by Alexa Aston
“I’m sorry that your father removed you from Lord Herry’s service. You could have learned much from him.”
“You know him?” Hardie’s eyes lit up.
“Aye. Lord Herry is a great warrior. One of the best in all of England.”
“Father would kill me if he knew I were here.”
“Nay, Hardie. You are his heir. Blood of his blood. You will have the title and Winterbourne one day. He would not harm you.”
“He would certainly punish me.”
Geoffrey offered a small smile as he planted his first seed. “Then I suppose you’ll have to be careful whenever you come to visit me.”
Hardie scowled. “Why should I visit you? You killed my brother.” He kicked his boot aimlessly, staring down at the ground.
“Look at me, Hardie.” Geoffrey’s firm tone was one he’d used to command others.
Slowly, the boy’s head rose.
“I will tell you how your brother died. ’Twas not a hero’s death but a coward’s. He betrayed king and country to our enemies.”
Geoffrey took his time painting the story of Barrett’s betrayal. When he finished talking, Hardie could not hide his horror. Even the boy’s posture became defeated, knowing his brother had been executed as a traitor in front of the Black Prince.
“Because your father had been far from these events and only arrived with the Duke of Lancaster and his army, your family was spared. Usually, a traitor’s lands and title revert to the king while his family lives in shame and poverty.”
“I hated Barrett,” Hardie revealed. “He was cruel to me. He never treated me as a brother should.” He gripped the bars, his knuckles turning white. “I’m glad you discovered his treachery, Geoffrey.”
Just to hear his name spoken aloud seemed like manna from Heaven. For the first time, Geoffrey experienced a glimmer of hope. He could draw this boy to his side. He must carefully cultivate their friendship.
“I hope you’ll grow into a better man than your brother or father, Hardie.”
Chapter 11
Kinwick Castle—May, 1363
“Tilda, give the king’s messenger food and drink. I’ll read his missive and compose my answer.”
Merryn left the great hall and returned to the bedchamber she had shared with Geoffrey for less than a day. The one night they had spent as man and wife in it haunted her to this day.
She knew what Edward’s letter would contain before she even broke the seal.
Ferand had insisted on writing the king a month after Geoffrey disappeared. He wanted to keep his liege informed. The king had visited Kinwick twice since then, both times while on summer progress, with his full court in tow. He’d instantly taken to Merryn because they shared a love of history. During long walks together, they’d discussed England’s past and what the king wanted for its future.
She broke the seal and spread the missive across the small table.
My dear Lady Merryn—
I hope this finds you in both good health and high spirits. I myself feel a few creaks in my knees. I should, I suppose. ’Tis not every day a man reaches two score and ten as I have.
I write to tell you that I shall return on summer progress and will stop at Kinwick to call upon you. I bring with me a knight I should like you to meet. His name is Sir Symond Benedict, and he has served me faithfully in my royal guard. You might recall him from my last sojourn at your lovely estate.
You know the time has come, my lady. I have not pressed you, knowing your sorrow and wanting to give you ample time to grieve. But I insist you make a marriage and find some happiness for yourself. Seven years is a long time to mourn a husband of one day.
Benedict would make a good partner. He is courteous and respectful, though I believe you would be the more intelligent one in this match.
All I ask is that you think upon it. We can discuss it together when I next see you.
I receive excellent reports of the wonderful work you do at Kinwick. The wise decisions you make. How your crops thrive. And of your healing hands. I may ask you to make me some of your special remedy that soothes the aching in my head from time to time. I have run out of the last batch you so kindly provided me with on my last visit.
I shall make my way to Kinwick next month, arriving in mid to late June. Till then, my lady.
Merryn pushed the parchment aside. She did remember Sir Symond Benedict. The one time Edward had motioned him over for them to speak, he’d turned bright red, as red as his hair and beard. The soldier was Geoffrey’s opposite in every way, from coloring and size to personality. She wondered if the king wished this man to be her husband for that very reason, so no resemblance would remind her of her beloved Geoffrey.
Merryn realized that the king had been more than patient with her. Most widows remarried quickly under his order. Only their friendship had saved her from doing so.
Though she knew it was time to move on, not a day went by that her heart didn’t cry out for Geoffrey. She fingered the sapphire brooch pinned to her cotehardie, affixed next to her heart. It remained a daily reminder of her husband and his love for her.
And the king was wrong. It wasn’t a husband of a single day that she mourned. It was her best friend of many years. The man she’d waited for years to marry. The husband who’d introduced her to passion and love.
The only man who would ever hold her heart.
Tears wet her eyes. She had too much to do and too many people dependent upon her. She believed crying to be a sign of weakness, though she had wept a river of tears in those first weeks as they’d scoured the countryside for Geoffrey.
Merryn flung herself onto the bed and sobbed. She was breaking in two, once more. Though she clung to her faith, she could not understand why God had taken her beloved.
Spent, she dried her tears. Merryn composed a response to the king, telling him of her delight at his upcoming visit. Promising to serve his favorite dishes, she told him she looked forward to a private discussion with him and shared her interest in talking with Sir Symond Benedict, if it pleased the king.
