by Tamara Leigh
“It has been months! I will be glad to see her and the girls.”
“As shall I, though I sense she has purpose beyond a family visit—that of securing a betrothal for my eldest sister.”
“Sir Damien of the Costains?”
As his wife knew, the sire of the widowed knight had suggested a match. “Still I think the fifteen-year difference in their ages too great. But if my sister and stepmother are both receptive, I will consider it. Regardless, I will not be rushed in deciding something as important as one’s happiness.”
Keeping pace with him, Honore leaned up and kissed his jaw. “Have I told you lately how happy I am?”
He halted, glanced behind to ensure they were distant enough from those engaged in a game of chase, then pulled her into his arms. “You have.” He kissed her. “Have I told you?”
“Every day.”
“Ah, thy love doth slay!”
She laughed, lowered to the bank, and patted the grass. “Tell me the rest.”
He settled beside her. “It seems we must add another destination to our travels.” Those which included the wedding of Baron Wulfrith’s daughter, which it was expected the entire family would attend—including its newest members—and a visit to Bairnwood where Honore would be reunited with her sister, Abbess Sebille, and her brother, Lothaire, who had become a friend to Elias nearly as dear as Everard and Durand.
“Then we will be longer in England than planned?” she asked.
“Not England. We are to begin our journey a few days early to join Duke Henry at Argentan ere we cross the channel.”
She frowned. “For what?”
He angled his body toward hers and touched her chest. “Thomas.”
She caught her breath, drew from her bodice the prayer beads onto which she had long ago threaded the archbishop’s ring. “I thought all resolved.”
“It is. Our meeting with Henry is more a request than a demand.” He lifted the ring, rotated it so each gem caught light. “If you are agreeable, England’s king would like this returned to him.”
Honore’s heart ached as it did each time she thought on what had transpired last December. Not even a full month returned to England following years of exile, Thomas had been murdered in the cathedral at Canterbury. Vehemently, Henry denied ordering his death. He claimed the four knights who struck down the archbishop—including one Hugh De Morville, not related to Elias—had acted of their own accord after their sovereign raged over Thomas’s continued divisiveness.
Hoping Henry had not given the order, Honore asked, “Does he say why he wishes Thomas’s ring?”
“In memory of their younger days when they were as brothers.” He raised his eyebrows. “It is for you to decide.”
She considered that which was of little value to a king who had dozens—perhaps hundreds—ten times as fine. Were this ring truly esteemed, surely its value was measured more by sentiment than the materials out of which it was fashioned. And that was further supported that only now Henry wished it returned.
She peered across the land that could have been lost to the De Morvilles. Though Henry was no stranger to ruthlessness, he had pardoned Elias and not opposed his marriage to the one responsible for leading his vassal astray. And when Otto the elder informed his liege he wished to raise a modest abbey dedicated to the care of foundlings so Honore could continue her work on the continent, Henry had provided a portion of the funds. That abbey having been completed two years past, already it had blessed dozens of children and their parents. Henry was a muddle of a man, but amid the bad was good.
Honore nodded. “It is his.”
“Regardless of whether I am foolish in believing his request sincere,” her husband said, “I think it for the best.”
She lowered the ring. “What other tidings?”
“Also from Henry. He wishes a gift for Eleanor.”
“You are to provide one?”
“I am—Song of Honore.”
That performed for the queen when Elias and she were summoned to Eleanor’s court in Poitiers whilst Honore was five months pregnant with Otto the younger. The queen and her daughter, Marie, had asked the troubadour knight for a song of love. And been charmed by the one he performed.
“Then we must also journey to Poitiers, Husband?”
“Blessedly not. Henry but wishes by my own hand I put to parchment your song. He will deliver it.”
As had been promised Honore, she had her own copy. Elias had inked the words, each verse on a separate piece of vellum, commissioned a monk to illuminate the pages with colorful borders and illustrations, and bound all between leather covers. It was the first of seven songs composed for her—one for each year they loved—and though soon her books would number eight, ever Song of Honore would be her favorite. There had begun their tale, one that now included four children.
Though she wished to believe the gift of Elias’s prose to Eleanor would be given and received as a token of love, as Henry and his wife had grown so distant they lived entirely separate and his infidelities had become less discreet, Honore feared not.
“What is it?” Elias asked.
“I am hoping Henry’s gift to Eleanor will move them to reconciliation. But I wonder if it is too late.”
He sighed. “It does seem if the rift is not yet as wide as that which tore between Henry and Thomas, it may soon be.”
“And then?”
“Who can say, but methinks Henry would do well to keep close sons who are increasingly worthy of their father’s reputation. Thus, he might have warning well in advance of the threat they could prove with the force of their mother behind them.”
“Does that happen, Henry and Eleanor’s tale—the one of their hearts—will surely be at an end.”
Elias tipped up his wife’s face. “As never shall ours be.”
She laid a hand on his jaw, stared long into his eyes as he stared into hers, then teased, “Dare I trust the knave?”
