Page 1 of Falling for the Knight

1

Saxford Castle, Northumbria, 1394

“Your decision, my lord?”

The thief held Tristan’s gaze. This man’s death, or even his excommunication from Saxford, would cause hardship for his wife and child.

“Lord?”

Tristan turned his attention from the thief to Gerard, the look he offered his steward ensuring there would be no further interruptions. He understood the man’s desire to see these men out of their hall—it had been a long day—but he would not be rushed.

“You understand,” he said to the cowering accused, “that the merchant’s loss was substantial? Your life could be forfeit to pay for it.”

Tristan watched the man’s eyes as he blinked and finally looked at the merchant whose cloth he’d stolen. He had heard the thief’s plea for mercy—he had a new son—as well as the merchant’s demand for retribution. Looking at both of them now, he finally came to a decision.

“Aye, my lord. I understand.”

“Consider yourself grateful, then, to work for the merchant any time he passes through Saxford. Whatever he needs, for a period of five years, you will offer him. And if you are caught relieving anyone of their hard-earned goods again, your son will be without a father.”

Tristan waited for the judgment to penetrate and was neither surprised nor affected by the merchant’s confusion and the thief’s cries of thanks. He motioned for Gerard to usher the accused and accuser from the great hall and sat back in the wooden chair that had become mighty uncomfortable.

Tristan tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He waited for the inevitable, knowing it would come any moment. Three, two, one . . .

“A punishment of service?”

“Gerard, I’m tired—”

“’Tis unheard of. The cost of the cloth—”

“Which was returned.”

“I should not question your judgment—”

“Then don’t.” Tristan was hungry, tired, and in need of a woman. He’d returned from the border that morning to learn the manorial court would be held that day. A timely return for the thief, who may have lost his hands or his life had Gerard been his judge.

By the time Tristan opened his eyes, a stream of men-at-arms and servants had already replaced the petitioners who’d sought his judgment. They’d been waiting for the court to end so dinner could be served. He stood from his chair, which would be moved behind the head table for the meal as the trestle tables were moved from their positions along the walls and arranged in the center of the room. Gerard followed him out of the hall and away from the preparations.

They were about to enter the covered passageway that led to the south tower when Gerard stopped and looked back.

“I’d know the outcome of your trip, but Lorelle—”

“I tire of your fawning, as well as hearing her name. Bed the woman and be done with it.”

His trusted advisor and longtime friend was not amused.

“She is not the kind of woman—”

Tristan’s head began to ache. He rubbed his temple. “She’s unmarried.”

“Aye, you know she is.”

“And willing.”

“We’ve not discussed—”

“Of course you have not. Lorelle,” Tristan said, “is neither married nor titled. So—”

“But she is the kind of woman—” Gerard interrupted.