My Lord's Desire. Margaret Moore

make Moll stay in the kitchen.”

      They groaned and Armand turned to Godwin. “Who’s Moll?”

      “Bessy’s daughter, and as pretty as her mother.”

      At nearly the same time, a young woman appeared in the doorway leading to the kitchen. She was very pretty, in an apple-cheeked, robust way. She held a plate of steaming stew in her hand, with a small loaf on the side, and although she didn’t look at her two young admirers, Armand realized she was well aware they were there.

      She smiled at Godwin as she set the food before him and acknowledged Armand’s presence with a little dip, although as she did, she slid the two young men a glance. She had an even saucier swing to her hips when she strolled toward them afterward.

      “A young unmarried woman like that can cause a lot of trouble in a village,” Armand said.

      “Oh, she’s a good girl, is Moll,” Godwin replied as he ate the stew with gusto. “And it’s no secret she’s sweet on the smith’s son. They’d be married by now if he wasn’t livin’ with his parents. He’s started buildin’ a house, though, so it’s likely they’ll marry before the winter.”

      “Those two lads will be disappointed.”

      “Not much. They just like to tease her.”

      And indeed, their easy banter with the young woman belied any serious intent on their part.

      After looking around to make sure no one was paying any attention to them, Armand leaned closer to Godwin and got down to business. “I’m glad I met you this morning, Godwin. I have a message for the earl, and I’d like you to take it.”

      Godwin stopped eating and regarded him gravely. “Of course, my lord, if the steward will give me leave.”

      “I think he will,” Armand said. “I need to send another to Canterbury, as well. Is there someone you could recommend to take it, someone who’s as trustworthy as you?”

      Godwin’s expression was thoughtful, as well as proud. “Bert’s a good lad and he can’t read, so even if I’m wrong, he wouldn’t know what was in the letter.”

      Satisfied, Armand nodded. “I’ll write the letters and speak to the steward as soon as we return.”

      “What ho within!” a jovial young man shouted outside to accompaniment of laughter and the stamp of horses’ hooves. “Bessy my love, I’m parched!”

      The door to the tavern burst open and five young noblemen came stumbling into the taproom, laughing and swearing. Leading the pack was the already drunk Sir Alfred de Marleton, followed by Lord Richard d’Artage. Then came Charles de Bergendie who Armand knew by reputation; he was said to be a worthy opponent in a melee, despite his youth. Sir Edmond de Sansuren and his brother, Roger, brought up the rear. Armand knew nothing bad of those two, except that they seemed to follow whoever was of a mind to lead them. Apparently, they were following Alfred today, at least as far as wine was concerned.

      Bessy marched into the room just as a sixth young man joined the band of drunken knights—the dark-haired, bearded and seemingly sober Sir Oliver.

      “Well, now, what have we here?” the alewife asked, one hand on her ample hip.

      Although she smiled, Armand was quite sure she was neither pleased nor impressed with these potential customers, whether they were noblemen or not. Her daughter, meanwhile, sidled toward her mother, and the door to the kitchen.

      “Some very thirsty fellows,” Sir Alfred said with a sodden grin. “We thought we might find something to assuage it here.”

      “Aye, you might,” Bessy answered.

      Alfred leered at Moll. “Oh, I think we will. And we’re hungry, too.”

      He lunged for Moll, grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. “Very hungry,” he murmured, running his hand over her bodice, “and here’s just the morsel to sate us.”

      As Moll emitted a screech of fear, Armand jumped to his feet. Godwin rose, too, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The two lads, their faces red with anger, likewise got up. The group of farmers stood more slowly, but their expressions were just as angry. The merchant, awakened by the commotion, looked about wildly, his hand going to the handle of the dagger visible in his belt.

      “Are you forgetting that you are a knight, sworn to protect women and children?” Armand demanded of the young noblemen, his stern gaze on Alfred, who was holding the frightened Moll in a grip that made her wince.

      “I don’t have to listen to you,” Alfred declared. “You’re no saint, and neither’s Lady Adelaide, from what we’ve heard.”

      Then he kissed Moll’s cheek, making her squirm with disgust.

      “Let her go,” Armand commanded. He didn’t raise his voice, but when Armand de Boisbaston issued an order in that tone, he didn’t have to.

      Scowling but obeying, Alfred shoved Moll away. She ran to her mother, who glared at the knights as if she wanted them boiled in oil.

      She probably did.

      “The girls of this village are not doxies for your amusement,” Armand said to the swaying Alfred and his friends. “If your oath of chivalry is not enough to make you behave as an honorable man should, I remind you that this estate belongs to the Earl of Pembroke, one of the most chivalrous men alive, and not a man you want for an enemy. What do you think he’ll do if he hears you’ve been abusing his tenants?”

      Sir Edmond threw out his chest like an indignant pigeon. “Our father—”

      “Is one of the king’s valued counsellors,” Armand interrupted. “What do you think he’ll say when he finds out you’ve risked the ire of William Marshal?”

      All trace of bravado fled Edmond’s face. “You’d tell him?”

      “If I must.”

      Edmond nearly tripped over his own feet trying to get to the door, his brother hard on his heels. Lord Richard shrugged and started after them, while Sir Oliver stayed where he was, watching them all as if this were a performance staged for his benefit.

      Armand coolly regarded the three remaining knights. “I suggest, my lords, that you return to the castle at once.”

      “You can’t make us go,” Alfred slurred.

      Armand raised a brow. “Can’t I?”

      Alfred felt for his sword. “You wouldn’t dare attack me!”

      Armand held his arms away from his body. “Am I attacking anybody?”

      As Alfred continued to try to locate the hilt of his sword, he cried, “You don’t scare me!”

      “Then I appeal to whatever remains of your honor. Your behavior here has been a disgrace.”

      “I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of! Why, I hardly touched her! You’d think I’d raped her, the way you’re acting.” His own words seemed to encourage him. “And since when are you the arbiter of chivalry and honor? You seduced Lady Adelaide. It’s all over the court that you two were making love in the garden.”

      It took a great effort not to strike the sot for his insolence, and to wipe the smirk off his face. “We did not make love in the garden.”

      Alfred and Charles stared at him with blatant disbelief, while Sir Oliver’s face betrayed nothing.

      Albert straightened his shoulders. “Well, nobody but the lady can vouch for that. Everyone knows you surrendered Marchant.”

      “What do you know of battle, bravery or defeat?” Armand asked, trying to hold on to his patience. “I surrendered after being besieged for months, when there was no hope of relief, and even then, only after the French king threatened to destroy the village and kill all the people in it. Would you rather I let