A Dishonorable Knight Read online

  “She’s related to the Duke of York’s wife. She will be arriving in the next day or two.” Not only was she related to the Duke of York, she was beautiful and wealthy, and Elena was assigned to wait on her while she was at court. Humiliation had burned through Elena’s veins, pulsing her hurt and her anger through every fiber of her being.

  Since that time, Elena had vowed she would not be fooled again. She perfected the art of flirtation, never taking seriously a word uttered by a courtier, making sure she would not appear the fool for any man. But the damage to her reputations was done. She was never sure if there was a knowing leer behind the flattering smiles of her fellow courtiers. Lord Edgeford was the first man who seemed to believe the best about her. Whether or not he’d heard the gossip, Elena felt sure he did not believe it. When they were married, she would finally be free of the malicious rumors--free to be the gracious, powerful noble lady she was born to be.

  Lord Edgeford was different and her flirtations were no game: she meant to marry him. But she would not permit herself to care too deeply for him.

  Elena realized that she was still staring at Edgeford and the dark-haired woman. Quickly turning her head, her gaze collided with the gray eyes of a man several tables over. Brushing a lock of thick brown hair out of his eyes, the man smiled and bowed his head at her. Elena was just about to glare her disapproval over such familiar behavior when the king's booming voice called to her.

  "Lady Elena, my dear child. Come bid your sovereign good even!"

  Smoothing her skirts, Elena approached the raised dais that held the king's table, and curtsied.

  "No, no. Come around here and let me introduce you to someone."

  Elena ascended the steps and approached the king, nodding to those lords who glanced at her and curtsying deeply to Richard.

  "Your Grace," she murmured, hoping Lord Edgeford would see her up here and on such close terms with the king. Despite her assurances to Margaret, Elena was still not sure that the king of the York household would totally dismiss her father's distant relationship with the Lancastrians. Her grandfather had, after all, been granted his land in northern England from that formidable Lancaster, Henry V.

  "Here is our fair child." Richard addressed an older man on his right. Elena pulled her attention to the man Richard was addressing and cringed inwardly as the heavy set man eyed her speculatively from beneath bushy black brows.

  "Indeed, Your Grace," the man said in a gravelly voice.

  Taking Elena's hand, Richard squeezed it reassuringly as he introduced her. "Edmund, this is Elena de Vignon, daughter of Jean Paul de Vignon who owns quite a sizable estate up near Doncaster. Elena, this is the Earl of Brackley, a true and loyal friend."

  The earl pushed himself to his feet and Elena took a small step backwards; not only was the man of heavy build, he was well over six feet tall. The earl issued a curt bow and Elena could not help but wonder why the king was introducing her to Brackley. The earl immediately sat back down and took his knife to the meat on his trencher. As Richard turned to address his page, Elena curtsied to their backs and quickly descended the stairs. Still bewildered as to why the king had called her up in the first place, she looked about for Edgeford and saw him watching the group of dancers at the end of the great hall. As she approached the edge of the circle of onlookers, the dance ended and several young men began calling for the Gavotte—a scandalous dance involving kissing between partners. Elena sought out Edgeford, only to find him being dragged onto the dance floor by the brunette he had been laughing with earlier. In a fury, she stamped her foot on the hard stone floor and was silently cursing the woman when she felt someone touch her arm. Elena whirled around.

  In front of her, a man straightened his jerkin and brushed his hair out of his eyes. "Would you care to dance?" he asked.

  She surveyed her would-be partner. While a distant part of her brain registered the man's clear-cut features, warm gray eyes and well-developed shoulders, the practical part of her mind was offended by the man's worn woolen hose, his scuffed brown boots, and his plainly cut jerkin. She was about to refuse when she remembered that midway through the Gavotte, the dancers changed partners. Quickly counting off couples from Edgeford to determine where she should position herself to become his partner, she turned back to the man. "Very well. Shall we start over here?" she asked.