“You dare, for ever you shall be the best part of my tale, Honore whom I love.”
SONG OF HONORE
By honor bound
To seek the found
Here begins a tale
Of raveling
And traveling
Beyond the moonlit veil
The arrow flies
The dagger plies
Beware the mists of dream
A swing of rope
The snap of hope
The broken unredeemed
Look not behind
Thou will not find
Plucked petals without bruise
Moments in time
Loss feeding rhyme
See what the Lord now strews
So fair is she
Humble beauty
The heart she doth provoke
Her eyes, her eyes
Her lips deny
What truth the blue hath spoke
Pray do not hide
Be by his side
And breathe the air he breathes
And let him kiss
What he shall miss
If heart he seeks to sheathe
Forgive the fool
Who cast the jewel
Sweet petals stay the stem
Bruise not, bruise not
That which is sought
Come dance through life with him
Love lost now found
By Honore bound
One word is all it takes
Do trust the knave
His life to save
Brave maiden he awakes
Thy love doth slay
Turns dark to day
Here begins our tale
Of raveling
And traveling
Dear Lord, pray bless us well
~
Sir Elias De Morville
To his beloved Honore
The year of our Lord
Eleven Sixty Four
Dear Reader,
There being only so many hours in a day and far more book
s in one's to-be-read pile, I'm honored you chose to spend time with Sir Elias and Honore. If you enjoyed their love story, I would appreciate a review of THE RAVELING at your online retailer—just a sentence or two, more if you feel chatty.
For a peek at the new AGE OF CONQUEST series, unveiling the origins of the Wulfriths, an excerpt is included here and will soon be available on my website: www.TamaraLeigh.com. Now to finish that tale for its Winter 2018/2019 release.
Pen. Paper. Inspiration. Imagination. ~ Tamara
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Author’s Note
Thomas Becket, how you intrigue!
In Sir Elias and Honore’s tale, the Archbishop of Canterbury was to be so secondary a character he warranted but a mention here and there, a sighting, perhaps a brief encounter. But greedy Thomas—or was it this author?—wanted more. And how exhilarating it was to make his quarrel with King Henry II and self-imposed exile a pivotal part of The Raveling.
During my research, often I found myself sympathizing with this “turbulent priest” over what led to his break with Henry. Thus, though I tried to avoid taking sides since—confession time—I was not present, I became rather fond of Thomas Becket. And it surely shows.
In reconstructing the archbishop’s flight from England and disastrous return after years of exile, I drew from many resources, but my favorite are: Thomas Becket by John Guy and The Lives of Thomas Becket: Selected sources translated and annotated by Michael Staunton. If your curiosity is piqued, get your hands on these.
As ever, thank you, dear reader, for joining me on my romantically-minded medieval journey ~ Tamara
AGE OF CONQUEST EXCERPT
MERCILESS: Book One
THE WULFRITHS. IT ALL BEGAN WITH A WOMAN.
From Tamara Leigh, a new series set in the 11th century during the Norman Conquest of England, unveiling the origins of the Wulfrith family of the AGE OF FAITH series. Releasing Winter 2018/2019
CHAPTER ONE
Sussex, England
15 October, 1066
The battle was done. England was on its knees. And in the space between horrendous loss and brazen victory, a new day breathed light across the dark. But no beautiful thing was it, that splayed wide to the eyes more terrible than the half moon had revealed and the ripening scent forewarned.
The bloodlust that had gripped thousands on the day past yet treading the veins of Cyr D’Argent, he felt it further displaced by revulsion and dread as he moved his gaze over the gray, mist-strewn battlefield.
Among the crimson-stained bodies of numerous Saxons and numbered Normans, he glimpsed blue. But was it the shade that eluded him throughout his night-long quest to recover the last of his kin?
Might his eldest brother and uncle yet breathe amid the slaughter? Might they be found the same as the third D’Argent brother whom Cyr had culled from gutted Saxons at middle night—though cruelly wounded, yet in possession of breath?
It did not seem possible a dozen hours after the death of England’s king had decisively ended the battle, so decisively that few would argue the crown was destined for Duke William of Normandy. Still, Cyr would continue his search until he had done all in his power to account for the fate of those he held dear.
As he traversed a blood-soaked battlefield so liberally cast with bodies no straight path was possible, he questioned if his youngest brother and cousin remained among those searching for kin and friends. If not, it was only because they succeeded where Cyr failed. Regardless, hopefully both would keep their swords to hand. Of greater concern than the daring Saxon women and elderly men retrieving their fallen were the profane of his own divesting the dead and dying of their valuables.
“Lord, let us not search in vain,” Cyr prayed. “Let my brother and uncle be hale and whole, merely seeking us as we seek them.” Possible only if they had gone a different direction since Cyr looked near upon all who had crossed his moonlit path.
