The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  But as I said, I didn't know any of that back when Gilliam's story occurred to me so I let myself imagine what Justin's life might have been like if he'd lived in the Twelfth Century.

  Don't forget that I'm offering my novella "An Impetuous Season" FREE on my website. Click here to download it

  Thanks again for enjoying my books!

  This is a work of fiction; everyone in the book is created out of whole cloth (although I did my best to portray them and their times as accurately as possible).

  Autumn's Flame

  copyright(©) Denise Domning 1995, 2011

  All right reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any way.

  Original cover art by Kate Sterling

  Cover art by ADKdesigns.biz

  Some images from bigstockphoto.com

  DEDICATION

  To all the members of Paradise Valley Toughlove. Without your love and support I could not have continued past Adam's death.

  And, to my newest nephew Geoffrey. May your life never be touched by tragedy

  Late September, 1194

  "Come forth, you cocksucking spawn of Satan!"

  It was a joyous shout. Reginald, younger brother to Freyne's lord, knew no greater pleasure than hunting boar when autumn's spice was in the air. Moreover, bloodletting always made him forget the miserable life fate had forced on him.

  The midday sun shot narrow beams through a tangle of branches that had begun to bald as Michaelmas approached, revealing the great humpbacked beast hunkered therein. Reginald urged his mount forward and jabbed his spear into the thicket. Barely old enough to be hunted, the wild black pig squealed and clashed its tusks, but held firm in its hidey-hole. Ah well, he was a patient man; Reginald could wait for it to come to him.

  Turning his horse, he rejoined the mounted men, taking his place between his brother Aymer, the lord of Freyne, and Aymer's eldest son, Theobald. Theobald's upcoming betrothal was the cause for this day's pleasure. Aymer's foster-brother, Baldwin de Gradinton, and the girl's father, Henry, Lord Lavendon, had arrived early to spend a few days in private celebration before the crush of the event began.

  Aye, Reginald enjoyed the hunt, but his reasons went beyond simply chasing beasts. Only in these few hours was he, a penniless knight, the equal of these landed peers. Every man here, even the dozen or so foot-bound Englishmen who accompanied their Norman masters, wore the same leather hauberks over thick woolen chausses or braies tucked into their boots. For this little while Reginald could forget that he was slipping into life's later years, having never been more than someone's hireling.

  Aymer, his capuchin thrown back to reveal hair more gray than brown since passing his fiftieth year, lifted his hand. At his signal the huntsmen shouted and the beaters banged on their drums. Yipping in excitement, the sleek greyhounds dove into the copse only to be thwarted by the thorny branches. Yet held on their leads, the two massive alaunts paced and snapped as the scent of blood awoke their vicious nature.

  Hawk-faced Baldwin de Gradinton, his black hair and beard streaked with silver, snorted in mock disgust. "You call this entertainment Aymer? This is some weak-balled piglet, not a boar. What honor will there be in having a bite of him?" The exhilaration gleaming in the big man's blue eyes belied his complaint.

  "Who cares what sort of balls he has?" laughed Lavendon's plain, plump lord. "Drive him out, and we will cook him for the dogs."

  "Come out piglet," Baldwin called, softening his rough voice until he sounded like a mother crooning to her babe, "else we'll think you no boar but some fat sow. Come now sweet thing. Let me spill your blood and end your humiliation."

  Where Reginald laughed, enjoying the men's jests, Aymer's arrogance found insult. His brother's pale skin reddened and shame drove him to recklessness. "Free the alaunts," Freyne's lord shouted as he swung down out of his saddle.

  His spear yet caught in his fist, Reginald's portly brother strode for the tangled shrubbery. "Coward!" he bellowed to the hiding animal. "Come out, damn you, else I'll drag you out with my bare hands."

  "Have a care, Father," Theobald cried after him, his newly deepened voice cracking as he spoke. Barrel-chested and narrow-hipped like his father and uncle, the youth's brows lifted over his brown eyes. "Who knows when that youngling will discover his manhood?"

  "As you have discovered yours, boy?" Reginald shot his nephew a chiding look.

