Carried Away (The FitzRam Family Medieval Romance Series) Read online

  He’d been torn by the decision to leave Wolfenberg, a place filled with bitter memories of a loveless marriage. But his son, Johann, was there, in the care of Dieter’s father and sister. Johann was the one good thing to come from the years of erratic behaviour on the part of his wife. Madness had eventually driven her to take her own life. Now his son was motherless, but better that than the future he’d have had at Frederika’s hands. Johann was a bright, happy boy who exhibited no outward signs of his demented mother’s lunacy. But when Dieter and Frederika had been betrothed as children, she’d seemed normal too.

  By now, several of the conspirators had drawn close, anxious to hear his reply. He must get his mind back on the business at hand and consider his words carefully. “We owe the Duke our fealty and must trust in his judgement. In any case, this is our plot, not the Duke’s. It is for us to free Köln from the blockade.”

  A few nodded, others mumbled; Magnus remained silent. However, most of them seemed satisfied and prepared to embark on the mission. He breathed a sigh of relief. The sooner the Emperor was removed from power, the sooner he’d be able to return to Wolfenberg.

  ***

  Dieter and two score handpicked men left Köln under cover of darkness. Clad in the black tunic, hauberk, leggings and boots he typically favoured, he had left off the long white cloak he often fastened to his shoulders. The scabbard and hilt of his sword were black. His jet black hair and swarthy complexion would ensure his invisibility in the dark.

  They completed the two day journey to Mainz and arrived in the city without challenge, much to their surprise. “Heinrich is so preoccupied with Köln he leaves his own nest unprotected,” Dieter observed to Magnus.

  They stole into the cathedral under cover of darkness and took up their positions. The plan was to seize Queen Matilda when she came to the Emperor’s private chapel in the cathedral for morning mass, which she was known to do daily. To take her in the palace would be nigh on impossible.

  Dieter rehearsed over and over in his mind the details of how the abduction would proceed. Nervous dread and anticipation warred within him. He dozed intermittently, waiting impatiently for dawn, leaving his station only occasionally to prod a snoring comrade.

  ***

  The daily excursion to accompany the Queen to morning mass was at least a relief from the boredom of Blythe’s routine. She was learning a few German words, but finding it difficult. The Queen was bored too and spent most of her day changing outfits, for which Blythe was responsible. She supposed she should be flattered to be the Queen’s ‘favourite’! In all the years she’d been in service to Matilda, she’d never taken a liking to the child, who’d grown more arrogant as time went on. Her Majesty had done nothing to provide her ladies with a more suitable wardrobe. She refused to learn German and complained constantly about the German courtiers who surrounded her.

  Blythe wondered how Matilda and Heinrich were ever going to communicate.

  Perhaps he doesn’t care about communicating, only getting her with child.

  Her attention wandered quite a bit these days. Homesick for England, she missed her family. She knelt for the Invocation of the Holy Spirit, the droning voice of the priest lulling her to sleep. She stifled a yawn, but was abruptly jarred awake by a gloved hand pressed firmly over her mouth. She struggled and tried to scream, but tasted leather. Heart racing, she was dragged unceremoniously over the back of the bench by a strong arm clamped around her ribcage. Her attacker kept his other hand over her mouth. Screams rent the air. Blythe squeezed her eyes tight shut, hoping when she reopened them, this nightmare would be a dream. It was only too real. Lady Dorothea lay in a crumpled heap a few feet from the altar. Three Imperial guards had formed a shield in front of their Empress and were fighting off a group of masked men. Booted feet echoed off the stone floor, running, coming closer. Male voices shouted in anger and alarm. Matilda cowered behind her guards with the priest, pressing herself up against the altar, a terrified little girl. “I should have been with her,” Blythe thought wildly. “I could have protected her.”

