Medieval Romantic Legends
Page 37
“God’s Beard, Summer,” he croaked. “Why… why did not you send word? Why did not you demand I return home, to be with you while you…?”
“Because you would have been absolutely useless,” she said, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “Look at you now; I am fine, the babe is fine, and still you look as if you are seeing ghosts. Believe me when I tell you that you would not have survived my night of labor.”
Near the bed, Bose collapsed on the edge, staring at the small, squirming bundle in his wife’s arms as if unsure of the truth of the matter. As if hardly believing all had happened as it should, a healthy wife and a healthy child. Summer smiled at his disbelief and patted the bed beside her.
“Do not sit so far away,” she commanded quietly. “Come and sit with us.”
Woodenly, obediently, he rose and moved around the bed, staring down at the two human beings most precious to him. After a brief, hesitant moment, he lowered himself carefully beside his wife and son.
“Hold out your arms,” Summer commanded, preparing to hand over the child. “He shall not bite you, Bose. H-Hold out your arms, I say.”
He extended his hands awkwardly, unsure of himself. “I have… I have never held an infant before, Summer. God’s Beard, what if I drop him? What if I crush him?”
She laughed, listening to Artur and the knights titter. “He shall scream like a banshee if he’s not comfortable. You w-worry overmuch, husband. Now fold your arms; that’s right.”
With a good deal of coaching, Bose finally placed his arms in the correct position and Summer neatly deposited the tiny bundle in the crook of his left elbow. Peeling back the swaddling, Bose was blessed with the first glimpse of his squirming, fat-cheeked son.
“Oh, Summer,” he breathed, his uncertainty and surprise being replaced by awe. “He’s marvelous. Absolutely marvelous.”
Summer’s eyes were filled with tears as she watched her husband’s expression. “Indeed, darling,” she stroked his clammy black hair, feeling her strength return by the mere sight and smell of him. “Since you refused to discuss names, I was forced to choose a proper title without your consent.”
Bose watched the infant as he suckled on his fingers. “I apologize for my reluctance,” he offered feebly. “I… I was afraid to. Afraid to hope that our child would not live long enough to be named and afraid that you would not live long enough to name it.”
She shushed him softly, kissing his ear. “I know,” she whispered. “There is no need to explain your fears to me, darling. But I refuse to hear any c-complaints should my choice not be to your liking.”
“As long as it isn’t Kermit.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Nay, husband, I have spared you such embarrassment of a first name. But have no doubt my son will bear the name somehow.”
He smiled for the first time since returning home, his face soft with enchantment as he continued to gaze at the bundled infant. “Anything you choose is fine, love, truly. I swear I’ll not dispute you.”
Summer watched his features carefully as she replied. “I rather like your father’s name, Garret, but I wanted to honor my brother as well. Stephan has meant a good deal to us both,” gazing down at the fair baby’s face, she ran her finger along a silken cheek. “Therefore, I have decided to name your son Garran. Master Garran Kermit de Moray.”
Bose gazed down at the rosy face, more wonder and joy and contentment filling him than he ever thought possible. All of his fears, his pain and his sorrows were fading rapidly until he could scarcely recall the feelings that had been a part of him for more years than he cared to count. For within his arms lay the catalyst to a greater healing and sitting beside him on the massive bed lay the very key to his heart.
A key that would give him eight more children in the years to come. All of the Gorgon’s children would grow to see adulthood and seven would live to fight alongside their mighty father. But for now, there was no more misery and no more sorrow. No more woes to plague him.
Finally, the Gorgon had found peace.
The End
The Great Knights of de Moray Series is connected with Stephen of Pembury, the hero of The Savage Curtain. Bose is the great-grandfather os Stephen of Pembury.
Click here to purchase The Savage Curtain on Amazon:
The Savage Curtain on Amazon
Bose de Moray also makes an appearance in The Thunder Warrior.
