A Knight in Broken Armor (The Knights of Stonebridge Series 1 Book 2) Read online

  A Knight in Broken Armor

  The Knights of Stonebridge

  Series I, Book 2

  Bambi Lynn

  Bourdeilles Books

  A Division of Spearhead Productions

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  Ivelisse Sterling would rather become one of her father’s whores than marry a man of his choosing. But he and the women who helped raise Ivy want a different life for their little girl. The company’s plans are thrown into upheaval the moment Ivy sees the local blacksmith, Kier Dufrance and decides he will be her first customer.

  But Kier shows no interest in her attempts to seduce him. Ivy has grown up with this troupe of prostitutes, so she is not ignorant of relations between men and women. Imagine her disappointment and frustration when she finds it impossible to seduce the man she has chosen to be her first.

  Kier, reluctant to explain his impotence, tries to discourage Ivy. But he underestimates her determination. Without benefit of a modern-day sex therapist, it is up to these medieval lovers to find a cure. Ivy’s antics while trying to learn all she can from her friends will have readers laughing out loud before racing for a cold shower.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  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

  CHAPTER ONE

  The men stood in the shade of the arena seats, peering out through the legs of the spectators overhead. Teddie Sterling swiped at a lone bead of sweat that trickled down the side of his face. Every now and then he gulped in a breath of air, as if he had suddenly remembered to breathe.

  He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. He had wagered everything on this single joust. If his man lost…

  His lids snapped open. He would not think about that. He couldn’t.

  He glanced over at Selwyn the Bookie. The infuriating man stood too close, a leering grin on his rat-like face. Teddie followed his gaze and spotted Ivy at the rail watching the joust. She looked so pretty, just like her mother, God rest her. Mattie, one of his best whores, stuck to her as if she’d been smeared with tree sap. How many times have I told them not to be seen together in public? He would speak to Lillian about the girls.

  He wanted to think it was Mattie who had piqued Selwyn’s interest. But he knew better. That would be too easy.

  “Perhaps in future, you should consult your daughter about where to place your bets, Teddie.”

  He jumped at the sound of Selwyn’s voice, but continued to watch Ivy as she waited for the knights to take the field. The pale green silk of her under dress was revealed at the skirt and lower sleeves of her emerald patterned cotehardie, the colors separated by the ermine tippets trimming the sleeves. Ignoring local sumptuary laws, Ivy looked like any one of the noble women perched on a cushioned seat on the other side of the jousting field. If not for her proximity to and obvious acquaintance with the garishly dressed whore next to her, anyone would guess Ivelisse Sterling just another maid come to snare a husband from the spoils.

  A filthy little urchin approached her with his dirty hand outstretched. Opening the strings of the pouch at her waist, Ivy retrieved a coin and pressed it into the child’s palm. His heart clenched at her generosity, a trait she had not inherited from him.

  “What if your man does not win this match?” the bookie asked.

  “He will win.” He has to. Or I’m cooked.

  Selwyn crossed his arms in front of him and stared off in Ivy’s direction. “There is an alternative, you know.” He waved one hand dismissively, a gesture that did little to placate Teddie’s anxiety. “Something besides my men taking what you owe from your flesh.”

  Teddie had a pretty good idea what that alternative was. Sweat continued to trickle along his skin, working his already taut nerves into a frazzle. He had hoped the air would be cooler in the shade beneath the risers, but the back of his shert was soaked.

  A herald signaled the first pass. The two war horses bolted from their positions at opposite ends of the jousting field. The ground beneath his feet trembled. He ignored Selwyn, swallowing hard and repeating his prayer. He squinted against the bright sunlight, his gaze seeking out his daughter.

  Yes, he knew the alternative. Selwyn wanted Ivy, and Teddie was running out of options.

  ***

  Ivy Sterling covered her ears. Her heart drummed mercilessly against her ribs. She squinted against the sun, reflected off golden spurs that propelled two chargers toward each other. Knights in full battle armor crouched over their straining necks, one gauntlet-covered hand clutched the shield bearing the knight’s crest, the other arm snaked around the hilt of a lance so long that, stood on its end, would be taller than any man.

  Just as the knights met almost directly in front of her, Ivy squeezed her eyes shut. She held her breath, waiting for a thunderous crash, the crunch of metal, the splintering of wood.

  The crowd around her groaned with obvious disappointment. She peeked through one half-opened lid. The knights had not even made contact. Pursing her lips together, she smacked her palms against the railing.

  “God’s eyes! How did they miss each other?” She turned to glare at Mattie. “How could they miss?”

  Mattie, one elbow propped on the railing, her cheek resting against her fist, shrugged. “The one on the other side swerved. As would I if a man came at me atop an angry-looking horse, brandishing a long wooden rod.”

  “’Tis not what you do when a man comes at you brandishing his other rod.” Ivy giggled at her own joke.

  Mattie feigned a shocked expression and glanced around. “Watch yer tongue. Else everyone will think you are the whore.”

