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Your master has the field for today, but his name, whatever it might be, is without honour.

Olivier the squire worships the Black Knight and takes a fierce joy in his prowess as he defends a bridge against all comers. Olivier only wishes that his master loved him as much in return instead of treating him as a servant and occasional plaything.

Then word comes that the King desires to cross the bridge. With an army approaching, a bright eyed archer enticing Olivier to desert and the first cracks beginning to show in the Black Knight's gruff demeanour, Olivier is left wondering if his honour is worth more than a chance for happiness.

Word Count:	25,900
Cover Artist:	Meredith Russell
Editor:	Ericka Orrick
Genre:	Historical Fantasy, MM Romance

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Reviews

The Blogger Girls - "....I really liked this little story.  At first, I wasn’t expecting it to be so passionate for such a quick read.  But this author has a way of making the characters feels so real, even the foes, to where I can’t help getting attached to them all.

There was A LOT of medieval terminology and I did find myself using my Kindle dictionary numerous times, but I felt like I actually learned something here.  I don’t recall ever reading anything similar to this and it definitely stands out in it’s own way.  I loved the competition bits once I figured out what was going on and how it all worked.

I don’t want to spoil how the story goes, but it totally left me with a huge small on my face.  Very sweet and I loved the few little twists at the end.  I kinda didn’t want it to end!!...." 

Multitaskingmommas Book Reviews - 3.5/4 - "....This is a short story and was a fast read but it was filled with the right action, the right bits of romance and erotica. It is also a read that allows us to catch a glimpse into the illogical sense of chivalry that ruled the day and so was frustrating enough to give us a bit of drama.  Elin Gregory successfully tells this story of romance and chivalry involving two men whose status in life and court made love and romancing almost impossible in these times...."

MM Good Book Reviews - 3.5/5 - "....This isn’t a story that is roses and sweet words, in fact you’d be lucky to get a grunt in acknowledgement to the softer feelings like love, because the time this is set in was heavily governed by the Church. But that doesn’t mean that there wasn’t a way for both Olivier and Maheris to get their feelings across, and they do a damn good job of it too. I have to hope that we will get a follow up story for Hywel, because that cheeky archer deserves some happiness as well.

So if you love knights, squires, fighting for honour, a love that’s hard to admit, great characters and a touch of rough love, then you will thoroughly enjoy this story...."

Prism Book Alliance - 4/5 - "....I loved every word of this story. The subject and style of the writing created an absorbing and fascinating story. It was something completely different to what I’ve read before and all along I felt very much like a voyeur, looking in from the outside...." 

Sinfully Sexy Book Reviews - 4/5 - "....Elin has created a great medieval romp with an M/M romance which works perfectly! Full of atmosphere and tension between not only the MCs and their romantic inclinations, but also the challenge and honour facing The Black Knight and the King’s army. I wanted to go out, buy a toy sword and knight’s costume and immediately start my own medieval epic...." 

Scattered Thoughts and Rougue Words - 4.75/5 - "....A Taste of Copper is a small bit of literary perfection.  It is a historical slice of two mens lives that happens to contain far more emotion and depth than is first seen at first read of the page.  I can see this will be one of my favorite historical reads of the year.  If you are a lover of historical stories and romance, put A Taste of Copper on your must read list today...." 

Gay List Book Reviews -  "....If you like myths of armored knights engaging in sword fights and jousting. If you enjoy tales of an honor that demands everything, for to be forsworn is worse than death. If you are looking for a sexy novella full of stubborn men with high pain tolerances who do everything with a passionate intensity, (maybe) unrequited love, and really hot archers with attitude and snark, this is the story for you...."

Crystal's Many Reviewers - 5/5 - "....This is a simple yet powerful novella about honor, love and trust. In a time where knights and Kings ruled the land and squires were left to tend to their needs. I enjoyed how we got a glimpse of the jousting but we aren’t bogged down with all the old names and phrases. I love how that honor wasn’t just for the Knight but for the squire as well. The connection between all the characters was very well done.  And the ending, very nicely played...."

1st Chapter

Olivier’s gelding shuddered at the scent of blood, backing and tossing his head. Olivier held the nervous beast in and kept his gaze fixed on his master. Fifty yards away, two stallions strained, shoulder to shoulder and wreathed in steam, as their riders hacked at each other. Swords grated off armour, clanged blade to blade. Olivier’s master, Sir Maheris Schade, his plumes a lustrous black against the frosty ground, rose in his stirrups to hammer another blow against the shield of his red-armoured challenger. Olivier’s heart beat rapidly as he threw back his head and bellowed the exultant “Tiel haut” of the huntsman offering the quarry’s heart to his hounds.

