Chapter 6

Back to Brocéliande

Gaultier loved her luxurious chestnut hair. Her dark brown eyes, smoldering with desire. Her soft, smooth skin, seductively scented with rosewater. The voluptuous curves that drove him absolutely wild.

Cradled in his sinewy arms, a long, lean leg draped across his hip, she was a tantalizing temptress. And he could never get enough.

He—the wandering knight who’d always flitted from females like a bee collecting nectar from flowers—had finally fallen.

And fallen hard.

For the bewitching Basque beauty.

Dolssa.

Tonight—at long last—she was his.

He swooped down again to taste her full, luscious lips. Roamed his eager, appreciative hands over her tiny waist and rounded hips.

He’d already made mad, passionate love to her.

Twice.

But, by the Goddess, he wanted her again.

Gaultier devoured her lush mouth, parting her sensuous lips with a probing, penetrating tongue. As his hardening shaft awakened for the third exquisite plunge into Dolssa’s delicious depths, a thunderous pounding on the wooden door jolted Gaultier to his feet. Lunging for the sword which leaned against the wooden wall, he unsheathed his blade and bellowed at the unwelcome intrusion. “Who goes there?”

A frantic male voice replied, “Sir Gaultier! There’s been an attack. It’s your brother Basati. Come quickly, my lord!”

Gaultier cursed with an equal measure of frustration and fury.

He gazed longingly at the frightened Dolssa, sitting upright in her rumpled bed, clutching the bedsheets to cover the luscious breasts he desperately longed to caress with ardent lips, fingers, and tongue.

He’d finally made love to her—claimed her as his own—after months of patient, persistent courtship. A tavern maid at the Sultry Siren where he’d frequently bedded many a willing wench, he’d met Dolssa this past spring when she began serving customers at the inn. At first, he’d thought she was like the other ladies—available to satisfy sailors, pirates, and lusty knights like himself. But he’d soon learned that she was a mere server of seafood and mead.

And definitely not for sale.

So, he’d wooed her. Pined for her. And—little by little as he’d slowly and gradually won her pure, generous heart—had lost his own to the inimitable, intriguing Basque beauty.

Dolssa.

Tonight, in making to love to her, he’d glimpsed heaven. Physical bliss and merging of souls, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. He’d lost himself in her. And he wanted so very much more.

But Cardin, the bloody bastard, had done it again. Ruined a perfect evening with Dolssa.

Despite his solemn vow to stay confined to the castle.

Abrupt, insistent pummeling interrupted Gaultier’s train of thoughts. “Sir Gaultier! S’il vous pla?t, Monsieur. Open the door!”

Gaultier apologized to Dolssa as he quickly donned his breeches and tunic, strapped on his belt, and sheathed his sword. “I’m sorry, ma mignonne. It seems my brother has started another brawl.” He plopped down on the bed, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her softly. Brushing a silky lock of dark tresses from her thick lashes, he gently stroked her flushed cheek. “I’ll drag him back to the castle. Post guards at the chamber door. And make it up to you tomorrow night.” He lifted her slender hand and brushed his lips upon her long fingers. “I promise.”

He stood and pulled the surcoat over his chainmail armor. With one last look of longing, he bade farewell to Dolssa.

And strode across the room to open the oaken door.

Two of his fellow Breton knights anxiously awaited in the long wooden hall dimly lit by tallow candles in metal wall sconces. Blond head bowed humbly before his higher-ranking lord, Guenole stammered, “Sorry to disturb you, sir. But your brother and Xabi have been robbed and beaten. They’re lying in a dark alley behind the Drunken Crow.”

“Take me to them.” Gaultier donned his coif and followed the two knights down the hall. They swiftly descended the stairs, crossed the animated tavern, and exited the Sultry Siren into the salty air of the starry night sky.

When they arrived at the scene of the assault, half a dozen knights stood guard around Cardin and Xabi, who were battered and bloody, lying face down on the cobblestoned street. Lasko the healer was bent over the victims’ bodies, tending to their injuries.

Gaultier rushed to his brother’s side and knelt beside the grey-haired, elderly man.