Click here to purchase The Thunder Warrior on Amazon:
The Thunder Warrior on Amazon
The heroine of The Thunder Knight, Douglass de Moray, is Bose de Moray’s daughter.
Click here to purchase The Thunder Knight on Amazon:
The Thunder Knight on Amazon
For more information on other series and family groups, as well as a list of all of Kathryn’s novels, please visit her website at www.kathrynleveque.com.
About Kathryn Le Veque
Medieval Just Got Real.
KATHRYN LE VEQUE is a USA Today bestselling author, an Amazon All-Star author, and a #1 bestselling, award-winning, multi-published author in Medieval Historical Romance and Historical Fiction. She has been featured in the NEW YORK TIMES and on USA TODAY’s HEA blog along with numerous other publications and blogs.
In September 2014, Kathryn was the 41st MOST READ author on Amazon. She is extremely prolific with over 60 published novels.
You can find Kathryn at all major retailers. Please visit Kathryn Le Veque’s website for a complete list of books and ordering information.
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The Lion of Wales
Sarah Woodbury
Copyright © 2011 by Sarah Woodbury
Cover by Flip City Books
The Lion of Wales
A tale of timeless love, heroic courage … and a race to change the course of destiny itself. I couldn’t put it down. This is King Arthur as you’ve never seen him before. –Anna Elliott, author of the Twilight of Avalon trilogy.
By the autumn of 537 AD, all who are loyal to King Arthur have retreated to a small parcel of land in north Wales. They are surrounded on all sides, heavily outnumbered, and facing near certain defeat.
But Myrddin and Nell, two of the king’s companions, have a secret that neither has ever been able to face: each has seen that on a cold and snowy day in December, Saxon soldiers sent by Modred will ambush and kill King Arthur.
And together, they must decide what they are willing to do, and to sacrifice, to avert that fate.
The Lion of Wales is available on Amazon as three individual novellas: Cold My Heart, The Oaken Door, and Of Men and Dragons.
The Lion of Wales Series:
Cold My Heart
The Oaken Door
Of Men and Dragons
A Long Cloud
Books in the After Cilmeri Series:
Daughter of Time (prequel)
Footsteps in Time (Book One)
Winds of Time
Prince of Time (Book Two)
Crossroads in Time (Book Three)
Children of Time (Book Four)
Exiles in Time
Castaways in Time
Ashes of Time
Warden of Time
Guardians of Time
The Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mysteries:
The Bard’s Daughter
The Good Knight
The Uninvited Guest
The Fourth Horseman
The Fallen Princess
The Unlikely Spy
The Lost Brother
The Renegade Merchant
The Last Pendragon Saga:
The Last Pendragon
The Pendragon’s Quest
The Paradisi Chronicles:
Erase Me Not
A Brief Guide to Welsh Pronunciation
c a hard ‘c’ sound (Cadfael)
ch a non-English sound as in Scottish ‘ch’ in ‘loch’ (Fychan)
dd a buzzy ‘th’ sound, as in ‘there’ (Ddu; Gwynedd)
f as in ‘of’ (Cadfael)
ff as in ‘off’ (Gruffydd)
g a hard ‘g’ sound, as in ‘gas’ (Goronwy)
l as in ‘lamp’ (Llywelyn)
ll a breathy ‘sh’ sound that does not occur in English (Llywelyn)
rh a breathy mix between ‘r’ and ‘rh’ that does not occur in English (Rhys)
th a softer sound than for ‘dd,’ as in ‘thick’ (Arthur)
u a short ‘ih’ sound (Gruffydd), or a long ‘ee’ sound (Cymru—pronounced ‘kumree’)
w as a consonant, it’s an English ‘w’ (Llywelyn); as a vowel, an ‘oo’ sound (Bwlch)
y the only letter in which Welsh is not phonetic. It can be an ‘ih’ sound, as in ‘Gwyn,’ is often an ‘uh’ sound (Cymru), and at the end of the word is an ‘ee’ sound (thus, both Cymru—the modern word for Wales—and Cymry—the word for Wales in the Dark Ages—are pronounced ‘kumree’)
Cast of Characters
The Welsh
King Arthur ap Uther (born 480 AD)
Ambrosius—King of Wales (deceased 501 AD), uncle to Arthur
