The Knight’s Courtship

ISBN: 9781426807541

Harlequin Historical #812
August 2006
Reissued in eBook format October 2007

She would write poems about love, not become captive to it!

Quiet and studious, Lady Ivy Rutherford is content merely to observe the intrigues and scandals of Queen Eleanor’s glittering court. But then the Queen insists that Ivy would be the ideal mentor for notorious heartbreaker Roger Stancliff. Her duty? To transform the errant knave into a courtly knight. A simple task for such a proper lady!

But in the sultry castle grounds just who is educating whom? Chaste, courtly love seems much less appealing than losing herself in the passion of Roger’s arms…


“Another masterfully written novel… Joanne Rock is one of my favorite historical authors.” — Donna Zapf, Cataromance

“Joanne Rock’s historicals will sweep you away to a world so filled with passion and pageantry that you’ll never want to leave.” — Cat Cody, Romance Junkies

“Witty and provocative..loaded with plot twists and engaging characters, The Knight’s Courtship is a Medieval adventure you won’t want to miss.” — Sandra Brill, Romance Reviews Today


Poitiers, France
Spring 1174

…married for money, bred for heirs,
She wept in shadow, burdened by cares.

Ivy Rutherford read her new poem aloud, hoping the freshly penned words would touch the hearts of the jaded court ladies who filled Queen Eleanor’s garden bower. She took a calming breath before continuing her recitation.

Til a Knight arrived, his honor well-proved,
Who spied her tears and his soul was moved.
Love’s keen lance soon pierced her heart—

Lady Gertrude snorted as she patted the head of her obnoxious little lap dog. “I’ll bet that’s not all love’s lance pierced.”

Feminine twitters rippled among Eleanor’s courtly crowd, gathered in the shade of the vine-covered wooden arbor for their afternoon entertainment.

Ivy stared down at the costly parchment, the words she had labored over crumpling slightly with her tightened grip as laughter erupted from the queen’s cronies. Eager to put the awkward moments of reading her new creation behind her, she continued as soon as the noise abated.

“And Venus revealed her comely art—

More laughter.

“Enough!” Marie, Comtesse de Champagne, rose from her bench amid the flowering foxgloves, silencing the assembly immediately with one censuring frown. Tall and elegant, Marie wrote poetry herself and perhaps understood the difficulty of creative endeavors more than her peers. “Ivy has been gracious enough to amuse us this afternoon. We can at least extend her a courteous audience.”

Although she appreciated the Comtesse’ efforts, Ivy sensed from her brief time at court that the queen’s ladies would swarm like vultures around any creature weak enough to require another’s defense. Their unspoken scorn reverberated in her ears as clearly as the chirp of the lone meadowlark fluttering about the bower’s eaves. How dare she, a mere merchant’s daughter, give herself noble airs?

From the front row, stout and stalwart Lady Gertrude appealed to the queen. Latticework shadows sent ominous flickers across Gertrude’s sullen features as her dog growled a cranky tune. “Since when have any of us in Your Majesty’s illustrious court had to feign enjoyment of inferior art?”

Ivy flinched at the cruelty— and accuracy— of the jab, though she regretted her vulnerability to the criticism at the same time. Her poems meant the world to her. Life at Queen Eleanor’s court gave Ivy the chance to indulge the most important thing in her life.

Her art.

Lifting a censorious brow in Gertrude’s direction, the queen peered down her nose. “Do not attempt to flatter me. There is no excuse for coarse manners at my court.”

Ivy ducked to hide her smile. Not that she cared so much about Gertrude being put in her place, but because Ivy loved to see the queen in action. Few could match wits with Eleanor of Aquitaine.

The woman embodied everything Ivy longed to be— independent, confident, talented. Besides, at fifty-two years old and having served half that time as queen of one realm or another, Eleanor had never shed a tear in public, even when her husband was rumored to have conducted a flagrant affair under her nose. Ivy braved a glance at her sovereign, who was seated in the bower’s only chair in the midst of her ladies. All of Europe stood in awe of her audacity in starting her own royal court in her family seat of Poitou on the wrong side of the English Channel. She astonished the western world by defying her adulterous husband, an English king no less.

“I apologize, Your Majesty.” Gertrude bowed her head in deference to the queen.

Other women who had laughed at Ivy’s poem now dipped their heads too, though Ivy suspected their motives had more to do with securing the queen’s good graces than actual remorse. Knowing that didn’t squelch a brief sense of victory.

