LORDS OF RETRIBUTION
by K. R. RICHARDS
Copyright © 2013 by K. R. Richards
DEDICATION
To my sons, Ian and Erik.
The best sons a mother could wish for!
I cherish and love you both.
DEDICATION
An Old Cornish Tale
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
AN EXCERPT FROM LORDS OF ATONEMENT,
Book 4 of the Lords of Avalon series
A Note from the Author
LORDS OF AVALON SERIES CHARACTER LIST
SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS FOR TALENTED PHOTOGRAPHERS/ARTISTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
e-books by K. R. Richards
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jack Drayton, the Earl of Elveston
An Old Cornish Tale
The tales of the Chynoweths are told throughout Kernow, from the Tamar to Lands End. It is said the Chynoweths are as ancient as the land of Cornwall itself. The wise folk say the Chynoweths walked with the Giants, lived among the Piskies, were the first to hear the Knockers deep in the mines, befriended the Merpeople and were present when the magic stones, circles and quoits were placed by the ancient ones. ‘Tis said wherever you see a menhir, a standing stone, or a cross; that a Chynoweth once lived nearby.
It is widely known from Bude to the Lizard that a Chynoweth witnessed the arrival of Joseph of Arimathea and the young Jesus in Cornwall, that they saw the appearance of St. Michael, the Archangel, upon the Mount and watched the Devil build the hedge from Lerryn to Looe on that day long ago when he’d nothing better to do. ‘Tis told that they escorted many a saint across the land. ‘Tis even said ‘twas a Chynoweth who carved the likeness of the Mermaid upon the bench at Zennor.
As you’ve no doubt heard, the Chynoweths were there at Tintagel when King Arthur was born. ‘Twas a Chynoweth who waited at Lands End for the last Trevelyan, no doubt a cousin, when he and his white horse rose out of the water upon the sinking of the fabled land, Lyonnesse. If a Chynoweth sits by Dozmary pool, the Lady of the Lake will show her fair hand.
The Chynoweths have been in Cornwall since the beginning of time. The blood of the giants, piskies, saints, and the ancient ones can be found in any Chynoweth. Every man, woman and child in Kernow knows it to be true.
In their blood is the ancient magic of Cornwall. That’s right. Every Chynoweth has one very special gift of magic that is unique to each one.
They are one with their land and their people. Each Chynoweth uses their own gift to help those in their care. For the Chynoweths that would, of course, encompass nearly the entirety of Kernow.
The Duke, whom lately over the last few centuries is called the Duke of Penrose, once held the more ancient title of Lord of the Minions. Before that the Chynoweth was known as Lord of the Manor of Chynoweth. Some even called him the Chnyoweth.
Of course, the Duke is born at Menadue outside St. Cleer in recent times. It was at Fairy Cross Court in St. Mabyn, the most ancient site of the Chynoweths, that they were born before the fourteenth century. Every Duke is born on ground sacred to the Chynoweths. ‘Tis just the way of it. If the Ducal heir is not born on sacred Chynoweth land, simply put, he shall never become the Duke.
It is the Duke’s calling to protect Kernow – the land and her people.
Should a Chynoweth choose to not answer his calling, well let’s just say he would disappear, or die a ghastly death. It has never been known for a Chynoweth to do something quite so foolish.
There are many prominent and ancient families tied to the Chynoweths. The Penroses and Chynoweths have shared the moors of Bodmin as allies since the time of Arthur. The Chynoweth’s famous cousins, the Trevelyans, are notorious for their devilish good looks. ’Tis even been said they sold their soul to the Devil in exchange for them. The St. Germans are known far and wide for their hot tempers while the Menwennicks are known to be as hard and unyielding as a piece of Cornish granite.
All know the Penalunas are most definitely from Piskie bloodlines, you just have to see one to know it. A good many of them are Pellars, wise-folk and conjurors.
There are many other families aligned with the Chynoweths. That would be the Carlyons, Pendarveses, Lanfears, Rosveares, Iveys, Michelmores, Vyvyans and Julyans, to name a few. Each branch has their own magical tale.
One of the most curious things about the Chynoweths is that a Chynoweth man never seeks his wife nor does a Chynoweth woman seek her husband. Their family does not arrange their marriages. Call it magic or even fate, it just happens.
The Chynoweth meets their future spouse and without knowing quite sure how, they just know that this is the person they shall marry. It is said their matches are arranged by the Spirit of Kernow, for it wouldn’t do to have an unworthy person marry a Chynoweth. For how could a Chynoweth love and care for Cornwall and her people if they knew not love themselves.
If by chance, some rebellious Chynoweth should defy fate and marry for another reason, such as greed or lust, why the marriage wouldn’t last a year! The unwisely chosen spouse would be removed. The right one would appear. ‘Tis just the way of things.
How wonderful, you say. How easy. Not true, you see. There are challenges. The Chynoweth’s future spouse doesn’t always know immediately that they have met “their” match. Though a Chynoweth knows at the moment they meet their chosen spouse that the person in question is the one, they have the free will to deny it and mull over it for a time, sometimes years, before fate intervenes. There are times when things turn into quite a big muddle before the future spouse and the Chynoweth marry and things are resolved as they should be. However, the Spirit of Kernow takes care of all in the end.
