Padraig’s gaze lingered on him a moment before turning to the line of MacKenzies far back behind him. A group of men stood in the distance, hair blowing in the wind, brecans waving like banners. It was a quiet, solemn group.
“Nay, I dinna,” he said. “I came tae show ye that each man is willin’ tae lay down his arms in a show of peace. In spite of what ye think of the MacKenzies, we dunna like fightin’ any more than ye do. We want tae live in peace and the only way tae do that was tae show ye a united clan, each man willin’ tae forgive and forget. No one much liked Connell, anyway, and the men that killed Georgie were me da’s men. They were paid tae do it.”
As Jamison watched, MacKenzie warriors began laying their spears and axes and swords to the ground, putting them upon the soft sea grass. Every man was laying down the weapons he was carrying in an astonishing show of submission.
Jamison was growing increasingly amazed as he watched. He’d never seen anything like it in his life. Was he dreaming all of this? Was it really true that the MacKenzie wanted peace? Although he wanted very much to believe, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.
“Where are the men who killed Georgie?” he asked. “Unless ye turn them over tae me for punishment, I canna believe ye. What they did was murder, Padraig.”
Padraig nodded. “I know,” he said. “I had me own men round them up last night. I’ll give them tae ye. They are misfits, men me da used tae do dirty deeds the rest of us wouldna. Will ye at least consider a peace between us, Jamison? Ye’ll take over yer clan someday and I’d like tae call ye an ally. I dunna want me children tae grow up a-fearin’ ye. I want us tae know peace.”
So did Jamison. Now that he had a wife and the prayers for children in the future, he very much wanted peace, too. Of all the things he thought that would happen today, this request for harmony was not among them. Coming from a MacKenzie who wanted to change the course of his clan, to turn them from a warring one into one of goodwill, it was almost too good to believe. But believe he did. Jamison knew that Padraig’s reputation as a reasonable and wise man was a well-established one. As Kendrick had said, he was a man of honor.
So was Jamison.
“It has tae start somewhere,” he said after a moment. “If there is tae be peace, then let it start with us. I am willing.”
Padraig smiled, his expression infused with hope. “I was hoping ye would think so,” he said. “If ye’ll let me, I’ll bring the men who killed Georgie tae yer da. He can have them tae punish as he sees fit.”
“Me da will appreciate that.”
Padraig nodded, glancing back at the line of Munro warriors on the rise in the distance. Then, he cleared his throat softly.
“Me wife…,” he began, clearly fumbling for words. “She wanted me tae ask ye… we just had our first son and she wants tae know if ye’ll be his godfather. She thinks – she hopes – that it will cement a new peace between us.”
It was a great honor that Padraig was giving him and Jamison broke into a smile for the first time since they’d met. Only a man with a sincere interest in peace would make such a serious request. That small gesture, more than anything else Padraig had said, told Jamison that he was, indeed, serious about an alliance.
“It would be me privilege, Padraig,” he said. “’Tis quite an unexpected request, I must say. I’ve never had a godson.”
Padraig smiled, also. “My son will be very fortunate tae have ye,” he said. “And I hope that we can become more than allies, Jamison. Someday, I hope we can become friends.”
Jamison liked that idea. “I’m sure we can.”
With that, they went their separate ways, Padraig back to his men to bring forth those who had murdered George the Younger and Jamison back to a very anxious group of friends and warriors who were waiting for the signal to charge. When Jamison told them what Padraig had said and of the peaceful resolution to a volatile situation, there was no escaping the cheer that echoed against the bright blue sky, each man relieved and satisfied in his own way. But none more so than Jamison.
No blood would be shed today.
It was a startling conclusion to a day that Jamison was positive would bring a bloodbath. It was better than he could have ever dreamed. The flight from home, the battles in Wales, the death of George the Younger, and his entire relationship with Havilland had been a struggle revolving around one small incident between Robert Munro and Connell MacKenzie that had changed the course of Jamison’s life.
Now, Jamison was coming to understand the incident he thought had ruined his life had, in truth, changed his course for the better. Now, with great hope on the horizon, Jamison and Havilland could do nothing but look ahead and dream of the days to come.
The Red Lion and his lioness had finally found their heaven.
* THE END *
VESTIGES OF VALOR
A Medieval Romance
By
Kathryn Le Veque
Author’s Note
Welcome to Val and Vesper’s tale.
This is a true knight’s tale – a powerful knight with the world at his feet who suddenly finds himself in a terrible situation. One decision and his life seems to follow a string of terrible luck. As much as it is about the downfall of a man, it’s also about his redemption and the value of friends and family.
Since this novel is set on the very early end of my family timelines, you won’t see many crossover characters in it (most of them haven’t been born yet), but Tevin du Reims from “While Angels Slept” appears as a man in his sixties by this point. Our hero, Val de Nerra, is related to Braxton de Nerra of “The Falls of Erith” as a direct ancestor about one hundred and thirty years before Braxton is born.
