His Fair Lady
Authors: Kathleen Kirkwood
Tags: #france, #england, #romance historical medieval crusades knights
©Copyright 2001 Anita Gordon
Smashwords Edition, 2013
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents, other than those in attributed
quotations or references, are either products of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters are fictional
and any similarity to people living or dead is purely
coincidental.
Cover art: Delle Jacobs
ISBN-13:
978-1-62454-000-4
“
HIS FAIR LADY is Kathleen Kirkwood at
her best. She brings the pageantry, splendor, and romance of
Medieval England to life. This one is going to be a sure-fire
winner.”
Cathy Maxwell
NYT Best-selling Author of
THE SCOTTISH WITCH
For my beloved grandparents,
George & Marie
and
Guy & Charlotte
You are never far from memory and always in
my heart.
My heartfelt thanks and deep appreciation
to
Linda Abel, Publisher,
The Medieval Chronicle
, for her
thoughtful review and insightful feedback for this newly revised
edition of
LADY
; and
to
Anne-Caroline for her generous guidance on
all things French, especially for helping to resolve a number of
finer details and points of minutia that kept niggling at me.
Table of Contents
“Dieu li volt!”
“God wills it!”
—
Motto of the Crusaders
Burgundy, June A.D. 1190
“The Lionheart awaits! We press on to
Vézelay!” Sir Hugh FitzAlan bellowed his command and galloped back
along the column of men, beasts, and wagons traveling
the age-worn road.
Royce promptly followed on his sturdy
roncin, shadowing the great knight as a squire’s duty demanded.
Watchful, Royce held his steed at a precise distance behind the
charger, determined to prove his worth for the honor so recently
bestowed upon him.
Again came Sir Hugh’s full-throated cry as
he heartened his troops and inspired them onward.
The Lionheart.
Vézelay.
The words burned in Royce’s chest and his
pulse thumped in his veins.
Surely Heaven’s grace shined upon him. When
Sir Hugh’s squire broke his leg a fortnight past during practice in
the lists, ‘twas he — Royce de Warrene — whom the great knight
singled out to replace the other noble. Soon after, Sir Hugh
secured the funds he’d so fervently sought, enabling him to leave
England apace with his retainers and join the king’s army amassing
across the Channel in Burgundy, poised to embark on Crusade.
Beyond all hopes and imaginings, Royce now
traveled in a train of gallant knights and stout men-at-arms, a red
cross emblazoned upon his shoulder. Each amongst them was sworn to
war against the infidel and to win back the Kingdom of Jerusalem
for Christendom.
Failure was not possible, Royce deemed
as he trailed closely behind Sr. Hugh. Did not the three most
revered monarchs alive join forces and lead their armies east? Who
could withstand them — England’s King Richard,
Coeur de Lion,
the very flower of chivalry
itself; France’s illustrious Philip Augustus; and the renowned Holy
Roman Emperor, Frederick Barbarossa?
Soon the devil, Saladin, and his Saracens
would taste Crusader steel ten thousand times over. Justice would
be exacted for their black deeds — the bloody seizure of Jerusalem
and its Frankish king, the butchery of the captured Templars and
Hospitallers, beheaded by the hundreds, and the enslavement of
thousands of Christians.
Even now, the emperor, Frederick, and his
host proceeded to the Holy Land whilst the armies of Richard and
Philip gathered at Vézelay, their departure imminent.
Royce drew an invigorating breath, his heart
drumming solidly against his chest. Surely Heaven’s grace did smile
on him that he — a newly made squire of scarce ten-and five years —
should accompany the valorous knight, Sir Hugh FitzAlan, on Holy
Crusade to campaign beneath the banner of the Lionheart. One day,
Royce vowed, he, too, would attain the spurs of knighthood and
wield his sword and fight for right. Upon his honor, ‘twould be
so.
The blustery shout of a roughened voice
broke Royce’s ruminations, drawing his attention to a flush-faced
man on a small bay mare. Royce recognized him as Beuvan de Luce,
the oldest of the bachelor knights in Sir Hugh’s employ. At the
knight’s boisterous call, Sir Hugh reined his charger to a halt,
Royce doing likewise behind him.
“Do we march the night through?” Sir Beuvan
asked, shoving back the coif of mail from his head, revealing
grayed, sweat-dampened hair plastered to his skull like a cleric’s
cap. “Vézelay yet lies three days hence.”
“Aye, Beuvan. We need close the time to two
or we risk missing the king’s departure.” Sir Hugh lifted his
bearded face to the dulling sky then returned his gaze to the
knight.
“The moon shall be high and full this night
and shall well light our way. We press on hard for now but take
heart, friend. I have word, by Richard’s arrangement, a fleet
awaits the troops at Marseilles to bear us across the sea to Acre.
