England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  He tried not to think of what his father would say to his most recent choice; suicide was a coward’s path. His father had been a Teutonic warrior, bred for battle and hard to the bone. He himself had been more battles that he could count, blood-spattered, well-choreographed encounters between cousins and their retainers battling for the throne of a country that was considered secondary in the known world. Secondary, but passionate. He’d lived through sword-cuts, arrow wounds, and a bout with fever so severe that it left him nearly deaf in one ear. He’d always survived and congratulated himself on his good fortune. Now, what war and God could not accomplish, he himself would achieve. He smiled inwardly at all of the men who would have given their souls to have been provided the chance to kill Brogan d’Aurilliac.

  He shook off feelings of remorse that threatened. He took a step up onto the balustrade of the bridge that crossed over the dark, silent river. He didn’t remove his boots, massive things that were heavy with quality; he wanted to make sure he had enough weight to drag him down. He knew his instinct to swim would take over, yet he was determined to resist. He reminded himself that this was the course he had chosen for himself. It was time to end it, and end it he would.

  The momentary regrets faded as a strange sense of peace settled. He was ready. The comfort of the swirling waters beckoned to him, and he glanced to the sky above, taking his final glimpse of the world he knew. There was nothing he would miss. Shortly, he would no longer be a part of it.

  It was his last coherent thought before something hit him from behind and launched him into the murky waters below.

  *

  The horse was heading for the Thames at break-neck speed. Though she’d been riding her entire life, no matter how much she tried, she could not halt the panicked animal. She had been attempting to stable the stupid beast when something spooked it. No matter what it was; she never heard a sound. But in a flash, they were quickly heading for disaster.

  Frantic hooves echoed against the muddied earth and ricocheted off the dwellings that lined the quiet avenue. Thankfully, it was after sup and the streets were void of people. She pulled steadily on the reins, trying not to panic, herself, but the more she pulled, the faster the horse raced. She had known this horse since it had foaled, thus she knew it was not easily startled. Whatever had triggered this had driven the horse into momentarily insanity and she knew it could only end in great suffering, namely hers.

  But the lady was not one to fall easily into fits of terror; she had always possessed a calm, logical mind, although now, she struggled to think clearly. She knew this avenue would shortly intersect with the River Thames. She further knew that she could stop the horse if she could direct it off the bridge and into the river. There would only be a split second for her to accomplish this, however, as the footpaths that led from the street down to the water’s edge occurred just before the rise of the bridge as it sprouted off across the water. In that brief moment, she would have to steer the animal down the footpath and into the water.

  They rounded a corner and headed down the straight road towards the bridge. By this time, she’d stopped struggling with the beast and merely held on so that she would not fall. The closer they drew to the river, the more she calculated her timing. It had to be perfect or the opportunity would be lost. Only in that thought did she feel fear; otherwise, the horse would probably run until they fell off the white cliffs of Dover and into the channel.

  It was dark, the moon a mere sliver in the velvety sky. She could hardly see the footpath up ahead. It would make her timing more difficult. Apprehension threatened, but she fought it. If fear took over, all would be lost. She had to react sharply. Beneath her, the steed slipped on the muddy road and they almost went down. She rather hoped they would so that she could take her chances with a falling horse rather than an out-of-control one. But the beast kept its balance and continued on.

  At the right moment, she tried to veer the horse to the left, onto the path, but the animal resisted and pulled to the right. Momentum had her in its fiendish grasp and she flew from the animal, tumbling wildly through the air. Somewhere in the midst, she struck something. It was hard, but not hard enough. It gave way and fell with her.

  A loud splash and fading hoof-falls of a runaway horse were all that remained, fading quickly into night as if none had ever been.

  *

  He had no idea what had hit him. Suddenly, he was in the water and he could feel nebulous weight atop him. His head broke the surface and he turned to see wisps of material lingering on the top of the black water. He swam a couple of strokes towards it, noting that there was also hair floating amidst the fabric. Instinctively, he grabbed the hair and pulled.

  An unconscious woman popped to the surface. Startled, Brogan slipped his arm around her neck, her chin in the crook of his left elbow, and swam for shore. Eventually, he gained his footing in the muck and gathered her into his arms. He sloshed heavily to shore where he lowered himself to his knees. It had all happened so quickly that it took him a moment to regain his wits and take stock of the occurrence.

