Fearsome Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Garran pondered his father’s words. He knew the man was passionate about supporting Henry but he didn’t particularly want to get into an argument with him about it. They had differing philosophies.

  “Is that why you came, Papa?” he asked softly. “To scold me for siding with the de Sheras?”

  Bose shook his head. “Nay, my son,” he said. “I did not come to scold you. I have come for a reason more powerful than that. I have come to tell you that I will be sitting upon Henry’s council. The king has asked this of me and I have agreed. That being said, I have now come to ask you where your true loyalties lie. Do they lie with your family or with the House of de Shera?”

  The gentle expression faded from Garran’s expression. “What do you mean?”

  Bose lifted his black eyebrows. “Exactly that,” he said. “You know that I have tried to stay out of whatever was happening between Henry and de Montfort. I do not like power struggles but I also do not like to see a gang of sword-heavy barons threaten the king.”

  “We are not threatening him.”

  “Then what do you call it?” Bose wanted to know. “Your beloved de Shera brothers are inciting another Anarchy, just like the one that nearly destroyed this country when Stephen and Matilda were fighting, and if the de Sheras are fighting against Henry, that means you are fighting against Henry. If Henry pulls me into this war, which he has done, then it means you are fighting against me. Will you raise your sword against me, son?”

  Garran looked horrified. “Of course not.”

  Bose could see how upset Garran was becoming. He put his hand on the man’s cheek again to both comfort and calm him.

  “I am afraid it will come to that,” he admitted. “Henry has asked for my sword and I have sworn to give it.”

  Garran’s horror was growing. “No offense intended, but you are an old man, Papa,” he said. “You do not need to be fighting the king’s wars.”

  “Yet, I am,” Bose countered quietly. “He has asked and I have agreed. Now, I have come to tell you this personally. I have also come to ask you to side with your family and return with me to London. If you do not, then at some point, you and I will face each other in battle. I do not want this, Garran. It will surely kill me.”

  Garran’s onyx-colored eyes were filled with sorrow. He could hardly believe what he was hearing, yet upon reflection, he wasn’t surprised in the least. He was only surprised with the fact that it had taken his father this long to ask for his loyalty. Family or de Shera. Those were his choices. He was a man torn. With great effort, he stood up and moved away from the hearth, lost in thought.

  “I do not agree with the king’s politics, Papa,” he finally said. “How can I side with a man I do not agree with?”

  Bose watched his son carefully, the movements of a distraught man. “You are siding with me,” he insisted quietly. “I must support the king. You will support me and the de Moray name.”

  Garran shook his head. “It is not that easy and you know it,” he insisted. “I believe in what de Montfort is doing.”

  “Enough to side against your own father?”

  Garran sighed heavily, putting his hands to his face in a gesture of utter confusion and defeat. When he opened his eyes, all he could see was his father gazing back at him, with hope in his eyes, and he couldn’t stomach that look. He knew what he had to do, yet he also knew what he wanted to do, and they were two different things. Greatly torn, and greatly grieved, he went to his father and put his arms around the man’s shoulders.

  “Papa,” he whispered. “I would not raise a sword against you, but you must give me time to think about this. What you ask… it would be the greatest decision of my life.”

  Bose patted the arms that were around him. “I know,” he said. “It is not an easy choice, but you must decide what is more important to you – your family or your convictions. As much as I would convince you to come with me, ultimately, you must make the decision that is right for you. I understand that.”

  Garran lay his cheek on the top of his father’s head. “And if I choose to remain with the de Shera brothers? What then? Will you disown me?”

  Bose squeezed Garran’s arm. “I will not,” he confessed. “But my heart would be broken. Imagine if you were in my position, Garran. Would you not want for your son to be at your side in all things? That is what I want – I want my son back. I want you supporting me and supporting your family. I do not believe that is too much to ask.”

  Garran thought on the words. Nay, it was not too much to ask, but it was a decision that would change Garran’s life one way or the other. All he knew was that he could not lift his sword in battle against his father, yet he could not support a king he did not like. With a sigh, he kissed his father’s head and let him go.

