Her Unforgettable Knight
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Melissa Oliver
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Chapter One
Savaric Fitz Leonard blew warm air into the palms of his hands before rubbing them together in an attempt to yield a little more heat into his chilled body. He had been standing for what seemed an eternity by the quayside at Billingsgate wharf waiting for a cargo vessel, which had only moments ago pierced through the veil of dense fog that had wrapped itself around the mouth of the River Thames.
Thank God!
It had taken much longer than he had anticipated for this vessel, travelling from France, to reach its destination. Now at the witching hour it had arrived into the Port of London. And with it, Savaric prayed, crucial evidence that he, along with his Knights Fortitude brethren, Warin de Talmont and Nicholas D’Amberly, desperately sought. Savaric hoped that their informant in Paris had meant this particular vessel and not any other, otherwise the whole night would have been a waste of his time. Again...
It had been more than two years since the investigation into The Duo Dracones had stalled. The nefarious, traitorous group bent on treason, sedition, and the eradication of the Crown had dissipated once more before going underground. God, but when he thought about the traitors who worked tirelessly to conspire against the Crown it made his blood boil. It mattered not that Savaric and his Knights Fortitude brethren captured and cut down members of The Duo Dracones—they still managed to rally around their cause and come back more resilient than before.
And it did not help that they still knew far too little about the group and that each time the Knights Fortitude made progress and caught members of The Duo Dracones, they would choose death over revealing more about their organisation. Indeed, two years ago, the matter had once again come to a frustrating end when the few culprits who had not chosen death, and whom Savaric and the other member of the Knights Fortitude sought, had fled to France without a trace. This night however might bring about some much-needed change of fortune.
Or so Savaric hoped.
He melted into the shadows beneath a nearby arched doorway, as the flat-bottomed timber cog vessel gently lapped its way through the river to the dockside, with its single red-and-white sail flapping in the breeze before dropping down. Soon men hurled themselves off deck working together to spring the line into dock, hauling the vessel forward to the wharf, ready to moor.
Savaric pushed forward, weaving among the crewmen, grabbing hold of a spring line and blending in among the deck hands, whistling along to a ditty or two. The lines were soon tied, the vessel moored and the cargo carried, conveyed and deposited on the dockside. He threw himself into the thick of it, helping cart the heavy barrels and huge chests down as a man on the dock tallied each item. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Savaric pulled his hood low, flicking his eyes around the area until he caught sight of something that was not out of the ordinary but intriguing nevertheless. Indeed, it was what Savaric had been waiting for.
Two men, one of whom Savaric presumed to be the vessel’s captain and the other presumably a merchant, richly dressed in expensive robes, looked as though they were about to make an exchange. He moved closer, watching as the merchant produced one leather pouch and then another from his sword belt, handing them over to the captain before the man pressed what appeared to be a vellum tied with a string into his hands. And from where Savaric stood the merchant appeared to have yet one more pouch tied to his belt.
Damn but he wished he could get his hands on both the pouch and the vellum, but it would be far too risky.
Savaric realised too late that it would have been best if he had not come alone. He could certainly have used the extra help from either Nicholas D’Amberly or Warin de Talmont, but they had been needed elsewhere. No, he would just have to manage on his own.
Bending down, he removed a slither of a blade that he had tucked away in his boots, before standing to his full height, expelling a breath before moving closer to the two men he had been watching. With his heart pounding Savaric lifted his head and adjusted his body, staggering back and colliding into them.
‘Watch where you are going, you great big oaf!’ The merchant barked, taking a step back as Savaric spun and stumbled.
