A Perfect Knight

A Perfect Knight
Anne Herries

“Do you think me a wicked wench because I laugh when the courtiers try to court me?”

She didn’t know how tempting she was as she stood there, her head tipped back, challenging him. Had he been young and carefree he would have been tempted to crush her in his arms and tell her that she was the most desirable woman he had ever seen—but that way lay only pain and grief, and he had been burned before.

“How can I think you anything when I do not know you?”

“I know you heard Baron de Froissart asking me what would win my heart earlier this afternoon. I gave him no reason to hope, nor have I encouraged others. It is the way of the Court to jest over such things.”

Sir Ralph bowed his head. Was it possible that she was that innocent? It hardly seemed likely. She had been wed before and must surely know her own power? Once again he felt an overwhelming desire to take her in his arms and kiss her, but crushed it ruthlessly. It was madness! She was not for him.

Dear Reader,

It is a great pleasure to tell you about the Banewulf Dynasty, which I have written for your pleasure and mine. I have always loved the idea of knights wooing their ladies in the courtly way, and so my first story begins at the Court of Love in Poitiers. It was here, so the troubadours tell us, that the art of true Romance began. In those far-off wondrous days knights would do anything to win the heart of their lady, but no true knight would take a lady by force. Indeed, it was a matter of honor to protect, honor and adore your lady, often from afar. To suffer the pangs of unrequited love, to languish at your lady’s feet, was a feeling so exquisite that a man might die of it and think himself in Paradise.

Alayne is accustomed to knights trying to win her, but none can touch her cold heart until Sir Ralph de Banewulf—who calls himself an imperfect knight but is in truth a very perfect knight—comes into her life. She has vowed never to marry again, for her first husband was a wicked brute and no true knight. It is only through learning to love and trust again that Alayne can find happiness for herself and begin the dynasty that will live on in Stefan and Alain de Banewulf.

I hope you will have as much fun and delight in reading these as I did writing them. Please visit my Web site—www.lindasole.co.uk—and tell me what you think of my stories. I’d love to hear from you.

Anne Herries

A Perfect Knight

Anne Herries

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

ANNE HERRIES,

winner of the Romantic Novelists’ Association Romance Prize 2004, lives in Cambridgeshire, England. She is fond of watching wildlife, and spoils the birds and squirrels that are frequent visitors to her garden. Anne loves to write about the beauty of nature, and sometimes puts a little into her books, although they are mostly about love and romance. She writes for her own enjoyment and to give pleasure to her readers. You are invited to visit her Web site at www.lindasole.co.uk.

Contents

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

Chapter One

A layne watched the shallow stream as it burbled and chuckled over boulders worn smooth by the passage of time, its waters so clear that she could see the tiny creatures that lived on the sandy bed. Behind her she could hear the laughter and chatter of the courtiers. One of the ladies was playing a lyre; others ran hither and thither screaming with mirth as they indulged in foolish games.

The sun was too warm for playing games, Alayne thought. She sighed as she trailed her fingers in the cool water of the stream. Was she growing weary of the endless pleasures offered at the Court of Love? Poitiers was often so named because of the troubadours, who sang of that fine courtly love of which many dreamed and few truly found. Sometimes Alayne believed that ‘fine’ love was merely a myth; she wearied of all the intrigues and found the life shallow. And yet where else could she go? There was nowhere else where she could be safe and protected as she was here.

A tiny shudder ran through her as she thought of the fate that awaited her if she were to leave the court, and she knew that she would rather waste her days in idle pleasure than be at the mercy of those who wished to control and manipulate her life. Her lovely face was sad as the memories came back to haunt her—the reasons why she had fled her home.

‘Alayne! Alayne, come and join us,’ one of the ladies screamed as she ran by, hotly pursued by a young knight intent on snatching the kisses he had won from her, which she now refused to pay. ‘Save me from this wicked seducer, I beg you.’

Alayne smiled at their foolishness, but shook her head. She was in no mood for joining in their play; besides, she suspected that the lady fully intended to be caught once she had reached a secluded spot within the gardens. It might be nice to be kissed by a handsome lover, Alayne thought, and sighed—if only she could be as carefree and as happy as that girl!

Little though she knew it, her sadness was reflected in her lovely face and noticed by more than one knight present that day, for she was the kind of woman who attracted attention without seeking or wanting it. There was about her something that drew men to her, like moths to the flame.

Her thoughts were far away from the court at that moment, trapped in the recent unhappy past. It was almost a year since she had in desperation sought the protection of Eleanor of Aquitaine, who was a distant kinswoman of her mother’s. Alayne had always admired the Queen. At the age of twenty Eleanor had taken the Cross and gone to the crusades with her husband King Louis VII of France, but that marriage had been annulled and Eleanor wed to Henry of Anjou, now Henry II of England. And there had been no one else Alayne could turn to in her distress.

‘Why so thoughtful, my lady?’

Alayne glanced up as she heard the voice of the Baron Pierre de Froissart, a little smile of welcome on her lips. He was held by most ladies of the court to be both handsome and charming, for he had a pleasant singing voice and an attractive manner.

‘I do not give my thoughts so lightly, sir.’ She pouted her lips at him, an unconscious teasing in her eyes that sent a fierce thrill of desire through the knight who looked down at her.

‘Will you let me sit with you, lady?’

‘Assuredly, sir. I am weary of my own company.’

Pierre de Froissart laughed and sat on the dry grass beside her, a look of amusement on his face. He sought her out most days, though he had never tried to court her. Alayne knew that several ladies sighed over him and gave him encouraging smiles. She suspected that he might have paid court to more than one lady, though such affaires were always kept secret.

It was an unspoken rule that courtly love should remain private. A troubadour approached his love in secret, offering his tributes of poems, songs, flowers or pretty trinkets. The lady would acknowledge the offering or not as she pleased. Indeed, it was the secret nature of the courtship that lent it excitement.

‘Yet I think it is by your own choosing that you sit alone, lady. There are many who would court you had they the chance. You keep your admirers at a distance, I think.’

His eyes saw too much! Alayne’s dark lashes veiled her eyes as she glanced down at the water, though her heart beat faster and brought a becoming colour to her creamy complexion. A blush touched her cheeks, but she did not answer him at once, for it was true that she had chosen solitude that afternoon.

She was a particularly beautiful girl, her dark hair only partially hidden by the sheer veil she wore attached to her headdress of green and silver, her eyes a wonderful blue that made people look at her twice. Her dark lashes were long and silky; brushing her cheek as they did when she closed her eyes for a moment, their effect on men was startling and they had been mentioned in more than one poem to her beauty. She was the kind of woman that men dreamed of having in their bed, a tantalising temptress, with red lips that begged for kisses, her seeming innocence merely fanning the flames of their desire.

For the past several weeks someone had been sending her poems and small gifts of flowers. As yet her admirer had not spoken directly to her of his feelings, merely leaving his tributes where he knew she would find them on her walks or delivering them by means of a page who was sworn to silence.

‘I wished to be quiet for a little…to think…’ she said at last, bringing her eyes up to meet the man’s suddenly.