The Christmas Knight. Michele SinclairЧитать онлайн книгу.
so fortunate.
One of the men looked up and glanced his way. Ranulf, seeing the stricken expression, suddenly knew who had been standing on the other side.
Forcing his limbs to move, Ranulf staggered around the cluster of men to see Laon lying on his back with shards of broken wood around him. The old man was struggling for breath. He was not dead, but would be soon.
Loss was never easy, but the old knight’s would be especially difficult to handle. Ranulf had friends; some he trusted with his life. One was already in England, waiting for his arrival. Ranulf had been looking forward to introducing Laon to Tyr, eager to hear their blunt exchange. But it was not to be. Ranulf knew he would never meet another who would dare to be not just candid, but honest on topics no one ever ventured.
Kneeling, Ranulf raised Laon’s head and clutched his hand. The dying knight squeezed as pain ripped through him. “I’m here, Laon.”
The old man opened his eyes and rasped, “Promise me, Ranulf, promise me you’ll marry her.”
“I’ll take care of them. This I promise. All your daughters will be safe. I swear it on my life.”
Laon squeezed Ranulf’s fingers as he clung to life. “I need you to promise me you will marry her.”
“Marry who?”
“Lily, the youngest,” Laon gasped. “She is so lovely and so young. She will learn to love you and make you a good wife as my Aline was to me.”
Ranulf instinctively let go and tried to release his hand from Laon’s grip. He had no intentions of marrying anyone and a dying request was not going to change his mind. “I made you a promise, Laon. I cannot do more.”
But the fading knight was not appeased. He reached out and seized Ranulf’s wet tunic, giving him the choice to either forcibly remove the dying man’s grip or come closer. “You don’t understand. Marriage is the only way you can protect them all from—” And the rest was drowned out by gruesome coughs that accompanied internal bleeding.
Ranulf struggled to understand why Laon believed only marriage could protect his daughters and said so, but his fading friend refused to release his painful hold on life. “Family. Must be family. Do this one thing for me…and…for yourself. Be my son. Marry her…marry my Lily.”
Agony coursed through Laon’s face and every man around him knew that Ranulf held the manner of the old, admired knight’s passing in his hands. “I’ll marry her, Laon. Your family will be safe, and if that is what needs to be done, then it will be done. I promise.”
Calmed by the vow, Laon closed his eyes and gave a brief nod. A second later, his hand dropped to the deck as he exhaled his final breath.
Never before had guilt or pressure swayed Ranulf’s decisions, and although it might have appeared otherwise to those men who heard the exchange, neither emotion drove his promise. Ranulf doubted few could understand the real reason he had agreed, but in those last few seconds, Laon was not just a man, a vassal, or even a friend. He was a father, and to Laon, Ranulf was a son. Such requests could never be denied and so Ranulf had agreed.
He just hoped that the duke saw reason and would refuse to allow the match. Because Ranulf was not going to get married, and he was damn sure not going to be snared for life to a shallow creature the world doted on because of her beauty.
Chapter One
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1154
THE CORONATION OF KING HENRY II
Though crowned in October after King Stephen’s death, Henry II wasn’t coronated the king of England until December 19, 1154, in the Westminster Abbey. Appearing at his coronation dressed in a doublet and short Angevin cloak earned him his immortal nickname “Curtmantle.” Eleven years his senior, his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, was absent from the event due to being heavily pregnant with their second son, Henry III, causing her own coronation to be postponed for four years, taking place in December 1158 at Worcester Cathedral. Marrying Eleanor, a power and influential figure, made Henry the largest landowner in France, including King Louis VII, his longtime rival and Eleanor’s first husband.
Bronwyn reached back to close the small cottage door behind her and sighed regretfully as the warm sun beat down on her face. She had put on her heaviest bliaut and now was uncomfortably hot with only herself to blame. Minimizing castle staff had meant she and her sisters had to share an already overworked chambermaid. So to help, they all agreed to assume additional responsibilities, including taking their clothes to the laundress and bringing them back, something about which Bronwyn had been frightfully negligent. Today she was paying the price.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if the warm wind that blew through the wooded hills was what a December breeze should be, chilly or even cool. Never had a fall lasted so long or a winter arrived so late. If the weather continued its rebellious mood, the bonfires during this year’s Twelfthtide would have to be drearily small, maybe even nonexistent; otherwise everyone attending the festivities would be roasted alive.
Bronwyn picked up her pace and joined her two younger sisters just in time for another squabble to begin.
“If your sheer presence has such miraculous healing abilities, Lily, then you should have stayed. For until Tomas is well, his daughters won’t be coming back to Hunswick and I am telling you right now, that abusing poor Charity and having her continue with your chores needs to stop.” Edythe paused and waited for affirmation, but Bronwyn remained mum. She had stopped playing the role of peacemaker long ago, for it never worked.
Realizing that her older sister was not going to lend any support, Edythe proceeded with her censure. “Besides, everyone knows that Tomas will continue to feel poorly until just after Father Morrell finishes his lengthy Christmas sermon. Very soon afterward there will be a miracle recovery in full—whether you’re there or not.”
Lily’s gray eyes flashed. “No wonder Father Morrell doesn’t visit more often. Why should he with you around to lecture everyone? And you need not be so smug, Edythe. No one fails to come to Hunswick for Twelfthtide, even if they are ill. You’re just jealous I was able to cheer Tomas’s spirits when you could not.” Lily jutted out her chin in a challenging way, knowing Edythe would rise to the bait.
“I’m glad you cheered someone then because your mournful moods of late have been near intolerable,” Edythe replied as she sauntered haughtily past her sister.
Lily ran to catch up, her dark hair bouncing behind her. “That’s unfair, Edythe!” she cried, not denying the truth of the barb. “Father would have taken me to London. And you know it. My one chance to see a king be crowned,” she moaned, “and I’m here. Can you imagine the celebration that followed? It is probably happening right now. The dresses, the food, and the men! Eligible, wealthy lords, and barons and knights everywhere!”
“Good Lord, you love to be dramatic,” Edythe snorted, her bright blue eyes sparkling with condescension. “And you are incredibly naïve if you think Father would have allowed you to go to Westminster. You would have made a nuisance out of yourself with all your flirtations and silly little giggles. It’s repulsive how you act around every two-legged mammal with a beard.”
“But it works,” Lily returned with a large smile she knew would aggravate her sister. “You should try it, Edythe. God gave you everything needed to capture a man’s eye, but then you open your mouth and drive anyone interested in you my way. If you could just learn to keep quiet.”
“Amazing, Lily, for that’s my advice to you. And as far as driving men away, first there would have to be someone to repel. Not one man of marrying age or eligibility has visited since Father left, and secondly, if a man can be so easily intimidated, I wouldn’t want him for a dinner companion, let alone a husband.”
Lily rolled her eyes, their light shadowy color made only more piercing by her fair skin and dark hair. “You don’t intimidate, Edythe. You insult.”
“And you, Lily, think anything that isn’t dripping with