Another stride carrying him to a heap of bodies that boasted as many Normans as Saxons, he drew a deep breath and rolled aside two of the enemy to uncover the warrior garbed in blue. The face was too bloodied to make out the features, but the man’s build was slight compared to a D’Argent. The only relief in the stranger’s death was the possibility Cyr’s kin yet lived.
He straightened, and as he turned from the sloping meadow toward the next visible blue, what sounded a curse rent the air and ended on a wail.
Farther up the slope, an aged Saxon woman whose white hair sprang all around face and shoulders wrenched on the arms of a warrior she dragged backward. Was it a dead man she sought to remove? Or did her loved one yet live?
Struck by the possibility his own sword was responsible for her struggle and heartache, Cyr was pierced by regret he did not wish to feel. It was the work of the Church he had done. Or was it?
Before the question could infect a conscience holding its breath, he thrust it aside and started to sidestep one of his own—a chevalier with whom he had crossed the channel. Younger than Cyr by several years, his eyes had lit over talk of the reward he would gain in fighting for William and the hope it was sizable enough to allow him to wed the woman awaiting his return home. She would wait forever, a Saxon battle-axe having severed links of his hauberk and breastbone to still the heart beneath.
Cyr swept his gaze over the bodies of long-haired, bearded enemies. Struggling against a resurgence of bloodlust that demanded justice for the young Norman, forcefully he reminded himself it was for kin he searched through night into dawn, not to wreak vengeance on the dead and dying.
Purpose recovered, he raised his head and considered the bordering wood of Andredeswald where what remained of the Saxon army had fled on the afternoon past. Had his brother or uncle been among the Normans who gave chase into the trees?
Only had they turned berserker, as sometimes happened to the most sensible and disciplined. Indeed, the battle madness beyond courage had pried away Cyr’s control when two chevaliers fell on either side of him. Surrounded by axe-wielding Saxons, he had yielded to the fury lest he join his fellow Normans in death.
Finding little comfort in recall of his superior skill and reflexes, he veered toward the wood where the ranks of dead began to thin. At the base of a hill to the right sat a young Saxon woman.
The soft mournful strains of her song stirring the mist surrounding her, she bent over one whose head she cradled. Regardless of whether or not her kin still lived, she bared her heart to loss. And her body to violation if the Normans picking over the fallen determined to plunder her as well. Until the duke granted the Saxons permission to retrieve their dead, they risked much in venturing onto the battlefield.
Concern for the woman distracting him from his purpose, he lengthened his stride to more quickly move past her.
To the left, a half dozen Saxons sprawled atop Normans, beyond them one of his own crushed beneath a bloodied and bloated warhorse. Ahead, impaled on a single arrow, enemy embraced enemy. But no recognizable blue.
As he neared the Saxon woman, more clearly he heard her song. Being ill-versed in the English language, her words held little meaning, but its lament made him ache such that were it not for what he glimpsed beyond her, he would have veered away.
The mist hung heavier there, the bodies deeper. Thus, he could not be certain it was the blue he sought amid the browns and russets of the Saxons, but something told him there he would find his kin.
Feeling blood course neck and wrists, hearing its throb between his ears, he moved toward the fallen with his sword going before him.
Of a sudden, the woman’s song ceased.
Cyr rarely faltered, but he was jolted when she raised her head and her sparkling gaze fell on one responsible for the death of scores of her people. Like a candle beset by draft, a myriad of emotions crossed her face, including alarm when her regard moved to the blade he had cleaned on his tunic’s hem.
Once more regret dug
into him, but it eased when he was past her and fairly certain his search yielded terrible fruit.
He sheathed his sword, and with strength he had thought nearly drained, cast aside Saxons who had met their end atop a Norman chevalier. The latter clothed in a blue tunic rent and blood-stained in a half dozen places, Hugh D’Argent’s close-cropped head lolled with the removal of the last enemy whose long hair his enormous hand gripped. There in the place between neck and shoulder was a cut that had severed the great vein, confirming the eyes staring east toward home would never again look upon France.
A shout broke from Cyr, and he dropped to his knees. He could not have expressed in words exactly what he felt for his uncle who had been coarse, hard, and demanding, but what moved through him dragged behind it pain that would go deeper only had the blue clothed his eldest sibling. He had cared much for the man who trained him and his brothers in the ways of the warrior. Now Hugh was lost to all, most tragically his son who would add another scar to the visible ones bestowed on the day past.
Eyes burning, Cyr gripped a hand over his face. An arm one of two younger brothers had lost to a battle-axe. A handsome face his cousin had lost to a sword. A life his uncle had lost to a dagger. And the eldest D’Argent brother who should not have been amongst Duke William’s warriors? Whose fate would he share?
“Accursed Saxons!” Sweeping his blade from its scabbard, he thrust to his feet.
Bloodlust pouring through him, his mind and body moved him to swing and slice and thrust, but somehow he wrenched back from a precipice of no benefit to any. Better he pursue those who had fled to the wood. However, as he stepped over a Saxon he had thrown off Hugh, he stilled over how slight the figure. And the face…
