Lords of the Kingdom

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “Please,” she sobbed softly. “Please take your sword… please… will you not do me this one small mercy and end my torment?”

  He stared at her, horrified by the suggestion. “I will not,” he replied, standing to his considerably height. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  Her weeping grew stronger and she suddenly stood from the warm tub, water sloshing out onto the floor. Stumbling from the tub, she ended up on her knees at Weston’s feet. She grabbed his leg, her forehead against his knee.

  “Please,” she begged him, weeping. “You are a knight. You are sworn to obedience. You must do as I ask.”

  He looked down upon her blond head, appalled and distressed by the request.

  “I will not help you kill yourself,” he reached down and grasped her arms. “Get up, now. You are simply overwrought. You need to rest.”

  He easily lifted her to her feet; she was weak, sobbing and wet, so for lack of a better action, he pulled her over to the fire to warm her up and dry her out. But she struggled against him, slugging at his hands, trying to push him away. Afraid she might try to throw herself in the fire, he tried to stay between her and the open flame.

  When her behavior should have disgusted him, all he could feel was great concern. Whatever Sorrell did had seriously damaged the woman and his animosity towards the man increased.

  As Amalie struggled and he continued to keep himself between her and the fire, he’d finally had enough. He couldn’t stand here and scuffle with her all night. In a bold move, he put his enormous hands on both cheeks and forced her to look at him.

  “My lady,” Weston’s tone was sincere, firm. “I understand you are afraid and I understand that in times past, you were treated with great disregard. But you must understand that this is no longer the case. I am here now and things will be different. You must not despair.”

  Amalie found herself gazing into a powerfully handsome face and eyes that were hard yet kind. It was an odd combination, one that, for a moment, stilled her raging despondency. Her tears inexplicably began to fade as their gazes locked. For the first time, they were able to get their first real look at each other without all of the snow, terror and chaos.

  “Disregard?” she repeated, suddenly sounding very lucid. “Disregard would have been preferable. He used his fists on me as one would on an enemy. He cracked bones in my wrist. He hit me so hard in the face that my eye swelled shut. He did… unspeakable things. Is this what you call disregard, Sir Weston? For, quite clearly, it was more than that.”

  It was the first coherent statement he’d heard from her, one that had his disgust surging and his heart strangely twisting. She was well spoken and seemingly intelligent.

  Weston had been a fully sworn knight at twenty years old and had seen many things in the thirteen years since. But what he was feeling as he gazed into the pale, beautiful face was something beyond compassion. He wasn’t sure what it was yet but he knew it was different. Something in that pathetic little face moved him.

  “Then I apologize for my misstatement,” he said in a low voice. “Now that you have explained things, I do not consider what happened to you mere disregard. But I assure you that it will never happen again.”

  She held his gaze a moment longer before pulling away, firmly; he had no choice but to drop his hands from her face as she moved towards the fire again.

  He bolted forward when she held her hands out against the flames to warm them, afraid she was going to try to jump into it. He still didn’t trust her. Amalie saw the swift movement from the corner of her eye and it startled her. When she looked at him, he had his big arm between her torso and the fireplace. When their gazes met, he lifted a dark blond brow.

  “Burning is a horrible death, my lady,” he told her. “It is not swift or merciful. I would not recommend it.”

  She just looked at him, holding his gaze a moment, before looking away. “Then what would you recommend from a professional standpoint, of course?”

  He couldn’t tell if there was humor in that statement but one might have interpreted it that way. There was a funny little lilt to her tone. But he would not be lulled into a false sense of security with her manner, no matter how calm she seemed to be at the moment.

  “I would not recommend anything for your purposes,” he said. “The church frowns upon the taking of one’s life no matter what the circumstances.”

  “What does the church know of my pain?”

  “God knows of it; what God knows, the church knows. You must have faith.”

