Page 3 of To Honor

“He’d not have done so,” Lord Stirling replied. She could not hear his next words, so Evelina moved closer to the door.

“Extreme measures,” her father was saying. “To learn how he might react to accusations of cheating.”

“But worthwhile, as we learned Claymore is as chivalrous as he is skilled.”

Claymore. She’d heard the name before, but Evelina could not place where. Since her memory was as faulty as her singing, and knitting, she turned to Amalia.

“Where have I heard the name Claymore before?” she whispered.

Amalia’s eyes widened. “You really do not remember well at all. Your father spoke of him not a sennight ago. The tourney knight who’s not lost a joust even once before.”

Ahhh, it all became clear. Evelina listened once again.

“—will host a dinner to welcome him. I’ll speak to Evelina this eve.”

Speak to Evelina. He meant tell his only daughter to have a meal prepared, since, as a woman, ’twas the only thing she could manage. Hosting guests, preparing herself for an advantageous marriage . . . those were the qualities that mattered to him. That others, like her tutor, called her intelligent and an unparalleled student of history mattered little to her father, who refused to acknowledge her skills.

Rolling her eyes, Evelina tugged her maid away from the solar chamber. She could tell from the tone of his voice her father was growing weary of the conversation. Getting caught outside his door would not do well for her, but it was only when the women were safely tucked inside Evelina’s chamber that she put all of the pieces together.

“A new recruit,” she said, sitting on her bed. “The tourney knight must be a new recruit.”

“If your father’s recounting of his victories holds true, ’tis no wonder they’ve recruited the man.”

“Aye. And it seems they tested him beyond simply his skill in the joust. My father mentioned something of how he reacted to accusations of cheating and Lord Stirling named his handling of the situation as chivalrous. The German must have been Claymore’s opponent.”

“I do not understand.” Amalia sat on the bed beside her.

“Nor do I. But father mentioned a dinner here to welcome him, so it seems we will meet this chivalrous tourney knight soon.”

“Another recruit. There have been more of late than usual.”

“Indeed,” Evelina agreed. “With rumors of Lady Maude soon returning to Normandy, many fear the tides will turn to Stephen’s favor once again. The Guardians must be planning a new offensive.”

The two women fell silent.

Neither were supposed to know of such things. They were tasked with hosting dinners while others concerned themselves with the politics of Empress Matilda, affectionately known as Lady Maude by her supporters. Not far from Ashcroft Manor, a secret society of knights, the Guardians of the Sacred Oak, trained to restore Lady Maude as rightful heir to England’s throne. Evelina’s father, a man who had always felt more like a stranger to her, was one of the Guardians’ key financiers.

“Come,” Amalia said finally. “Let us prepare you for bed. It seems you will have much to do on the morrow, preparing to welcome the great knight of Claymore to our esteemed manor.”

Though she giggled at Amalia’s grandiose tone, Evelina did not revel in such a task. Another pompous knight who, by the very act of being recruited to the Guardians, valued himself above all. She grew weary of his kind and had no wish to welcome him or any knight at Ashcroft Manor. But none cared what Evelina wanted, least of all the man who would order her to play hostess.

She bounded from her bed anyway, sighing. “The great knight of Claymore. I am ecstatic with anticipation,” she said, clearly anything but pleased. “I simply cannot wait to meet the new recruit.”

Her words were met by Amalia’s laughter, the one bright spot in an otherwise mundane existence that would not improve on the morrow. Great knight of Claymore? She could do without him gracing her presence, but as always, Evelina had little choice in the matter.

3

“He is too pretty for our order.”

The moment Gareth stepped into the men’s quarters, he was met with some ribbing and even more accolades. The latter he had no need for; reminders of his skill with the lance and on mounted horseback were something he’d stopped listening to many years ago. If it aided his cause, so be it. Otherwise, Gareth cared little for the praise.

“Aye, ’tis the cheekbones. Though I would not name him pretty. A handsome one, though, for certain.”

He’d never been called pretty, and Gareth cared little for the term. But saying as much would have the opposite effect among these men. Instead, he remained silent and assessed those around him. Perhaps twenty men in total, some taller than others, but none small by any measure. Blond men, black-haired men. Bearded and clean-shaven, they had just one thing in common. All had been recruited, as he had been, for the Guardians of the Sacred Oak—an order he’d not known existed mere days ago, but one that fought for a cause in which he believed.

More importantly, one his parents believed in as well. If Empress Matilda was restored to the throne, his father could no longer be called a traitor.

“Your bed is there,” the steward of Castle Blackwood said. “This eve you will accompany Lord Stirling to dine with a local noble who is one of the chief financiers of our organization. In the meantime”—the elderly man waved his arm to indicate the others—“allow the men to welcome you among their ranks.”