“And Gertrude, you are wrong to say Ivy’s art is inferior.” Queen Eleanor turned indulgent eyes toward her newest troubadour.

Thank heaven the queen appreciated her efforts. As long as Ivy pleased the monarch, her position at court remained secure. Ivy could not help the fanciful dream she had of rising in station one day thanks to her art. A foolish notion, no doubt.

“She has written poetry to make my spirit soar,” Eleanor continued, “and she will do so again.”

Ivy almost burst with pride. The queen did not praise idly.

“Her failing today resulted, not from inferior art,” the queen continued, “but from lack of life experience in regard to the nature of love.”

No one dared laugh, yet Ivy imagined they wanted to. Her utter lack of knowledge about men had been brought to her attention on several occasions since she had joined the court a fortnight ago.

The queen swept the room with a shrewd and level glare. “I chose to bring Ivy to Poitiers because she is a brilliant thinker. While most of you belong to this court by chance of birth, Ivy is here because she has made something fine and noble of herself in spite of her heritage tainted by her noble mother’s marriage to a commoner.”

The other women looked down at their colorful, silk-covered laps while the soft hum of honeybees drifted on the breeze.

Mon Dieu. The ladies-in-waiting would definitely resent the merchant’s daughter now. But the queen’s brief words had given Ivy more confidence in her art than her father had bothered to bestow upon her in a lifetime, and for that, Ivy would be forever grateful.

Perched on a stool only slightly lower than the queen’s chair, Comtesse Marie nodded, clearly approving of her mother’s speech.

“How might we assist Ivy in her love poetry, Mother?” Marie interjected after an appropriate silence. “You yourself have noted it is not as strong as some of her other pieces. Must we marry off young Ivy to give her some notion of love?”

The queen laughed. “I think most of us can attest to the fact that marriage does not teach a woman about love.”


From Ivy’s observation of her parents’ disastrous marriage, she knew the Church-sanctioned union of man and woman did little to foster tender feelings between them. Yet she nurtured a secret hope that one day she would experience the rare gift of true love— the kind troubadours described in their ballads. The kind that made Ivy’s wishful heart sing like the bird fluttering overhead.

Marie winked in Ivy’s direction, then turned back to the queen. “Yes, but once she is married, other men can woo her openly without the constraint of her maidenly status.”

Several women nodded their agreement.

They could not be serious.

Unrealistic as her dreams might be, Ivy wanted no part of a loveless marriage. Not even for her art’s sake would she suffer a husband who cared naught for her. She’d sooner endure a spinster’s fate than sacrifice her ideals of romantic love.

“Perhaps…” Eleanor tilted her silver-threaded head to one side. “Perhaps Ivy might join our Court of Love proceedings for the next moon or two.”

A low murmur of surprise— or was it disapproval?— rumbled through the group. Eleanor’s courts of love were entertaining gatherings for the diverse travelers and guests that populated Poitiers at any given time of the year, but during the spring season most especially. Lovers brought their romantic problems before the judgement of the ladies at court, a practice that provided amusement as well as enlightenment since the assemblies provided a forum for discussing the ideals of romantic love that regional troubadours struggled to express to the world in their beloved art form.

Marie smiled. “What a wonderful idea, Mother. She could find no better place to learn about passion— outside an ardent man’s arms, that is.”

Lady Gertrude spluttered her indignation, her chubby fingers tightening around her scrawny little dog’s head while the animal yelped. “But you said yourself the girl knows nothing of love. How would she contribute to our discussions?”

“She does not have to contribute, she will merely observe.” Eleanor cast a knowing glance toward Ivy. “Our Ivy likes playing the quiet role of spectator, do you not, my dear?”

In this crowd of worldly women determined to make Ivy feel inferior? Without question. She cringed whenever her new troubadour position forced her to read her labors of love aloud. Today, she was stuck in front of everyone, a defenseless target for their scrutiny.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then it is settled,” the queen announced, smiling for the first time since she had taken her seat among the greenery and budding flowers. Her beauty, only slightly faded with age, sparkled anew with her pleasure. “We meet tomorrow morning to review our next case. Who is it to be, Marie?”

Ivy fought the urge to clap her hands together in delight. The Court of Love enjoyed notoriety across the land, and now she would witness it first hand. What wonderful fodder for her poetry.

“Roger Stancliff, my lady, newly arrived from England.”

A collective squeal arose from the younger women of the party.