  Although Reginald was Freyne's steward, the passing years had turned him into panderer for both his married brother and his nephew. It was the worst sort of irony for unlike his kin, Reginald wished to love and honor only one woman. As much as he wished to marry Clare, he never would. If she became his wife, she would also become Freyne's servant, thus prey for Aymer's enormous appetites. That thought added sharpness to Reginald's chide. "Yestermorn has made you a sire once more. That's a bastard for each of your last three visits to Freyne. This girl's father is none too happy over it, refusing the coins I offered and crying that you forced his daughter."

  "What use are peasants save to do my will?" The insolent brat sent his uncle a glance that mingled both scorn and pity. Squiring Theobald with an earl had only increased the arrogance he'd learned at his father's knee. By his attitude this dirty-assed babe said he held his landless uncle in less regard than the common women he used.

  Excess of practice made Reginald's humiliation too easy to swallow. He endured their sneers for love of Freyne, the place of his birth, his home for all his years and, hopefully, the place of his death. Nonetheless, the boy's blow deserved a response.

  "Brother, come back," he shouted to Aymer over the noise made by the beaters and the dogs.

  Freyne's lord turned, brows lifted in unspoken question.

  "Let Theobald prove his skill. Let your son be the one to drive the pig from its lair." With any luck, the boar would savage the boy. Reginald followed his evil thought with a quick prayer begging a forgiveness he did not crave.

  "Aye," agreed Gradinton, unwittingly playing into this sly game, "let the lad show us his bravery."

  The boar chose this instant to explode from the brambles. Reginald roared in excitement, all thought of vengeance evaporating. He turned his horse and lowered his barbed spear in the hope of a blow.

  Short legs flying, its feet tearing up the soft earth, the creature raced away from Aymer and the mounted men, running toward the footmen in hopes of an easier escape. It didn't count on the alaunts. Noble and commoner alike shouted in excitement as the footmen freed the massive dogs. They leapt upon the pig's back, their teeth tearing through the bristling hair and tough hide to draw blood. The smaller greyhounds circled around the beleaguered boar, darting in to nip whenever they could. The alaunts were tossed aside as if they weighed nothing at all. One of the big dogs yelped and collapsed to the ground, belly cut. The swine squealed as it ripped its way through the greyhounds, turning back toward the brambles rather than standing its ground as its breed should.

  "Nay!" Aymer bellowed. "Craven beast! You'll hide from us no longer!"

  As if stung by this human's insult the huge pig halted. Ignoring the tormenting hounds, its head swung toward the nobleman, tiny eyes red with rage and foam at its evil mouth. Tusks clashing, snout to the ground, it flattened its ears against a narrow skull.

  "He comes for you Aymer," Reginald cried, jabbing spurs into his mount's side as he urged his steed forward.

  Even before his horse was into its stride, the boar charged. Aymer took his stance, bracing his spear to impale the beast. The remaining alaunt leapt at it, only to rebound off the pig and into Aymer, tossing Freyne's lord into the boar's path. Reginald watched in horror as his brother fell beneath the creature. The pig swung its head. Blood sprayed as the keen tusks tore through leather to the screaming man beneath it.

  "Father!" Theobald shrieked

  Shouting in rage and fear, Reginald spurred his steed toward the savaging beast. As it lifted its head from Aymer to fend off this new attack, Reginald drove
his spear deep into the boar's throat. From the other side came Baldwin's lance. Squealing in agony, the boar staggered away from the broken man to topple onto its side.

  "Aymer!" Reginald threw himself from the saddle and fell to his knees at his brother's side. There was naught but tatters left of either Aymer's leather hunting vest or wool tunic he wore beneath it. Aymer's torso lay opened from stomach to groin, steam rising from his bloody flesh.

  "Mother of God," Reginald breathed in horror as life's light died from his elder sibling's eyes.

  Theobald, his eyes wide in shock and his face ashen, stumbled to his father's side. "Papa," he cried softly. Without his usual sneer he looked younger than his sixteen years.

  Reginald grabbed his nephew's trembling arm. "Theobald, away. You need not see this."

  The boy stared blankly at his uncle, his lower lip quivering until he caught it with his teeth. There was a moment's inner struggle then his mouth steadied. "Nay, it's not meet that Freyne's new lord sob like a babe," he warned himself.