  As upset as she was, the knight’s manner and words were making some impact. In spite of everything, he was settling her and she had no idea why; perhaps it was the fact that he had saved her from drowning herself. Or maybe it was because she saw something in his eyes that insured honesty. Whatever it was, she could feel herself calming. But it did not erase her sense of hopelessness at her situation.

  “Have faith in what?” she asked, her voice soft and hoarse. “I am a prisoner in my own home. When you leave, who is to stay that the next commander will not resume where the other one left off? You cannot insure my safety for always.”

  He eyed her, the gentle slope of her torso as it descended into rounded buttocks, now outlined with the damp and clinging material. He’d never seen finer.

  “I can swear to you, on my oath as a knight, that you will be safe from harm as long as I have breath in my body,” he told her flatly. “No female under my protection will ever be mistreated, I swear it.”

  She turned to look at him; now that she was regaining her senses, she had an opportunity to take a good look at him. It hadn’t occurred to her until this moment that he was without clothing from the waist up. He was a tall man but it wasn’t his height that was impressive; it was his sheer bulk. He had an enormous neck and shoulders, and his arms were the biggest she had ever seen. His chest was muscular and beautiful, his waist trim. But the sight made her heart race and she wasn’t sure why; all she knew was that it made her uncomfortable.

  “You will understand if I am dubious of your declaration,” she said, moving away from him. “The last knight I came into contact with displayed less than chivalrous behavior.”

  He watched her move away, shivering even in the radiant heat of the blaze. He wasn’t offended by her statement because he understood her point of view.

  “Perhaps time will prove my trust, my lady,” he said. “But until that time, I would ask one thing.”

  She glanced at him, now at a safe distance from his delicious naked torso. “What would that be?”

  “That you not make any more attempts to, shall we say, swim in a frozen pond.”

  She averted her gaze, looking back to the dancing flames. She seemed to get that glassy look again.

  “My apologies to have troubled you,” she said quietly.

  He couldn’t help but notice she hadn’t given him a direct answer.

  “You did not trouble me,” he said. “But I have enough on my mind with a new command without the additional worry of the Lady of the Keep condemning herself to a watery grave.”

  She didn’t say anything. He took a step toward her to make sure she heard him. “Lady Amalie?”

  She looked up from the fire to notice he was much closer. Instinctively, she flinched and moved away from him. Her hands went up as if to protect herself.

  “I will do my best not to cause you additional worry,” she assured him quickly.

  He could see the panic in her face and he stopped his advance.

  “I have faith in the word of a lady,” he replied, eyeing her a moment and realizing that she was still quite damp. He indicated her dress. “I will send your serving women in to help you change from those wet garments.”

  Amalie nodded briefly, watching him with her great green eyes as he collected his wet tunic from the stand near the hearth and proceeded to the door. Weston’s eyes lingered on her a moment before quitting the room silently. Even after he was gone, she simply stood there, depression
swamping her and her sense of desolation returning full-force. Whatever the knight said, she was sure he was lying. They all lied. They were all animals.

  Amalie went to her dresser where, inside a lovely bejeweled chest, lay a delicate dirk that her mother had given her long ago. She collected the weapon, fingering it, feeling the sharp edge and wondering what it was going to feel like when it cut into her chest.

  In her opinion, she had no choice. Better to take her life and end her torment than to bring a bastard into the world. That was one little element she had left out of her conversation with de Royans; she couldn’t take the shame, more dishonor to be heaped upon the House of de Vere. That was something that men like Weston de Royans could never understand.

  When Esma and Neilie came to the chamber several minutes later with food and more wine, Amalie was gone.

  Chapter Four

  The enormous keep of Hedingham was in an uproar; men at arms were rounding up the servants and the knights were leading search parties of men, inspecting every nook and cranny. Every fireplace was searched and even the well. But Weston wasn’t in the keep; when Esma and Neilie had roused the entire castle with their screams that the lady was missing, he had been in the great hall with his saddlebags, hunting for a dry tunic. Within the first few moments of the screaming, he returned to the pond.