“Come to seduce the ladies of the court and drink the gentleman under the trestle tables, I suppose?” The queen hissed the question, ignoring the rising tide of whispers and giggles among her ladies.

Marie laughed merrily, her joyous spirit a colorful contrast to her mother’s more sparse wit.

“His vices render him a challenging test of our powers, Your Majesty. If the Court of Love can turn Roger Stancliff into a courteous chevalier, then our skills will become as legendary as Lord Stancliff’s reputation.”

Ivy gasped, shocked the Comtesse would be willing to support such a risky endeavor when the troubadours all worked diligently to infuse the notion of courtly love with the idea of unselfish devotion and admiration in its purest form. Roger Stancliff was obviously a craven scoundrel— the antithesis of the romantic ideals Ivy held dear.

The queen narrowed her gaze on her daughter. “Have you fallen prey to Stancliff’s charm?”

To Ivy’s utter amazement, sophisticated, worldly Marie de Champagne actually blushed.

“Of course not.” With an airy gesture, the queen’s first-born waved away the matter. “My heart lies elsewhere.”

“I am not concerned where your heart lies, my dear, only your person.”

The Comtesse stiffened. She followed the progress of a hummingbird with her gaze as she finally responded, “Then you may ease your mind, Your Majesty. I only wish to test our abilities by transforming one of Christendom’s most heralded lovers.”

The queen grumbled, but did not argue. She dismissed the royal company, freeing her ladies to walk about the gardens or retire indoors.

Ivy lingered, as did a few others. Gathering her parchment, she overheard Marie’s words of reassurance to her queen. “He is here to change his ways, my lady Mother.”

Lady Gertrude coddled her ill-bred pet as she brushed past Ivy, muttering under her breath. “He is more likely here to change mistresses.”

Long after the other ladies had departed the queen’s bower, a delicate young woman remained. Tall and slender, and graced with pale creamy skin that glowed with good health, she sat alone.

Roger Stancliff counted his blessings as he studied her.

Her pale blonde hair escaped its circlet in the slight spring breeze. A white kirtle embroidered with ivy made her seem a part of her surroundings, at one with the encroaching greenery. The angelic profile drew him as much as her solitude.

The fact that she sat unaccompanied told him several things. Either she was not well-connected at court or she was somewhat of a rebel. Both scenarios suited his purpose, for he needed to befriend someone at Eleanor’s elegant court to feed him the information he sought.


The word had an awkward ring. A year ago he would have seduced the girl in question.

Now, thanks to the king’s orders that Roger cultivate a more sedate reputation in order to be accepted at Eleanor’s court, Roger would have to try to befriend this innocent.

Damn Henry.

The king had been adamant, however. Roger wouldn’t inherit the family holdings if he didn’t comply with the royal spying assignment to investigate the possibility of sedition at Poitiers beneath the pretense of courtly love, refinement, and heightened attention to manners. The Stancliff lands would go to their neighbor, William Montcalm, if Roger failed in this. Montcalm had a strong claim to them, after all. And his family’s thirst to wreak vengeance on Roger seemed insatiable.

Calling Roger from his somber thoughts, the delicate blonde arched like a sleepy cat and slumped against the garden bench.

Now or never.

The king’s order gave him a chance to prove his worth. To make something more of himself than the dissolute scoundrel the world believed him to be ever since his betrothed died.

He stepped closer, considering how best to approach a befriending. The girl’s head tipped back in abandon to the day. Eyes closed, a peaceful smile playing about her lips, she looked as if she couldn’t be more content.


Why couldn’t his first official befriending involve a less appealing female? From her full pink lips to her gently upturned nose, this young woman looked like a Dionysian reveler, caught up in the magic of a lovely afternoon, drunk on nature and life.

Taking a deep breath, he committed himself to the cause. “Is this bower your own, lady? Or might another rest here, too?”

Heavy dark lashes fluttered open. Startlingly green eyes peered back at him, perfectly matching the white kirtle’s intricate vine pattern.

She said nothing. Only stared, unblinking.

“My lady?” He prompted, amused. He hadn’t struck anyone speechless in more years than he could count.

“I am Ivy, my lord” she responded distractedly, her color heightening as she straightened herself.

Like the gown, Roger noted. “May I join you?”

He did not offer his name, preferring to delay a revelation which could send this fair creature running.

“Please do.” She sounded as if she just woke up. The smokiness in her voice sent a jolt of awareness through him.

He sat across from her, stretching his legs just enough to make his presence known, but not enough to actually brush against her.

Befriending only…