  “I must think on it,” he said, moving away from the older man. “I cannot give you an answer right away. I must think on what you have said and reason it out in my own mind.”

  Bose watched his son as the man sat heavily on the small cot. “I am leaving Oxford tomorrow morning,” he said quietly. “I would like you to leave with me, so do not wait too long to give me your answer.”

  Garran felt dull inside, dull and torn. His mind was in turmoil as he glanced up at his father. “Why so soon?” he said. “You can make it to London in plenty of time if you wait a day or two to leave Oxford.”

  Bose shook his head. “I am meeting up with Grayson de Winter and his sons,” he replied. “You know Grayson and Davyss and Hugh, of course.”

  “I do.”

  “Grayson has asked that I join with them in two days just outside of London. I have agreed.”

  It was more stunning news. The de Winters were the muscle for the crown, much as the de Sheras were the muscle for de Montfort. Now, Garran’s father was going to be part of the king’s muscle, too. Garran simply shook his head, astonished.

  “You know that Grayson and Davyss are very close to the de Sheras,” he said. “Grayson de Winter is Gallus’ godfather and Davyss is Gallus’ best friend. And now you join them?”

  Bose nodded faintly. “I do,” he said. “My son, as I said before, you do not have to agree with Henry’s philosophies. I am not even sure I do. But the crown must be kept intact from these men who are attempting to destroy it. To destroy Henry will destroy England. Is that what you want? More anarchy and a fractured country?”

  Garran wasn’t sure what he wanted. It was too much information, too much to think about, and his mind was reeling. He lifted his hands, shaking his head as if to ward off what his father was telling him.

  “You must give me time to think,” he begged softly. “Can we not put this aside for a few hours and share a meal? I would like to hear of my mother and sisters. I miss them. Can we not speak on more pleasant things, at least for the next few hours?”

  Bose relented, mostly because he didn’t want to force Garran into making a quick decision that they would both regret. He had said all he wanted to say and there was nothing more he could do. Garran would either side with him or he wouldn’t. So he nodded, smiling weakly.

  “This place has terrible food and even worse company,” he said. “We should go somewhere with better food and less whores.”

  Garran burst out chuckling. “Why did you pick this place to stay, anyway?” he wanted to know. “This is the worst tavern in the city.”

  Bose shrugged. “I was tired when we arrived in town and this was available,” he said. “But if I receive another proposition by a woman who wants to kiss me where I pee, then I will collect all of my possessions and flee the city entirely. But please do not ever tell your mother I stayed here. She would then kick me where I pee and I should be a very sad man.”

  Garran was laughing so hard that he could barely breathe. His father was usually such a stately, austere man that to hear him speak so crudely, and so humorously, was one of the best things he had ever experienced. He put his hands to his face as he howled with laughter.

  “You are becoming
very funny in your old age, Papa,” he snorted, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Very well, then. We shall find a better place to eat with less whores. I do not want Mother to go on a rampage against you. Shall we invite Tiberius to go with us?”

  Bose was standing up, laboriously, as his old muscles tended to tighten up on him. “Of course,” he replied. “I rather like young Tiberius. He is a wise and witty man.”

  Garran sobered as he helped his father gain his cloak. “Aye, he is,” he replied, thinking on the de Shera brothers, men he was very attached to. “He is a good friend.”

  They were heading for the door when Bose stopped, putting a hand on Garran’s arm. His expression was sincere in its sorrow and resolve.

  “Please know that I am sorry I had to come to Oxford with all of this,” he said quietly. “I would not have come had I not felt strongly about it.”

  Garran gazed into the face of the man he loved very, very much. “I know,” he muttered. “But let us not speak on it, at least for the afternoon. I want to become reacquainted with my papa again without the threat of war hanging over our heads.”

  “Agreed.”

