Knight of My Dreams

For Mom

Dedication

Knight of My Dreams

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

About the Author

Also by Lynsay Sands

Copyright

About the Publisher

London, England

1358

“M
other!”

“Oh, dear.” Lady Margaret of Fairley paused, then fixed an unconcerned smile on her face and continued brushing her hair as she listened to her son stomp his way through the small sitting room off her bedchamber. By an effort of will, she managed to keep from starting when the door crashed open behind her.

She studiously ignored him as he stormed across the room to where she sat by the fire, but grimaced as she felt him loom above her, breathing fury down the back of her neck.

She waited for a count of ten as he glared and snorted at her much like an angry bull, then glanced over her shoulder and offered a bland smile. “Good morning, son. How are you this fine day?”

The question evidently agitated him. His face flushed an angry red and his expression grew even more furious. Yes, she thought, she could see why the French were terrified of this hulking man. “How am I? How
am
I? God's teeth, woman, how do you think I am?”

“Hmmm,” she responded mildly, turning back to the fire. “
Some
one awoke on the wrong side of his bed this morn.”

“Not
I!
” he snapped. “I was in a perfectly good mood . . . until my audience with Edward.”

Lady Fairley opened her eyes wide, feigning surprise. “Did it not go well?”

“Did it—” He broke off to mutter a few choice words.

She gave him a look of mild reproof. “Please, Jonathan. 'Tis not very chivalrous to speak so around ladies. Are you not a knight of the Order of the Garter? Were you not taught better back when you were a squire? Perhaps instead of sending you to train at Westcott, your father should have taken you in hand—as I suggested. He never would listen to me, that stubborn—”

“Mother,” Jonathan interrupted with an obvious attempt at restraint.

“Yes, dear?”

“What did you say to the king?”

“Me?” She stared at him in a show of innocence that merely made his eyes narrow.

“Aye. You. I know you had something to do with this.” Judging that it was time to show some irritation of her own, Lady Fairley set down her brush with a clatter. “Something to do with
what
, Jonathan? You have not yet said what has occurred. Why did the king call you here to court?”

She watched the struggle waged on her son's face with interest before he blurted, “He has ordered me to marry!
Me! The Scourge of Crécy!
”

“Oh.” She turned back to the fire and resumed tending to her hair. “Is that all? For a moment you had me concerned.” She sensed rather than saw the way her son slumped behind her, deflated by her unconcerned response.

“Is that
all
?” he echoed with dismay. “King Edward has given me two weeks to choose my own bride . . . or he will. Two weeks! He wants me married by month's end,
and
to have begotten an heir by next summer.” She turned and saw fury suffuse his face at the very thought.

“Oh, bother!” she remarked, drawing his attention back to her.

“Oh, bother?” he repeated.

“Well, really, Jonathan. Do you truly think
I
needed to do anything to bring this about? Ha!” She turned her nose up and sniffed delicately. “It hardly needed my attention, surely? Your father and brother have been gone for five years now, leaving you the lord of Fairley—an
heirless
earl. I am only surprised that King Edward has let the matter go so long. Fairley Castle is on the border of Scotland. Strategically, it is an important keep. Of course he wants you married and your bride bearing. And with all the fighting you do . . . Should you die, the only person to take your place is your cousin Albert. You
know
what a fool he is. So does the king. He would hardly want Albert as lord of Fairley and its lands.”

“Well, a babe is scarce likely to do a better job,” Jonathan grumbled, shifting irritably.

“No, but if there is an heir and a widow, Edward may put whomever he wishes in your place, either as chatelain, or as a new husband for your bride. Without a widow and heir, Albert will inherit.”

Jonathan looked pensive, obviously overcome by the truth of her words, but he scowled as she nonchalantly gave up her brushing in favor of donning jewels and a headpiece. It was her finest headpiece, and one she generally saved for special occasions. Eyes widening slightly, he took in the dress she wore, the way she had pulled up her hair, and . . . Yes, he'd just realized that it was not natural color on her cheeks, but a smuggled French rouge she'd put there. She knew she looked lovely, and younger than her fifty years.

“You are primping!” His words were a dismayed accusation.

Lady Fairley felt herself flush and thought it a rather nice touch as she tried for a slightly guilty expression. “I am not primping,” she disagreed with great dignity.

“You are wearing your best jewels.”

Beginning to feel her mouth twitch with self-satisfaction, Lady Fairley rose in a display of impatience. “They match my gown. One likes to look one's best at court.” She ignored the way he squinted suspiciously at her, and instead of commenting she walked out into the sitting room. Her maid Leda burst in from the hall.

“Here you are, my lady.”

“Ah, good,” she murmured as the girl rushed forward with a small decanter. Her son watched her take the container, then sniffed suspiciously when she unstoppered it.

“Perfume!” The accusation was shot like an arrow from a bow.

“Aye,” she answered, applying it liberally while Jonathan watched in horror. She knew the source of his dismay: she had not bothered to apply perfume since his father had been stricken by the plague. Which was why she had been forced to send her maid out in search of some. She hadn't even brought any with her to court, because there wasn't any from Fairley to bring. All the scent she had once owned had dried up over time. Now it was part of her scheme.

