Gates eyed the burly knight. “We have told more stories than you have,” he pointed out. “It is your turn to speak first this night, Bear. It is time for you to lay yourself open as the rest of us have.”
Stephan threw up his hands. “But I do not have as many stories as you three have,” he said. “I was holding the line while you were all off trying to outfight one another. The man with the greatest score of victories to impress the women with, eh?”
Gates and Alexander waved him off irritably as the four of them began moving towards the glowing entry to the hall. “There is nothing wrong with impressing women with tales of victory,” Gates insisted, “and if I do not have any, I simply make them up. I do not need to outfight anyone, and especially not you three whelps.”
Alexander cast him a long glance. “Then it must have been someone else I rode to help when his horse became mired in the mud at Poitiers.”
Gates scratched his chin. “You only imagined such a thing.”
“Did I?”
“If I say you did, then you did.”
Alexander laughed softly. “Next time, I shall let you sink.”
Gates grinned but didn’t respond; he didn’t acknowledge that Alexander had been forced to help him at Poitiers when he became stuck in the epic mud and quite possibly saved his life in doing so. The weather had been raining off and on for the past month and had created horrendous conditions at times, so to save his pride and not discuss what they all knew about de Lohr’s heroics, Gates changed the subject.
“What do you think de Lara will say if you tell him that I had my tongue cut out today?” he asked. “Do you think he will believe you and therefore not demand more stories from me since I will clearly be unable to speak?”
As Alexander and Stephan shook their heads, Tobias spoke in his youthful and animated way. “He would make you write them down if you lost the ability to speak,” he said. “He would make you draw pictures in the ashes. A missing tongue would not deter him from demanding stories.”
Gates grunted. “Then we must take control of the conversation,” he said as the entry to the hall loomed directly ahead now. “Do you think I can regale him with humorous tales instead?”
Alexander snorted. “You do not tell humorous tales, Gates.”
“I do so.”
Alexander rolled his eyes. “In case you have not yet discovered this about yourself, my darling lad, you are about as humorous as a barrel of dead babies,” he said. Then, he sighed heavily. “There is no hope for us tonight. God’s Bones, I think I feel an aching head coming on.”
“And I am quite positive that I have contracted the plague,” Alexander grumbled.
Stephan suddenly came to a halt and bent over, coughing violently although it was obvious that it was forced. “And I am, quite simply, dying,” he said as he stood up, putting a hand over his chest. “Give my apologies to Lord de Lara. Tell him that I may not make it through the night.”
It was a last-ditch effort from the knights to avoid going into the hall, now with the door right in front of them. Gates balled a fist at Stephan.
“And that outlook is guaranteed if you do not make your way into that hall under your own power,” he said, looking at Tobias and pointing to the open door. “Go. Your liege awaits and your foolish excuses will not prevent the inevitable.”
Stephan and Tobias made their way to the door as Gates and Alexander followed, although Alexander was dragging his feet. He was moving so slowly that he was holding Gates back, who put his hand on the man’s back and finally pushed.
“Move,” he growled. “Let us get this over with.”
Alexander grunted unhappily but complied. The great oak door swung open and he followed Stephan and Tobias into the hall, hit in the face, as they all were, with the warm, stale heat that came from overworked hearths and too many bodies.
The smell, like dogs and unwashed men, did nothing to deter the appetite. Already, there was a great deal of feasting happening at the two long, overused feasting tables and over near one of the two blazing hearths, men were playing a game of strength. There were two teams, men on each team all latched on to each other and then somewhere in the middle, the two teams came together by one man from each team grabbing hold of a man on the opposite team.
Then, they began to pull in a great tug-of-war, each team trying to pull the other team off its feet. As the knights wound their way deeper into the hall, they could see that one team had pulled the other team straight into the hearth, laughing when clothes were lit on fire.
