Time came to a screeching halt. Bose stared at the old man as if he hadn’t understood a word; the blank expression on his face was indicative of the level of shock. Morgan, Tate and Farl scrutinized the man closely for signs of collapse or fury, waiting with anticipation as news of the birth of his son sank deep.
“Bose?” Morgan muttered timidly. “Are you well? Can you speak, man?”
Bose swallowed, his black eyes still riveted to his ancient uncle. Artur drew close to the group, waving his good arm in agitation and unaware that he had blurted the news to his unsuspecting nephew.
“Why do ye stand there like a fool?” he demanded. “Summer knows yer here. Better go and see the lass before she comes down here. And she shall come, too, looking for ye.”
As the old man chattered like a magpie, Bose suddenly emitted a harsh gasp that sounded more like a cry for help. His knights continued to watch him apprehensively, Morgan going so far as to reach out and steady his arm.
“You have a son, Bose,” he said softly, a twinkle of mirth appearing in his eye as the expression on his liege’s face provoked a sense of humor. “A strong healthy boy was born to you yesterday morn. And Summer came through without incident.”
“I…,” Bose tore his gaze away from the old man, looking to Morgan with a degree of shock never before witnessed. When his friend smiled encouragingly, the startled father seemed to snap out of his trance and he grabbed the older knight by the arms, hard enough to break bones. “I have a son? Summer has given me a son?”
Soft laughter could be heard from Tate and Farl, convinced that Bose was not going to tear them all to pieces for failing to relay the news in a more timely fashion. Morgan merely smiled into the ashen face.
“A fat little lad with your dark hair,” he replied. “He eats constantly and screams loud enough to rupture my eardrums. He shall be a mighty warrior someday.”
Bose’s eyebrows rose as his shock wore thin, a faint mottle of color reappearing on his pale cheeks. “God’s Beard,” he mumbled, turning to look at a beaming Artur. “I had no… for God’s sake, it’s not time yet. The babe is not due to arrive for three more weeks.”
“He is here nonetheless,” Artur said over the knights’ laughter. “Summer forbade us to send word of her birth, knowing how panicked and irrational you would become. She was afraid you’d kill yourself riding day and night to return home.”
Bose took a deep breath, running a gauntleted hand through his wet hair. His eyes moved from the men surrounding him to the keep beyond. An unmistakable longing pulled at him, tightening his throat and squeezing his heart until he could hardly breathe. He could not stop the well of tears filling his eyes.
“I must see them,” he muttered, pushing past the men in a blind rush to reach the keep. “Summer… you say she is fine?”
Artur was close behind, as were the other three knights. “As healthy and whole as the day ye left her,” the old man replied steadily. “She began having pains on the night ye departed for Chaldon and by dawn she was holding yer squalling son in her arms. We hardly had time to work up a substantial worry.”
“And my son is well?”
“Well, Bose. Well.”
Bose did not know whether to laugh or cry. All that mattered was the fact that his son had been born, healthy and strong, and by the grace of God his wife had survived unscathed. God’s Beard, he was desperate to hold her, to tell her how much he loved her and to thank her for her most gracious gift of a son.
Into the massive keep, even the servants were smiling broadly as their rushed lord mounted the stairs, followed closely by his knights. The closer he came to his wife and new child, the more tears and emotion threatened to overwhelm him.
As Bose entered the familiar second floor where the bedchambers were situated, he realized he could hardly breathe through the force of his feelings. Closer and closer he drew until finally he burst through the master chamber door. What he saw nearly sent him to his knees.
Summer was sitting up in bed, holding a swaddled bundle and smiling radiantly at her pale-faced husband. When the man seemed unable to move his feet in a forward direction, she held out a hand to him.
“Welcome home, my darling,” she said softly. “Come and m-meet your new son.”
Bose let out a ragged sigh as Artur gave him a shove, pushing him into the warm, sweet-smelling chamber.
“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 healin
g and sitting beside him on the massive bed lay the very key to his heart.