Myrddin—Knight (born 501 AD)
Nell—Myrddin’s friend (born 507 AD)
Ifan—Myrddin’s friend
Geraint—Knight
Gawain—Knight, Gareth’s brother
Gareth—Knight, Gawain’s brother
Bedwyr—Knight, Arthur’s seneschal
Cai—Arthur’s half-brother
Dafydd—Archbishop of Wales
The Saxons
Modred—Arthur’s nephew (born 497 AD)
Cedric—Lord of Brecon
Edgar—Arthur’s nephew, Lord of Wigmore
Agravaine—Lord of Oswestry
Wulfere—Modred’s captain
Part One
Cold My Heart
To Archbishop Dafydd:
(Translated from the Latin)
We must speak of the evils wrought upon us by my nephew Modred and his Saxon allies, how the peace formerly made has been violated in all the clauses of the treaty, how churches have been fired and devastated, and ecclesiastical persons, priests, monks and nuns slaughtered, women slain with children at their breast, hospitals and other houses of religion burned, the Welsh murdered in their homes, in churches, yes at the very altar, with other sacrilegious offences horrible to hear…
We fight because we are forced to fight and are left without any remedy … I do not ask for your blessing in these last endeavors, only your understanding.
Arthur ap Uther,
King of Wales and Lord of Eryri
November, 537 A.D.
Chapter One
11 December 537 AD
“Get over here, Myrddin!”
I urged my horse across the clearing, through the ankle-deep snow and towards Gawain, the captain of my lord’s guard. He resembled a greyhound, whip-thin but muscled, his grey-streaked hair held away from his face by a leather tie at the nape of his neck.
“Sir,” I said.
Gawain pointed to a stand of pine trees some hundred yards away on the other side of the Cam River. “What do you see?”
At thirty-six, after a lifetime of soldiering, my eyes weren’t what they used to be. I stared anyway, trying to glimpse what Gawain had noticed. Christ! It can’t be! Cold settled into my belly. “The branches are moving.” I glanced at Gawain. “Didn’t our scouts check those trees?”
“Yes.” The word hissed through Gawain’s teeth. “They did. I saw to it myself.”
“The company must move now. It isn’t safe here.” I forced myself to remain calm instead of shouting the words at Gawain as I wanted to.
“No, it isn’t,” Gawain said. “I said as much to the king before we began this journey.”
“Maybe he’ll listen now.”
“I’ll speak to him. For your part, take four men—Ifan, Dai, two others. Clear out those trees. I don’t care how you do it.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder, punctuating the command.
“Yes, sir.”
I directed my horse towards the north, riding past the church, St. Cannen’s, that squatted in the middle of the clearing. An up-and-coming half-Saxon lord, Edgar, son of King Arthur’s youngest sister, had sent a letter asking to discuss the transfer of his allegiance from Modred to Arthur. That his overture was genuine had always seemed unlikely, yet Modred’s war had gone on so long that Arthur felt he had to grab any chance that came his way, on the hope that he could shift the balance of power in his favor. Recent victories had given us real hope that we might prevail, but if those trees held Saxon soldiers, then the king was going to die, along with all of his men. Including me. He’d walked into a trap from which none of us would escape.
“Ifan!” I waved my friend closer.
He spurred his horse to intersect mine. “What is it?”
“Mercians,” I said. “Possibly.”
Ifan, as pale as I was dark such that a man could mistake him for a Saxon, had campaigned beside King Arthur even longer than I. He didn’t ask for details. Once I’d collected several more men, we circled behind the church, heading for the ford of the River Cam on the northwestern edge of the church property. The trees along the river shielded us from the field beyond. Once across the Cam, however, we left their cover.
