Fathers and Sons: A Collection of Medieval Romances

by Kathryn Le Veque

  He ended on a passionate cry. Rhys stood leaning over the back of the horse, unable to think straight. It made so much sense to him but, for Carys’ sake, he was more torn than before. He looked beseechingly to Christopher, who focused on the prince.

  “My lord,” Christopher made his way back over to the man. “Although your logic is sound, this is an impossible scheme. Rhys and I are doing as we are ordered and so are you.”

  Conrad’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. “I am a prince,” he tried to sound intimidating but it ended up coming out as a trembling sentence. “I give orders, I do not take them. I will break this betrothal with Lady Elizabeau and marry Carys.”

  Christopher was on very delicate ground but maintained his customary cool. “I understand your frustration, my lord, but in this case, surely you understand the need to stay the course. You are promised the throne of England if you marry Lady Elizabeau.”

  “I do not want the throne!” Conrad snapped. “I want to marry Carys. I will marry Carys.”

  Christopher lifted an eyebrow. “If you break this betrothal, you will have made an enemy out of England. Are you willing to accept that responsibility? Do you think your uncle, the Holy Roman Emperor, will understand?”

  Conrad backed down, looking uncertain and miserable. He changed his approach and fixed on Christopher. “Please, mein herr… can you not see how miserable we are? Can you not help us to be with the women we love?” He gestured towards the keep. “I see that you love your wife. Can we not know the same happiness?”

  Now it was back on Christopher and he did not like it one bit. He sighed sharply, hearing Conrad’s soft plea and knowing the truth of it. He was in sympathy, that was true, but he also understood his sense of duty better than most. What Conrad was suggesting was sedition.

  Conrad put his hands out, imploringly. “Please,” he begged again, softly. “Will you not help us?”

  Christopher just looked at him, mulling over the request and all of the implications involved. He was about to open his mouth when David suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  “Chris,” he said, his tone grim. “You’d better come. Dustin is feeling pains.”

  Christopher bolted past Conrad and Rhys, running through the snow to the massive keep of Lioncross where his wife would soon be bearing their third child. Rhys watched him go, collecting himself and following after a moment. Only Conrad was left to stand with his silent general in the dark cold, his mind muddled with thoughts of Carys as the snow fell silently. He’d never been so miserable in his entire life.

  He couldn’t dare to hope that he would ever see her again.

  *

  He had been her constant companion for weeks and Elizabeau wanted nothing to do with him. Surrounded by the luxury of Ludlow Castle in Herefordshire, she was in a beautiful place with high walls and spacious quarters. The problem was that she was also a prisoner and her jailor, a knight by the name of Sir Edward Radcliffe, never let her out of his sight. He was under strict orders to remain with the lady at all times and he took those orders literally.

  It had been almost three months since she had been abducted from Caldicot. Someone had hit her over the head and she hadn’t regained consciousness for two days. By that time, she had been spirited back into England and she had spent the next few days traveling to Clifford Castle. After a few days stay there, she was moved to another castle, whose name she had long forgotten. Then came another, and still another. In the first month, she had been moved to seven different castles. She overheard some of her escorts talking and she gathered, from their conversation, that they were trying to throw de Lohr off the track should he be following. She knew that Rhys would stop at nothing to find her and she was disheartened that her captors were trying to evade a rescue attempt. So at the end of the second week, she attempted her first escape.

  It had constituted nothing more than just running away. She had been easily caught and brought back, then tied up for a day. But Radcliffe had eventually untied her upon her promise that she wouldn’t try again. She didn’t feel bad lying to him since he had kidnapped her in the first place, but by the fourth escape attempt, Radcliffe was feeling some frustration with her. And it was at that moment he had become her constant companion.

  Radcliffe wasn’t a tall man; in fact, he was only a few inches taller than Elizabeau. But he had enormous shoulders, a big belly, big arms and big hands at the end of those arms. He had dark hair and non-descript blue eyes and wasn’t a particularly bad looking man if one liked the sort, but he did have a rather dumb expression on his face most of the time. Elizabeau could tell from their first conversation that he wasn’t a very bright man. But he was as strong as a bull and deeply, unquestionably obedient to Walter Clifford, his liege and a strong supporter of the king.

  Elizabeau had decided she didn’t like him fairly early on. She was as mean and nasty as she could possibly be with him, mostly because she was terrified of her predicament. She wept for Rhys every night, wondering how he was dealing with her abduction and knowing he was more than likely severely blaming himself. She missed him so badly that her entire body ached, for days on end, and nothing would ease the ache. The ache took away her appetite and eventually, whenever she tried to eat, she would vomit it right back up again. She began dropping weight over the weeks, but strangely, her belly seemed to stay rounded and firm. After two months of vomiting and a belly that was beginning to grow, it eventually dawned on her that she was pregnant. That sweet, stolen morning so long ago had taken root and the result was growing inside her womb.