Stephan pointed at the men who were beating the flames out of their sleeves and hair, grinning, as Gates and Alexander shook their head in disapproval. But the game was catching on, and more and more men were tugging at each other, trying to throw one another into the flames. Gates simply walked past it all, followed by Alexander, as Stephan and Tobias observed the antics. But then Alexander realized they were lagging behind because they didn’t want to sit with de Lara, so Alexander whistled between his teeth, catching their attention, and cast them a threatening expression that forced them to follow him. Soon, all four knights were approaching their liege.
The man was sitting at the end of the larger feasting table, gorging himself on boiled mutton that comprised the evening’s meal. His wife was not with him, as was usual, as Lady de Lara preferred to take her meals in her room and away from the loud and smelly men. She wasn’t one for socializing, anyway, and other than a glimpse now and again, no one had really ever seen her. She kept well to herself. Jasper de Lara, however, very much enjoyed the company of his men. He was still a handsome man at his advanced age, with graying blond hair and a bushy white and gray beard, now with spots of gravy on it. He was dressed heavily against the cold, in woolen tunics and a fur robe, and he smiled brightly when he saw his knights approach. He waved them forward.
“Ah!” he called out to them happily. “Come and sit, all of you. I thought you would never arrive! Wine!”
He bellowed the last word so loudly that Alexander, the closest to him, turned away and rubbed at his left ear, positive the eardrum was ruptured. Servants were running at the table from all directions, bringing cups and pitchers of the dark red wine that Jasper favored.
The knights sat around their liege as cups were placed in front of them and quickly filled, splashing red droplets onto the tabletop. Gates was just lifting his cup to his lips when he happened to catch movement next to his right arm. Turning, he found himself looking into familiar, sad, doggy eyes.
“Good evening to you, Jean,” he said to the massive black dog with a head the size of a cow’s skull. “I trust you have stayed away from the men trying to throw one another into the fire?”
He drank his wine as Jasper, across the table, laughed. “I named my dog after the French king so that I can order him about and be cruel to him,” he said, affectionately eyeing the mutt that weighed more than most grown women. “But I love Jean more than my own family, unfortunately. He is a loyal and true friend. He seems to have taken a great liking to you, Gates. He has seemed most attentive to you since your return.”
Gates eyed the dog, who was gazing back at him hopefully – hopeful that Gates would give him a scrap of food. Gates chuckled at the dog. “The dog has good taste,” he said, reaching out to pet the big, black head. “I had a dog once, as a lad. A Wolfhound, of course.”
He grinned at the play on his surname and the others chuckled. “My mother hates dogs,” Alexander said flatly, already nearly done with his first cup of wine. “We had cats and horses. Lots and lots of cats and horses.”
Jasper motioned for Alexander’s cup to be refilled immediately. “And your father did not take a stand against your mother?” he asked. “I find that astonishing. No house should be without dogs.”
Alexander held up his cup for his second helping of wine. “I agree,” he said. “Which is why when I inherit Lioncross Abbey, I will flood it with dogs. There will be herds of them all about the place and if my wife doesn’t
like it, then she can go find accommodations elsewhere.”
Jasper banged on the table. “Here, here,” he declared firmly. “I applaud your attitude. A house without dogs is no house at all.”
He drank deeply to his own toast as servants brought around the trenchers for the knights. The men dug into their food with gusto; in addition to the boiled mutton, which was heavily seasoned with pepper gravy, there were boiled carrots and a great portion of beans cooked in some kind of sauce. Along with the fresh bread and butter, it made for a fine meal and Gates was well into his food when he noticed a big dog head that was quite interested in his food as well. With a heavy sigh, Gates tore off mutton from the bone and fed it to Jean, one dog-bite for every two or three of his.
“Alexander, do you intend to leave for Lioncross soon?” Jasper asked as his men devoured their meal. “Your father loaned me about five hundred men last year when I was having some trouble with the Welsh. He also loaned me about fifty archers and some big wagons to carry supplies back and forth between my properties because the Welsh burned the last supply train I sent out. I should probably send the wagons and the men back to him when you leave.”
