The Heat of the Knight by Scottie Barrett Read Free Book Online

it, in the case of the master.” Agnes made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Such a fuss over a scullery wench.”
    The master could demand all he wanted. If she attended, it would be because she chose to. From a platter, Christiana took a minced meat pasty, a leftover from the previous day's dinner, and tucked it into the pouch strung from her belt.
    Once over the bridge to the moat, she pulled the pasty from her purse. Feeling the thrill of freedom, she enjoyed the morning breeze ruffling her hair as she strode the path to the village.
    After making certain there was no one about, she approached the cottage. Reaching through the window, she pushed open the wooden shutter and peered inside. The cottage had remained vacant. Ants had overrun the hunk of stale maslin left on the hearth, and her mattress still lay in the corner, most likely an oversized nest of vermin now. In the distance she could hear the piercing echoes of shawms being played and troubadours warming up their voices.
    Christiana sat on the stone stoop and listened to the familiar sounds as they floated up from the clearing below. So Colin and Beckett would be enjoying the tasty food and spirited entertainment while she sat up here like a lonely spinster? Not likely. She leapt to her feet, tossed the crust of her pasty to the birds, and headed down the road in the direction of the music.
    The faire was set up in the shared village meadow. Women with floral crowns and rosy cheeks danced with parti-colored jesters. Even the animals were fancified.
    Beribboned horses and goats with gold paint scrolled on their horns were tied in front of colorful tents. She stooped to pet a pug-faced dog with a ruffled collar. Dressed as she was in her sack-like kirtle, she was probably the drabbest being in attendance.
    Christiana watched Peg, holding two mugs aloft, squeeze by the dancers. Sidling up to Christiana, she shoved one of the cups into her hand. Peg licked the spilled liquid from her fingers. “There are vats of mead yonder. 'Tisn't another master 'round as generous as Lord Dareford, though he scares the devil out of me. I stammer like a village fool when he's about.”
    Hoping to douse her melancholy, Christiana eagerly downed the honeyed spirits.
    Standing on tiptoes, Peg shaded her eyes from the sun and scanned the crowd.
    “There he is,” she shouted. “There's my sweet lad.” Peg gave Christiana's arm an affectionate squeeze, then flitted off to follow her friend.
    .As Christiana meandered the faire grounds, there was talk of little else but the man they called the Blacksmith. He and his group of hellions were ranging the king's forest and dispensing with the men known for their cruelty and rapacious quest for land.
    The identity of the leader, a knight regaled in midnight-hued armor, was a favorite speculation. This was not the first time in past years that this band of knights had made their mythical appearance. And while there was great evidence that the Blacksmith truly existed, such amazing stories had been recounted about his conquests that it was hard to determine what was real and what pure fantasy. There wasn't a woman in the county who hadn't dreamed of being held captive by the Blacksmith.
    “'Tis the flaxen-haired de Saxby, to be sure. Such soldierly bearing, yet he don't play by the rules. Never has,” a woman dispensing chewets said with authority.
    Christiana suspected that Colin's fairness made the women swoon to think of him as a heroic outlaw. 'Twas possible, Christiana surmised. She'd once thought him weakwilled compared to his cousin, but he'd shown fortitude and strength of character. He'd grown a backbone.
    With a second cup of mead, Christiana took a seat on a bench. Out of the corner of her eye, she could feel someone's gaze trained on her. It only took a moment for Christiana to spot the spy. Maud darted in and out of view as she mingled with the crowd.
    Christiana turned her attention back to the entertainment. A juggler,