Noble Line of de Nerra Complete Set: A Medieval Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Teodora couldn’t fault the man for being honest about his reasons for remaining with the king. “And now you have come to Rockingham Castle,” she said quietly. “When shall you return to London and to your garden?”

  Chadwick looked up at the big walls of Rockingham looming head. “As soon as Barric is well,” he said. “Soon, I hope.”

  Teodora was about to reply, but a thunder of hooves behind her caught her attention and she turned to see de Lara riding up.

  “My lady,” he addressed her as he bailed from his horse. “Come back to your palfrey now. We should be arriving soon and it would not do for you to walk through the gates. As a countess, you shall ride.”

  Teodora cast Chadwick a long, and rather unhappy, glance and he lifted his eyebrows in sympathetic response. Having no choice in the matter, Teodora allowed de Lara to take her back down the column where her little palfrey was being led by a soldier. De Lara lifted her up onto the little beast and positioned it, once again, beneath the oiled tarp canopy. Mounting his warhorse once more, he remained riding next to her escort the rest of the way to Rockingham Castle.

  Once Teodora passed through those great wood and iron gates, a feeling of foreboding swept her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but looking up at those sandstone walls made her think that no matter how submissive she needed to be, nor how obedient, terrible things were going to happen to her, concealed by those enormous walls and hidden away where no one could help her.

  Protect her.

  She suspected the real adventure of her life was still to come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Blackthorn Forest

  “If you hold a sword like that, you are going to get your fingers chopped off.”

  Cullen was pointing to a young man holding tightly to a wooden sword. He was standing with a group of other young people, all of them holding some kind of wooden sword that they had made or, at the very least, a substantial stick that represented a sword. The sun had just come out from a morning of rain and the occupants of Owen the Black’s village were taking full advantage of the sunshine.

  It was time for a lesson from the man they’d come to know as Monty – the mountain.

  In the outlaw settlement, everyone had to prove his or her worth. There was no dead weight, so to speak, so everyone had a function. They had smiths, tanners, and wheelwrights. They even had a cooper, who had made the barrels with which to hold their ill-gotten gains, among other things. In the middle of Blackthorn Forest, an entire, productive village existed.

  Very early on, Cullen had seen that everyone at the village had a function, and since he was planning on staying, he offered up his skills. Since he was very good at engineering and mathematics, he designed and helped dig a drainage system for waste water and sewage, which kept the village clean of such things. He also offered himself up as a decorated warrior to Owen, who happily accepted. Immediately, he was put in charge of the fighting men of Owen’s group, some fifty of them, as well as young men who wanted to learn to fight.

  It hadn’t been particularly easy, however. Big Jerald, Owen’s right-hand man, had been Owen’s captain back at Geddington in the days when Owen had a big army and seasoned men serving him. When Owen had fled King John’s wrath, Jerald had been the only knight to accompany his lord into exile, so the introduction of Cullen had been somewhat difficult for the old man.

  Unfortunately, he was old, and he had served under King Henry as well as under Owen’s father during the last crusade. The Latin-quoting knight was still something of a threat to Jerald’s position amongst the outlaws, but he and Cullen were trying to work through things so they could find a happy medium. There was no open hostility between them, but it was clear that Jerald was leery of the younger knight’s presence. Cullen was trying very hard not to show the man up, but given that he was old and rather slow at times, it was difficult.

  Still, he was trying.

  Like now. They were having a training lesson with some of the younger, eager men – and even women – and as Cullen instructed, Jerald stood on the side and simply watched. He never tried to interject or usurp what Cullen was trying to do, but the expression on his face as he watched was rather dubious. He’d been like that every time Cullen held a lesson like this, at least five times in the past four weeks, and as Cullen instructed his class on how to not get their fingers chopped off in battle, an idea began to occur to him.

  “Remember what I told you?” he reminded the group. “Ex propriis pugna. Who remembers what he means?”