Alexander was slopping up peppery gravy with his bread. “I was planning on leaving as soon as the weather clears a bit,” he said. “It is a four-day ride to Lioncross but I would hate to get caught in a snowstorm. When it looks as if there will be more than a day of clear, I will take the chance and leave.”
Gates fed Jean the last of the fat off the bone. “I can go with you to help with the men and wagons,” he said. “I should like to pay my respects to your father and convey Lord de Lara’s thanks for the generous loan of the men.”
Before Alexander could reply, Jasper shook his head. “Nay, Gates,” he said. “I have other plans for you.”
Gates looked up from petting the dog on the side of his big head. “What is that?”
Jasper suddenly didn’t seem so jovial. His manner took a sharp turn and he seemed rather frustrated, in truth. He swallowed a mouthful of wine before speaking.
“My wife wants me to send men to St. Milburga’s Priory to retrieve our daughter,” he said. “Gates, do you remember Kathalin? Of course you do not. A foolish question. She had been sent to foster before you ever entered my service. Do you ever remember me telling you of her?”
Gates shook his head. “Nay, my lord,” he replied. “Other than a few mentions now and again, I do not know much about your daughter.”
Jasper grunted, scratching his ear in a decidedly unhappy gesture. “Nor do I,” he admitted. “She has been gone from me so long that I do not much remember the lass. My wife sent her away because she was never much good with young children around. Any manner of screaming or childhood drama would send the woman into fits, so, much as her brothers were, Kathalin was sent away to foster at five years of age. That was fourteen years ago. We have sent yearly donations to St. Milburga’s, of course, and we have paid well for her education there by the nuns, but we received a missive several months ago from the Abbess at St. Milburga’s informing us that Kathalin wishes to commit herself to the cloister. She asked for our blessing and permission to do so.”
The knights were listening with some interest because it was surprising to them that Jasper was speaking on something other than Poitiers and the wars in France. It was diversified dinner conversation that was a relief to them all.
“She wishes to become a nun?” Gates clarified. “It seems to me that if your daughter has been in a convent all of these years, then taking her vows would be a natural progression.”
Jasper lifted his eyebrows, holding up his cup to the nearest servant for more wine. “That was my thought as well,” he said, “although I had hoped to make a political match with her, marry her to a warlord somewhere. I suppose it is just as well that she remains in the convent and I do not have to supply her with a dowry. However, my wife does not want her to take her vows and has demanded I bring her home. Now, suddenly, she wants to be a mother to the girl. It is a stupid notion, I think. We do not even know the girl though she be our daughter. It seems like bringing a stranger back home.”
That was evidently the basis for the frustration he felt in the situation because he slurped up his wine and demanded more food, his manner growing agitated. Jasper only seemed fond of his dogs and sons and men, never the womenfolk in the family. It was apparent that he viewed his daughter’s return as the introduction of an unwanted element at Hyssington. He had little tolerance for women and their drama. Gates glanced at Alexander and Stephan before speaking.
“So you want me to ride to St. Milburga’s and escort her home?” he asked. “There is a St. Milburga’s in Ludlow, I believe.”
Jasper was already nodding. “That is where she is,” he said. “Take Stephan with you and fifty men. As you know, the Welsh have been launching raids along the Marches to steal what they can because of the harsh winter and I’ll not have my daughter become a captive in exchange for all of my food stores. I should have her well protected by an escort.”
Gates simply nodded. “Aye, my lord,” he said. “When shall I go?”
“Immediately. For all I know, she may have already taken her vows, so there is no more time to waste.”
“And if she has taken her vows, my lord?”
Jasper cast him a long look. “Get her out of that convent,” he said. “I do not care how you do it, but vows or no vows, she is to come home. This is not open to negotiation.”