  Her partner gingerly took her hand and led her to the line of dancers. As the steps progressed, Elena scarce paid him any attention, intent as she was on watching Edgeford. During a complicated step, she glanced briefly at her plainly dressed partner and knew he was irritated by her preoccupation. When it came time for him to kiss her, she artfully turned her head at the last moment so his lips merely grazed her cheek. By the time he had to relinquish her as his partner, he seemed very put out, but then the dark-haired woman was his partner and Elena wished them both good riddance.

  Turning her attention to her new partner, Elena felt quite pleased her scheme had worked. As she and Lord Edgeford danced, she concentrated on smiling her prettiest and laughing her softest. Edgeford obligingly responded.

  "Ah, at last I am given the honor of a dance with the fair maid Elena."

  "Not such an honor, my lord, as I am nearly an old maid," Elena said, lowering her eyes modestly. Oh how she wished she could blush when she wanted as cousin Sarah was able to do!

  The man laughed. "My dear Elena, not for one moment do I believe that you are worried about becoming an old maid. Nevertheless, I have it on the greatest authority that you will be betrothed before the night is out."

  Elena smiled her most dazzling smile, fully aware of the catch in her partner's breath as he looked into her sparkling eyes. As the dance ended, a page touched Edgeford's arm.

  "My lord, the King has instructed me to inform you that he has time now to hear your petition."

  Turning back to Elena, Edgeford bowed low over her hand. "Pray forgive me for abandoning you, my lady. I only hope we will share many more such enjoyable dances in the future."

  Elena watched the tall man as he made his way gracefully through the drunken revelers to meet with the King. She clasped her hands in front of her to keep from clapping in delight. She had only been hoping the earl would approach the king by month's end. Indeed, it now seemed she would be Lady Edgeford by that time. So absorbed was she in her thoughts, she did not notice the man standing at her side.

  "My lady?"

  Elena turned to find her original dance partner. She stared at him blankly.

  The man cleared his throat. "I fear we were not partners long enough to discover each other's names." He bowed low over her hand. "I am Sir Gareth ap Morgan."

  A Welshman, Elena thought, closing her eyes with a grimace. Why did every lowborn man in Christendom think she was eager to make his acquaintance? No doubt he had heard of her questionable virtue and sought to make the most of it. Opening her eyes, she saw the man staring at her expectantly.

  "And you are..?" he urged.

  "And I am on my way to becoming the lady of a wealthy estate, so please think not to woo me to bed with tales of your battlefield glories or proud stories of your herd of sheep back home."

  The knight flushed to the roots of his hair, his brows drawing together sharply. He seemed at a complete loss for a response. The King’s herald calling everyone to attention saved Elena from having to speak further with him.

  She turned expectantly, all thoughts of the Welshman at her side disappearing. The herald made several announcements concerning the next day's hunting activities before Richard himself stood and addressed the room.

  "Tis been a long while since we have had the celebration of a wedding, has it not?" Cheers and bawdy comments answered the king. "Well 'twill be a long while still till we have another!" The king laughed at the response he received. "’Twill be a long while because this wedding must be done properly as the groom is a friend of Ours, and the lady a gentle maid. You must wait until Michaelmas to revel at the nuptial of this good couple."
Elena smoothed her gown and smothered a knowing smile as Richard turned and gestured for her to join him. So pleased was she as she approached the king's dais that she didn't even hear Gareth's muttered curse as he walked away.

  "The Lady Elena de Vignon has been a beautiful and graceful addition to Our retinue, would you not agree?" More cheers greeted this comment. "For that reason, I kept her with Us even after Our beloved Queen's death.

  "Though We are loathe to part with her, My dear niece, Princess Elizabeth has convinced Us that to deny one of Our loyal subjects the joy of having such a woman to wed is unjust."

  Elena surreptitiously looked around for Lord Edgeford.

  "We have thought much on the subject of Lady Elena's husband and it is with great pleasure that We call forth the lucky man, Edmund, Earl of Brackley."