  “No one on this side of the lists cares.” Leaning over the railing, she looked from one end to the other as the Norseman, Rune Hanstad, and Sir Andrew Faulks took their places for the next pass. “Lord Fucks is a coward,” she said, using the nickname Sir Andrew had earned from so many visits to the whores’ tent.”

  “Lord Faulks,” Mattie corrected, “may not be much of a fighter, but for certes he is a good lover.”

  Ivy rolled her eyes. “You favor him because you are his pet.”

  “I favor him because he pays me well and good.”

  “It matters naught whether he is a fighter or a lover. Thorin Svenson will win this tournament.”

  Mattie yawned deeply, not bothering to cover her gaping mouth. “I hope yer right. I wagered a sennight’s pay on his victory, just because you said he would win.”

  Ivy grinned. “You will do well. I am almost never wrong.”

  “A lady don’t gamble, Ivy.”

  “How else could I afford these lady’s clothes?” She indicated her rich gown. “Not on the pittance Papa allows me.” She watched the Norseman pass by as he returned to his end of the jousting field. Ivy’s favorite, Thorin Svenson, along with his dark-skinned squire, waited with another lance.

  “What makes you so sure of victory?”

  Ivy nodded down the field. “Look at him.” Mattie turned so she could see Lord Svenson at the opposite end where he spoke with the Norseman. Ivy noted her attention was drawn, instead, to
the dark-skinned man standing next to him. The moor nodded as he listened to his liege. “He has shown more balls than any knight here.”

  “Who?” Mattie’s dreamy voice revealed little awareness in their conversation, so enthralled was she by the moor.

  Ivy nudged her out of her reverie. “Svenson. He has skills I have never seen before. His only weakness,” she leaned closer and lowered her voice to a whisper, “I hear he is in love with her.”

  Coming back to her senses, Mattie scoffed. “He loves the wealth he will win, just like all the others.”

  Ivy disagreed. “More than once have I seen how he looks at her.”

  Mattie pressed her eyebrows together. “When were you so close to Lord Svenson that you could make out the expression on his face?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but Mattie nudged her arm before Ivy had a chance to speak. “Here they go.”

  Ivy leaned over the railing trying to see around the other spectators. Hanstad’s destrier kicked up a cloud of dust so thick, those in his wake could see little of the happenings on the field. Ivy closed her eyes against it, her hands once again covering her ears. This time she clearly heard the familiar sound of wood splintering against steel. She opened her eyes to see a rider-less horse trotting past. The Norseman sat atop his own mount at the other end of the field.

  Ivy punched both fists into the air and cheered with the rest of the crowd. “I told you not to bet on Lord Fucks,” she yelled to her friend.

  “This tournament will continue for days still. Don’t be countin’ my pennies just yet.” Mattie pointed to the center of the jousting field. “Look at that.”

  The dust settled gradually to reveal. Lord Fucks laying sprawled in the dirt. He had landed on his back and now squirmed and twisted as though in terrible pain. His muffled screams sounded almost comical.

  “Is he dyin’?” Mattie asked.

  The heavily-armored knight worked his way up to his knees and beat his steel-encased head against the ground. Ivy looked at Mattie who stared back with silent questions. Several of his attendants ran out onto the field. The Earl of Leyford himself came down off the dais.

  Ivy tugged at Mattie’s sleeve. “Come on.” She ducked beneath the rail.

  The two scampered over to the crowd gathered around the fallen knight. They jumped up and down in an effort to catch a glimpse over the heads of those who had gotten there before them. When that did not help, they tried squatting down to peer underneath.

  “I cannot see anything.”

  “What’s happened?” Mattie asked a man standing in front of them.

  “Looks like Hanstad knocked Faulks’ helmet ’round on his head. Now it’s wedged into his collar.” The knight’s panicked cries could be heard even over the chatter of the crowd.

  “Relax, man. Show some pride.” The earl frowned down at him. His powerful voice should have silenced the simpering knight. “I already sent for the blacksmith.” He glared at the man wallowing in the dirt. A flick of his hand, and a not too distant minstrel broke into a bawdy verse. The tactic failed to distract the growing horde. The fallen man continued to cry for help, struggling in desperation to free himself from the iron mask.

  “I’m goin’ back to bed,” Mattie said as she turned away.

  “Wait.” Ivy grabbed her arm. “Stay with me. I want to see how the blacksmith gets that thing off.”

  “I already been here longer than I wanted to. I only came out with you to see Sir Andrew joust. I ain’t had no breakfast, and I am sorely tired.” She yawned again as proof. “The sun was almost up before my last customer left this morn. If I don’t get some sleep, how will I work tonight? Mister Teddie catches me asleep in my tent rather than entertaining the men, he’ll throw me out on my arse.”

  “Papa would never put you out. You are one of his best whores. I may not have much say over my own life, but Papa listens to me when it comes to the business. I would threaten him with every weapon in my arsenal if he tried to get rid of you.”

  Mattie twisted her fingers together and glanced around at some of the spectators surrounding them. “He don’ like it that we’re friends.”