Gates understood. He looked at Alexander. “My escort and I can come with you as far as Knighton where we will turn east for Ludlow,” he said. “Mayhap it would be best if we got an early start on the morrow.”
Just then, a roar of laughter and yelling rose up in the room and the knights turned to see that several soldiers had been pulled into one of the hearths. One man was running through the hall with his hair on fire whilst his friends tried to douse it. Alexander simply shook his head at the antics as he turned back to Gates.
“Mayhap we should make it the day after tomorrow,” he said, eyeing the room of drunken, and in some cases burning, soldiers. “I do not think my men will be in any shape to travel come the morrow.”
Gates could see his point. He turned back to his cup of wine, petting the dog next to him absently and coming to realize that he had just been given orders to violate the sanctity of a convent should Jasper’s daughter have already taken her vows. Not that it particularly bothered him; he’d done many things in his life that he wasn’t particularly proud of, actions that were a means to an end. But violating the sanctity of a priory was something altogether different.
Gates found himself hoping that the de Lara girl hadn’t taken her vows simply so he wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of breaking down the door to get at her. As he sat there and pondered what the future might bring, Jasper spoke up.
“Enough foolish talk,” he declared, his mood swinging back in the direction of joviality. “Let us speak on far more entertaining things, like Poitiers. Who will tell me more tales tonight? Bear, I have not heard nearly enough from you. What will you tell me of the last phase of fighting when both Jean and his son, Philip, were on the field? Where were you during this time?”
Stephan struggled not to show any measure of displeasure at his liege’s expected request. Dutifully, he thought back to that brutal and bloody day, thinking back to the friends he lost, to a close friend that had fought with him almost to the end only to be accidentally cut down by an English archer. It was a memory he did not wish to share but one that had him increasingly frustrated as de Lara pushed him for stories. Without the tact that his fellow knights had, Stephan was untried in keeping his thoughts buried.
Therefore, as de Lara pushed him beyond endurance, the entire story of his close friend dying in his arms with an arrow to the back of the neck came out and the disgust in the Battle of Poitiers was made clear by a man who did not wish to relive it, not even to his liege. It was a harrowing and painful story that
emerged, one without humor and by the time Stephan was finished telling it, de Lara was gazing back at him with a measure of shock and sorrow. Suddenly, there was no more joy in demanding stories from Poitiers for Jasper de Lara. Beyond the glory of the English victory were the stories of grief. That was what men on the battlefield truly felt.
Jasper learned, after that night, not to demand any more tales of Poitiers lest he hear stories like the one d’Avignon told him. Inevitably, it reminded Jasper of Roget’s death ten years earlier as the man had been impaled by a pike upon the muddy, violent fields of Crècy, a raw wound to Jasper’s memory that had never properly healed.
After that night and tales of Stephan’s dying friend, the raw wound bled openly once again.
And so did a father’s grieving heart.
CHAPTER TWO
St. Milburga’s Priory
Ludlow
Clang!
That was what the iron pot in her hand sounded like when it came into contact with a human skull. Trapped in the kitchen as an influx of Welsh raiders ran amok through the wing of the cloister, she’d had no choice but to fight back with the only weapons she could find. The Welsh didn’t seem to be interested in the women in particular, but more in the food or any valuables they could find. They shoved nuns aside or, in one case, barricaded the Mother Prioress in a closet by blocking the door, and ran through the cloister taking anything they could carry. On this day at St. Milburga’s, chaos reigned.
Until they came to the kitchen. A big, rectangular-shaped room with a dirt floor and enormous, bricked hearth, it was stocked with winter stores and there was a woman inside that had decided to fight back. Backed into a corner with a handled iron pot in her hand, the young woman in charge of the kitchen was dressed in the rough, brown woolen garments of a novice nun but possessed silky dark hair and brilliant blue eyes that lauded astounding beauty normally not usually seen in the cloister. But that beauty was marred with anger on this day and she had swung the pot at the invaders for all she was worth. Smack! A hit against a hand and men would howl.
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