  It was an instinctive response. He charged out of the keep with only a dry tunic, breeches and boots on. The snow was coming down in great dumping heaps, piling up around the motte and on the slippery stone stairs that led down to the outer bailey.

  He could hear the shouting in the keep as men called to one another in their search for the lady. As he nearly slipped on the last stone step and made his way into the lower bailey, he found that he was actually angry; angry at himself, angry at her for lying to him, angry at the inconvenience. But being a virtuous knight sworn to protect the weak and helpless, he was compelled to find her.

  Weston’s breath was hanging in the cold air in great foggy puffs as he made his way through the lower bailey towards the pond. The trees and brush surrounding it were now heavy with snowfall and he beat back the snowy branches as he made his way through. Snow ended up on his face, his arms, melting against his body heat and creating big wet stains on his tunic. Just as he neared the edge of the pond, something caught his eye.

  It was the familiar figure of the lady, standing by the edge of the pond with her back to him. With all of the snow and weather, she hadn’t heard Weston approach. He paused, inspecting her, seeing that she had a small dirk in her left hand but no other weapons that he could ascertain. Just as he finished his assessment, she brought the dirk up and pulled the sharp blade across the milky flesh of her right wrist.

  Weston was jolted into action; he burst through the brush and grabbed her from behind by both wrists. Startled from completing her dastardly deed, Amalie screamed in fright, struggling fiercely against him. She was like a wild animal in his grasp, scratching at him and splashing droplets of blood from her cut wrist onto his forearm. As he tried to get the knife from her, she began kicking his legs and knees viciously.

  “Nay!” she bellowed. “You will leave me alone! Go away and leave me alone!”

  Weston managed to get the dirk from her, tossing it off into the half-frozen pond. That enabled him to get her in a vise-like grip without fear of being stabbed. He boxed her up in his enormous arms, pinning her against his chest. He still had hold of her wrists, which meant they were twisted somewhat uncomfortably. But he didn’t let go. His face was against the side of her head and he could feel her body tightly-wound against him, still struggling with all of the power left in her small body.

  “I will not let you kill yourself,” he hissed. “Are you so foolish and weak that you believe killing yourself will end your torment? What awaits you in Death is far worse than what ails you in life.”

  When the grunting and screaming died down, the sobs began to come. She was so close to him, tucked up against his chest with her head against his face, and amidst his anger and concern, he couldn’t help but think how warm and supple she felt. Her hair, strands of blond so silken that they were as soft as feathers, was splayed on his arms and shoulders. He could smell the faint scent of violets.

  It would have been a consuming and wonderful sensation had he not been so bloody furious. As she wept uncontrollably, he squeezed her in his iron grip.

  “Do you hear me?” he was less hissing, more of a whisper now. “If you kill yourself, God will punish you for all eternity. Is that what you wish? To know eternal torment because of your weak soul?”

  She suddenly came alive; lifting her head, she butted him in the nose, causing him to see stars. But he kept his grip on her as she struggled to get a hand free to strike him. The wildcat was making a return.

  “You know nothing,” she spat. “You spout pious words yet you know nothing. Eternal damnation or eternal shame are my only choices; which would you choose, sir knight, or are you too pure to have ever been faced with such sorrow that it would tear away at your very soul?”

  He hauled her up in his arms and turned around, beginning the trek back to the keep.

  “At least I am not weak enough to try and kill myself,” he said. “I have had enough of this behavior, lady; if you cannot restrain yourself and deal with your demons accordingly, then I shall chain you to the walls of the vault until this madness passes. I will not have your blood on my hands.”

  She kicked at him, managing to make contact with his kneecap. Without his armor, Weston was vulnerable and he grunted in pain. Shifting his grip yet again, he turned her sideways so her feet were away from his vulnerable knees.

  “If that is all you are concerned with, I absolve you,” she grunted and twisted. “My actions are my own and you are not accountable.”