  Elena looked around in confusion. Who? Then she remembered. As the earl stood and walked around the table to take her hand, Elena felt dizzy as the blood rushing from her head dimmed the noisy sounds of the great hall. This must be a terrible mistake, she thought. I'm supposed to marry Edgeford, not this old—the clammy hand of her fiancee as it grasped hers stopped her frantic train of thought. Across the room, she spotted Edgeford who raised his goblet to her in a silent toast. In a daze, she heard the king finish saluting their happiness and before she could stop him, the earl was pressing a hard, bruising kiss to her lips. She smelled the ale and sour wine on his breath and felt the stiff bristles of his beard as they scraped her skin. She jerked her head back, but the earl had already turned away to down the goblet of wine Richard had handed him. She stiffly accepted the embraces of the Elizabeth and the other ladies-in-waiting.

  "Be of good cheer," Margaret said, not unkindly, upon seeing Elena's face. "He is, after all an earl. Would you not rather be a countess than a mere Lady?" At that, the confused look on Elena's face slowly disappeared to be replaced by the haughty expression Margaret was used to.

  "I know not what you are talking about," Elena said in a voice that sounded tight and brittle to her own ears.

  "Be not coy, Elena. We all know that you have been planning to marry Lord Edgeford.”

  Elena ground her teeth. How dare these women speculate on her plans? "Perhaps you had best return to your tea leaves, Margaret. I care not a bit for Edgeford. We are merely acquaintances."

  "Elena, few women are ever pleased by political marriages. They are almost always to doddering old men we know nothing about. Can you not admit you are frightened?" Margaret asked. "Think of Princess Elizabeth. Rumor says His Majesty is considering wedding her and he is her uncle! Think what worries she must be faced with being the most important political pawn in the country."

  "She would be queen, how worrisome can that be? You are just trying to frighten me. ‘Tis just what you would like to see, is it not? Me sobbing into my cups over some man. Well, I shall not give you the satisfaction," Elena said sharply.

  With a shake of her head, Margaret turned away and curtsied as Princess Elizabeth approached.

  Elena cast a speculative glance at the king’s niece. If the rumor Margaret mentioned was true, the princess might be sympathetic to Elena’s wanting to avoid a distasteful marriage and could be persuaded to argue her case before the king. Smiling her warmest smile, Elena offered Elizabeth her seat and a glass of wine.

  Chapter 2

  Gareth watched the King's niece draw the Lady Elena down beside her, speaking with great animation as Elena stared into space. He could not help but laugh. There was justice in the world. He had no doubt that she had set her cap for the tall fop she had maneuvered to dance with. 'Tis what she deserves, he thought, as he doubted that cold woman could have loved such a foolish man—or any man for that matter. Still, if her only interest was a title, she should look a sight happier at catching an earl. With a shrug, he looked around for Cynan and Bryant and saw them standing with a small group of men who gathered at the back of the great hall, talking quietly amongst themselves.

  As he started across the room, a serving maid stumbled in front of him, falling on the ground and dropping a pile of empty trays. Gareth quickly helped the young woman up, brushing off her worn skirt before he knelt to retrieve the trays.

  "Thank you, milord," the maid said timidly, a shy smile touching her mouth.

  "Be careful. God only knows the last time these rushes were changed," Gareth said, nodding to the floor. "Were you to fall again, we may not be so lucky as to find you," he teased.

  The young woman nodded, obviously amazed that the knight had not cursed or yelled or simply stepped right over her. When Gareth chucked her gently under the chin, she blushed bright pink and stared after him with adoration as he continued on his way.

  "Tis not a rumor, I tell you," a short man of sturdy build was saying as Gareth joined his friends at the back of the hall. "And Henry Tudor has just as much claim to the throne as Richard does."

  "More so, I say, since Henry has not killed innocent boys for it!" answered a broad-shouldered man with iron-grey hair. The men stopped talking when they noticed Gareth, but Cynan spoke up.

  "’Tis all right. Gareth is Welsh and bears no great love for Richard."

  Gareth frowned and glanced around at the men gathered in the shadows. Several of them he knew as knights, men at arms. A couple he’d not seen before but could tell by the cut of their cloth they were noblemen, landholders.

  “Aye, and it’s Welsh blood that will put Henry Tudor on the throne,” said a man whose accent clearly bespoke his lineage, though Gareth did not recognize him.

