Never If Not Now, page 1
NEVER IF NOT
NOW
A Midsummer
Knights Romance
by
MADELINE HUNTER
Never if Not Now
A Midsummer Knights Romance
Copyright ©2020 by Madeline Hunter
Published by Barrowburgh Press. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. With the exception of short quotes for reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9970802-0-9
Book Cover Design: Dar Albert of Wicked Smart Designs
Formatting: Nina Pierce of Seaside Publications
Editing: Quillfire Author Services
Never If Not Now
A Midsummer Knights Romance
A Midsummer Knights Romance:
A Tournament World of Chivalry, Intrigue, and Passion
Summer, 1193. England is in turmoil, and a great tournament is scheduled near the border of Scotland and England. The greatest knights and lords from England, Scotland, Ireland, and France have gathered to compete for a great prize. There will be celebrations and jousts and feasting. It will an exhibition of chivalry and warrior skills, a breeding ground for treason…and for love.
They call him The Devil’s Blade and say that the fires of hell burn in him when he wields his sword.
It might be midsummer when Zander arrives at the tournament, but there is winter in his soul. Battle-hardened and war-weary, he intends to amass spoils, win the champion’s prize, and find a wealthy wife. Then he discovers that Elinor of York has accompanied her father to the tourney. He desired her as a youth, and soon learns that he still does. But whatever he will ever have of her will have to be seized in secret, before the tournament ends.
Elinor was born a lady, but the last years have impoverished her. She now sews for coin, and takes care of her lame, aging father, a knight who blames Zander for his diminished fortunes and health. She should ignore the handsome knight whom she teased when they were young, but his magnetism draws her closer. He is not for her—he is her father’s enemy and she has no dowry. Yet he evokes sweet memories, deep emotions, and a heart-wrenching dilemma— Can she keep her father from issuing the challenge that will leave one of the men she loves dead?
~ Other books in the series ~
(The series does not have any designated reading order)
Forbidden Warrior by Kris Kennedy
An Irish warrior takes an arrogant heiress captive to ensure a debt is paid.
The Highlander's Lady Knight by Madeline Martin
She wants to save her honor. He wants to save his people. Can their love do both?
The Highlander's Dare by Eliza Knight
When a simple dare leads to the most enduring love…
The Highland Knight's Revenge by Lori Ann Bailey
A Scottish warrior wronged… An English woman on the verge of attaining freedom…
My Victorious Knight by Laurel O'Donnell
She desired only one kiss, but what she received was so much more!
An Outlaw's Honor by Terri Brisbin
When the only man she can trust is known for his dishonorable past, what could go wrong?
Contents
About Never if Not Now * Midsummer Knights Series
Chapter One * Chapter Two * Chapter Three * Chapter Four * Chapter Five * Chapter Six * Chapter Seven * Chapter Eight * Chapter Nine * Chapter Ten * Chapter Eleven * Chapter Twelve * Chapter Thirteen
Letter to the Readers * Meet the Author * Other Books by Madeline Hunter
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
Zander surveyed the field from the battlements of Rose Citadel. The activity spread out below him might appear chaotic to many an eye, but he saw method amidst the chaos. Pavilions rose on poles, establishing encampments. Horses paced in a large paddock built of timbers. Pennants waved, announcing the identities of knights who had arrived for the tournament.
“There are quite a few late arrivals,” he said. “They missed the feast last night and today’s parade and early jousts. Word has it the road to York was almost impassible from last week’s rain.”
“I assumed the legalities would discourage some of them,” Lord Yves said. “Apparently not.”
“It is a fine way to spend midsummer. Warriors grow restless when the days are long and there are no battles to fight.”
“And no spoils to enjoy.”
That was the whole of it. The large prize for the tournament’s champion had drawn most of these knights. It was the main reason Zander had come. Since the law mostly rested with the lord of the manor, who was going to enforce the prohibition on tournaments if he was hosting the event?
“With such a horde descending, I will double the guard for the curfew in the town,” Lord Yves said. “Also to discourage brawls such as we had this morning.”
“It will protect the women, at least.”
One of Lord Yves’s dark eyebrows arched into a peak. “Are you suggesting the knights’ honor will not be enough protection?”
They both chuckled, since such niceties did not count for much when fighting raised men’s blood and ale dimmed their good sense.
Lord Yves’s attention kept turning to some encampments near the river. A circle of pavilions implied men gathered in some alliance. Zander had called Lord Yves to the wall specifically to witness the placement of those tents.
“They may just be old comrades in arms,” Lord Yves said.
“Or conspirators making use of your tournament to gather for plotting treason.”
“Fitzwarryn sent you to keep an eye on things, no doubt. His time on the northern marches makes him too cautious. His letter to me in late spring urging me to cancel this tournament was presumptuous.”