  Momentary shock had turned to delirious delight. She knew full well what it meant and how the situation would turn horribly against both her and Rhys when the child was discovered, but all she could think of was the fact that she would be bearing the child of the man she was so desperately in love with. She imagined a son with his father’s handsome looks and brilliant blue eyes. It was, in fact, enough to soften her stand-offish nature and she and Radcliffe had become a strange sort of friends. She started being kind to him and he, dim-witted brute that he was, became a slave to her needs. It was an extremely odd dynamic but one that strangely worked.

  But she made certain that Radcliffe did not know about her pregnancy. As time passed and her belly grew, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep it from him. Eventually, he would figure it out for himself and then she would be in a bind; her child would be seen as heir presumptive and a new set of worries began to settle. A threat to her was one thing, but a threat to her child was totally another. She knew, more strongly than ever, that she had to get word to Rhys on her location and condition. She knew the man would move heaven and earth to save her.

  On this snowy February day, she was planted in the sitting room of the two-room suite she occupied, pretending to busy herself with paints. She was a talented artist but her mind was not focused on the scene she was attempting to create. It was on another escape attempt because she knew, as her pregnancy progressed, that she would eventually be unable to move with agility. There would be a time she would have to give it up for the safety of her child. Radcliffe sat over in the corner, sharpening a blade on a pumice stone, keeping busy as he kept watch over the lady. Elizabeau could feel him over her shoulder.

  “Edward,” she said, focused on her paints. “Can you please put more peat on the fire? I find that I am cold today.”

  He promptly set the stone down and went to the enormous hearth, stoking it with enough peat to make flames shoot up the chimney. Then he stood there to watch the blaze, making sure it would remain stable. He turned to look at her.

  “Do you want a blanket, my lady?” he asked.

  She shook her head, wiping off her brush. “This garment is heavy enough. I just feel a chill.”

  “Are you becoming ill?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  He was moving for the door. “I will send someone for some warm broth.”

  She turned to him. “Nay, Edward, truly,” she insisted.
“I am fine. Please go and sit down.”

  He stood by the door, his hound-sad face fixed on her. “But you have not eaten yet today. You must eat something.”

  “Maybe later.”

  He made a face and moved away from the door, looking dejected. Elizabeau felt herself relenting. “Oh, very well,” she snapped softly, turning back to her paints. “Send someone for broth if it pleases you.”

  He immediately brightened and went to the door, snapping orders to one of the soldiers guarding the hall. Elizabeau watched him from the corner of her eye, his mannerisms and mood. It occurred to her not long ago that there was a good reason Radcliffe had been assigned to her; the way the man mothered and fussed over her, she was coming to think that he was either a eunuch or he was not physically attracted to women. He seemed to relate to them more than any man she had ever seen and, for a knight, that was a very peculiar quality. Certainly, he was a powerful man and undoubtedly an accomplished warrior, but he was also rather effeminate. And with that knowledge, a strange kinship and compassion developed for him. He was oddly placed in this world they found themselves in.

  “Beef broth only, Edward,” she reminded him. “If it is anything else, I shall vomit.”

  He nodded patiently. “I know, my lady. I have asked them to bring you some bread as well.”

  She shrugged. “I do not think I can eat it.”

  “You must try.”

  She pursed her lips but refrained from replying. Dipping her brush into her red pot, she began to carefully stroke the petals of a rose. She could hear Edward shuffling around behind her.

  “Edward,” she said, concentrating on the flower. “Am I to be moved again anytime soon?”

  He reached down to pick up his pumice stone. “What do you mean, my lady?”

  She looked over her shoulder at him. “I am asking if I am to be moved to another location. This is the seventh castle I have been housed at and the longest. I have been here for three weeks.”

  Edward resumed his stool in the corner. “I have not been informed of any changes, my lady.”

  She watched him as he spoke; he wasn’t looking at her, which made her think he knew more than he was telling her. Being the sharp woman that she was, she couldn’t resist asking more questions.

  “They killed my brother, Arthur, you know,” she said, watching his head come up to look at her. “And my sister Eleanor is imprisoned at Corfe Castle. For all I know, they have killed her, too. I wonder what will happen when they ask you to kill me?”

  His features tightened. “I do not know anything of your brother or sister. And I do not believe they intend to kill you.”

  She set the brush down. “But how do you know? How do I know that you will not come to me some night and put a pillow over my face? Would you truly do such a thing?”

  He lifted an eyebrow and looked back at his pumice stone. Slowly, he resumed sharpening his dagger. “Clifford would not order such a thing.”

  “Then what is the king going to do with me?” she stood up, her dark green eyes fixed on him. “Edward, they have already killed my brother. Do you not understand? I am the heir apparent from Richard’s line. They are going to kill me; I know it.”

  His head came up again, fixed on her as she walked towards him. “I have no such knowledge.”

  “Will you defend me?”

  He stopped sharpening, agitation in his features. “I am sworn to Clifford.”

  “And if he orders you to kill me?”

  “If he orders it, I must obey.”