  Breathing became difficult. Her eyes watered. Her feet touched the floor for an instant, then she was hoisted over a broad male shoulder, forcing the air out of her lungs with an oomph. The man carried her out of the cathedral, moving quickly. His shoulder jarred her belly as he loped along. She pounded his back with her fists. It was like hitting a wall. She braced her hands against his back trying to get air back into her lungs. Even through the leather of his hauberk he was rigid, hard-bodied, all muscle. A thrill of fear coupled with indignation swept over her. Now free to scream, she did so—loudly. Without warning, she was jerked back to her feet. The cold blue eyes of a swarthy man bore into her. He pulled down his mask, smiled at her laconically and said in French, “You will deafen me if you scream in my ear, milady.”

  She gulped air as he coolly appraised the décolletage of her dress, his deep voice penetrating to her belly. Her mind whirled. Before she could utter a word he’d gagged her and she was back over his shoulder, his right arm holding her thighs, his left fending off another Imperial guard with his sword.

  A deadly lunge dispatched the guard and the man loped on, sword in hand, towards the ancient church of St. Johannis. He paused for a moment behind a sarcophagus, listening. Blythe forced down the bile rising in her throat.

  She tried to catch her breath, but then he was moving again, with greater stealth. Blood rushed to her throbbing head and fleeting images swirled. The man reached a small door, opened it carefully, and bent to clear the jamb. Her skirts rustled against the wood as he eased her through. She made the mistake of raising her head, and banged it hard on the wooden frame.

  Still clinging desperately to his hauberk with one hand, she touched the other to her head, half expecting to feel blood oozing. The gag prevented anything more than a grunt.

  “My fault.”

  A gentleman bandit!

  He stepped outside and reached to untie the reins of a tethered black stallion. He set her on her feet and mounted the horse. For one blessed moment she hoped he would ride away without her, but he leaned down and held out his hand. He must have seen the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. “I will kill you if you run,” he said softly in English.

  Who was this brigand who spoke both her languages? A shiver went through her. She averted her eyes and held out her hand, squealing involuntarily when he pulled her up effortlessly and sat her in his lap. On a clipped command in German, the horse cantered away, carrying them, no doubt, to a rendezvous point outside the city arranged with his confederates. She had no choice but to cling to him as he held her fast, his arm tight around her waist. She heard the steady beating of his heart. Hers was probably deafening him. She closed her eyes in an effort to overcome her dizziness. Her frenzied mind filled with memories of family stories of the attack by Scots that had taken the lives of her grandparents. Now she understood the terror her mother must have experienced that day long ago.

  Her breath caught when she thought of her parents. She wanted to cry out, to weep with fear, but determined to be brave. This bandit must not know she was afraid. She was a descendant of Vikings. She closed her eyes to conjure an image of the ceremonial dagger that hung on the wall of her home in Kirkthwaite Hall and of the Danish ancestor who had carved its hilt. She called on his aid, just as her mother had done when her father left to join the Crusade.

  The man shifted his weight in the saddle, jolting her out of her trance. He moved her arms to around his neck—no choice but to rest her head against his chest. She’d never been this close to a man’s body. His legs were like iron and a strange hardness pressed against her thigh. She’d often seen her brothers’ male parts when they were all children, but didn’t recall anything so—big. She still tasted the leather of his gloves on her tongue. He smelled of leather, and something else—sweat, fear? Was he afraid too? She dared a glance at his face. His jaw was clenched, his stern expression unreadable in the early morning light.

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nbsp; After what seemed like an eternity, they arrived at a small church. It looked deserted, but as they approached a young man emerged to grab the horse’s reins. Her captor said something in German, then released her and she slid into the arms of the youth. Her knees buckled as her numbed feet hit the ground.

  The boy seemed flustered as he helped her regain her balance. “Kaiserin Matilda?” he asked her captor.

  The Black Knight dismounted, shook his head, took his prize from the boy and carried her into the ancient church in his arms. Setting her back on her feet, he looked at her. Some of the stress had left his features. Her heart fluttered—he had the face of an angelic devil. His high cheekbones and aristocratic nose bespoke a man of noble birth. She had a momentary notion to touch the dark stubble of his morning beard. He smiled the same naughty grin as before. Had he read her thoughts?

  “Do you promise not to scream if I remove the gag, my lady?” His deep voice, speaking a language not his own, somehow soothed her. There was no threat in it.

  She nodded mutely, her eyes wide, feeling completely dishevelled, alone and defeated.