“Thank you, Leda.” She handed the perfume back to her maid and continued on to the door, not at all surprised when her son followed.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To visit with a friend,” she responded gaily.

“What friend?”

“I believe I am past the age of needing to explain myself, Jonathan,” she said with mock exasperation. She opened her chamber door, then stepped into the hall. “However, if you must know, I am going to visit with Lady Houghton and her daughter.” Seeing the consternation on his face, she fought a smile. This was all going according to plan.

Jonathan had followed her into the hall before comprehension at last dawned on him. She'd convinced the king to order him to marry, and now she would thrust another friend's daughter under his nose! She'd been trying this for years, and he'd managed to sidestep every move to see him wed. In fact, if he never saw another—

“There is no need for you to accompany me,” his mother spoke up, ruining his theory quite thoroughly. “In any case, is there not something of more importance that you should be doing? Two weeks is very little time to find a bride—and here at court, things must be doubly difficult. There are many other knights as handsome and accomplished as yourself, my son. If you want to make a good alliance, you really should not waste time following me.”

Jonathan was so startled by his mother's pronouncement that he stopped walking and simply gaped at her back. She continued down the hall.

“But what of this friend's daughter?” he blurted at last, hurrying to catch up once he recovered from his shock.

“What of her?”

“Do you not wish me to consider
her
for my bride?”

“Oh, no. She would not do at all.”

“What?” He gasped, scandalized. “You have shoved every eligible daughter of every friend under my nose for the last five years. Now here is one you—”

“I have introduced you to every eligible and
suitable
daughter of friends of mine,” his mother corrected sharply. “And I have run through the entire list. Now you are on your own.”

“You are giving up on me?” he cried, unsure whether to be relieved or injured by such a possibility. Not that he wanted his mother thrusting would-be brides under his nose, but he wasn't sure he wanted her indifference on the subject, either.

“Not at all, son. I shall support you in your choice; I simply can no longer aid you in your quest. Now”—she patted him affectionately on the arm—“go find yourself a bride to please the king, and leave me to my friends.”

Jonathan stared at his mother in bewilderment, then he noted that the hand she had patted his arm with was now patting her hair. She was primping again! She hadn't primped since his father's death. Something odd was going on.

“I think I shall accompany you to meet your friend's daughter,” he announced as she started away again.

“No!” Lady Fairley shrieked, coming to an abrupt halt. He'd never seen her so agitated. She regained her composure quickly, though, replacing the alarm on her face with an irritated scowl. “I mean . . . I told you she is not suitable.”

“Oh?” He eyed her curiously. It had been his experience that nothing short of a questionable virtue was enough to make a woman unsuitable in his mother's eyes. At least lately. To be fair, she had been much choosier at first, when producing possible brides for him to consider, but as the last few years had passed and he had shown a distinct lack of interest in the marital state—especially in comparison to his fighting on the Continent—his mother's desperation had begun to manifest itself. She had begun to parade any woman with all the necessary parts before him. And the “necessary parts” did not always include attractiveness, personality or even all the usual limbs. His mother had grown quite desperate. Virginity had never been a point she overlooked, though. Lady Fairley wanted grandchildren from her own son, not someone else's.

“Is this girl free with her affections?” he asked. His mother turned a horrified expression on him. “Of course she is not free with her affections. Elizabeth raised her properly! The girl is as pure as a babe.”

“Hmmm.” This was interesting. He found himself intrigued by his mother's vehemence. “Is she betrothed, then?”

Irritation flickered on her face, but she did admit with obvious reluctance, “Nay. Her betrothed was taken by the plague.”

“Is she without title or dower?”

Much to his surprise, irritation flickered on Lady Fairley's face once more. “Nay. Her father was a wealthy baron. There is a sizable dower.”

“Well, then, why is she unsuitable?”

“She is . . .” Her expression fluctuated briefly, torn between irritation and reluctance as she struggled for an explanation. Jonathan was shocked beyond belief when it finally popped out: “Puffy.”

“Puffy?” he echoed with a laugh.

“Aye. She is large. Too voluptuous, if you must know. And she is far too intelligent and strong-minded. She would not do at all. She even reads,” his mother added with distaste, giving a delicate shudder. “Nay. She is perfectly nice, but not for you. She—Oh, look! There is Lady Griselda of Epton. I understand that her parents have not yet secured her a betrothed. Little coin for a dower, I gather,” she added in an aside. “But you hardly need concern yourself with that. Why do you not go see how she would suit?”

Jonathan's eyes nearly fell out of his head. He knew quite well that his mother positively loathed the young lady. For some reason, that had once added to the girl's attractions in Jonathan's eyes; he had courted her briefly. Very briefly. The girl had an amazingly high, screeching voice. Which was a shame, really. Otherwise she was quite lovely. Still, a man would have to be completely deaf to put up with her, and Jonathan was far from that.