‘Beggin’ yer pardin, sir. It’s me feet, see,’ he mumbled inanely, as he schooled his features to those resembling a simpleton. A necessity when acting the forementioned oaf. ‘They’re far too bigs for me legs. Or mayhap it’s the other ways around. I do gets confused.’ He swung his arms around in the air and bowed deferentially several times, relieved that the haphazard swipe of the wrist which Nicholas D’Amberly’s wife, Eva, once a notorious thief, had shown him worked to perfection. He had deftly managed to appropriate the pouch by cutting loose the string attached to the merchant’s cloak with the slither of the blade clasped in his fist. He wished he could also do the same with the vellum the man had given the captain. Again, he cursed his lack of foresight for being at the docks alone. Yet he had not envisaged this development. Although it might still amount to very little.
‘Get off me, you fool.’ The merchant shoved him away, making Savaric stumble back. He righted himself, doffed his hat and turned to move in the opposite direction, picking up his pace and weaving his way through the throng of people assembled along the busy dockside harbour, knowing it would not be long until the merchant realised the pouch to be missing.
Savaric acknowledged to himself the need to return with extra men in order to apprehend the captain of the vessel as well as the merchant. But for now, he needed to get away with the pouch, the contents of which were potentially far more important than anything else. Besides, he was one man against many assembled here.
Savaric glanced over his shoulder momentarily as he continued to move expediently before turning back and almost colliding with a young lad. His arms shot out, his fingers digging into the lad’s shoulder to maintain his balance and prevent both of them from toppling over. The small hairs on the back of his neck rose and it was then that he knew something was amiss.
Savaric lowered his gaze, noticing first the flame russet hair hidden beneath a wide hood, the turned-up nose and lush mouth, before lifting his head and meeting the bluest eyes he had ever seen. Eyes that were staring back at him in shock and incredulity. Eyes which belonged to someone he had once known. He was jolted with recognition of this young woman dressed as a boy.
Marguerite Studdal...
What in God’s name was she doing here? At this hour. And dressed as she was, in the guise of a...a young boy? The questions kept tumbling in his head but he could not shape the words, caught as they were at the back of his damn throat. Instead, he swallowed and continued to gape at her in disbelief, daring her to be an illusion. Hoping this to be a fanciful image that his tired mind had somehow conjured up at this very inopportune moment. Lord only knew how many times he had thought of her since the last time he had seen her.
He closed his eyes and reopened them, knowing now for certain that it was not his imagination playing tricks on him. She was here. Now. At the busy Port of London. Surrounded as they both were by imminent danger. He expelled an irritated breath through his teeth and glared at the woman he had not seen for over two long years.
‘Marguerite?’ was all that he could manage.
‘Good evening, Savaric.’ She inclined her head. ‘A strange time for a leisurely stroll I dare say.’
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ His fingers dug a little into her shoulders, testing that she was real before he dropped them to his side.
‘Nothing that concerns you.’ She glanced past him before returning her gaze to his.
His brows shot up, surprised at her curt rudeness.
‘Oh, I rather think it does, especially in a place like this. Can you imagine if someone here also discovered that you are a young maiden?’ He left out the danger this posed but the implication was there all the same.
‘No one has, other than you, so please lower your voice,’ she hissed.
‘They must be blind to confuse you with a boy. In truth, why are you dressed...like this?’ he motioned with a wave of his hand. ‘And why are you here at all?’ he asked again.
‘I wonder at your inquisitiveness when you have troubles of your own, sir.’
‘Never mind that,’ he muttered in a low voice. ‘It is dangerous, Marguerite. You should not be here.’
She bristled with indignation. ‘How remiss of me, I should have remembered that I answer to you.’
Savaric blinked before answering. ‘I did not say that.’
‘I am glad.’ She threw him a disdainful smile. ‘Now, if you would be good enough to keep moving, we can then pretend that this unwelcome reunion never happened.’
Savaric could hardly believe his ears. What in God’s name was wrong with the woman? ‘Is this the thanks I get for coming to your aid a few years ago? This shocking incivility?’
He knew it was beneath him to bring up the past but couldn’t quite help it. His remark might be flippant but it hid the horror and panic that had gripped him two years ago when Marguerite had been in mortal danger, being held ransom by enemies of the Crown—The Duo Dracones.