  Her grip on Mattie’s arm changed to a squeeze of affection as they walked back to the edge of the field. “He is just trying to protect my virtue.” While Ivy appreciated that her father wanted a better life for his only child than traveling from one faire or market to another with a troupe of whores, betimes his sheltering stifled her.

  She released Mattie’s arm and hugged her own arms around her waist. She relaxed the pinched expression she felt on her face, pressing her lips together and stifling a huff of frustration. “He is determined to keep me a maid until he can find me a rich husband.” She glanced around. “He is most likely soliciting candidates at this very moment.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?”

  “I don’t want a husband, much less a rich one.” She wrinkled her nose. “Besides, people always think I am just another of Papa’s whores. It matters naught that I am dressed like a rich lady instead of a strumpet.”

  Mattie stood taller. “I am not dressed like a strumpet.”

  Ivy lifted one eyebrow and surveyed her friend from head to toe.

  Mattie waved the topic away before stifling yet another yawn. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

  Ivy watched her walk away with a longing gaze. She missed her friend already. Vendors, well-knowing Mattie had coin to trade, hawked at her as she passed. When Mattie rounded the corner out of sight, she turned back to the crowd, shoulders slumped.

  It had thinned considerably. Several men gathered around the blubbering knight trying to loosen his helmet. She could see how they strained with their efforts to twist it back around. His face shield pointed directly over his right shoulder.

  She considered going back to her tent, changing out of the rich gown, and taking Drifa out for a ride. She dreaded the thought of mingling with the nobles without Mattie by her side. She always felt their rejection more prominently when she was alone.

  Her curiosity was quickly squelched. She would not stay here. She had mingled with the locals on similar occasions. Little good ever came of it. A mid-morning ride appealed more and more.

  Ivy turned at a rattling sound behind her. She jumped out of the way as a wagon, if it could be called that, wobbled towards the field. The crowd cleared a path. She noticed some of the people just opposite her pointing and laughing. Ivy looked up at the source of their mirth.

  Her heart nearly stopped beating.

  ***

  On the wagon sat the most beautiful man Ivy had ever seen. Silky black hair, longer even than her own, fell down his back, waving gently with the sway of the wagon. Deep green eyes stood out against his dark complexion, made even more so by a thin layer of soot.

  Snapping her mouth closed, she held her breath as the blacksmith’s horse plodded past. The poor mare carried her head so low to the ground Ivy wondered how she could see where she was going. What remained of her winter coat, thickly matted but free of dirt and grime, clung desperately to protruding bones. The poor thing. How can she possibly take another step, much less haul such a burden?

  The wooden contraption creaked by on wheels that turned silently, the only part of the wagon that seemed to be in decent condition. She took a cautious step back, fully expecting the thing to fall apart at her feet.

  The gorgeous driver sat ramrod straight on the wagon seat. He seemed oblivious to the crowd, whose attention had shifted from the distressed knight wallowing in the dirt and now focused on him. A man on the ground called out to him in a way she had heard men call to Mattie and some of the other women. The blacksmith kept his gaze riveted to the knight struggling on the ground. With a frown, Ivy glanced from the people around her to the man on the wagon seat.

  She watched him rumble past. When she could no longer see his face, Ivy began to walk slowly along beside the dilapidated wagon. Soon she too ignored the jeering of the crowd, her attention focused on the man who made
her heart, now that had started beating again, pound inside her chest.

  A mere tug on the reins pulled the nag to a halt. She caught her breath. That small effort caused the muscles in the man’s arms to ripple. He wore no shert. Only a leather jerkin, too-small for the bulk of his torso, with a wide band strapped over one shoulder. Soot covered his clothes, and a small residue clung to his already dark skin.

  Ivy noticed that only she stood so close to the wagon, but she tossed the thought aside without concern. She stared up at him, then caught her breath as he jumped to the ground. He stood more than a full head taller than she. The width of his shoulders doubled her own. He had his back to her as he checked the brake. Ivy closed her eyes. Her heart pounded so hard, she took several deep breaths to still its beating. He smelled of smoke and leather and horses.

  She smiled.

  She opened her eyes to find him glaring down at her with such a scowl her throat went dry. She scrambled out of his way as he walked to the rear of his cart. The continued set of his jaw and the thin line of his mouth as he moved past her convinced Ivy his anger was not directed at her.

  Who then? She scanned the crowd before sweeping her gaze back to him. The lift of his chin, the square of his shoulders, evidenced his pride. Her heart went out to him. The broken-down horse and wagon attested to his poverty. Perhaps the castle and village of Leywich had more than one blacksmith.

  His hair fell into his face when he reached over the side of the wagon, and as he stood back, he tossed it casually over his shoulder. She drew in a deep breath and very nearly moaned when she let it out. Her fingers itched to touch it, to feel its softness against her tingling skin.

  If this was what being a whore felt like, she was all in.

  She had only recently considered joining her father’s business. Mattie and the others had the freedom to do whatever they wanted. And the money to enjoy it. Everywhere they went, men fawned over them. Every night of her life Ivy had fallen asleep to the sounds of pleasure, pleasure she yearned to experience without the restraints of matrimony.