A key that would give him three more children in the years to come. All of the Gorgon’s children would grow to see adulthood and one would live to fight alongside his 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 *
SILVERSWORD
A Medieval Romance
By Kathryn Le Veque
Author’s Note
This book has a lot of things going on in it! Lots of old friends – Bose de Moray, Gallus de Shera, Maximus de Shera, Tiberius de Shera, Davyss de Winter, Daniel de Lohr… I could go on and on. It’s one of those books that hit at the right time, historically, for me to include all of these Le Veque characters. We also meet many new characters, not the least of which is the heroine!
We also meet a new group of knights – men who are called the Guard of Six. They are the private guard for Henry III. Torran de Serreaux is the leader and I am fairly certain that I will do a spin-off series for this group, so keep an eye out for them in months and years to come. This book has quite a bit of politics in it – and the Lords of Thunder figure fairly prominently – so there is a heavy undercurrent subplot with them in it, but most of all, this story is about two people thrown together, unexpectedly, who discover they have feelings for each other.
A few things to note: Newington Priory, where our story begins, actually existed at one point but very little is known about it so I took the liberty of creating a history for it. You’ll recognize names in this book (du Bexley from While Angels Slept, de Russe, du Bois, etc.). Remember in my world, there are no coincidences, so any secondary characters are somehow related to major Le Veque houses.
Let’s also talk a bit about the cathedral that appears in this story. In my research, I learned quite a bit about the cathedrals of Coventry – the one in this story is St. Mary’s Priory, which did exist at the time, but the big one, St. Michael’s, wasn’t built until about a hundred years after this story takes place. That’s the cathedral that the Luftwaffe so happily bombed in World War II. Also, much of Coventry hadn’t changed much until the twentieth century when infrastructure and other demands had developers bulldozing down Medieval homes to make way for modern structures (GASP!!). There are interesting stories about Coventry’s lost Medieval structures that you can find on the web.
Bulldozers and cathedrals aside, I hope you enjoy the fact that Chad is different from other Le Veque knights – he’s more apt to let loose, to show emotion, and to profess his opinion. He’s not as straight-laced as some of them. He’s much like his father, Daniel, who was also a bit of a funster, but at the core, he’s a de Lohr, and that makes him a better man than most. At least, I think so. I think you will, too.
Happy Reading!
Kathryn
Many thanks to those that keep me going in this crazy world of publishing – Scott Moreland, Violetta Rand, Suzan Tisdale, Barbara Devlin, Tanya Anne Crosby, and the World of de Wolfe Pack authors, to name a few. What a fantastic network of support we have around us. Truly, much like those in this story, we are blessed with those we love – and are loved in return.
PROLOGUE
August, 1266 A.D.
Newington Priory, Kent
“Your father is dead and those who killed him are now after you.”
A very big knight hissed those words in a deep and throaty tone, the same knight who had broken into the abbey with a company of cohorts who had scared the nuns nearly to death. There were dark dealings these days, with the politics of England bleeding into every aspect of life in the country.
No one was safe from the madness of King Henry after the battle at Evesham that saw Simon de Montfort murdered and his supporters scattered. No one was safe from the king and his sense of vengeance against those who stood with Simon, not even a novice nun whose family had sided with Simon against Henry’s particular brand of royal incompetence. Therefore, when the knight muttered those horrible words, the young woman’s heart leapt into her throat. No more than sixteen or seventeen years of age, her terror was evident.
“What do you mean?” she gasped. “What has happened to my father?”
The knight snatched her by the wrist and began dragging her behind him. He didn’t seem inclined to answer her but he did seem intent on yanking her arm out of its socket as he towed her behind him like an unwilling barge.
They were quickly surrounded by the men he’d brought with him, men in well-used armor with weapons secured upon their body that were still caked with blood from recent battles. Not literally, of course, because poorly maintained weapons were more of a hindrance than a help, but the men who now closed ranks around them were men who smelled of death.
The stench filled the nostrils of everyone in the room.
They were in the smaller chapel of Newington Priory, the stark whitewashed walls and well-swept floors where the nuns held their daily prayers. The knights had broken down the door to the priory right after sunset, just when the nuns were beginning their prayers for Matins and would have created chaos had the Mother Prioress not kept her head.