“Shields up,” I said—and just in time. An arrow slammed into Ifan’s shield and then, a moment later, into mine.
“Back, back!” Ifan wheeled his horse to retreat down the riverbank. “We’ll have to go around!”
But before we’d ridden halfway across the river, a company of Saxon cavalry burst from the woods to the west of the church. A quick glance revealed their considerable numbers—more than the eighteen men the king had brought to the rendezvous. Along with a few of our compatriots, who reacted at the same instant, we raced to intercept them, splashing through the water and back into the clearing. Our numbers wouldn’t be enough to turn them aside, but as I met the first Saxon sword with my own, I put our chances from my mind.
I slashed my sword—once, twice, three times—before my horse stumbled, a tendon severed by a man on the ground. I pulled my feet from the stirrups, leaping free in time to meet the advancing sword of yet another Saxon. He glared through his visored helmet, a thick, red beard the only part of his face I could see.
“Retreat!”
The call came from behind me. I almost laughed. Retreat where? The church had little advantage in defense over the clearing. Admittedly, I’d last seen Arthur standing alongside the priest in the nave near the altar. In the back of my mind, I’d held onto the hope that if he made his last stand inside, even a heathen Saxon would be loath to kill my king before the cross.
I ducked under the Saxon’s guard and then burst upwards, one hand on the hilt of my sword and my gauntleted left hand on the blade. I thrust my weapon at his mid-section, forcing it through his mail armor. I pulled the sword from his body, and he fell. Then I turned and ran full out for the front of the church, hurtling past the small knots of men battling between me and the front door.
But the king had already left the safety of the nave. A pace from the church steps, Arthur faced two men at the same time. The king had twenty years on me yet fought like a much younger man. He slashed his sword at one Saxon soldier and then snapped an elbow into the face of the other. Blood cascaded from the man’s nose.
I launched myself at the second Saxon soldier, driving my shoulder into his ribs and sending both of us sprawling. Hardly pausing for breath, I pushed up on one knee and shoved the tip of my sword beneath his chin. Helmet askew and blood coating my surcoat, I stood, spinning on one heel, determined to defend my king to my last breath.
Except King Arthur had already fallen, overcome by a third knight coming late to the fight.
Aghast, I drove my sword into the man’s
back just as he raised his arms for a final strike at the king. As the Saxon died, I knocked him aside and turned to stand astride the body of my lord. Even if it meant my death, I would gainsay anyone who dared come against me. But as my sword met that of the next Saxon warrior, the back of my head exploded in sudden pain from a blow I hadn’t seen coming. Barely conscious, I fell across the failing body of King Arthur.
Chapter Two
2 November 537 AD
Nell surged upwards from her pallet, disturbed far more by the shouts echoing through the stone corridors of the convent than by the abrupt ending to the dream. It felt real every time she dreamt it, but once awake, she acknowledged it for what it was: a dream, a seeing, if such a thing were possible, and a weight around her neck since she was a girl. Arthur ap Uther was going to die a little more than a month from now at the hands of the Saxons. A man she knew only as Myrddin—a man she’d lived for more nights than she could count—would die with him. And Nell had no way to stop it.
The shouts came clearer now. Thrusting her heavy braid over her shoulder, Nell pulled on her habit to cover her night shift, adjusted the thick wool around her waist more comfortably, and slipped into her boots. She slid through the cloth doorway that separated her room from the hall. As the infirmarer and a senior member of the convent, she had her own cell, separate from the dormitory where the novices and younger nuns slept.
“What is it?” Nell reached out a hand to stop Bronwen, a blond-haired, blue-eyed initiate who was far too beautiful to have chosen this life at such a young age.
Unfortunately for her, she was heiress to extensive estates, and her uncle had seen to her speedy incarceration in the convent after her father died. The old abbess wouldn’t have allowed it, but all discipline had broken down since the Saxon invasion of Anglesey, which had followed hard on the heels of the abbess’ death.