Chapter One
St. Mabyn, Cornwall, April 1834
Trevan Chynoweth left Fairy Cross Court, home of his cousin, the Earl of St. Mabyn, on one of Gabriel’s fine black stallions. Their party, traveling from Glastonbury, arrived in St. Mabyn after midnight.
Trevan rose early with one task in mind. His destination was Callywith Manor, home of one Wenna Penrose, the woman he was supposed to marry. The woman he planned to marry. The woman he always believed he would marry. The woman every person in Cornwall thought he would marry.
Obviously, she had other ideas. For Trevan received a letter from his mother while in Glastonbury informing him that Wenna was courting the new Vicar, John Madingly, his cousin recently gave the living to in St. Mabyn.
Damned fool woman! What the devil was she thinking?
Trevan loved her, and she loved him. They pledged the same to one another many times. In fact, the last time they were together, she told him she loved him.
Trevan frowned. The last time he saw Wenna was nearly three months ago. Two days later, he left Cornwall for London and spent almost two months in Town trying to sort through and tie up all the loose ends pertaining to the ducal estate since his father’s death eighteen months before.
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br /> He’d stayed longer than he’d planned. No, he didn’t think to write Wenna while there. He thought she understood that once he finished his business in London, he planned to return to Cornwall so he could marry her. Finally make her his Duchess!
Less than a week after he arrived home to Menadue, he received an urgent letter from Harry Bellingham, the Earl of Glaston, asking for immediate assistance in Glastonbury regarding an Avalon Society matter. After gathering some of his male relatives, for his colleagues specifically needed Cornish muscle, his party departed for Abbey Grange in Glastonbury. Trevan made a grave error not going to see Wenna after he returned from London. He knew this now. There were business affairs that had piled up on his desk at Menadue while he was in London. He needed to attend to them before he left for Glastonbury.
Trevan should have taken the time to travel the distance from Menadue to Callywith Manor in St. Mabyn to see her. He realized he should have sent her a message explaining that an emergency in Glastonbury required he leave Cornwall immediately.
He had not.
Now, the only woman he loved, the only one he ever considered marrying was courting the damned Vicar of St. Mabyn!
Before leaving Fairy Cross, his cousin made Trevan swear an oath he would not harm, frighten or kill the Vicar. Damn and blast Gabriel!
He planned to talk to Wenna. He was determined to straighten out this situation. He would talk some sense into that stubborn, red-headed woman. Wenna Penrose would be marrying him, not the newly arrived Vicar. And that was that.
Callywith Manor was just a short distance down the lane from Fairy Cross Court. It took a matter of minutes for Trevan to reach his destination.
Trevan smiled as Wenna’s youngest sibling, her brother, Lanyon, sprinted straight toward him as he turned onto the drive.
“Trevan! You’re back!”
“Ayce, I’m back, Lanyon. You must be on a holiday from school.”
“Ayce, I’ve got three more weeks before I go back to London. I’m happy you have come to see us at last.”
Wenna Penrose heard her brother shouting Trevan’s name. She knelt on the pathway in her herb garden. She straightened and thrust her small spade into the rich earth. She stood quickly and immediately walked toward the back door of the Manor.
She needed to make it up the stairs and to her room before Trevan saw her. She did not want to see him. Not today! She owed him nothing. It was he, who ignored her the last three months. She was sick and tired of being cast aside by Trevan Chynoweth, Duke or no. His actions and neglect over the last year or so proved to her that he did not love her. Not enough.
She would not marry a man who could go three months without giving her a second thought. Even before that, his visits were not often enough to be considered frequent. Yet he would coo and flatter and tell her of his great love for her when he decided to finally show up. He kissed her, and more. They were doing more for two years now. Still she wore no ring on her finger!
Well, Wenna thought to herself, as she wiped her hands on her apron and hurried in through the back door of the manor. She was finished with his nonsense. For good!
She just put her hand on the banister and took her first step up the flight of stairs when a large, muscled arm snaked about her waist and pulled her against his hard, rigid frame.
“Oh, you’re not going upstairs, Wenna! You will speak with me this very minute!” Trevan growled against her ear.
Wenna tried to turn around, intending to slap him, but couldn’t for he held her so firmly against him. Her feet no longer touched the floor. He carried her through her home as if he owned it. As if he owned her. Which he most certainly did not! Why was he angry with her? She had every right to be angry with him, not the other way around.
“Put me down, you big lummox!” Wenna demanded as she twisted and fought to free herself.
“No. I will not. We will be talking directly, you and me, Wenna Penrose. We’ll do it in the summerhouse where we can have some privacy.”
He continued in a low whisper, “May I remind you, dearest Wenna, that every time you twist yourself against me,” he moved one hand to her hip and pressed her against his hardening erection, “that this is what it does to me. It was not a lummox you called me when last I was inside you.”
Wenna stilled immediately. “I’ve nothing to say to you, Trevan Chynoweth. You’ve no right to come inside my home and carry me out like I’m a child or worse your property!” Still held tightly by Trevan’s powerful arms, Wenna kicked her feet backwards to try to connect with his legs.