A few things to note, as always –
There is a mention of a clavichordium – or clavichord – about one hundred years or more before it was really documented. Of course, there could have been a piano-type instrument this early on, but any records of it have faded. Medieval people really had a great many instruments at their disposal and a keyed instrument – like a piano – is not out of the realm of possibility this early on.
Also, the murder of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, is somewhat central to this novel. That event made for some very interesting research on my part because I discovered through my reading that the four knights who assassinated Becket weren’t actually ordered to by Henry II. They heard Henry mumble something about “will no one rid me of this priest?” or something to that effect, and they took it literally. Most historians agree that Henry never actually gave the order.
It was a very messy affair and the knights mentioned in this novel were actually the knights who carried out the deed, including a knight named Hugh de Morville (or de Moreville, depending on the source). In my book, Hugh is the “ringleader” of the knights, although some historians have pointed to another knight in the group. The locations and timeline of this are historically accurate for the most part. And – fun fact – Le Veque means “The Bishop” in French, and it was the Archbishop of York, Roger de Pont L’Évêque, whose coronation of Henry the Young King kind of threw everything into action, resulting in Becket’s death. Another fun fact – Le Veque really is my name – I didn’t steal it from Roger!
As always, I sincerely hope you enjoy this story. It’s not a huge epic like some, but it’s a lovely story about love and loss and, most of all, hope. Val de Nerra is quite the hero.
Hugs,
Kathryn
PROLOGUE
November, Year of Our Lord 1170 A.D.
Bures Castle
Normandy, France
A knight with dark red hair barely ducked in time to be missed by a flying cup.
But not just any cup. It was heavy and well-made, pewter, because it was the cup of the king. A man descended from kings, queens, and conquerors, a cup belonging to Henry Curtmantle, also known as Henry II of England. A short, stocky man of legendary stubbornness and legendary temper, as he was currently displaying.
&nbs
p; Zing!
Another cup went flying and Henry’s advisors were simply trying to stay out of the way. His personal guard, the knights who both protected and served him, were also trying to stay clear of the king’s rage but in the solar of the king in the keep of Bures Castle, there wasn’t much room to move around. It was a cluttered room, with rushes and furs on the floor, tapestries on the walls, and rather cramped for so many men. Therefore, it was much like a shooting gallery when Henry began to hurl things.
It had happened before.
“My lord, what can we do?” the Earl of East Anglia, Tevin du Reims, was the only man not trying to protect himself. He was an older man, massively built, with his long hair tied off at the nape of his neck. He controlled most of Norfolk and Suffolk. “Surely you knew that Canterbury would respond when he discovered York had crowned Young Henry. In fact, you and I discussed this very scenario. You should not be surprised.”
Henry looked at du Reims, a man he trusted almost more than anyone else. “Nay, I am not surprised,” he hissed, pounding his right fist into the palm of his hand. “But he has excommunicated L’Évêque!”
“I know.”
“This move nullifies my son’s coronation!”
Du Reims sighed faintly. “It does not matter in the grand scheme of your world,” he said calmly, hoping Henry would stop throwing those heavy cups. He’d already clipped one of his clerks and the man had a bloodied eye because of it. “Henry’s time will come and he shall be coronated before God and the church to rule in your stead. Canterbury will not have the last word on this; you know that. The best thing you can do now is simply ignore him.”
“I will not ignore him!”
“If you do not, then you will give him what he wants – a reaction. Canterbury expects you to react to this and then he will condemn you for it.”
Henry knew that, but he was so angry that it was difficult for him to focus. His once good and dear friend, Thomas Becket, had thwarted him in yet another situation in a long line of situations that had been happening since Becket had been appointed to the position as the Archbishop of Canterbury. When the former archbishop died, Henry had moved swiftly to fill the position with a man who had formerly held the position of his chancellor. He had been certain that his old friend, Thomas, would side with him on all matters, giving him control over the church. That had been the hope, anyway.
Instead, Becket had opposed Henry on nearly everything.
Henry saw his mistake now; putting Becket in charge of the church had turned the man power-hungry. He now competed against Henry for control of the entire country and Henry, a stubborn and abrasive man, raged at Becket regularly. This latest incident – the coronation of Henry’s heir by the Archbishop of York, Roger de Pont L’Évêque – had not only been condemned by Canterbury, as such a thing was historically his right, but Canterbury then went ahead and excommunicated York because of it.
The vindictiveness of a man who felt he was within his rights.
Truthfully, rage didn’t quite encompass what Henry was feeling. It was the last straw as far as he was concerned and everyone in the room could sense that. Not only were the advisors and the knights on edge, waiting for the next object to go flying, but the dogs were huddled under the table, sensing the tension in the room. But it was more than tension and more than fury.
It was the desperation of a man pushed beyond his limits.
“Damn him,” Henry finally hissed, turning away from du Reims because the man made sense and, at the moment, he didn’t want any sense. He wanted satisfaction. “He has gone too far. I will not let this go unanswered.”
Du Reims realized his advice for calm would go unheeded. “Then what would you have us do?”