The other squire, a pretty youth in his early teens, shouted in distress and denial. For all his expensive silks and the exquisite pale grey jennet he bestrode, Olivier still pitied him. The red knight was strong, his chestnut stallion eager, but neither could withstand the experienced ferocity of Olivier’s black-clad master and his mount. Olivier laughed. More fool the red knight. If only he had waited until Maheris had broken his fast, then Maheris might be less inclined to kill him.

Beyond the knights lay the cause of contention. By an apple tree bowing under the weight of captured shields stood a wooden bridge spanning a fast-flowing river. Olivier felt a rush of pride as he remembered Sir Maheris bending his knee on the gouged planks of the bridge to vow that none should pass unless they beat him in fair combat.

Half a dozen knights had tried and failed. The red knight would fare no better. Olivier saw his master’s balance change, the force of his blows redouble. The black stallion darted his head and bit at the foreleg of the chestnut. The red stallion stumbled. The red knight lurched in his saddle, then, to Olivier’s shock, slammed his shield against the black stallion’s head. It rang against the stallion’s chamfron rather than against flesh, but the horse squealed in fury.

“A foul blow.” Furious, Olivier laid hand to hilt, ready to spur his gelding forwards. Olivier’s master brought his sword down, sheering off the red plume and driving the red knight’s head to the side. It had been a killing blow, only diverted by the pitching of the red stallion. Sir Maheris struck again—a punch of sword hilt to visor, knocking it askew. The red knight wrenched at his bridle, and his mount reared, then whirled and fled. The squire spurred his grey in pursuit, sending one accusing glare back at Olivier.

Sir Maheris settled in his saddle and his destrier stilled. The huge beast might have been a statue carved from jet had it not been for the whorls of sweat on his coat, the puff of his breath and the drip of blood from the whiskers on his chin.

Olivier urged his unwilling mount to the stallion’s shoulder.

“A mighty blow, sir,” he crowed. “And much deserved. Is Ira hurt?”

Both stallion and rider snorted at the suggestion, but Maheris’s voice, muffled slightly by his closed visor, was filled with vicious satisfaction.

“Bring me that bastard’s shield and send him about his business.”

“With a good will, sir,” Olivier said.

The red stallion had not gone far. It stood, head hanging, with one forehoof held quivering above the frosty grass. Squire and knight stood beside it, the urgent mutter of their voices reaching Olivier as he cantered towards them.

“Do you yield?” Olivier demanded. The other squire wrenched at his master’s visor and didn’t answer, so Olivier shouted again. “Do you yield? Or do you wish some time to repair your armour and treat your injuries before resuming?”

With a shriek of metal, the visor came free, and the knight turned a bloodied face towards him. “Your master struck me with his fist.” He spat blood. “Deiter, a kerchief.” He grabbed the cloth from the squire’s hand and scrubbed at his eyes.

“Nevertheless, do you yield?”

“Sir”—Deiter had stooped to test the stallion’s forelimb again—“the tendon is swelling. He will not be able to run.”

“Then I must withdraw.” The red knight began to undo the straps of his shield with sharp, angry tugs.

“Let me, sir,” Deiter whispered, tears standing in his eyes as he undid the buckles. He glanced up at Olivier, his jaw set. “Your master has the field for today, but his name, whatever it might be, is without honour.”

Olivier controlled his temper and made himself laugh instead of cursing. “Your master”—he let the sneer in his voice ring loudly enough for the red knight to hear—“deliberately attacked my master’s horse. How honourable is that?”

Deiter reddened, for he knew it had indeed been a foul blow. Once the shield was free, he marched across the frosty grass to face Olivier, but instead of passing the shield over, he threw it to the ground, making the gelding shy. “Be damned to you,” he muttered and returned to his master.

The beaten knight, now riding the squire’s grey while the squire led the limping stallion, had reached the cover of the trees before Olivier retrieved the shield and wiped the melting frost from the golden heron. Sir Jörg Reihershof. An unworthy opponent for Olivier’s master despite what the squire had said.

Olivier trotted back to the old apple tree by the bridge and hung the shield alongside the others before riding to join his master.