  A few voices shouted out. “The proper fight!”

  Cullen nodded. “The proper fight, indeed.” He began to wave his hands at them. “Now, everyone back away. Form a circle around me. I will demonstrate what I mean about the proper position of your hand on a hilt. Back away, now.”

  Everyone was moving back and forming the circle that Cullen had instructed them to make. As everyone backed off, Cullen pushed through them and headed straight for Jerald.

  “Jerald has fought in many battles for as long as I have been alive,” he said loudly for all to hear. “He has watched these lessons I have been giving you when I know he has much to say on the matter. Jerald, will you help me demonstrate the proper grip on the hilt of a sword in battle?”

  Jerald had been standing by a tree, his big arms crossed, as he watched the lesson. But now that all eyes were upon him, he looked rather surprised.

  “Me?” he said. “But I have nothing to…”

  Cullen cut him off with a twinkle in his eye. “You are a knight,” he said. “You could probably teach me a thing or two. Please help me demonstrate this lesson. I would be grateful.”

  Jerald looked at him with some chagrin, but all of the young people were looking at him expectantly, so he knew he had little choice. Still, he was reluctant; he crooked a finger at Cullen, beckoning the man to come closer.

  “I have not held a sword in several years,” he said, lowering his voice. “I would not be any good with this.”

  Cullen was genuinely trying to encourage the man to participate because he didn’t want Jerald to feel left out. “You fought with Richard in the Holy Land,” he said. “Owen told me that. He also told me that you were the captain of his army at Geddington. Surely your knowledge of such things must exceed my own.”

  Jerald hissed as if exasperated. “Did he also tell you that I can hardly see a hand in front of my face?” he whispered loudly. “My eyesight is so poor that all I can do is lend advice. That is why I have not held a sword in years. I cannot see well enough to know who I am fighting.”

  Cullen could see that his idea to include Jerald had ended up embarrassing the old man. He hadn’t meant to do that. “Yet you go with Owen when he raids,” he pointed out, “and you have stood here and watched every lesson I’ve given.”

  Jerald frowned. “I can only see masses moving. I cannot see detail. But I can hear you, and that is what I focus on.”

  Cullen wouldn’t give up, trying to make up for shaming the man. “But you are active in Owen’s ranks,” he said. “You confronted me the day I brought Regal into the encampment, when she was ill. You were leading your men quite ably then. Don’t you see? Whether or not you actively fight, men naturally follow you. That is a gift.”

  Jerald waved him off. “Others do the fighting,” he said. “They give me the information and I make the decisions. But in hand to hand combat, I cannot see. I would get myself killed.”

  Cullen could see that no matter what he said, the man was ashamed of what he had become, a once-great knight who now could no longer see well enough to fight. Now, the fact that Jerald had been the only knight to come with Owen when the man went into exile was starting to make some sense. A new lord probably would not accept his fealty with such bad eyesight. Given that his father was an old knight, Cullen had a soft spot for them.

  He wasn’t going to let Jerald think less of himself.

  “You quite happily took my sword from me when I offered it,” he sai
d, mirth in his eyes. “Now you are telling me you cannot even use the thing?”

  Jerald sighed heavily. “Not much.”

  “Then give it back to me or I will take it back,” he said. “That sword is meant to be used in battle, not lay idle in some old man’s collection gathering dust. If you are not going to use it, then give it back to me so I can.”

  Jerald scowled at him. “I was going to give it back, at some point.”

  “When?”

  “Leave me be, Monty. You’ll not push me around.”

  Cullen started to laugh. In truth, since his time in the outlaw village and the fact that he and Owen were becoming fairly good friends, he suspected he would get his sword back at some point. He wasn’t even sure he ever seriously believed that Jerald would keep it. Still, he thumped the man on the shoulder.

  “I’ll push you around as I please,” he said. “And if you do not promise to give me my sword back, I will fight you for it. And I’ll win.”