“I’m the Duke of Penrose and all of this land has been shared by the Chynoweth’s and Penrose’s for over a thousand years. As the Duke, I am the overlord of Callywith Manor. I remind you that you, Miss Penrose, and I have been having sexual relations for the past two years and that we have been betrothed for five years. If you count the time I asked you to marry me when I was ten and five and you were eleven, that adds more than a decade. If you consider all I’ve just mentioned, plus the fact that in the eyes of God we are man and wife because we know one another in the Biblical sense, it gives me every right to ask you, Wenna, why in the bleddy hell are you courting the new Vicar of St. Mabyn?”
Trevan carefully set her down when they reached the summerhouse near the lake. He spun her to face him, keeping a tight hold on her shoulders. Lord but she was a beautiful woman with her pale complexion and her thick auburn hair. Her dark gray-blue eyes drew him in even when they were flashing with anger as they were now.
Wenna could see he was as angry as a bull, his chest heaved, his bright blue eyes flashed. Well, she was angrier! Wenna sent her palm flying. It connected hard with Trevan’s cheek.
Trevan’s eyes narrowed as he rubbed his stinging cheek. He supposed he deserved that one. He chose not to make a comment.
“I will not marry a man who treats me with so little regard. I’ve been waiting to marry you for five long years, Trevan. You always gave me some excuse or another why the time wasn’t right, why it would be better to wait. For the past year, I’ve scarcely seen you. I wager I can count on my fingers and toes how many times you’ve visited me.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper, “And your reason then was no doubt to slake your lust. I’m twenty and seven, Trevan. According to some of the old wise women hereabouts, I may even be beyond childbearing years! I’ll not marry a man who will treat me as you have, and I’m tired of waiting. I deserve better. I’m marrying John. He asked me yesterday, and I’ve already given him my answer. We will be wed in six weeks or thereabouts, he said.”
Trevan blinked. He was stunned into silence for what seemed an eternity. Until his anger surfaced.
“You are lying to me, Wenna. You’ll not marry anyone but me.” Trevan pulled her roughly against him and covered her mouth with his. He held her voluptuous body tightly in his arms and kissed her demandingly. As she opened her mouth to protest, he gained access, and thrust his tongue deeply inside her mouth. He would prove to this stubborn, red-headed woman that they belonged together!
Wenna tried to fight the passion rising inside her. She tried not to respond. She found it to be difficult, more like impossible. She dreamt for so many months of Trevan returning to her, of them making love in the summerhouse at night. How many hours and days had she spent this past year alone waiting for Trevan? Dreaming of seeing him. Craving his kisses and his touch. Most often, he never materialized. On very few occasions did he send a message.
Warning bells went off in her head when she felt herself molding to his hard body and she began to respond to the movements of his tongue, his kiss. The one thing they did share between them was passion. But it was no longer enough. It could not be.
Wenna took advantage of the moment and tried to pull away. His grip on her arms tightened. He pulled her closer. Wenna closed her mouth. She opened to him again, sucked his lip into her mouth, and bit him so hard she tasted his blood.
“Ouch! Bleddy damned Hell, Wen Pen!” Trevan pulled bac
k and spit a mouthful of blood onto the grass outside the door of the summerhouse. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His chest heaved and his eyes flashed with anger as he glared at her.
She spoke with a great deal of calm despite her labored breathing, “We are through, Trevan. What was betwixt us is now over. Sometime in the next two months, I will be Mrs. John Madingly. It is finished between you and me. You may never kiss me or put your hands on me again. You may come to visit Grandfather, my brother and sister, but you do not have permission to call upon me. Do I make myself clear?”
“You love me, Wen Pen,” Trevan said tenderly, again using the nickname he gave her when they were children. “My a’th kar.”
Wenna closed her eyes. My a’th kar, Cornish for I love you. He couldn’t really love her. A man did not ignore a woman for three months if he loved her.
“If that is the truth, I am sorry for it. I do not love you any longer. I love John. He brings me flowers. He comes to call every single day. He talks to me and is never in a hurry to leave. He makes time for me. In fact, his seeing me is a priority, not an afterthought or something he feels he must do out of guilt like you do when you come to see me with your tail between your legs because you know it’s been too long.”
“You’re not serious, Wenna? Have you lost your mind? How can you even know this man? Gabriel said he arrived in the village only six weeks ago.” Trevan’s brows drew together. He shook his head in disbelief.
Wenna thought she saw a fleeting moment of pain and surprise in his expression. She felt a pang of remorse and guilt at that point. When his anger took hold, his features darkened, and his arrogance re-surfaced, she dismissed the feelings.
“Have you given yourself to him, Wenna, as you gave yourself to me?” Trevan gave a low and menacing growl.
His bright blue eyes bored into hers. She felt impaled by the venom she saw there. “I have not.” Wenna crossed her arms, met his cobalt gaze and sniffed.
“Does he know you are ruined? That I made you mine?” Trevan’s brow arched accusingly.
Lords of Retribution (Lords of Avalon series) Page 1