  With that, Garran and Bose headed out into the corridor, finding Tiberius standing over near the old staircase. Tiberius went along with the de Morays as they went in search of a better place to feast, having no idea what had transpired between father in son. It was better that way. Had he known, he would have been just as unhappy as Garran was.

  This was a situation that no one could win.

  CHAPTER NINE

  She is an angel.

  That was what Maximus was thinking as he walked down the avenue with Courtly on his arm. He had returned to the bath house promptly an hour later, with a good deal of food, only to be met in the reception room by the most Godly angel he had ever laid eyes on. Dressed in a gown the color of amber, it was silky, simply cut, and emphasized everything good about her. She looked absolutely magnificent.

  And she smelled strongly of lemon and lavender. It was exhilarating. With her clean hair, braided and styled, and a scrubbed face, Maximus knew, at that moment, that he had passed beyond simple infatuation with the woman. He was entering a realm he’d never before entered, something deeper and more meaningful. But it scared him, and thrilled him, so much to think about it, that he wouldn’t verbalize it, even to himself. He simply settled down to enjoy the view.

  So he took her in one hand and her possessions in the other, and went outside to find a place to eat the food he had brought. Somewhere down towards the big square where the church was located, he found a small garden between buildings that had a bench made from rough-hewn logs. Putting their meal of bread, fried pork, and little pies made from meat and raisins onto the bench, he set Courtly down beside it and they both plowed into the food, starving.

  “A lovely meal, Maximus,” Courtly said after swallowing her first gratifying bite. “Are you fond of fried pork, then? Some people do not like it because it is dry and crispy.”

  Standing over Courtly, Maximus had a mouthful. “I adore it,” he said, chewing. “My mother, much like you, learned the art of cooking. When I was very young, she would have the cook fry pork skin in lard and it would puff up, crispy and delicious. She would make other things, too.”

  Courtly was shoving the soft center of the bread into her mouth, being careful not to get crumbs on her dress. “Like what?” she asked curiously.

  Maximus thought as he chewed the pork. “Well,” he said reluctantly, eyeing her as he chewed. “I will not tell you unless you promise not to laugh at me.”

  Already, Courtly was grinning but she fought it. “I swear.”

  “Swear again.”

  “I do,” she said sincerely. “A million times, I do.”

  That was good enough for him and he shoved another piece of pork into his mouth. “As I said, my mother has collected many recipes over the years,” he said. “My older brother has a favorite – Cheese pie. My mother would make it for him quite a lot. As for me, I too had a favorite dish – a tart that she would call ‘Maxi’s Tart’. I do not even know if it has a real name because she always called it my tart, but it is onions boiled in beef broth and then mixed with butter, salt, cheese, raisins, and spices. It is baked in a crust and is absolutely delicious.”

  Courtly went back on her promise and grinned at him. “It sounds wonderful,” she said. “Mayhap your mother will give me the recipe if I ask her.”

  Maximus’ good humor took a hit. “That would be very difficult,” he said, his tone considerably softer. “She has been quite ill for the past month. She does not seem to awaken any longer. She simply sleeps.”

  Courtly sobered dramatically. “Oh, Max,” she breathed softly. “I am so very sorry to hear that. Where is she?”

  “At Isenhall Castle, my brother’s seat.”

  Courtly’s brow furrowed as she thought of Maximus’ mother dying without her sons around her. “Then why are you here?” she asked, though not unkindly. “I should think that if my father was ill, I would want to be by his side every moment.”

  Maximus nodded, sadly and wearily. “I am here because in my mother’s brief moments of consciousness,” he said, “she dictated that the good of the country was more important than sitting around, waiting for her to die. We had to come to Oxford after that. You see, my mother is not someone to be crossed. Had we not come to Oxford, I promise that she would have risen out of her deathbed to box our ears. But it was not an easy decision, I assure you.”

  Courtly was sad on his behalf. Speaking of his mother seemed to dampen his good humor significantly and for that she was sorry. Reaching out, she grasped his wrist, squeezing gently.