  She looked at him with wide eyes. Then, she backed away from him, turning around completely and making way for the lancet windows on the opposite side of the room. Peeling the oilcloth back, she was hit with the freezing air as she gazed into the white-covered bailey below. Her line of questioning against Radcliffe had backfired and now she was verging on frightened tears. Then she heard him behind her.

  “I am sorry, my lady,” he said softly. “I did not mean to upset you.”

  She blinked and tears spattered on her cheeks; she wasn’t afraid for herself but for the life growing inside of her. It meant everything to her to ensure the survival of the child.

  “The order will come,” she wept softly. “It came for Arthur and it will come for me.”

  He wasn’t sure what to say. All Radcliffe knew was that he felt very badly for the lady. He’d tried so hard to be both jailor and caretaker. He had developed a very brotherly attachment to her simply because they had spent so much time together. But he knew, as did she, if the orders came down to execute her that he would be duty-bound to obey.

  “I am sorry,” he said again. “It is not that I wish to do it, but if….”

  She turned to him, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Edward, listen to me. Help me escape and I promise that you will have a great position and lands, all that I can give you, for your troubles. You are a good man; too good to serve someone as vile as my uncle. Do you not see this?”

  He stared at her, something cold invading his expression. “I cannot be bribed, Lady Elizabeau,” he said flatly. “I would be a man without honor if I could.”

  “Untrue,” she countered softly. “You would be a man of conviction if you helped me. You know the king is evil and you know that what he does is not right. There is no honor in serving a snake.”

  Radcliffe’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. “My father was sworn to John and his father Henry before him. I am always destined to serve the king and his retainers.”

  She put a hand on his meaty arm. “But I have been named Richard’s heir. ’Tis I who carry the bloodlines of the true throne. Henry was my grandfather.”

  Radcliffe looked anxious as he gazed back at her. “But John is the king. And I serve the king.”

  “But he should not be the king. He is destroying England with his greed and evil ways.”

  Radcliffe didn’t know what to say and lowered his head, trying to turn away. But she held him fast.

  “Edward,” she said in a less pleading, more firm tone. “May I ask you something?”

  He shrugged, still not looking at her. “Go ahead, my lady.”

  Her grip on his arm tightened. “Has serving Clifford been a good experience for you?”

  He did look at her, then. “What do you mean?”

  “Are your associates kind to you? Are you well treated?”

  He had no idea what she meant. “They… they treat me as a knight, my lady.”

  “Have they ever been mean or harsh to you? Do they… mock you?”

  He was truly puzzled but she could see, in his eyes, a disturbing flicker. Like a child remembering bad memories he had buried away. He jerked his arm from her grip and lumbered back over to his stool and pumice stone. Elizabeau watched him sit heavily.

  “Your silence is answer enough,” she said softly. “Forgive me if I upset you. But know this; I was unkind to you when we first met, but not for the same reasons others may treat you badly. I was unkind simply because I was afraid. But you have always been very kind to me and now I think of you as a friend. Remember that, Edward; we have become friends. And friends help friends in need.”

  She resumed her seat at her palette, picking up her brush again and returning her focus to her painting. She would not say any more to him tonight, but she had planted a seed in his mind. And she intended to nurture that seed if there was any hope of escape.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The plan to storm Ludlow had come to a complete halt for two days. That was how long the Lady Dustin had been in labor, struggling to bring forth an enormous child that was unwilling to be born. Christopher was an emotional cripple and David along with him, leaving the duties of preparing for the siege to Edward, Lawrence and Rhys. Oddly, Rhys seemed to be coming around during this time and had become a semblance of his former self. He was an excellent tactician and a master of logistics, and planning the retrieval of Elizabeau had given him a reason to live. Those around him saw the gradual transformation but none dare
d to hope that it was permanent.

  While the men planned and plotted in the solar, Christopher sat in the great hall with his brother, perched like a stone at the long table and staring off into space. He hadn’t slept since Dustin’s labor began and the more time passed and no child was forthcoming, the more anguished he became.

  There was a midwife and a physic with Dustin, monitoring her progress closely. She had the best of care. But it was Christopher’s worst nightmare come to life when the physic approached him on the eve of the second night of his wife’s labor. The old man’s face was grim as he stood next to the table, gazing down at the haggard earl.

  “My lord,” he said. “I have discussed your wife’s condition with the midwife and we have come to the same conclusion. This child is too big for your wife to birth him. She needs help or we will lose them both.”

  Christopher wavered unsteadily even as he sat there. “What kind of help?”

  “We must cut her open and take the child.”

  Christopher bolted to his feet, weaving dangerously. “Cut her open? What in the hell are you suggesting?”

  “It is not as it sounds,” the old man assured him. “We make an incision in her belly and pull the child forth. Then we stitch the wound and she will heal. I have done it in the past when there is no other alternative.”

  Christopher didn’t know what to say. By this time, the men in the solar had heard the conversation and they trickled out, watching the situation with concern. Edward and Rhys made their way over to where the earl and David stood, facing the little physic, to better hear what was said.