Merryn made no promise to take this man in wedlock, but she knew that by the time Edward moved on from Kinwick, a new husband would be in her bed.
She sealed the letter and returned to the great hall where she found the king’s messenger finishing a meal. Merryn caught his eye and he came to her at once.
“Here is my reply to the king.”
“I will leave at once, my lady.” He bowed and left.
Tilda joined her then. Hugh had been kind enough to allow Tilda to come to Kinwick in those first bleak months when Merryn had been out of her head with grief. Having the familiar servant nearby eased her. She was fond of the old woman. Tilda mothered her sometimes as if she still were a child.
Thinking of Hugh, Merryn told Tilda, “I need to look in on Milla. Her eyes are most weepy now that spring has arrived. I have a new concoction that should bring her some comfort.”
“I’m afraid Lady Milla will be weepy until she gives your brother a child.”
“Sometimes a child is a long time in coming,” Merryn said. “Look at Geoffrey. His two sisters were born half a score before he was. Lady Elia had given up hope of bearing a son when God blessed her with a child again. Mayhap the same will happen for Hugh and Milla.”
Merryn had learned to speak Geoffrey’s name calmly, despite the hurt that it caused her. Yet, she brought him up in casual conversation from time to time. She did not want to forget him.
Her mother-in-law appeared in the doorway and came straight to her.
“A messenger from Winterbourne brought this,” Elia said. “He said no reply was expected.”
Merryn accepted the letter. “I wonder what the earl might want.”
The family at Kinwick Castle had never been close to those at Winterbourne, so any contact was unusual. Merryn broke the seal and scanned the contents.
“It seems Lord Berold has passed on,” she shared with Elia. “A funeral mass is scheduled on
the morrow. The new earl would like us to attend.” She thought a moment. “What was the boy’s name? I met him years ago.”
Merryn remembered the only time she had traveled to Winterbourne. They had gone there as they searched for Geoffrey. Lord Berold had briefly introduced the boy, who’d slipped from the room as they spoke. She had supposed he was shy and uncomfortable with strangers.
“Hardwin,” Elia replied. “I remember names if not faces. And the boy is a man now. He’s to be married soon or so I’m told.”
*
Merryn sat in the chapel with Lady Elia, her brother, and his wife. She found it odd the two families so rarely had contact. Next to Hugh and Milla at Wellbury, Winterbourne was the closest estate to Kinwick.
She glanced over at Hugh, handsome as always. Milla sat on his other side, her red nose dripping as it always did in springtime. Poor Milla’s eyes watered constantly as she dabbed at them. Merryn prayed every morning at mass for them to be blessed with children.
And for Geoffrey to come home to her.
Her attention turned to the new earl. She barely recognized Hardwin from their only meeting. He’d grown much taller and his face had matured. She hoped they would be able to share a word of comfort with him once the funeral mass ended.
Merryn’s mind wandered as the proceedings went on. She wondered if she should have had some kind of mass for Geoffrey. It was so hard. He was neither alive nor dead, almost as if he’d been in Purgatory all these years.
Just as she had been.
Yet, in her heart, Merryn believed she would have sensed his death. Others might call her foolish, but she had faith that, one day, Geoffrey would walk through the doors of the great hall and all would be well again.
She pinched herself, forcing the fantasy to fade. She must prepare herself for the king’s upcoming visit. And make a decision regarding Sir Symond Benedict.
The mass ended. The priest announced there would be food and drink served in the great hall, but Merryn was in no mood to stay.
She leaned toward her brother. “Let us offer our condolences to the new earl and be off.”
He nodded and escorted the women toward Lord Hardwin.
“We are sorry for your loss, my lord,” Merryn said. “It’s never easy to lose a beloved family member.”
“You understand loss, my lady,” the new earl said, his eyes locked on hers.
His words took her aback, but she recovered. “Yes. I do. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish for my husband to be back at my side.” She fingered her brooch absently.
“’Tis a lovely piece you wear,” the nobleman told her. “Are those sapphires?”
“Aye. Geoffrey found it for me in France. ’Twas his wedding gift to me.” Her eyes closed for a minute and she was back in time when he presented the bridal gift to her. She opened them again, forcing herself back into reality.
“We must be off, my lord. Please let us know if there is anything we may do for you.”
His gaze held hers. “Thank you, Lady Merryn. And mayhap, one day, I can return the favor.”
Chapter 12
“Nine-hundred-ninety-nine. One thousand.”
Geoffrey dropped his arm back against his side. He’d finished rubbing his shackled right hand against the stone wall the prescribed one thousand times. He did this each day with both his cuffed wrists and ankles, hoping to wear through the iron.
It never worked.
But it was a part of a routine that helped keep him sane.
He moved his limbs as much as he could so that they would not grow weak from disuse. He had hours to spend with only himself and it gave him time to reflect upon his life.
Though Geoffrey had enjoyed every aspect of being a knight, some of the happiest hours in his life had been when his father sent him to a monastery one summer. Ferand thought it would benefit his son to learn humility and servitude from the monks to better serve the king and others. Not only had Geoffrey learned these lessons, but his thirst for knowledge had been satisfied.