  He untied the gag. “If you scream, no one will hear you—only the ghosts.”

  She couldn’t speak.

  “Vous parlez francais?” he asked.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked rapidly. “Oui, I speak French and English—but not German.”

  He nodded his understanding. “What is your name?”

  His ability to speak several languages bespoke an educated man. His French was flawless. This reassured her that at least she wasn’t in the hands of a brigand. But what was she doing here? Why had he taken her? Summoning up her courage, hoping her voice wouldn’t betray her terror, she allowed him her name. “I am Lady Blythe Lacey FitzRam.”

  He nodded, a strange half smile on his lips. “So you are indeed a Norman?”

  Blythe clenched her fists nervously, nails digging into the flesh of her palms. “My father is half Norman, half Saxon. My mother is of Saxon and Danish descent.”

  “Quite a mixture,” he quipped. “So you’re from the northern part of England?”

  It seemed incongruous to be standing in this ancient church having a conversation as if they were recently introduced acquaintances at some courtly function. She took another deep breath. “No, but my mother was born there. I was born in the Welsh Marches. I have a twin brother, Aidan. We do live for part of the year in the north, at my mother’s ancestral home of Kirkthwaite Hall.”

  Why was she telling him these personal details? Who was he? Why had he kidnapped her? She remained silent, fearful of the answers. Her heart was still beating too fast, but was it because of her fear or his overwhelming masculinity?

  The smile left his face. “And you came to our land with Heinrich’s child bride.” It wasn’t a question and she couldn’t fail to hear the sarcasm in his voice.

  She averted her eyes from his steadfast gaze. She wanted to explain that she’d been brought against her will, but that would be disloyal to her mistress. “Yes, I’m one of her ladies-in-waiting.”

  “What is it you’re waiting for, Lady Blythe Lacey FitzRam?”

  The question took her by surprise and she wondered if he perhaps didn’t understand the term lady-in-waiting. He was too refined for that, too much a man of the world. What did he see when those blue eyes pierced her? The truth? She almost blurted out the secret longings of her heart.

  I’m waiting for a handsome knight to sweep me off my feet, carry me away and make me his wife in every way possible.

  What was she thinking? She blushed and he smiled again. Suddenly she swayed, overwhelmed by the heat and fear. He caught her and carried her over to a bench.

  “My lady, I’m a terrible host. I should offer you a beverage. You’ve had an ordeal. Some ale, perhaps? I can summon the boy.”

  She’d regained some of her equilibrium now she was seated. She used her hand as a fan. “No, thank you. I’m just so hot.”

  He raked his gaze over her from head to toe. “Forgive me, Lady Blythe Lacey FitzRam, but your attire isn’t suited to our summer climate.”

  She smiled ruefully. “You’re absolutely right. It would be good to be wearing less.”

  His blue eyes lit up with suggestive delight—had she no control over her words?

  Think before you speak. Be on your guard.

  “Your hair is too tightly braided. My apologies if it appears rude to say so, but it is fashioned in a style that doesn’t suit your beautiful face.”

  He raised his hand to touch her hair. “I regret bumping your head as we left the cathedral. How does it feel now?”

  Instantly better with his touch.

  “Perhaps if you took down your hair you would feel more comfortable?”

  A shiver raced up and down her spine. “I cannot, sir,” she whispered, wishing fervently she could. “It wouldn’t be seemly to take down my hair in your presence.”

  He laughed. “Lady Blythe, it’s not seemly of me to have carried you off!”

  His laughter reverberated down to her toes and she took courage from his teasing. “Who are you, Black Knight?”

  He looked away. “My name is of no importance, but you can call me your Black Knight if you wish.”

  My Black Knight.

  “Schwarze ritter,” she attempted and he laughed again. “Very good. You have a good ear for my language.”

  The silence stretched between them before she had the courage to ask, “Why have you brought me here?”

  His eyes pierced her. “We need you to take care of your child Queen. She knows you. She’ll feel safer.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You’ve kidnapped the Queen? Why?”

  He leapt to his feet. “Do you English know nothing of German politics, of our realities?”

  She looked away from him, stunned by his vehement reply.