“He intended no insult. He merely sought to suggest that a gathering such as this can turn dangerous fast. Factions may decide to make this a little war of sorts, to engender support for their preferred royal brother.” Zander pointed to that circle. “If those are Prince John’s men, anyone with sympathies to him will seek them out. It is how trouble starts.”
“If they are John’s, I assume it will become apparent soon. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me when it does.”
Zander doubted Lord Yves was as ignorant as he claimed. No one knew this man’s thinking on the struggle between brothers that occupied the lords and knights. With King Richard out of the realm, and a ransom being raised for him that would burden everyone, Prince John had become bolder. Those loyal to either brother would be on that field. Such a pot of stew often came to a boil.
“I will gladly tell you once I find out myself.”
Lord Yves left the wall. Zander remained there, watching the activity below. His own pavilion had been raised by his squires two days ago, but he did not sleep in it. Lord Yves had given him a chamber in the castle, one of the small cells set into the keep’s thick walls. Zander himself had not been the person honored by that hospitality, but Zander’s lord, Jean Fitzwarryn, who had sent Zander to the tourney as his champion. Also, as Lord Yves had surmised, Lord Jean wanted a man here to observe and report on any intrigues plotted between the feasts and jousts.
He watched a long time. The large field that had become a temporary town. Tents for living, and a marketplace for goods could be seen. A large cloth roof on the far edge covered a temporary tavern. Some distance away, near the river, a forge had been constructed to allow an itinerant armorer to repair arms. Behind it tents housed the whores who offered goods other than mercery and iron.
Something diverted his attention. Over by the river, one of the latecomer’s tents had been completed. Two men now unfurled a banner outside it. Crimson cloth caught the breeze. Zander watched the red spot flap, curl, straighten, and curl again. It showed a crimson field with an azure lion rampant.
Its presence surprised him. Sir Hugo of York was here.
Elinor gestured to the edge of the space spanned by the tent. “Put those chests there.”
Two townsmen lugged in the chests and dropped them. One turned with his hand out. She gave him one of her precious half pennies. The townspeople were charging high amounts for their labor, and she resented how much had been demanded for simply moving chests off a cart. If this continued, she and her father would be living in a ditch after this madness was done.
She examined her home for the next week. The tent needed mending, and one of the chests looked ready to fall apart after its days on the cart that brought them here.
She had already noticed that many of the visitors to this tournament displayed more wealth than she would ever see for herself. Women in fine gowns strolled down from the castle, their feet in high pattens and their hair adorned with headdresses made with luxurious fabrics. The parade had been earlier in the day, and she guessed it had been an incredible display of everyone’s best garments and the knights’ full pageantry.
She did not envy the good fortune of the women now passing along toward the lists, but she would rather not be the poores
She threw open her chest. She held up a blue dress and considered whether she could improve it before the grand feast when the tournament ended. A bit of embroidery inside the long open sleeves might help, and some new lacing on the side, but nothing could mask that the lightweight wool had been well worn over the years.
One by one she checked the contents of the other chests. She removed a crucifix and set it near her father’s pallet. An old little painting of the Virgin Mary, brought back from Crusade by her father, went near her own. She set out pots near the tent’s flap, so they would be handy for cooking, along with a basket for gathering fuel and also some bladders to collect water from the river.
She removed a simple surcoat from her father’s garments and set it aside for mending. When she lifted the lid on the final chest, her blood chilled.
She let the lid crash closed, turned on her heel, and strode from the tent. She spied her father talking to another knight at a camp nearby. He saw her coming, and strode forward to meet her.
“You’ve got the look of an angel preparing to fight the devil.” He spoke jovially as he approached, his strides long but his gait stilted due to his bad leg.
“Devil is the truth of it, since one has taken hold of you,” she said. “What possessed you to bring your arms?”
“’Tis a tournament, Elinor.”
“I know what it is, just as I know the cost of coming here. When I objected to this journey, you promised feasts and festivities. You did not say that you intended to compete.”
“No reason for a knight to go to a tourney and not compete.”
Her thinking exactly, and her argument for not coming.
“You are thinking about this bad leg. It doesn’t bother me much, and I won’t be running a race.”
No, he’d be fighting with sword and mace against men half his age, none with a limp, or eyes that could no longer read their own names.
Even if her father had not been wounded in battle, even if he had not had his health ruined by months in a damp Frankish donjon, his age alone argued against competing. At two and forty, his strength and stamina had naturally declined.
“You have no horse,” she reminded him.
“I intend to get one.”
“How? We have very little coin. Barely enough for provisions, especially since everything will be priced too high so the townsmen can pluck the fat chickens that have taken to roost in their field.”