Tutors had taught him Latin as a boy and the monks spoke and prayed in the language. Geoffrey had pored over illuminated manuscripts for hours, soaking in the text. Now in his prison cell, he remembered passages of what he had read and also chanted, something he hadn’t done since that long ago summer. The music soothed him in a way nothing else ever had.
A small part of him thought his life had been as golden as Job’s. He’d lost everything, yet retained an unshakeable faith in God. Geoffrey wished he could be more like that man of the Bible and stand up to the tribulation he now endured. He tried his best to keep from losing faith and prayed for strength and forgiveness. Though he’d been abandoned and left on his own, thanks to Berold’s cruelty, Geoffrey clung to his trust in God.
Some of his favorite things to think about were the stories his father told him as a child. The de Montforts treasured not only learning but an oral tradition, where the father passed down stories to his children. Geoffrey let his mind wander as he relived parts of The Iliad, which had been his favorite as a boy. He became Odysseus and saw countless adventures that helped pass the time.
But most of all? He daydreamed of a life with Merryn.
He tried to limit the amount of time he thought about her. If he didn’t, he would have been driven mad long ago.
The earl brought him small portions of food on a regular basis, usually when light first appeared in the slits above the cell each day. Occasionally, the nobleman skipped a day. Geoffrey believed Berold missed feeding him on feast days as an extra punishment.
That had occurred enough times for Geoffrey to know that time marched on.
That, and seeing Hardie grow.
The boy had been ten and two when Geoffrey had been locked away in this prison. Now, Hardie had grown in height and filled out considerably. His limbs and bearing were that of a grown man.
Geoffrey refused to ask Hardie his age, for it would only tell him how long he’d been in this oblivion.
He’d done his best to gain Hardie’s confidence. They’d actually become friends. The boy sneaked down to the dungeon several times a week, bringing him extra food. That had helped Geoffrey remain healthy. Geoffrey knew to keep his tattered cloak tightly about him. He didn’t want Berold to see he had some meat on his bones. Not that the earl could see much in the dim light from the single torch he brought when he visited.
The rest of the time, Geoffrey lived in darkness.
Hardie even brought a blanket every now and then, and Geoffrey would sleep on top of it. Even in the warmest times, the dungeon floor was cold to the touch. The dampness seeped into his lungs, making it painful to breathe at times. He made sure to hide the blanket behind him during the earl’s daily visit.
But no matter how he tried, the boy wouldn’t defy his father and free him. Geoffrey’s continued pleas fell on deaf ears. He realized that Berold had a stranglehold on his only surviving son. Hardie seemed paralyzed with fear whenever Geoffrey mentioned the earl’s name. The boy wasn’t willing to suffer whatever consequences Berold would mete out in retaliation.
Geoffrey looked out the bars to the spot where the key hung, tantalizing him every waking moment. Even if by some miracle he could break free of his restraints, he still had the iron bars of his cell to contend with. And if he found a way from the dungeon, how would he get through Winterbourne unseen?
He pushed the futile thoughts aside and envisioned Kinwick, instead. He walked through the castle daily, from the stores where grain and barrels of ale and wine were kept to the highest turret. He visited the stables and thought of the horses kept in their stalls. He roamed the land, visiting each tenant’s cottage, holding conversations with them, asking about their children and the needs they had.
Sometimes, he allowed Merryn to go with him. They would walk hand-in-hand through the castle, exploring various rooms. She would take him to where the healer had gathered different herbs and describe to him what each could do for an ailment. They would go down to the stabl
es and feed Mystery and Destiny some small treat before they went riding.
He loved riding together through the meadow or woods. Sometimes, he took them to visit Hugh at Wellbury. He even imagined a bride for Hugh. He danced with Merryn in his arms at Hugh’s wedding, then raised a cup toasting her beauty and wit.
And on very special occasions, he would allow himself to remember what it was like to make love with his wife. He relived the night of their marriage over and over again. Touching her silken hair. Stroking the smooth curve of her hips. Entering her and bringing her to the heights of pleasure.
Geoffrey never thought of the hunting lodge.
He’d wanted it to be their special place. But after what had happened in the clearing, he couldn’t bring himself to imagine the place.
His stomach grumbled noisily. Berold had not come for three days. He wondered what feast day might be celebrated above stairs.
And a part of him feared that the earl might not ever come back. That he would slowly starve to death.
But he would die with Merryn’s name on his lips.
Wait.
The faint noise he’d grown to know so well sounded then. Berold—or possibly Hardie—opened the door at the top of the stairs. Within minutes, he would either glare at the earl in silence or enjoy a bit of conversation with the madman’s son.
Hardie arrived. He placed the torch in an empty sconce and moved toward the cell doors.
“I think you will like this.” He tossed something in. Geoffrey caught it.
Goose. He hadn’t had goose in some time. His stomach rumbled in need and appreciation. Without speaking, he bit into the bird. Though he wanted to devour it whole, he took his time and chewed slowly, relishing every bite.
Hardie watched him silently. When Geoffrey had finished, he tossed an apple and half a loaf of bread into the cell, along with several slices of cheese. It must be a feast day. He could not remember ever eating this well.