The gelding’s hooves rang on the planks of the bridge, and Olivier looked about himself with satisfaction. Downstream on a gentle rise surrounded by fields and orchards was a village. There the river widened and grew boggy with a shifting, unstable bed. Upstream was an impassable gorge. This bridge was the only crossing for miles, and they held it against all comers. It was a sacred trust, and Olivier was proud to be squire to a knight so honoured. More than proud, if truth be told.

“Boy!” The impatient bellow jolted Olivier out of his reverie, and he kicked the gelding on.

Amidst a chaos of abandoned equipment stood their pavilion and the shelter Olivier had put up for the horses. Their encampment was as neat as Olivier could make it, as befitted his master. The rest he had tidied as far as he was able, dragging aside the broken carts, salvaging what he could use, and fuelling their fire with the rest.

“Sir,” he called as he approached. “Reihershof withdrew. His mount is injured.”

“So I saw.” Once Olivier had dismounted, Sir Maheris thrust the stallion’s reins into his hand. “See to Ira, then attend me. I will require wine and hot water if you can achieve it. Food, too.” He patted the neck of the stallion and turned away. The big horse jibbed at Olivier’s hand on the reins and snorted, making the gelding flinch to the end of his reins. Pulled between the two horses, Olivier scowled at his master’s armoured back.

“A word of thanks would not go amiss,” he murmured, careful to pitch his voice so Maheris wouldn’t hear.

Ira was still on edge. It took a full dozen circuits of the camp before the big horse calmed enough for Olivier to treat the worst of the bites on his shoulders. When he was done, Olivier threw a blanket over him and tethered him securely. His own gelding took little care. With a ragged winter coat that refused to take a gloss despite Olivier’s grooming, he looked what he was—a carthorse who had moved up in the world. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. Olivier saw to his mount’s comfort and left both horses nuzzling a pile of beans. It was not his job to groom horses, to fetch and carry foodstuffs, or to build fires, but the last of the servants had run off days ago, and Olivier managed as best he could. Hot water he could achieve, and wine, but he had to admit his cooking left much to be desired. Olivier wished he could do better. Sir Maheris Schade was the best knight Olivier had ever seen, unstoppable in the lists and deadly in battle. But for now Olivier did what he could with as much grace and devotion as he could manage.



* * * * *



Laden with a steaming bucket in one hand and a platter bearing bread, sausage and a jug of wine in the other, Olivier shouldered aside the entrance flap to enter the pavilion. Sir Maheris was still armoured but had removed his helmet and pushed back his coif. His short cap of black hair had spiked up with sweat, and deep lines bracketed his full lips. Maheris had fierce black eyes beneath frowning brows, but Olivier had seen his scowl ease into a gentle smile when he slept. Olivier wondered what dream could put that soft vulnerability on Maheris’s face and prayed one day to see such a smile turned towards him.

But now Sir Maheris was glowering. “You were delayed? Perhaps the horses ran off? Undo these buckles.”

“Sir?” Olivier put his burdens down and hurried to his side. “Did I fasten them too tightly? Your pardon, sir, I…”

Maheris grunted and raised his left hand, ungauntleted now, to show it bright with blood. “A lucky stroke,” he said. “Reihershof’s point caught a chink in my brassard.”

Olivier’s heart thumped fast as he assisted Maheris. Blood was still dripping, the sharp scent of it mingling with the stench of iron and old sweat from the padded doublet. He set the pieces of armour aside to clean later and eased the doublet over Maheris’s head. The left sleeve of it weighed heavy with blood, and the shirt beneath was sodden. Olivier bit his lip as he eased the clotted fabric away and saw the bright trickle that followed.

“That will do,” Maheris said once he was bare to the waist. His heavy shoulders and chest gleamed with sweat, his skin goosefleshing in the chill air, but he waved Olivier away when he brought Maheris a towel. “Time for that when the wound is sealed,” he said as he took a seat. “You know what to do.”

The wound in his bicep gaped like a hot, wet mouth.

“Is it clean?” Maheris demanded. “Get on with it, boy.”

Olivier knelt at his master’s side and used a little of the hot water and a clean rag to clean around the gash. More blood ran as he pinched the flesh to search the wound, but it had to be done. There—almost invisible against the flesh—a shred of thread from the torn shirt. Such a thing caused bad humours in a wound, caused it to stink and rot, could cause a limb to blacken, a man to die. Olivier took a silver needle and silk thread. He seared the needle in flame and soaked the thread in spirit. Even in the dimness of the pavilion, the tip of the needle shone bright against the exposed meat of Maheris’s arm. Olivier teased out the shred of fabric, wincing on Maheris’s behalf as the muscle tensed, then closed the wound with three even stitches.

