. “So the king wants a peacemaker, and I and your people desire a fair leader who will guide and aid them when times are tough, which have been many of late. But what do you want?”

Ranulf did not respond because he was not sure of his answer. To return to his life? That wouldn’t be fair to his men, and in truth, fighting was not fulfilling work, it was numbing. Ranulf was a good commander, some even claimed he was one of the best, but the feeling of reward and accomplishment with victory had long left him.

Laon waited for either an answer or an impulsive remark, but getting neither, he pushed on, refusing to allow Ranulf avoid the point he was trying to make. He gestured toward Ranulf’s missing eye and said, “You survived an injury that changed your perceptions, of both the world and those you encounter. You have felt life’s injustice and, for years, used your pain and anger to wield a sword in battle. Now you have the chance and the power to change people’s lives. You just need to decide what you are going to do. And remember, even doing nothing has consequences.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because four of those lives belong to myself and my three daughters.” Laon stood up, gave a brief nod of respect, and then disappeared into the rooms hidden beneath the platform. Ranulf stayed where he was, staring blankly out at the stormy sea.

Laon was right. By accepting the title, benefits, and responsibilities of being Lord Anscombe, he had assumed a position of power. And he had considered it from everyone else’s viewpoint, but his own. His men needed a home, his king wanted peace, the people whom he was to oversee needed a protector, but just what did he want to do with all that came with being a noble? For it mattered no longer that he didn’t want the power. He had it.

And just like the old man said, he could choose action or no action—but either would mean change.

 

The next morning began similarly to the others. Ranulf rose, ate enough stale bread and mead to steady his stomach, and then went to see about the keeping of his horse. He entered the stable area and the large black destrier swung his head around in welcome. In doing so, Pertinax revealed another visitor. Sir Laon le Breton. Yesterday, the old man had finally stopped trying to pry into Ranulf’s conscience and motivations, talking instead about himself, his family, and life in northwest England.

Ranulf approached Pertinax just as the boat unexpectedly lurched, causing him to take a quick couple of balancing steps. Laon, still unable to compensate for any sudden rise and fall of the ship, tumbled into the large horse, which snorted a loud and very cross whinny.

Laon steadied himself and huffed, “Your horse is quite unhappy.”

“He likes the sea even less than you.”

“Doubtful, but I am surprised you brought him. I would have thought the king would have supplied you with a dozen horses if you but asked.”

Ranulf arched the brow over his good eye. Laon was unusually cross today. “Maybe, but Pertinax knows me.”

Laon’s mouth formed a brief “oh” before closing. Over the past few days, he had begun to grasp the impact of losing one’s eye. Limited sight was not just a learning curve to be overcome and surpassed, but an impediment with daily repercussions Ranulf experienced in almost all actions, conversations, and activities. Without two eyes in which to pinpoint exact distance, reaching out to take what was offered or pour some ale into a mug was not as straightforward as Laon had initially perceived. After years of compensating for his injury, Ranulf could easily make those around him forget that these were indeed challenges he addressed every day. And his horse Pertinax was one of those supports enabling him to smoothly interact with the world.

“You’re right. I should have realized just what your horse means to you,” Laon grunted, rubbing his face vigorously with his hands. “I shamelessly blame lack of sleep for my thoughtless remark. I can finally keep my food down, but I like my bed to be firm and unmoving. My tired state is something you are quite familiar with, I suspect.”

Ranulf ground his teeth together and followed Laon back up on deck where, when not raining, they spent their mornings. Details of his sleep, or lack of it, Ranulf had been careful to keep to himself. No one, not even he, would be comfortable following the orders of a man who never slumbered more than a handful of hours a night. Almost all men could function tired, but after a while irrationality set in and emotional control eroded away. Each man had his limit, and Ranulf used to wonder when he would reach his. But it had been years since he had enjoyed more than four hours of sleep at a time, and even then he rarely went into a deep unconscious state. He wasn’t plagued by nightmares, just the inability to be at complete ease. To be vulnerable.

“Is that one of your men?” Laon asked, pointing to a young man with muscular arms built from months, if not years, of swinging a sword.

Ranulf twitched his jaw. “I did not think them obvious.”

“They aren’t, but too many times have I seen one of them glance your way, not in curiosity, but with desire for direction. That makes about two dozen on board, unless you have more traveling on the other ships making their way to England,” Laon remarked with a sigh of disappointment.

“You hoped for more?”

Laon hesitated. He had trapped himself and to deny otherwise would make all their previous conversations meaningless. “I had. Most of your neighbors, at least the English ones, will respect your assumption of Hunswick Castle, the waters of Basellmere, and its surrounding valley, but your closest neighbor I fear will not be one of them.”

“Don’t worry about my men, or lack of them. The ones you see could handle three times their number in battle, but almost a hundred more will be arriving in the spring.”

“A hundred?” Laon gasped. He had known more soldiers would be coming, but he had never dreamed the knight had so many loyal followers. “Good Lord, you will bring Hunswick to its ruin, not its glory.”

“My men seek peace, nor war. Most have families and are eager to become farmers, raise children, and live long lives.”

“They are married, then.”

“A good many. Why? Do you worry there is not enough land to support my men and their families?”

Laon shook his head. “Quite the contrary. The north still suffers from King William’s deadly campaigns to end the region of its Anglo-Danish independence and replace it with a Norman allegiance. After decades of sparse population, Cumbria needs more people. There is rich soil and its mountains are laden with ample coal, copper, tin—even iron.”

“Then why does fear hide in those blue depths of yours, Laon? Do you think if my men become farmers, they won’t respond to a military threat?”

“I do not fear for myself, but my daughters.”

“I will protect them from the evils of the world.”

“The evils of the world they have seen and felt. The evils of men, however…”

Ranulf finally grasped Laon’s concern, but his previous comment gave him pause. The evils of the world they have seen and felt…? Ranulf found it hard to believe the o