  He took her hand and bowed to kiss it. “Forgive me, Lady Blythe, I didn’t mean to be rude. We’ve come from Köln. Heinrich has laid siege to the city and blockaded it, cutting us off from the Rhine. We don’t wish to be his subjects, so we’ve rebelled. We’ll hold Matilda until he withdraws. We wish harm to neither her, nor you.”

  She looked up nervously, wanting for some incomprehensible reason to lift her hand to her lips and lick the still-wet warmth of his kiss. “You’re from Köln? I know of the struggle there.”

  He shook his head emphatically. “Nein, I’m from Saxony. Like you I have Saxon blood. We’re allies of our friends in Köln. I’m a vassal of Duke Lothar von Süpplingenburg of Saxony.”

  All of this was beyond her. Who was this Duke Lothar with the unpronounceable name? She laced her fingers together and looked anxiously toward the door. “But where is Matilda? Is someone bringing her? She must be terrified.”

  His brow furrowed as he rose to his feet. “Ja, you’re right to be concerned. They should be here by now.”

  He strode to the door, leaving her alone in the silent church. She was grateful the stone pillars made it cooler here, but now she was trembling, despite her heavy gown. The sweat of her fear became clammy. Several anxious minutes later she heard horses approaching fast. Men shouted at each other in German. The Black Knight’s deep voice was raised in anger. Strangely, hearing it again calmed her. Abruptly he came back into the church, grasped her elbow and urged her towards the door.

  She lifted the hem of her dress, afraid to stumble. “What’s happening? Where are we going now?”

  He didn’t look at her. “Köln.”

  Panic seized her. She would never be rescued if he took her to Köln. She tried in vain to pull her arm from his tight grasp. “But where is Matilda?”

  He stopped suddenly and turned her to face him, his hands gripping her shoulders. His blue eyes glinted with anger. She held her breath. “Lady Blythe, I’m not accustomed to explaining myself to women, especially foreign women. Neither am I accustomed to failure, but it seems my men have failed me. Matilda escaped with her guards. Four of my comrades
were killed, and several injured.”

  A wave of relief swept over her. Now she would be freed. “But if you don’t have Matilda, why do you need me?”

  She regretted the words instantly. They would kill her now.

  He stared at her for long moments. “We don’t, but you’ll come with us anyway.”

  She lowered her eyes and her heart plummeted. “I’m to be a hostage? They’ll give you nothing for me. I’m of no importance to them.”

  He touched her hair again. “You’re right,” he replied gently. “But you’re of importance to me.”

  He mounted his stallion and held out his hand. “Ride behind me.”

  She glanced around. Wounded men slumped against the backs of several riders. Perhaps she could aid them. With no hope of escape or rescue, she obeyed. She hitched up her copious skirts, straddled the horse behind him, grateful for many hours spent riding with her brother Aidan, and flung her arms around his waist. They rode off into the late afternoon sun.

  ***

  The fear and hopelessness in his captive’s eyes saddened Dieter. He wasn’t a man who kidnapped innocent young women, and he’d no doubt Lady Blythe Lacey FitzRam was indeed an innocent. But she was brave, hadn’t whined or wept once, despite her obvious terror, and had maintained a dignified bearing.

  “Why should I care what this Norman wench thinks?” he wondered, trying to decide if her eyes were green or brown. He’d untied the gag to allay her fear and admitted ruefully he’d flirted with her.

  Ja, Dieter, but she’s so beautiful, why not?

  His first proper look at her in the church had taken his breath away. His attention in the Cathedral had been wholly on the mission as he’d crept up stealthily behind her. Carrying her on his shoulder had given him an indication of her form as her breasts bounced against him. No doubt he’d hurt her. If he could just peel down her gown and make sure she wasn’t bruised. He licked his lips, conjuring a vision of her copious globes in his hands. His rute responded.

  As he ushered her hurriedly out of the church, he asked himself what he was doing. She would be an encumbrance. Why not simply cut his losses and leave her here? There was something about Blythe Lacey FitzRam he couldn’t relinquish. What would she look like with her hair down, and without the sulky pout she seemed determined to keep on her face?