“Don’t you worry about how. I won’t be using the coin you have, either.”
“No, you won’t.” She had accumulated that money by working as a servant, plying her needle for others. They had travelled here with two other knights, both of whom would wear surcoats in the tournament that she had sewn.
At least she had a skill to sell. It had kept them in food and some semblance of honor. It would serve her after her father died, so she would not be destitute. She tried not to be bitter, but she heartily wished her father had not answered the call to defend the Holy Land. Some men made fortunes on Crusade. Others, like Hugo of York, came back to a life diminished beyond recognition.
The world of the tournament had enlivened her father’s mood, at least. He now grinned at her. “Once I win a few challenges, there’ll be enough money so you don’t have to sew again. There will be fat ransoms for the arms and horses I take as the winner in my jousts, enough to live well and make a dowry.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh, scream or cry. She walked away quickly, so he would not see that the last reaction had won. The mention of a dowry had undone her, and she plunged into their tent.
As the flap fell behind her, she halted in her tracks. The tent had an occupant. A man had entered uninvited. She wiped her tears so she could confront him as a knight’s daughter, and not a weeping child.
He stood near her pallet, his back to her. He seemed to be studying something. He was a knight, from the look of his fine green tunic and the breadth of his shoulders.. Tall and strong, and still lean in the way that spoke of youth. A knight in his prime. The kind of warrior who would either hurt or humiliate her father in the days ahead.
“Are you looking for Sir Hugo? He is not fifty paces from here. I should tell you that he will accept no challenges today.” Or tomorrow, if she had her way. Or the next day.
“I am not seeking him. I was looking for you, Elinor.”
Shock froze her. She knew that voice.
He turned. She just stared.
Memories flew through her mind. Wonderful ones, of girlish joy and childish games. The man in front of her had little left in him of the squire she had once known. The wiry strength had turned hard during their five years apart, and the beautiful face had found angles with maturity. The eyes had not changed at all, though. Blue and fiery. Stars few out of them when he was happy, and flames when he was not.
“Zander,” she breathed the word more than spoke it. She stood immobilized, while she relived another life.
Her past had found her at this stupid tournament, making her present all the more sad.
“I am not called that anymore,” he said while he watched her reaction. He did not expect a good welcome, but the sight of her brought him joy anyway. A lightness entered his soul while it briefly tasted the innocence of those days again, back when he truly believed in knightly honor and goodness and fighting for just causes. He ignored the soulful pain the nostalgia carried.
“I will try to remember that, Sir Alexander.”
He made a face. “That sounds strange coming from you. I think I prefer Zander from your lips.”
She came farther into the tent, and noticed that he held the little picture of the Virgin. “It was all he brought back with him,” she said. “He said the Frankish lord who held him let him keep it, since it was religious.”
“Religion was all we had in common with some of the other crusaders.” He set the wooden painting back on the ground near the pallet, where he had found it.
“You should leave. Before he returns, you must go.”
“I have heard that he blames me. Do you?”
“I blame all men who think war is a game and an adventure. Or an easy path to wealth.”
“That is not why we went. We fought for God.” He threw out the answer, doubting she would accept it. Still, it was the reason. The purpose. The cause. “God Wills It.” They would shout that as they rode into battle. Only after many months did he learn that the Saracens were yelling much the same thing.
Elinor stood a bit taller than he remembered. The pretty girl had grown into a prettier woman. Her chestnut hair carried lustrous lights and her skin was still white as snow. Her dark eyes watched him warily. Perhaps she thought he would behave badly, even in this first reunion. He had kissed her once before he left, in a garden. A sweet kiss, full of the ardor of youth on his part. Her first kiss, he was almost certain.
He’d assumed at the time that she would be married before he returned. She was of age. That he’d wanted her then was not enough reason to stay behind, but it emboldened him to steal that kiss.
If not now, never.
“You at least seem to have done well in the years since I last saw you, heading off to fight with the last king in France, and then joining Richard on his crusade.” Her gaze traveled down his tunic to his boots. “You have grown and filled out.”
“As have you.” The filling out part stretched the bodice of her simple dress. She caught his gaze lingering there, and smiled in spite of herself when he grinned.
“I am in the service of Lord Jean Fitzwarryn. He has lands on the northern marches where he guards the realm against the Scots. It is at most a day’s ride from here.”
“Did you leave the Crusade when the king did?”
“Shortly before. I did not stay long.” Long enough, though. Too long.
“There are some Scots here. I have heard their tongue. I suppose they will challenge you if you are in this border lord’s service.”
“Probably so.”
She had walked back to the tent’s entry. She now lifted the flap and glanced out. “He will be back soon. Please go.”