  Reginald caught a sharp breath. Jesu! No longer was he his brother's hireling, but this brat's servant. The thought of taking commands from a snot-nosed babe cut like a knife. Ach, but what alternative did he have? He wanted to live in no place save Freyne.

  What if he were Freyne's lord?

  Reginald shoved away that thought as impossible. His brother had two sons, Theobald by his first wife and Jocelyn by his second. To own Freyne, both boys would need to die, and two deaths so near each other would burn like a beacon, shouting of murder.

  As quickly as he rejected the idea, the solution offered itself. There was no need for two murders, only one. Aymer's second son was a weakling for whom each dawn's arrival was a miracle. With his elder brother gone, the frail Jocelyn would need to be squired. It wouldn't take long before knighthood's rigorous training ended Aymer of Freyne's line.

  Theobald raised his head to look at his uncle, his brown eyes yet wide with shock. "Aye," he said, speaking more loudly now as he sought to wear a man's face against this tragedy. "I must take up my duties as Freyne's lord, and my first chore is to tell my stepmother that her husband is dead. I must ride like the wind."

  For all the command in his tone, the lad came slowly to his feet, his arms clutched around his midsection. One of the huntsmen came forward to help the lad mount his horse. "My lord, should not one of us ride with you?" the man asked of his new master.

  "Do I look like a child? I have no need of your help," Theobald snapped, finding his arrogance once more as he climbed into his saddle. Turning his horse's head, he kicked his heels into its sides. The steed cried out in complaint as the boy sent it hurtling off into the woodland.

  Baldwin de Gradinton reached out to close Aymer's eyes. "May our Lord grant you peace, old friend."

  A moment of silence followed as all those in the clearing paused to offer prayer for the man's soul, then blessed themselves. Gradinton eased back onto his heels and wiped his bloody hands on his rough chausses. "Damn, but Theobald's under age. It galls me that the royal court will meddle with my friend's property."

  Reginald glanced at the nobleman. It wasn't king or court Baldwin resented, but Geoffrey FitzHenry, Lord Coudray, this shire's sheriff and Gradinton's former son-by-marriage. The sheriff's daughter had become Gradinton's only heir after both his sons died in December past, and FitzHenry refused to give Gradinton custody of the girl as custom demanded.

  Lord Lavendon looked up, his broad face wearing a new wary expression. "There is no help for it. Aymer has no overlord, holding his lands as he did, directly from his king. Until Theobald reaches one and twenty, the king's sheriff will rule Freyne."

  "Ah, but there is something we can do." Baldwin's mouth lifted in a wicked half-smile as he spoke. "We must celebrate a wedding, rather than a betrothal. Then, you will have custody of Freyne instead of the court."

  Reginald rocked back on his heels. Lavendon's home keep lay only ten miles distant. By Gradinton's look, Reginald knew the baron intended for Lavendon to fetch his daughter immediately, leaving no time to concoct Theobald's end. While there was disappointment at this thought, Reginald's relief was by far the greater.

  Lord Lavendon blinked. "My daughter is not yet eight," he said quietly, a touch of disgust in his voice. "Even if she was older, I have no desire to cheat our king of what is his right."

  "This arrangement could be more profitable to you than you think, Henry." Gradinton paused, shifting in his squat to look at Freyne's steward. "You should ride with Theobald. He's more shocked than he would have us know. Send a cart back for Aymer's body."

  There was no mistaking the nobleman's intent. Gradinton wished to bend Lavendon to his will, but not before Aymer's witness. Freed from all constraint, Reginald's murderous thoughts roared high with new life. He leapt to his feet. "Jesu, my own shock numbs my brain. Of course, I must go after Theobald. What if he falls from his saddle because of his grief?"

  Within two breaths he was atop his mount, urging the steed to its greatest speed. If he caught Theobald, Aymer's eldest son would follow his father into hell this very day.

  Lady Elyssa, now the Dowager of Freyne, herded her son and her cousin Clare ahead of her into the garden. Once inside she turned swiftly, the hems of her yellow and green gowns flying, to see if anyone noted their escape. Even as she looked, she cursed herself for a fool. As long as she was trapped at Freyne nothing she attempted could prevent Gradinton and Lavendon from hunting her down nor did this garden serve as either hiding place or sanctuary. It wouldn’t be long before someone came to steal Jocelyn from her side.

