Joanne Rock - A Knight Most Wicked

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

This book is dedicated with love to Katie Sue Morgan,

my friend and mentor who guided me into a writers’

group when I found myself alone and new in town upon

arrival in Shreveport, Louisiana. Thank you, Sue, not

only for finding me a romance writers’ chapter to join,

but for your immediate invitation to lunch two days

after my first phone call. I’ve never been so grateful for

a reprieve from unpacking boxes! Your generous spirit,

your nurturing strength and your creative eye helped me

take my work seriously as a writer and nudged me down

a path that has given me so much joy.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Bohemia

Autumn 1381

Arabella Rowan darted into the safety of the woods and forced herself to be still, eyes fixed on her mother’s cottage in the open meadow beyond. Five horses bearing the king’s standard were tethered near the door, stomping and snorting in the late afternoon air.

Men.

Arabella knew better than to approach her home if there were men within the walls. The rule had been clear all her life, though it had been stressed more since the arrival of her monthly courses some seven summers ago. Whether peasant or noble, men could pose a threat to a household of women living alone.

When the planked door swung open, five massive knights garbed in silks and velvets trooped out to their impatient mounts.

Arabella waited in the forest as the king’s men tore out of sight in a cloud of dust. After she dared to breathe a sigh of relief, curiosity consumed her. Barefoot despite the chill of the earth, she ran up the grassy hill to the stone cottage. She burst through the front door, almost tripping on the top step.

“What happened? What did those men—”

Her voice trailed off as she noted the mood in the cottage. Her mother and grandmother huddled together in hushed conversation. Lines of worry added somber age to their expressions.

“What is it?” Sinking onto a wooden chair in the cool open area that served as both kitchen and hall, Arabella set her herb-gathering basket at her feet and pushed tangled locks from her forehead. Anxiety gnawed at her belly far more than a hunger for supper.

Zaharia walked toward her granddaughter. “You are to make a journey, Arabella. The king wishes to send you with the princess.”

It could not be true. Her vision swam as her eyesight blurred, her mind reeling. Even in the farthermost outskirts of the Bohemian highlands, everyone knew the princess had agreed to wed a foreign king in a far-off land. Wordlessly, Arabella looked to her mother for confirmation, despite knowing her grandmother’s dictate would be final in this as in so many things.

Arabella’s mother buried her face in her hands, but not before a muffled sob escaped. Arabella’s heart skipped a frightened beat.

“You know your duty, Bella.” Grandmother Zaharia looked at her with stern green eyes, her long white hair tamed in a heavy knot at her nape, and sat down on the bench beside Arabella. “When the king sends Princess Anne to marry the young English king, you will join her as a lady-in-waiting.”

She knew little of the world, yet she’d heard talk of the constraints placed on women on the remote island. It sounded so different from the wild freedom of her Bohemian hills.

“I do not understand. I thought women abounded at court in Prague. My place should be at your side as it has always been, learning the healing arts.” Surely if she battled her grandmother’s decision with dedication to the wise woman’s craft, Zaharia would bend. Hadn’t her grandmother always told her that a healer’s blood ran in her veins?

“Apparently, King Wenceslas is gathering an unusually large retinue to accompany Anne. He wants her arrival to appear impressive to the English people, as her husband is accepting her without a dowry.”

“But I am no lady-in-waiting. I am not capable of making anyone look impressive.” She extended her bare foot as proof, while desperation knotted her stomach. If she left the country, would she ever see her family again? She might never complete her work as Grandmother’s apprentice, never gather herbs again nor thrill to the discovery of a new healing tincture. “We have never lived as nobility. I might shame us all.”

“Nevertheless, you are as noble as anyone at court, despite our lack of wealth.” Grandmother Zaharia lifted a parchment scroll hidden in the folds of her gown and read from it. “‘The presence of Lady Arabella Rowan, daughter of Sir Charles Vallia and Lady Luria Rowan, is requested in Prague next week.’”

“But my father has never acknowledged me.” The fact had never bothered her overmuch. Her life was happier than that of many other people she knew. Still, if her estrangement from her father would aid her in her cause, she had to remark upon it.

“Do not mention your father in your travels, my dear.” Zaharia’s voice was unusually sharp. “Your heritage is far more important than you think, but it is a family matter.”

Even Arabella’s mother peered up at her through her tears to echo the sentiment. “Say nothing of your past, Arabella. The royal family knows who you are and there is no need to defend yourself against anyone else’s whispered rumor.”

Confused, Arabella wondered about her father for the first time in a long time. She had never met the nobleman rumored to have broken her mother’s heart, but she suspected he sometimes met with her mother in secret. Perhaps that was one of the reasons the Rowan women remained wary of men. But Zaharia had already moved on to speak of other things.

“You must pack tomorrow so that you will arrive in Prague with enough time to prepare for the journey, my sweet girl. You have no choice but to leave us.”

Arabella did not believe her ears. She felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. Stricken. Aching.

She gasped for breath in the close air of the cottage. She needed to escape. To race the autumn winds and feel the earth beneath her feet.

Zaharia reached to embrace her. “Be strong, Arabella. Show your countrymen that Rowan blood runs as fierce as any knight’s.”

“How can I leave everything I’ve ever known to become someone I am not? How will I fulfill the legacy you have foretold would be mine?” She admired her grandmother’s stature as a healer and had imagined her own arts might warrant such respect one day.

“You cannot be a wise woman without seeing something of the world, Bella. I have always known a day would come that would call you to your fate and give you the wisdom you need added to what I have taught you.” Her words were soft and soothing, yet somehow rock solid at the same time. It was the tone she’d used to teach Arabella everything she knew about healing. “Think of your honor. Think of your family’s honor. You will fulfill this obligation and return home. It is not as if you will have to remain in England forever.”

Something about Zaharia’s mention of “England” and “forever” in the same breath filled Arabella with hot frustration, forcing her feet toward the door. It was all too much, too fast, and she feared she would shame herself by shouting her fury to the heavens in front of her family. She needed to flee before that happened.