Tamed by a Knight

Chapter One

‡

England 1154 AD

“Another flagon of ale!” The new lord of Beckwith Keep slammed his empty cup on the wooden table. A serving wench tripped in her haste to reach him, spilling more ale onto the table than into his hammered silver chalice. He ignored her dismay and planted his elbow in the puddle, tilting back his head to take a long draw of warm ale.

“Perhaps, you should curb your thirst.”

Lord Roland Du Bary cast a baleful eye at his friend, Dougal Fitzhugh. “Why ever for?”

“The wedding night is still to come. Are you not afraid your ardor will flag?”

Roland licked the foam from the hairs that curved over his upper lip. “A little ale has never impeded me in bedsport. Not once have I failed to rouse my staff when the occasion called.” He cast a glance at his bride. The shy little miss had taken a seat further down the table. Her hair, neither blonde nor brown but all the pleasing shades of a pheasant’s tail feathers, hung in a long curtain to her hips. “Besides, my wife inspires me sufficiently.”

“Aye, you are a lucky man. You’ve a fine keep and lands—and a comely wife.”

His gaze still on his young bride, Roland replied, “She seems a pleasant mouse. Although methinks she tends to overimbibe. Her cheeks are quite flushed already.”

“Why say you she is a mouse?”

“She’s so timid; she has not once looked me in the eye.”

“Perhaps she is put off by your ill looks,” Dougal said with a laugh.

Disgruntled, Roland straightened his shoulders. “My looks haven’t a thing to do with it. My sword arm and my fame as a warrior are all she’s concerned with.”

“You only met the girl today. How do you know this?”

“Why, you heard her. When she greeted us at the steps of this keep, all she could say was, ‘You are Sir Roland Du Bary? The king’s knight?’ And she looked me up and down as though she could scarce believe her good fortune.”

“Just how many flagons of ale had you quaffed before this scintillating conversation with your beloved?”

“Not a one, as you well know. And it is wedded wife. I would caution you to get that aright. There will be no love. Love is for weaklings and puny courtiers who fawn over a lady, read her poetry, and sing, just so that they might stand close enough to stare down her gown at her tits.”

“Then you’ve experience with that sort of endeavor?”

“I haven’t the time for such nonsense. Thanks be to God, my dear wife is a more sensible sort.”

“How do you know this? You spoke to the lass for less time than you took to throw your reins to the stable boy.”

“I know she is sensible, even tempered, and appropriately submissive. She stared at my feet the entire time we spoke.” An intriguing thought crept into his brain. Perhaps, his wife had been studying the size of his feet…

“Then have a care for your wife’s tender sensibilities. She is only fresh from the convent.”

Roland shuddered. A virgin. An appalling thought. “Think you I would cause her harm?”

“She’s not built to take the likes of a beast like you. Go easy on the drink, or you’ll forget yourself.”

“Bah! She’s a woman. All are made to sheathe a man’s sword.” Roland scratched his beard then looked down the table at his meek bride. Her skin shone as lustrous as a pearl. Would it be soft and creamy to his touch? Perhaps he should trim his rough beard. He lifted his sleeve to his face and sniffed. “Do you think I should bathe?”

His friend laughed and slapped his shoulder. “You smell like your horse. What woman wouldn’t appreciate the aroma of an earthy man? It has only been three months since we last bathed.”

A movement at the end of the table drew his gaze. His bride rose from her seat and without a backwards glance left the hall with only her nurse in attendance. Laughter and loud cheers rose from the lower tables.

Not for the first time, he admired her straight back, the gentle curve of her waist, and her round, firm bottom below.

“Seems your bride’s as eager for the bedding as you, my friend,” Dougal said, his tone teasing.

Unbidden, the thought crept into Roland’s conscience—he’d never before bedded a gentlewoman.

*

“I won’t have him!” Lady Margaret Du Bary had worked herself into a high state of indignation. “You’ll just have to tell the king. He can beat me, starve me, tie me to a stake, and whip me ’til I’m bloody—but I won’t have the brute!”

Her nurse, Grania, watched her mistress’s pacing with interest. “Why ever not, milady? Lord Roland appears to be a strong man and well respected by his men and king.”

“Strong? Oh yes, strong smelling! He reeks of horses and sweat. Why he stood in dung when we met, and he never noticed!”

Grania folded her arms over her ample chest. “His horse was last to enter the bailey. That he honors his men with such an act speaks well of him.”