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

by Kathryn Le Veque

  It explained a great deal. Brooke realized she wasn’t perturbed about it any longer; she was just grateful to have her mother and Braxton back. All of the anguish and grief she felt over the past year suddenly vanished as she gazed at her mother.

  “I am so glad you have come home,” she looked at Braxton. “It simply was not the same without you.”

  Braxton kissed his wife. “I have always been a wealthy man,” he said softly, his gaze moving to his beloved son, the one he had seen once reflected in Gray’s eyes. “But suppose I never truly understood what it was to be truly rich. If happiness and a family makes a man rich, then I am indeed the richest man in the world.”

  Dallas clapped him on the shoulder. “You are very rich,” he agreed. “And we are glad to have our liege back.”

  Braxton wriggled his eyebrows. “My time in captivity has taught me something, Dallas,” he looked at the young man. “It has taught me that it is my time in life now to enjoy my wife and children and leave the warring to the younger men. I have put in my time as a knight and commander; now it is my time to enjoy the fruits of my labor.”

  Brooke looked at Braxton. “Dallas has been commanding your army for the past year. He has done a wonderful job. He has made a lot of money.”

  Braxton grinned. “And he can keep on commanding it, for I am going to stay home and grow fat and lazy with my wife by my side.”

  Brooke laughed softly, returning her attention to the infant in her arms. She kissed his little cheek happily.

  “I have never had a brother,” she murmured, watching the baby grin. “Welcome home, Deston. Soon you will have a little playmate.”

  And soon he did. Fat, healthy Matthew Aston was born on a cool September night, so easily that it was over almost before it began. Brooke hardly broke a sweat while her husband’s light-headed reaction was decidedly different. The following year, Deston was joined by brother Auston and Matthew was joined by twins Andrew and Alexandra. Erith, once a place of doom and hopelessness, was now a place with joy and children. The old de Montfort castle began to live again.

  Life went on. Dallas went on to assume the mantle of commander of Braxton’s army but with three little ones at home, he mostly sent Geoff and Niclas out instead, carrying on the legacy of the great de Nerra mercenary army. Like Braxton, Dallas wanted to watch his children grow up. In the years to come, he and Braxton would sit in the great hall of Erith before a roaring blaze, watching five tow-headed youngsters play and grow, thinking that these were the best years of their lives. But then Deston would clobber Matthew, Auston and Andrew would squabble, and screams would fill the air. After the fathers broke up the fights, they still thought it was the best time of their lives. There was no doubt about it.

  Sometimes, when all was still and peaceful and the children were in bed, they would discuss that day at the falls of Erith that changed their lives forever. A happenstance on that day turned out to be platform through which greater things were achieved. Dallas admitted once that he thought, as he held tight to the girl clinging precariously on the wet rocks, that he was certain he would lose his grip on her. He even remembered at the time feeling her wet flesh slip away from him, increment by increment, and thought for certain that her life was about to end.

  But it didn’t end. He had no idea at the time that his, in fact, had just begun.

  * 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.

  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 expression 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.

  Valor de Nerra was a man to be reckoned with.

  Now, he was the most powerful man from Basingstoke to the sea, a vast area where he had several men in patrols that kept order in a lawless time. Margaretha was still hugely proud of her son but she was afraid that his attention to duty was causing him to lack foresight into his future. Marital future. As his mother, it was her duty to make sure he understood the importance of it. But after two years of her trying to beat it into his head, she was afraid she wasn’t making much of an impression on him.

  “I am not hen-pecking you,” she said as she put butter on her bread. “It seems to me that you fail to understand the importance of your future. You are the last of your father’s line, Valor, not to mention the last of my line. In fact, my line is far more important. You understand that it must be continued.”

  Val was quickly growing exhausted of the conversation. When the servant poured him watered wine, he down the entire cup and demanded more.