Maheris breathed deeply through his nose, his right hand clenching on the arm of his chair until Olivier was sure the wood would crack, but he made no sound at the bite of the needle. Olivier pushed his hair back from his cheek with his wrist, grimacing at the scent of blood on his hands. He could taste the coppery tang of it mingling with the far more pleasant smell of Sir Maheris’s sweat.

“Done, sir,” he whispered once the final stitch had been tied off, the bandage secured. Maheris was still breathing sharply, his broad chest lifting, belly hollowing with each breath. Olivier eyed him, admiring the smooth lines of his collarbones, the swell of muscle shaded by dark hair, the vulnerable pink of his nipples, but Olivier’s wistful lust was augmented by a little flutter of apprehension. The fight had been won, but only by Reihershof’s withdrawal; he hadn’t been beaten into surrender. The frustration of this was often more than Maheris could bear. At times his temper, often seething, would boil over into rage. He would reject Olivier’s care with cuffs and curses, and send him fleeing. But sometimes his mood demanded another form of release. The unpredictability that brought him glory on the battlefield made him a hard taskmaster. Maheris’s expression gave Olivier no clues, and his apprehension grew as he wavered between getting out of reach and leaning close.

Maheris shifted his left arm, glancing down at the bandaged wound, testing the range of movement, then closed both fists, white-knuckled, on the arms of his chair. Olivier let out a shaky sigh, part relief and part regret, and sat back on his heels. He rolled the scraps of linen bandage and tucked them back into their box, stowed the needle and thread, then reached for the bowl of bloodied water.

Maheris’s sudden movement made him flinch, the bowl rocking, but the big hand seized his shoulder. “God’s teeth,” Maheris groaned, and Olivier’s apprehension turned to excitement.

Maheris leaned back in his chair, spreading his armoured thighs, and guided Olivier between them. Heart hammering, Olivier stooped to mouth the thick, dark hair thatching Maheris’s chest. He didn’t need to see to untie the points of Maheris’s hose and open the front of his braies.

“Get on with it,” Maheris ordered, his voice thick, and Olivier drew the cloth away to free the rigid member. Sometimes Maheris preferred him to take his time, to flirt and tease, but today the mastering hand fastened on his hair, pushing his head down. Olivier opened his mouth and breathed in the strong musk of sweat, iron, leather and arousal, then took the crown between his lips, pushing back the thick softness of skin to get to the heat within. He ran his tongue under the ridge, hollowed his cheeks in a long, slow suck and heard Maheris stifle a groan.

These moments when they were alone and Olivier could cherish his master were his most prized. He might have wished Maheris’s hand caressed rather than just guiding his head, but even this closeness was better than nothing. His heart pounded at the slickness of the hot shaft filling his mouth. His loins ached, swelling against the firm fabric of his clothing.

“Yes, like so!” Maheris pressed on the back of his head, the grasp on his hair tightening to the point of pain. Olivier took him in fully and growled with pleasure at Maheris’s exultant shout. When Maheris was in this mood, he never lasted long. Olivier was tempted to try and make it last, for his own pleasure as well as for his master’s, but when he drew away, hand working slowly, tongue circling, Maheris growled and jerked at his hair again. Olivier sighed and went back to work, gauging his moment. Maheris’s breath harshened, his hips jerked. Sure enough, Olivier only had to let his master feel the edge of his teeth for Maheris to rip out a curse and fall back in his chair. Olivier drew back to let the salty flood spurt across his tongue, washing away the taste of copper. He gulped it down, moaning with pleasure at the sharp bitterness of it, then kissed the softening member clean.

Maheris let out a gusty breath as his grip on Olivier’s hair loosened. “Good,” he murmured. “Good lad. Now—wine.”

Olivier rocked back on his heels to reach the table. His nerves were still jangling with desire, and his hands shook as he filled Maheris’s silver cup. The wine was thin and sour, close to the lees of the only cask Olivier had been able to find, but still safer to drink than the local water.


Maheris took the cup from him and sipped, then leaned his head against the high, carved back of the chair. Their eyes met and there—there—was what Olivier had been waiting for. Maheris’s expression was unreadable, but just for a moment, Olivier thought those hard black eyes warmed and softened before they were veiled by long lashes. Olivier’s heart swelled with joy. At moments like this, he could almost believe he was loved, his devotion was appreciated, that his master might draw him close and whisper his name before their lips met in a soft kiss. That one day, his master might touch him as he longed to be touched.