Henry wasn’t so sure what, exactly, he wanted done. All he knew was that he needed an end to his problem. “Why do you ask such questions, Tevin?” he said. Then, he threw his hands up as if clawing at the sky. “It is not a question to be asked. It is an action to take on behalf of your king. For the love of God, who will rid me of this troublesome priest?”
It was a forceful shout that reverberated from the very stone walls of the solar. A few of the dogs even bolted out from beneath the table, running from the room. As du Reims endeavored to calm the irate king, the last eight words spoken by Henry seemed to reverberate most of all. Unlike most words, disappearing with the breath they were spoken upon, these words had substance.
They had merit.
To one of Henry’s knight, the words were a call to action. They hung in his mind, lingering, and as he mulled them over and over, they began to paint a picture he could clearly see. He’d served with Henry for several years and he’d seen the contention between Canterbury and Henry. He knew their history. Finally, Henry was making a plea. He needed help and he needed peace.
To Sir Hugh de Morville, those words sounded very much like a command. Glancing at the comrades standing nearest him – FitzUrse, de Tracy, le Breton… he could see their expressions. They were looking at Hugh as if they, too, had understood Henry’s plea. These men who guarded the king, who had sworn an oath to obey and to serve.
They, too, heard the command. As knights of the king, they could not ignore it.
Something had to be done.
CHAPTER ONE
“Even in a hero’s heart, discretion is the better part of valor…”
‡
December, nearing the Christmas celebration
Selborne Castle
Hampshire, England
The morning was bright, with ribbons of sunlight streaming in through the lancet windows of the small hall of Selborne Castle. Although the castle had a large great hall, a separate structure that was only used for soldiers and for major feasts, the smaller hall built into the keep was used for family meals. Even now, as he came down the narrow stone steps, built into the wall of the keep, he could see the sunlight through the hall doorway and smell the fresh bread. His mother demanded hot bread in the morning and the smell told him she was already at the table eating.
He braced himself.
Not that he didn’t love his mother. They had an excellent relationship. But she could be a bit overbearing at times. That was the kind way of putting it. Last night, she’d had too much to drink and had harped on one of the many subjects she liked to harp on, which had chased him from the room. He was wondering if she would remember how he’d fled in frustration or if the drink had erased that part of the evening for her.
He was hoping it was the latter.
Entering the chamber, he forced a smile as he kissed his mother on the head. “Good morn to you,” he said pleasantly. “How did you sleep?”
A woman with a severe wimple sat at the table, focused on her food and not her unnaturally cheery son. “Unwell.”
“Unwell? Why?”
She tore apart a small bread roll, sending steam into the air. “Because I dreamt that I had grandchildren and awoke to a dark room and a cold bed,” she said. “I have been dreaming of grandchildren a good deal as of late, Val. One would think you would take the hint.”
Sir Valor de Nerra sat across the table from his mother, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It was too early in the morning to start on that subject. Sometimes, he gave himself a headache with all of the eye rolling he did when his mother began to preach to him. One of these days, he was going to roll an eyeball right out of its socket.
“Are you going to start this so early in the morning?” he asked, his smile leaving him. “I have only just walked into the room. You could at least bid me a good morning and tell me that you love me. But instead, all I hear is that you have no grandchildren and a cold bed. The cold bed is your fault for not remarrying.”
His mother flicked her eyes up to him, eyes the same color as his. “But the lack of grandchildren is your fault.”
Val took his own hot bread roll and pulled it open. “I will make a bargain with you. If you get married, then I will, too.”
His mother cast him an expressio
n that suggested she didn’t like that bargain at all. “I am too set in my ways, Val. My heart is not strong, nor is my health. It would be foolish to remarry.”
“My heart is strong and my health is fine, but I am too young to marry. It would be foolish for me to do it, too.”
“You have seen thirty-four years,” his mother pointed out. “If you do not marry soon, you will be an old spinster and no woman will want an old husband like you. For shame!”
Val fought off a grin. “Men cannot be spinsters.”
“They can if I say they can!”
He started to laugh. “Can we please defer this until after I eat? You are going to give me a sour stomach if you keep hen-pecking me.”
Lady Margaretha Byington de Nerra eyed her son most unhappily. Such a beautiful, beautiful boy who had turned into a man that was the most eligible bachelor in all of England. At least, in her opinion he was. Val was tall, muscular, and broad, with a head of dark, wavy hair and brilliant green eyes. He was excruciatingly handsome, the subject of many a maiden’s affection, and he soaked it up but never seemed to grow serious about any of it.
And he was successful… Sweet Mary, so successful! Having served the king for many years in France, her son had come home two years ago with a royal appointment. Itinerant Justice of Hampshire he was called, and Margaretha could not have been more proud of him. Prestige and wealth had been given to him by the royal hand.
But Margaretha soon began to realize that the royal appointment was not an easy thing, at least the way Val carried out his duties. Never one to delegate tasks, he was in the middle of whatever was happening that fell under his jurisdiction – chasing down outlaws, holding judgment over them, and even executing them. Val took his duties very seriously and, with that diligence, his reputation in the area grew.
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume II Page 94