  “I am the commander of Hedingham which means I am indeed accountable no matter what you say. Your brother will believe I murdered you.”

  “My brother is an idiot,” she snapped. “He is a self-centered fool and I hate him for leaving me to the mercy of barbarians.”

  He couldn’t argue with her on that point; she was mostly correct. But he wasn’t finished with her yet.

  “You will answer me,” he commanded in a low, even tone as they began to cross the cold, snowy lower bailey. “I will have your word that you will not make any more attempts on your life or I will lock you in the vault and throw away the key. Is that in any way unclear?”

  Amalie was beyond madness at that point; she was exhausted, freezing and wildly emotional. Her struggles increased.

  “I do not hold to honor with any Bolingbroke bastard,” she hissed. “I will make no such promises to you.”

  It was strong language, something that deeply displeased him. Instead of taking Amalie back up to her room at the top of Hedingham’s towering keep, he trudged across the freezing bailey with her and to the enormous gatehouse which provided the link between the upper and lower baileys.

  As Weston carried her across the snowy grounds, Amalie struggled and fought, eventually freeing one her hands and managing to slash him across the face. It was a brutal battle as he entered the gatehouse and was shown the stairs to the vault by a startled guard.

  Weston managed to push his way down the narrow stairs with his struggling catch, entering the first of two open cells and, after much struggle, anchoring both of her wrists to heavy, rusty chains against the wall. But she still tried to kick him so he had the guard chain her ankles together. Only when she was completely contained did he take a look at her slit wrist; it was oozing but not life threatening. He ordered the guard to wrap the wrist and secure the lady for the night.

  Weston stood back and watched as the guard carried out his command. The lady tried to scratch him, too, when he came close. When the wrist was finally bound with a strip of linen, the guard left the cell under orders to retrieve blankets for the lady’s bed and to let Heath know that she had been found.

  The guard passed off the torch to
Weston, who stood near the open cell door with the heavily smoking wood in his hand, watching the lady as she settled down out of pure exhaustion.

  Amalie could see him from the corner of her eye, standing there with the only source of heat and light in the vault and wondering what kind of lecture she was about to receive. It was her second attempt and he had caught her again so she was sure there would be some reprimand in that. He would never trust her again; that was for certain. He could have easily left her alone at this point but for some reason, he lingered.

  When he shifted on his big legs, she snapped at him out of pure fatigue. She couldn’t take the silence any longer, waiting for the verbal lashing that was undoubtedly to come.

  “Now you have chained me as a prize,” she muttered. “Go and leave me alone. You need not worry over your reputation tonight, sir knight. I will not damage your good name.”

  Weston didn’t say anything for a few moments. He just stood there. Then, she heard joints popping as he moved over to her, crouching a few feet away. She instinctively flinched when she realized he was close to her again, as if preparing for another go-around. But he didn’t move towards her nor did he say a word; he just stared at her. Amalie avoided looking at him until she could no longer stand it.

  When their eyes met, bright green against dark blue, she felt a jolt. She found herself studying his face purely out of curiosity, the square cut of his jaw and the dimples carved deep into each cheek. He had full lips and wide-set, murky blue eyes. He was, in truth, excruciatingly handsome if one liked that type. But Amalie would not accept or acknowledge an attraction of any sort, not to any man much less a Bolingbroke knight. After an eternity of staring at each other, she averted her gaze and closed her eyes.

  “Do not sit there and stare at me,” she whispered. “Go away and leave me alone.”

  Weston didn’t abide by her wishes. He continued to stare at her, as if the sheer force of his gaze could cause him to understand such a woman. But he gleaned no such knowledge; instead, his intense gaze succeeded in stimulating his interest. She was such an exquisite beauty, a woman of unnatural splendor. He tried to remember if he’d ever heard of Robert de Vere’s angelic sister but he couldn’t recall if he’d ever heard such tale. It was a pity; a woman with this magnificence should have her name written in the stars.