  “But ‘tis not his Welsh blood that grants him the right to the throne,” hissed one of the noblemen.

  Though Gareth’s knowledge of Henry Tudor’s ancestry was sketchy at best, he knew the man to be a direct descendant of John of Gaunt, the first Duke of Lancaster. The houses of Lancaster and York—both children of the great Edward III—had been warring for the crown since before Gareth was born. King Richard’s brother, Edward IV, had claimed the throne for York after killing the Lancastrian king, Henry VI. Though the fighting had largely involved small, scattered battles between the noble families, should Henry Tudor successfully return to England, the war could escalate to encompass the entire country.

  "King Charles of France has promised Henry money and ships. And with he and Oxford planning the battles, all we need do is raise troops for them to lead," said the grey-haired man.

  "When will he land?"

  "'Tis not been determined yet. Just stay at the ready, for when the call comes, we will have to move quickly."

  Gareth turned to whisper in Cynan’s ear. “’Tis treason these men speak. Why did you include me?”

  “Because I’ve known you since we were babes and you’re no man of Richard’s.”

  Gareth would have argued further but Cynan stepped closer into the circle of men.

  Some logistical talk ensued about chains of communication, but Gareth paid it no heed. He chewed on his lower lip, mulling over Cynan’s comment. He’d not spoken to his friend of his frustrations since joining Richard’s court, had made no mention of his disenchantment with his sovereign, not to mention the persistent belief that Richard had murdered his own nephews to secure the crown for himself. Nonetheless, Cynan seemed to cut right to the heart of Gareth’s inner turmoil.

  The group broke up as Viscount Lovell, one of Richard's council members walked by.

  Gareth pulled Cynan aside. "You should be more careful. What are you thinking meeting like this in Richard’s own keep? You're going to get yourself drawn and quartered."

  “We’re hiding in plain sight. And where better to recruit embittered subjects than in the viper’s own nest?” Though Gareth had made sure to speak quietly, Cynan spoke in a normal tone of voice.

  "Will you hush! This is the king's own residence. Do you think you can speak ill of him and not be heard?" Grabbing Cynan's tunic, he pulled him outside where the cool air was refreshing after the enveloping heat of the great hall. Bryant put his mug down and foll
owed them. "You never did have any sense as to when to keep your mouth shut, Cynan."

  "His wife tells him that all the time," added Bryant as he shut the rough door behind him.

  "Do not tell me you're mixed up in this, too."

  "If you mean do I want Henry Tudor on the throne, then yes, I'm mixed up in it, too."

  Gareth sighed. "You are going to get yourselves executed as traitors."

  "If I am a traitor because I would see a good and noble Welshman on the throne over a scheming murderer, then so be it, I am a traitor," said Cynan fiercely.

  "There has not been any proof that Richard had his nephews killed," Gareth protested, though he knew there could be no other explanation for the boys’ untimely disappearance.

  Bryant spoke up. "Gareth, do you mean to say Richard holds your loyalty and honor?"

  "He is the king and I a knight. He must have my loyalty by all the vows I took when I first put on these spurs."

  "And your honor?" Cynan asked. "Do you believe in your heart that he is best for England and Wales? Do you believe that his claim to the throne is more just than his Lancastrian rival?"

  Gareth paused, loathe to betray his oath as a knight but unable to admit he was Richard’s man at heart.

  "Come back to Gwynedd with us."

  "What?"

  "You can hear the arguments for Henry Tudor from much more level-headed men than I. Besides, your father has not seen you in over two years."

  "Do not tell me my father is involved in this nonsense?"

  "Of course he is. You do not think he would give up the chance to put Wales ahead of England, do you?" Cynan asked

  "I thought he had enough sense to live to see a grandson someday."

  "You are talking like a coward," Cynan spit out.

  "Cynan!" Bryant said sharply.

  Cynan took a deep breath and visibly relaxed. "I am sorry, Gareth. No one could ever accuse you of cowardice. ‘Tis just that if you could only distance yourself from this court, you would see who the true ruler should be. Please, come back home with us."