  Jerald had enough of the pushy young knight he was coming to respect in spite of himself. “Pah,” he said. “You do not frighten me.”

  “I should.”

  Jerald looked at him and it was clear that he was fighting off a grin. “You want to fight me?” he said. “Then I shall go get it right now and we can show these youngsters what it is to really fight.”

  “I thought you said you couldn’t fight in hand to hand combat?”

  “For you, I will make an exception.”

  With that, Jerald headed off into the trees, toward his hut, leaving Cullen standing there with a grin on his face. He’d challenged Jerald enough so that the old man felt confident enough again, at least for a few brief moments. Cullen watched the man for a few moments before turning to the group of people behind him.

  “Jerald is going to help me demonstrate how to hold a sword in combat,” he said. “He is going to retrieve my weapon. When he gets back, I think you’re going to see something exciting.”

  The young people turned to each other in happy anticipation, and began muttering in quiet conversation, as Cullen headed back over to the middle of the open area to collect a soft cloth Owen had given him. In fact, Cullen was using Owen’s own blade since his was in Jerald’s possession, and he picked up the cloth to rub over the blade, removing any dirt or debris. As he wiped away at it, a young woman approached.

  “Big Jerald doesn’t use a sword,” she said. “He says he would rather use his hands.”

  Cullen glanced up into the pale face of Lady de Mora’s younger sister. Her name was Dessa-Etienne of Guillaume and she had her sister’s dark red hair and pale skin. But unlike her polite older sister, she was bold and ill-mannered.

  As a ward of her sister after their parents had died, Dessa had been part of Owen’s outlaws for over a year and had taken to the brutal, lawless world quite easily. Though she had fostered in a good house and had learned ladylike pursuits, she wanted none of them.

  She liked to be in the middle of a fight.

  Unfortunately, Cullen didn’t have much patience for her because her manner reminded him too much of Teodora. She, too, had been bold and unmannerly at times, but to him, that was part of her charm. Dessa, in that sense, brought back memories of a woman he was trying very hard to overcome and because of it, he’d been trying to avoid her since nearly the day of his arrival.

  That hadn’t worked very well because Dessa was quite curious about him, always taking part in his classes and always trying to engage him in conversation about weapons or battles or the great things he’d done as a warrior. But Cullen didn’t want anything to do with her, and it reflected in his manner.

  “Big Jerald can probably use a sword better than most men,” he said after a moment. “He has been a knight for many years.”

  “But he likes to use his hands.”

  “Using hands in battle is barbaric unless it is absolutely necessary,” Cullen shot back softly, eyeing the girl. “You can use them if you lose your weapons, but hands should not be a weapon of choice.”

  “Why not?”

  She was starting to bother him. “Because it is not the weapon of choice of the men you will be facing,” he said. “Hands will lose against a blade every time.”

  Dessa stopped pestering him, at least for the moment, but behind those light brown eyes, the wheels of thought were in motion. In truth, they never stopped in this young, curious woman.

  “You do not like me very much, do you?” she finally asked.

  Cullen looked at her. “I do not know enough about you to like you or dislike you.”

  Dessa regarded him as he turned back to the sword in his hand. “I think that you do not,” she said. “But I do not care. So long as you teach me to fight, you can dislike me all you want.”

  Cullen had to snort at that ridiculous statement. “I will teach you what I can,” he said. “But it will not matter in the end because you have never seen a real battle before. Men twice your size, swinging a morning star at your head that will tear it clean off your shoulders. Do not think these foolish little games you play in the forest are anything close to a real battle, my lady. You have no idea the reality of the horrors.”

  Dessa was looking at him as if he’d hurt her feelings. “I have killed a man.”

  “Is that so?”

  She nodded firmly. “I put an arrow through his neck.”

  “Was he running at you with a blade in his hand?”

  She faltered. “Nay,” she said. “He was traveling with some other men, all of whom were wealthy merchants. He was a hired sword.”