“There’s a large, egg-shaped swelling on the back of his head.” Lasko pointed to the wound which indicated how Cardin had been ambushed. “Dried blood and matted hair, but I see no other damage. Same for that knight over there.” He referred to Xabi with a jut of his bearded chin. “I’ve cleansed their wounds, but there’s no need for bandages. They might be a bit groggy when they wake up. But both will be fine tomorrow.”

Gaultier thanked the healer, paid him with coin, and ordered two knights to escort the old man safely home. As he watched the trio depart, one of his guards approached to render a report.

“Basati won at dice tonight, my lord.” Koneg—one of Gaultier’s Breton knights from the kingdom of Finistère—informed him of the evening’s events. “Andoni Zilar challenged him to a game of Hazard. Your brother won a hundred pounds of silver. Xabi won twenty pounds through side bets as well. The two of them left the tavern and were on their way back to the castle when they were attacked and robbed. All the silver is gone, sir.”

Dicing, drinking, and debts. They’ll be the death of him yet. Gaultier nodded gratefully to Koneg in acknowledgment. He returned to his prone brother, who had begun to stir with a low, grumbling groan.

“Let’s get them back to the castle.” Gaultier turned toward two of his Breton knights standing near the victims. “Guenole, you and Yann take Xabi to his room. Get him settled. I’ll see you tomorrow in the lists. Trugarez. Noz vat. Thank you and good night.”

While his men carried Xabi up the cobblestone path to le Chateau de Montmarin at the top of the hill, Gaultier knelt beside Cardin and slid his arms under his brother’s broad shoulders. With Koneg lifting Cardin’s feet, the two of them hauled the bulky brute home.

****

“You bastard. You promised me that you’d stay in the castle. That I wouldn’t have to come peel your bloody ass off some vomit-strewn table in a tavern. Lugh’s balls, Basati! I was in Dolssa’s bed!” Spittle flew as an enraged Gaultier struggled to control his fury while removing Cardin’s blood-soaked tunic.

“ Désolé , mon frère . I’m sorry.” Cardin hung his head in shame. “I needed the silver to pay Baroja. And I won a hundred pounds tonight. Enough to clear my debt. But Xabi and I were robbed behind the Drunken Crow.”

With Gaultier’s help, Cardin removed his boots, then rose unsteadily to unbuckle his leather belt.

The sheath was empty. Frantic, he patted the waistband of his breeches, searching for the missing knife. “Bastards stole my dagger, too. The one with the head of the wolf.”

Gaultier took the leather belt with the empty sheath from him and laid it on the wooden table beside the bed. “You can borrow one of mine.” He swung Cardin’s legs up on the bed and gently eased his injured head back onto the pillow. “The healer said you’d need to rest for a day or two. So you’re staying in bed. And I’m posting guards outside the door to make sure you do.”

Pulling himself up to his full, towering height, Gaultier smoothed his long dark hair and straightened the surcoat which covered his chainmail armor.

In the incandescent light from the candle on the bedside table, Cardin gazed at the five ermine symbols over the black lion and golden-horned ram. The royal coat of arms of King Guillemin and the Breton kingdom of Finistère which he and Gaultier loyally served.

Le Chateau de Beaufort.

La Bretagne.

Home.

Cardin clamped his eyes shut, his throat constricting in a smothering wave of guilt and grief.

Charlotte. I miss you so much I can’t breathe.

Lukaz. The son I abandoned at birth.

I’m a royal knight of Beaufort. Yet I live in disgrace, dishonor, and despair.

Lugh’s balls, I need a mug of mead!

Gaultier’s deep baritone permeated Cardin’s pain. “Two days for you to heal. For our knights to load the horses and supplies. Now that we’ve achieved our king’s goals, and the Alliance with Aquitaine is secure, you and I are leaving Biarritz, little brother.”

Having removed his armor, Gaultier sighed as he plopped down on the bed to pull off his heavy boots. “ Maman is gravely ill. She’s called us home. Her Yuletide wish is to have us there at her side. And so, mon frère— you can’t refuse this time. Even if I have to drag you, kicking and screaming, the entire length of France—we’re returning to Bretagne. You and I are going back to Brocéliande.”