We shall take our rest once aboard ship and strengthen ourselves
for the test to come.”
With that, Sir Hugh turned his charger
toward the head of the column and rode swiftly forward. Royce kept
pace on his roncin though his body ached with fresh complaints for
the endless hours spent in the saddle these past days.
He ignored the shafts of pain splintering
down his spine and through his legs, refusing them the least
concern. Instead, his mind remained fixed on the knight’s words and
the very core of his concerns.
‘Twas urgent they hasten, lest the Lionheart
depart without them.
»«
The dusky veils of eve descended as the
soldiery passed through the lush, rolling lands of Burgundy, their
cloak of summer green darkening to black as the light faded
completely. Hour upon hour, the retinue persevered along the
ancient pilgrim road, the moon’s glow alone now silvering their
path and brightening their way.
Royce welcomed the cool of night and gave
himself to thoughts of the days to come — of sailing with the king
and of what a Saracen might look like.
Beneath the solid tread of his roncin, the
road dipped and rose and dipped again, following the countryside’s
gentle contours. Lost to his thoughts, Royce scarce took note of
those undulating rhythms until the road turned sharply upward, the
climb steeper than any before. Glancing ahead, his gaze drew to the
horizon as the entourage trod on and approached the crest of the
road.
Royce blinked when a stain of color appeared
beyond the top of the rise — an eerie ruddy gold, illumining the
underbelly of the pitch-dark sky.
At the sight, Sir Hugh spurred his horse
forward to gain a better view. Royce scarce won to his side, along
with several retainers, when Sir Hugh threw up his gloved hand and
signaled the troops to a halt. In unison, their gazes riveted on
the scene below.
Royce’s stomach fisted tight as he spied a
sizable village beyond, its patchwork of fields and crowd of
thatched houses set ablaze, firing the midnight heavens. Faint
cries drifted to their ears — piteous cries filled with horror,
hysteria, and abject misery.
Sir Hugh vented a curse, his mien hardening
as he turned in his saddle and addressed his companion knights and
men-at-arms. “A foul deed hath been wrought this night,” he roared.
“God’s test is upon us! Ready your blades and keep vigilant, men.
We know not what cur we meet.”
With that he unsheathed his sword and
commanded his men forward, leading them down into the vail.
Instinctively, Royce set his heels to his roncin, keeping pace with
the knightly host, unquestioning of whether he should do so or not.
A squire did not join his lord in combat, true, but he need keep
near to hand all the same.
Heart racing, he leaned into his mount. When
the ground leveled out, he reached back for his spear, lashed on
the roncin’s rump along with Sir Hugh’s spare weapons.
Royce’s blood ran hot in his veins. How
often had he craved to rise to such a moment? Like all knightly
candidates, he longed to hone his skills, gain the experience of
battle, uphold the chivalric code. Freeing his spear — the only
weapon allowed him as a squire — he gripped it tight, prepared to
aid his lordly knight and do whatever the Almighty required of
him.
Turning off the main road, the retinue
hastened toward the village on a broad lane. Within minutes they
galloped between burning fields where flames leapt high, devouring
crops and vineyards and casting the soldiers in a molten glow of
crimson and gold.
As the troops emerged from the fiery
stretches, they reached the first sheds and houses on the outskirts
of the village proper, aflame as was all else. Keen to danger, the
knights sought signs of those responsible for the foul handiwork
they now came upon — oxen split open from gullet to tail, the
entrails spilt out, pigs and goats dissevered, their parts strewn
across the ground.
Royce glanced at a lumpish mass nearby then
realized ‘twas a man lying face down in a pool of blood, his head
smashed open. Several feet away lay a second man, his eyes staring
vacantly to the heavens, his throat sliced wide, his arm cleaved
from its joint.
Royce swallowed the bile that scaled his
throat and fought down his revulsion. Looking to the seasoned
soldiers surrounding him, he found them stone faced, their
expressions shuttered as they continued to seek the
perpetrators.
If the gruesome sight moved these warriors,
they concealed their emotions entirely, so single-minded were they
to their task. Embracing their example, Royce steeled himself and
proceeded on.
At Sir Hugh’s gesture, the troops slowed,
moving more cautiously now along the principal lane, flanked by a
blazing forest of peasant houses. Each dwelling stood apart on a
small parcel, a network of paths running between them, the fires
feeding upon their flimsy wattle-and-daub constructions. Fences lay
shattered all about, the yards overrun and the livestock butchered,
feathers everywhere.
Death met Royce at every glance — scores of
villagers slain, lying in twisted heaps, male and female, young and
old alike. ‘Twas as though he’d entered Hell itself.