  “Then you killed the man in an ambush.”

  She cocked her head. “And you have never killed a man who was not openly attacking you?”

  “If I did, it was in the course of a fight. A fair fight.”

  Dessa frowned, moving away from him because it seemed that their conversation was becoming progressively judgmental toward her. Monty didn’t seem to like her at all, which was unfortunate. In spite of what she’d told him, she’d rather hoped he would like her.

  She liked him quite a bit.

  As Dessa wandered away, mulling over thoughts of Monty and his sharp manner toward her, Jerald emerged from the trees and headed in their direction.

  He was carrying an enormous broadsword, sheathed, and Cullen caught sight of him as he approached. He also recognized his sword immediately, comforted at the sight that the weapon was whole and well taken care of. As Jerald came near, the broadsword was suddenly extended in his direction.

  “Here,” Jerald said. “Take your sword before you collapse and weep like a woman. I don’t want it, anyway.”

  A smile playing on his lips, Cullen casually reached out to take the sword from Jerald, getting a good look at the hilt, which was extending from the sheath. He inspected it closely.

  “You did not pry any of the garnets or pearls from it?” he asked.

  Jerald was outraged. “I am returning it to you in the condition I received it,” he said. “And you should be grateful for it.”

  Cullen continued inspecting the hilt. “I can see that you have taken very good care of it,” he said, easing up on the old knight. “Thank you for returning it to me. It means a great deal.”

  Jerald waved him off, still irritated, and took the other blade that Cullen was holding, the one that belonged to Owen.

  “Now,” he said. “You wanted to show these whelps how to hold a sword, so let’s get on with it.”

  With the greatest of pleasure, Cullen unsheathed his great blade, watching it gleam in the sunlight. It felt good to have it back in his possession and he tossed the sheath to the ground as the young people started to fan out in a larger circle around him and Jerald. Cullen felt the weight of his sword in his hand, that wonderful familiar feeling, and then lifted the sword for all to see.

  “Note my sword,” he said loudly, holding it aloft. “See how I have a guard on my hilt? That is to protect my hand and my fingers as I hold it, but the sword that Jerald is
holding does not have a guard. That is why you must always position your fingers…”

  He was cut off by a shout and everyone turned to see Owen emerging into the clearing, followed by several of his men who were camouflaged.

  Cullen had become accustomed to seeing Owen’s scouts dressed like that, men who covered themselves in leaves and branches, and then prowled the forest looking for hapless travelers to rob. That was normal. But Cullen couldn’t help but notice the look of concern on Owen’s face as he approached and apprehension began to tighten in his chest.

  He didn’t like that expression.

  “What is it?” Cullen called to the man.

  Owen didn’t answer; he merely held up a hand as if begging for patience until he could close the gap between them and not shout his business all over the place, for everyone to hear. Once he came close, he answered.

  “A very large army has recently arrived at Rockingham Castle,” he said grimly. “My men just saw them. Hundreds of men, all bearing heavy weapons.”

  Cullen frowned. “What colors were they flying?”

  Owen looked like he was most reluctant to say. In fact, he shook his head with regret. “Prior to Fitz Hammond taking control of Rockingham, the standards flown by the army were the colors of the royal household,” he said. “My men said they saw Fitz Hammond colors returning to Rockingham.”

  That puzzled Cullen a great deal. “Fitz Hammond?” he repeated. “Barric is dead, yet his colors remain true to the Rockingham estate? That makes no sense.”

  Owen sighed heavily. “There is something else,” he said. “A fine fortified carriage came with the army, the same carriage Barric Fitz Hammond used when he was in residence.”

  Cullen stared at him in shock. He was coming to sense that Owen was very leery about the entire situation, and for good reason. “Barric could not have returned from the dead, Owen,” he said flatly. “I ran the man through. I watched as he bled out all over the floor.”