Savaric would never forget that harrowing memory of Marguerite being held by one of the bastards, with a dagger pressed so hard against her throat that a trickle of blood ran down her slender neck. He could recall even now the rage that ripped through him at watching the innocent woman caught in the middle of it all. An innocent woman whom he’d embroiled in all their problems after he had snatched her from London and escorted her to Guildford Castle. Indeed, Savaric had become too invested, too interested, and altogether too beguiled by the diminutive woman. It had been wrong in every way. So he made Marguerite believe that she meant nothing to him, other than being honour bound to ensure her safety.
But in that long-ago moment when her life had been threatened, his true feelings for her came to the fore. It made him feel raw and exposed and with that dagger piercing Marguerite’s delicate skin, he had never been so helpless or so powerless.
It had been then that Savaric remembered who he was and what he was expected to do as a member of the elite group of the Knights Fortitude—to be a damn Crown Knight, an experienced soldier and warrior. And Savaric had been just that—he had saved her life. Yet none of it had assuaged the guilt he felt for getting her involved in the first place. And for having intentionally made her think that he felt nothing for her other than indifference.
‘No,’ she said, bringing him back to the present. ‘I have not forgotten.’
‘Good, because I hope you are not courting trouble?’
He tried for a little levity but his comment missed the mark and sounded more impertinent and dismissive. And it was no surprise that her eyes flashed with anger.
‘I have little time for this nonsense. And if you do not have the sense to leave, then I shall.’
Before he knew what he was about to do, he reached out and seized her wrist, gazing down into those fathomless blue eyes. ‘Wait.’
‘Let go of me, sir, if you will.’
‘Not until you answer my questions.’
‘I think not.’
‘Marguerite?’ he whispered as he released her wrist, feeling a little burned by such an innocuous touch.
She looked behind his shoulder again. ‘You really do need to leave this place now.’
‘You would have me leave you? Here? In this place, and at this hour?’
‘Yes,’ she hissed. ‘I can look out for myself as I have for many years. Unless you want to get both of us killed?’
‘I cannot abandon you here. My honour will not allow it.’
She gave a short hollow laugh and shook her head. ‘Ah, yes, that infamous honour and valour of yours. Well, you must know that it is unnecessary. I am not in need of your protection.’
‘Marguerite...’
‘You would do well to listen to me, Savaric, especially after openly stealing that pouch you have buried somewhere on your person. It seems that you are the one courting trouble at this moment.’
The woman must have noticed his surprise because she sighed deeply before continuing to scold him as though he were a child. ‘Do not forget that I lived with Eva and know every trick she deployed. You must also realise that those men you stole from will notice it missing shortly and come after you.’
‘I cannot leave you here,’ he muttered through clenched teeth.
‘Go. Before it’s too late.’
From somewhere behind there was a commotion and suddenly he heard a man bluster and cry. ‘There’s the bastard! Stop that man!’
‘Marguerite...’
‘Go, Savaric...please.’
‘Stop him! Stop that man.’
Savaric needed to move. And he needed to move fast. He glanced at Marguerite for a long moment as uncertainty and hesitation gripped him, holding him back.
‘Halt! Someone stop him from running away!’
A man to his side tried to grab hold of him, but Savaric pushed him away and quickly made his way through the crowd of crewmen and deck hands, cursing himself for leaving the maid there.
Damn, damn, damn!
What a disaster, and yet he could never have contemplated such a reunion with Marguerite Studdal again, however unwelcome it might be. Especially at such a place. And at such a time.
Savaric sprinted down a narrow cobbled lane in an attempt to lose the men who were now hard on his heel and then turned into the path on his right, rushing to take the next left pathway, passing vagrants, tavern drunks, merry dock workers, and barely attired women selling their wares. He came to an abrupt stop.