  The wind lifted and moaned around her, the scent of rain heavy in its breath. It promised a storm and the end of this stretch of mild October weather. Seeming only arm's reach over her head, gray clouds roiled, frothing and tearing just like her emotions. The wind sent them streaming over the roof of Freyne's tall wooden hall, wisps clinging to the tiny stone keep tower set high atop its ancient Saxon mound.

  The yard behind them was blessedly empty. Elyssa pulled the gate closed, her russet plaits shifting with her movement. If nothing else, she was grateful for both one more moment to hold Jocelyn’s custody and that Gradinton's morbid wife hadn’t followed her this time. Lady Sibyl had dogged Elyssa’s heels for all of the past weeks. Elyssa wasn’t certain if the woman watched her on Gradinton's behalf or if Sibyl just craved a new ear into which she could spill her moans and rages over the recent, and admittedly tragic, deaths of all her children.

  With the gate shut, Elyssa gave her son a gentle push to send him deeper into the garden.

  "Maman, do not push so," Jocelyn complained, a frown creasing his broad brow. Frail and achingly small for his twelve years, Jocelyn's fur-lined mantle was tightly pinned around him, concealing his red chausses and blue gown. With his hood drawn close over his sensitive ears, only a short fringe of his pale brown hair showed. His delicate hands, fit only for scribing, were warmly gloved. "I almost fell. I could have broken something."

  "My pardon, love," Elyssa said, struggling to keep distress from her voice. Jocelyn fretted over her and his upset often brought on illness. "I shall be more careful in the future."

  "I'll not spend a full hour out here," Jocelyn went on, his tone aggrieved. It was Elyssa's custom to spend an hour every day out-of-doors, believing fresh air a healthy necessity. Her son's lip lifted in scorn as he looked around him. "I don't like this place. This garden isn't near as nice as our own at Nalder." His gaze traveled to the keep tower above them. "None of Freyne is as fine as Nalder."

  Elyssa could hardly disagree with him. Her dower house in the city of Nalder, their home for the past ten years, was a small but pleasant abode. Freyne, on the other hand, was backward and graceless. Its garden was but one example. Lawn, unbroken by a single decorative plant, stretched from her toes to the single, molting pear tree set smack in the square's center without a trace of artistic thought. From that tree to the far wall, the earth wore the drying remains of the peas, bea
ns, and herbs of the kitchen garden.

  "When are we leaving Freyne?" Jocelyn pleaded, brown eyes wide beneath peaked brows. "I'm missing so many of my lessons."

  Elyssa's heart broke at his question. "Soon," she lied. "For now Tante Clare and I must speak privately."

  Although his eyes narrowed in resentment at being dismissed like a babe, Jocelyn did as he knew she wished and wandered to the pear tree where he began to methodically strip drying leaves from its lower branches. Elyssa's heart clenched. Mary save her but life without Jocelyn would be unendurable.

  Clare, who was no aunt but Elyssa's second cousin and companion of the past past nine years, came to stand at her shoulder. Elyssa glanced at her, startled anew at how gray Clare’s plaits had become of late. A fourth daughter left without dowry or hope of marriage, forty years of an impoverished and purposeless life had sapped Clare; she faded like an autumn leaf, drying into fragility, crumbling into dust.

  "Do you truly believe you can hide him in here?" her cousin asked, crossing her arms. At her movement her worn brown cloak opened slightly, revealing a sliver of Elyssa's cast-off blue gowns. Although Clare had never married, she wore a prim wimple to conceal her hair like any other matron.

  "Of course not," Elyssa retorted, keeping her voice low, "but I must stall for as long as possible. There's still hope I may receive a response to my petition." Her official request for full custody of Jocelyn had gone winging its way to the shire court on the very day of Aymer's death. That document, as well as her own petition to be spared a third forced marriage, had been delivered into the hands of the shire’s new sheriff, a man she knew not at all. As the king's representative in the shire, it was this Lord Coudray's duty to represent her and her petitions to the court. "Mother of God, it's been three weeks! How much longer can it take for them to grant me custody of my son?"