Being that the woman was calm, her charges at least gave the illusion of being calm, and when the knight with the raspy voice demanded Alessandria de Shera, the Mother Prioress tried to question him on his need for the woman. Questions weren’t well met and in order to prevent the knights, eight of them – and one with a very big ax – from doing something drastic, the very woman that they asked for stood up hesitantly and identified herself.
And that was where Alessandria found herself now.
“Please,” she begged as the knight dragged her from the chapel. “Please tell me about my father. What has happened? Where are you taking me?”
The knight in the lead snapped orders to the knights around them and the men, as a group, bolted for the broken entry door and fled into the night beyond. The chapel of the priory was dimly lit from the spartan use of tallow tapers, creating a glow that was barely above a whisper, but that glow was like the brilliance of the sun once the knight dragged Alessandria out into the moonless night. It was darker than dark but for the two dozen soldiers milling about outside with heavily smoking torches in their hands, sending gray clouds into the blackness of night.
“You must not take her!” the Mother Prioress was shuffling after them, waving her hands. “She is protected by God!”
The knight who had a viselike grip on Alessandria came to a suddenly halt and turned to the old woman in the woolen robes.
“Did you hear what I said?” he asked. “This woman’s father has been killed and those same men are after her. Her life is in danger and I have been directed to take her to safety. God would not be able to save her from the king’s men who, even at this moment, are riding to claim her. They will be here very soon. What you tell them is your affair, but I would suggest you let them in to search the place. If you do not, they will burn the priory over your head and spit on your ashes.”
The Mother Prioress, with her round pink face and browless eyes, appeared stricken with terror at the thought. “But why?” she begged. “Sir Knight, why can you not tell us what has happened? The woman you hold is in my charge. She is God’s handmaiden.”
The knight, who was clearly in battle mode, must have realized how overbearing he was coming across to these terrified women because his driven manner seemed to soften. His gaze drifted over the little priory, a charity priory that was supported by the local diocese at Rochester, with its centuries-old walls that enclosed a holy haven comprised of women who tended goats and grew herbs for medicinal use. The walls were made of wood, covered with thorny vines, and the door he’d had to break down with an ax was unimpressive to say the least. It had been a simple task to break in.
But it had been necessary, mostly because the nuns had ignored his knocking and he hadn’t the time to coax them forth. He hadn’t the time to explain wh
y he’d come or the sense of urgency that fed him. But he struggled to calm, just a little, so the Mother Prioress would know he meant what he said.
“Henry’s men will be here very soon for the lady,” he said. “They want her because of her father’s devotion to Simon. Eight days ago on a sultry August day, there was a great battle at Evesham that decided the fate of the nation. Simon de Montfort fell and Henry is now king. He reigns with an iron fist, one that is aimed for those who stood with Simon. The lady’s father is one such man and Henry is intent to destroy the entire de Shera family. Even now, he intends to use this woman as a hostage to force de Shera loyalty and that is why I must take her to safety. The de Sheras are family, you see, and the de Lohrs stand with them. If you think Henry’s battle with Simon tried to tear this country apart, the de Lohrs standing against the crown will bring about more havoc than you can possibly comprehend. An apocalypse is coming, madam, greater than any we have ever seen.”
The Mother Prioress understood a good deal now and rather than ease her mind with the knowledge, she was even more frightened than before. “You are from the House of de Lohr?”
“I am.”
“Are the de Lohrs rising in Simon’s stead, then?”
The knight shook his head. “That is not the intention,” he said. “But neither will we allow Henry to wreak havoc on the House of de Shera.”
The Mother Prioress’ gaze moved from the knight to the frightened woman in the knight’s grasp. “And her?”
The knight glanced at the lady beside him. It was so dark that it was difficult to make out any features on her face although he could see her eyes glittering. “I have been charged with removing Lady Alessandria de Shera from Newington before Henry’s men can come for her,” he said. “They will not be kind to her if they get their hands on her. Is this in any way unclear?”
By the time he was finished, the Mother Prioress was visibly defeated. The nuns and neophytes who had spilled out after her were weeping softly, frightened at the intrusion into their safe little haven.
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