  “I am truly sorry,” she said. “I am sorry that you felt you had to come to Oxford rather than be with your mother. Will you be able to see her soon, I wonder?”

  Maximus felt her flesh against his like a searing brand. Her hand was soft and heated. He took it in his hand and lowered his big body onto an uprooted stump next to her. Still, he held her hand, gazing into her beautiful eyes.

  “When I go home, I want you to go with me,” he said, quite impulsively. “I will speak with your father today when I return you to Kennington. I want him to understand that I will marry you right away. I… I cannot explain myself any more than that. This is not impetuous or foolish, Courtly. I do not give my feelings away easily, but I know what I want. What I want is you.”

  Courtly couldn’t help the smile of genuine elation that crossed her features. “My heart is overjoyed,” she exclaimed. “I know that others would think you very hasty, but I do not. When you feel something very strongly, then it is the right decision for you.”

  “Then you agree?”

  Courtly gazed into the face of the man she knew she would marry. It was nearly too much happiness for her to digest. Was it really true? Was all of this truly happening? It seemed as if she were living a dream.

  “I do,” she murmured. “Indeed, I do.”

  “Then tell me how to approach your father. If he does not agree, I shall take you anyway, so it is best if he agrees. How can I accomplish this?”

  It was a complicated question, coming from a man who was unused to being denied his wants or wishes. She lowered her gaze, watching his big, rough hand as it toyed with her fingers. There was something so incredibly warm and safe about his touch, yet she knew they were hands that had killed. Everyone knew of Maximus de Shera and his reputation for being a ruthless battle lord. The Thunder Warrior, he was called. But at the moment, those hands were nothing short of tender. She must have been looking at him rather strangely because Maximus smiled when she didn’t answer him right away.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Why do you look at me so?”

  Embarrassed that she had been caught daydreaming, Courtly grinned. “I am sorry,” she said. “I do not mean to stare at you. But it was only this time yesterday when we met and now, already, you speak of marriage. I must say that when you make a decision, you move swiftly
with it. But what about your family? Mustn’t your brother and mother give permission? You are a great lord, Maximus. Surely there are protocols you must go through.”

  Maximus continued to caress her fingers even as he ate more fried pork. “Although my brother is the Earl of Coventry, I am a lord in my own right,” he said, chewing. “I am Baron Allesley, a title I inherited from my father. I have lands far to the north near Chester with two smaller, manor homes and a small castle that is manned by de Shera men as a garrison against the Welsh. The land is very rich, the soil good, so the crops are always plentiful. Moreover, the castle guards a road leading in and out of Wales, and tolls are taken. I have a very good income from my lands and will be able to provide extremely well for you, as my wife. As for me needing permission from my brother, I supposed that I do, but he will do whatever I want him to do. If I tell him I am to marry you, he will have no objections.”

  Courtly was rather surprised to hear all of this, although in hindsight, she should not have been. She knew the de Sheras were powerful. But she also knew that a title and lands would not overly persuade her father to give his permission to a marriage. In fact, she was fairly certain the title of Lord Allesley wouldn’t impress Kellen one bit.

  “If you say that is true, then I will believe you,” she said, “but I fear that my father will not think it so simple.”

  Maximus took a drink out of the wine bottle he had brought along. “And why not?” he asked. “I have everything he could possibly want in a good husband for his daughter.”

  Courtly nodded, sighing as she set down her food. She found she wasn’t particularly hungry any longer, thinking about her father and how he would surely reject Maximus’ offer of marriage. Knowing her father as she did, it was a given.

  “You would make any woman a fine and honorable husband,” she said, forcing a smile. “You are perfect in every way. But my father… I am not entirely sure what drives him but, as I told you, he has chased away every suitor I have ever had. Earlier today, I discovered that he has done the same thing to his sister, which is why she is a spinster. Or, at least, she blames my father for her state. I had no idea he had done that to her but I suppose I should have guessed something like that was amiss. My father and his sister cannot stand the sight of one another and surely there is a great reason behind that. Hatred such as that is not innate.”