How to Train Your Knight: A Medieval Romance Novel by Stella Marie Alden

there is my brother, Timothy. We’re guildsmen.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Tradesmen? How did you manage that?”
    “Our father is the miller, but we’re sons seven and eight. He has plenty of help making grain. He had no need of us. The Lady Ann paid for us to get a real trade. One which has coin and value.”
    Timothy joined in. “But a miller is a tradesman. Ann said so.”
    “Not like us, though,” John quipped.
    “Not so. That’s not what Father says. He has coin, too.”
    Marcus shook his head and waived the young men off while they continued to argue. What kind of serfs had use of their master’s mill and lands, and still had coin? His confusion was total. How did the land yield any wealth for the lord and taxes for the king? He’d be damned if owning land meant that he’d lose his hard-won fortune. Maybe she had hidden treasure after all. Hadn’t his father suggested that?
    One by one, the rest of the unwed men of the town joined him in the large bath and introduced themselves. Most were under twenty. The older men, he was told more than once, had the advantage of a home, which attracted ladies into marriage. He grilled each on their trade and their training while an unseen fire roared and crackled somewhere out of sight.
    It was supper time when he finally eased himself out of the water. Bart helped him dry and dress. His arm, which had felt so good buoyed in the therapeutic spring water, decided to throb incessantly once in the outside air.
    He tried to put all the pieces of this odd town together. She wasn’t a witch, by God. Nay, she was a general and these were her troops. She’d taken a small town of peasants and serfs and raised them up to be tradesmen. She’d also made a small fortune in the process, yet had hardly a penny in her own coffer. It was quite remarkable. An odd twinge of something pained him, and it wasn’t his arm. Why didn’t she embrace him as well as she had her town?
    On his way to the manor, he paused by the well in the center of the square where a wee girl fought with a bucket. He bent to help her. She said bravely, “Would you eat me, Sir Beast?”
    “No, no. I don’t prefer little girls. They’re too thin.” He winked.
    Her eyes widened as he turned the crank, then carefully poured water into her carrier. “Will you be all right to carry that home? Tis a heavy load for such a wee one.”
    “Yes, sir.” She dashed across the green and into a small stone house while her water spilled over the edges of her bucket.
    He frowned, pondering the interaction. It was well and good to be The Beast of Thornhill while fighting in the crusades; quite another matter to head a town of shepherds and tradesmen. He followed his nose to the smell of roasting pork and spices wafting from the manor. How would he ever earn the hearts of this gentle folk?
    When he entered the great room, a small crowd cheered and again his purse cringed. He’d need to broach that subject with her later. Right now, all he wanted was good food, good mead, and good company. He sat at the main table in the largest of carved oak chairs.
    The sweet young ladies served root vegetables. A fine pig was roasted to perfection and spiced with saffron. He tried not to calculate the cost of the meal as he dined. Dame March poked her head out of the kitchen to see if all was well and he waved at her with a smile.
    After cups had been refilled several times with strong mead, a young man took it upon himself to pull out a stringed instrument and sing a bawdy song. After six verses, all had learned the chorus and joined in the never-ending tune.
    Suddenly, the music stopped and all eyes went to the great staircase. His lady stood at the top, wearing a gown of green wool, with bright yellow ribbons and edging. Her dark hair was pulled into a net of spun gold and she had lined her already thick lashes with black, making her appear more foreign and mysterious than the Sultan’s daughters.
    Regally, she curtsied to him