God’s breath, but he could not do it. He could not just leave her there. He had to make his way back to the docks and get back to Marguerite. She may have been wearing a loose-fitting tunic, hose, and a tabard with a deep hood hiding her glorious red hair, but when one truly looked at her there could be no denying that she was a maid—and a beautiful, comely one at that. The thought of an innocent woman alone in a rowdy dockside, with many unsavoury characters milling around, made his blood run cold, especially while he was running away. It went against everything he believed in—everything he stood for. And if the woman found his honour and valour so distasteful then that was regrettable but it would have no effect on him or what he knew he must do.
Dragging his hands across his face, he took a deep breath before turning and making his way back. But as soon as he moved into the pathway to his right, a man punched him in the jaw, making him stagger backwards. He rubbed his jaw before unsheathing his sword from its scabbard and pointing it at the assailant who had struck him.
‘I would advise against doing that again,’ he drawled. ‘Otherwise you will find yourself cut from here to here.’ Savaric pointed his sword from the man’s throat down to his stomach.
The man laughed as he groped for his sword, drawing it out and lunging forward. ‘I doubt that, friend, and I wouldn’t look round if I were yer. For you are now surrounded.’
Savaric looked over his shoulder quickly and saw another man draw out his sword and run towards him. In a quick succession of moves, he managed to manoeuvre himself so that he was now facing both of the men. Much better. He was used to this, fighting two and sometimes more men at the same time. And he needed to make quick work of this situation in order to make his way back to the dockside and ensure Marguerite’s safety. The question surrounding her strange appearance at the docks was still on his mind. And it was just as troubling.
He continued to parry with the first man as his accomplice threw himself into the fray. Savaric fought both at the same time, blocking and counter-attacking, surprising them both with his quick hands and even quicker feet. He might be fighting against two men but Savaric was bigger, stronger, and far more experienced than these two, who no doubt worked for either the merchant or the captain, or mayhap both. The intriguing question, however, was whom those men worked for. Savaric would wager everything he had that it was The Duo Dracones. After all, a tip-off from their informant in France led him here, to wait at the docks for more information. And Savaric believed that the contents of the pouch he had stolen might be the key to what he sought.
He blocked one man’s thrusting manoeuvre and countered it with a swipe of his sword in a riposte attack. Striding forward towards the man, he took him by surprise with heavy blows, clashing his sword down and across. Over and over switching from one man to another, Savaric relentlessly pushed them back, overwhelming them both with his sheer will and intensity.
‘You ain’t gonna win, no matter how good at fightin’ a man such as yer is!’ the man sneered. ‘Others’ll come ’ere even if yer best us.’
The man panted, wiping the sweat off his brow.
A man such as he... Savaric raised a brow as he lunged forward, having heard it all before.
‘Much as I appreciate your consideration to a man such as...er, me, you should allow me to worry about that, eh?’
He swung the sword across, catching the other man and sending him falling to the dirt-covered ground, relieved that he had just one more assailant to tackle before he could get back to Marguerite.
‘Yer won’t win, I tells yer, but mayhap it’s coz yer a simpleton and donna understand much.’
‘Mayhap it is,’ Savaric said with a wry smile on his face.
‘Would’na expect much from a man with skin the colour of dirt—the same dirt and filth that lies beneath me feet.’
The smile slipped from Savaric’s face. Oh yes, he had certainly heard it before. ‘Is that so? Well, it’s your friend who is there in the dirt and filth. And never fear, you will soon join him beneath my feet.’
‘I don’ think so.’ The man looked over his shoulder and smirked. ‘Told yer. I dids try to warn yer.’
Even without turning around Savaric knew that some sort of reinforcement had come to the man’s aid. Damn but this was turning out to be a far more difficult night than he had envisaged.
He pointed his sword and turned carefully, noting that there were not one but two more men positioning themselves against him.
Ah, wonderful!
There were now three of them coming at him with their swords raised, pushing him back against the wall.
God’s breath!
If only one of his Knights Fortitude brethren were here by his side there would be no question of the outcome. But even now Warin de Talmont and Nicholas D’Amberly were on similar missions to his, waiting at various ports along the Thames, just as he had done, seeking to gain vital information regarding The Duo Dracones.
However, at this moment Savaric was beginning to find a slither of doubt creeping under his skin, which was never a good thing. Not when engaged in combat. And however inexperienced these men might be, they outnumbered Savaric now considerably.
He lunged forward and caught one of the men by surprise, managing to disarm him, as the other two decided to come at him with an attacking strike. Holding them back was becoming more and more onerous. Savaric needed to think and he needed to think fast.
The men were gaining on him but he still managed to hold them off with his silky moves. It was then that Savaric felt something sharp against his sword arm and knew instantly that he had been struck. A sudden sting of pain spread through his arm but he had to push it out of his mind. He had to keep going. Exhaling through his teeth, Savaric realised that another man had joined the onslaught to his right. He felt an overwhelming sense that he was falling into something that he might not be able to crawl out of. God, but he could not hold them off for much longer.
And it was then that it happened. One man fell to the ground and then another seemingly struck from behind, and with what appeared to be a dagger hissing through the air before hitting its mark. Whoever had thrown the weapon had hurtled it with precision. Savaric used this brief opportunity of reprieve to strike one of the men and dispatch another as he moved forward, towards the diminutive figure at the end of the pathway who had come to his aid. Who in heavens was it?
But he did not have to wait long before the answer was revealed to him when the hood lowered slowly.
He narrowed his eyes, trying to discern his rescuer.
Marguerite...?
Savaric rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. It could not be.
‘Yes, I suppose it must shock your sensibilities, but, it is me.’ She looked in both directions. ‘However, we haven’t the time to tarry here. You must leave now.’
‘I will not be going anywhere without you, Marguerite. So do not ask it of me. I refuse to leave a lone woman in a place such as this—whatever new skills you might have recently acquired,’ he muttered, nodding at the hilt of her dagger.
‘Not this again! We have no time for this.’
‘And yet I am unmoved.’
‘Oh, believe me, Sir Savaric, that can be arranged. In truth, I would like nothing more than to leave you here to fend for yourself.’ She leant in. ‘But then I would rather not suffer the wrath of Hubert de Burgh.’
What?
He stilled. ‘What did you say?’
‘I believe you heard me. Now, come, I am escorting you.’
‘You? Escort me? Where exactly?’
‘Wherever you wish, Savaric. Your lodgings or anywhere else you would prefer but somewhere far from here. I have two horses with my page but we must make haste.’ She stood with her hands on her waist and tilted her head to the side. ‘Ah, I can see this is difficult for you. Do not say that you are one of those men who finds it difficult to accept aid from a mere woman.’
‘I did not say that,’ he ground out through gritted teeth.
‘Good, because I would otherwise call this behaviour far less becoming than anything you might have accused me of. And for a man so evidently honourable and gallant, especially after I just saved your hind.’
‘Are you mocking me?’
‘No.’ She sighed deeply. ‘But a little gratitude would not go amiss. And you’re hurt, Savaric. That cut needs to be tended to, and soon’
‘Apologies, you are quite right.’ He made a deep bow. ‘I thank you and am in your debt, Marguerite.’
‘Think nothing of it. After all, you did the same for me two years ago, as you reminded me earlier.’ She shrugged dismissively. ‘Let us say that whatever debt was due has now been duly paid. We part on even terms now.’
Who was this woman, who looked like Marguerite Studdal and even spoke in the same voice? For the words coming out of her mouth were the antithesis of the memory he had of the young maid from two years ago. Back then she was guileless, gently spoken, and timid. Nothing like this fiery, aloof, and confident woman.
He gazed at the woman before him and nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose we do.’
‘Good, now, let’s get to the horses. You may lean on me if you really must or better still my page.’
‘I believe I can manage.’ A wry smile twisted at his lips. ‘But tell me, how did you learn to do that with those daggers?’
‘How does anyone learn to do anything? With perseverance. Now come.’
No, it seemed that he did not know who Marguerite Studdal was any longer.