  The woman had knocked him into the river before he had been ready to jump. It was as if she had been hurled at him in an attempt to knock some sense into his muddled mind. Not strangely, he thought perhaps God was sending him a message and his confidence in his actions wavered as he laid her upon the ground. Pulling the wet hair from her face, he could see that she was alive. Given the force of her hit, he was, frankly, surprised.

  He coughed, clearing his lungs. He tapped her cheek, thinking it might revive her, but she remained still. He ran his hands over her arms and felt both legs through her wet, heavy garment; there were no broken bones that he could detect. Somewhere, a cold breeze had roused and it swirled around them both, chilling their wet flesh. Brogan couldn’t just leave her, lying unconscious and vulnerable on the banks of the Thames. After a moment’s indecision, he gathered her into his arms and set off in the direction of his quarters.

  The moon gave little light to illuminate his path as he made for the Tower of London. The avenues leading to the fortress were void of life, for which he was grateful; they made a strange, dripping pair. He entered the grounds through the new main gate between the Lanthorn and the Salt Towers, across the moat and under the massive portcullis. Wet, and carrying a limp female, he inevitably drew stares from the soldiers on night watch. Yet no one dared to ask the man what was amiss. Anyone foolish enough to question d’Aurilliac would be taking his life in his hands. Even the knights, no matter how seasoned or green, had a healthy respect for him. The man’s name was synonymous with fear.

  The White Tower was directly in front of him with several outbuildings against the enormous outer-wall built by Edward III. These were the quarters of the knights, senior soldiers, and visiting military officers. Brogan headed for the middle building of the three long, wooden structures. Inside on the second floor were his lodgings.

  Under normal circumstances, he would not have dreamed of bringing a woman into these quarters. They smelt of men and rot. The only women ever seen within the old stone walls were whores. In fact, those women had their own room at the end of the first floor. As he passed the room and headed up the stairs, he almost stopped to ask one of them to lend a hand. But he kept silent. He did not want their unclean hands touching the woman in his arms and he did not want to be bothered with their foolishness.

  The door to his quarters was unlocked. He kicked the latch, dislodging it, and the door swung open into the dim, musty chamber. Straw littered the floor and a fat taper burned on the only table in the room. There were two chairs near the smoking hearth; one of them held a body that suddenly leapt to its feet in surprise. It was a round man clad in layers of woolen robes.

  “Good God,” the man exclaimed softly. “What is it that you have, Brogan?”

  “I found her in the river.” Half-truth, half-lie. “I think she may need a physic.”

  There were two beds in the large room, both with rough-fiber curtai
ns surrounding them to create a barrier wall. He moved for the bed to his left and lay the woman down upon the straw mattress. Then he stood back, gazing down at her, feeling the presence of his roommate standing curiously behind him.

  His companion was an old man, gnarled with disease in his joints and bent with age. But in his prime, he had been a massive man, a decorated knight with much glory. St. Alban de Sotheby moved around Brogan, feeling the lady’s pulse and lifting an eyelid. His big, twisted hand clamped around her upper arm.

  “She is nearly frozen,” he said. “We must dry her off or she’ll surely catch her death.”

  Brogan was cold as well. He thought it stupid not to have realized how chilled the lady was. Grabbing a rough woolen blanket from the end of the bed, he handed it to St. Alban, who began rubbing the lady vigorously.

  “There isn’t much we can do about this dress,” the old man said. “She needs dry clothing. Go see if the Sirens have anything that may fit her.”

  They called the barrack whores the Sirens. It seemed appropriate, naming the whores after beguiling women who lured battle-weary men into their traps. There were, in fact, three of them – Thelchtereia, Aglaope and Peisinoe, so named for the Sirens by none other than St. Alban himself. The girls had other names, Christian names, but they were only known by their nicknames. It kept a measure of anonymity to their presence.

  Thel, Aggie, and Noe were thrilled to see Brogan standing at their door. He wasn’t a usual customer and his appearance brought squeals of excitement. He was an enormously large man with shoulders as wide as a door, and his granite jaw and close-cropped dark-gold hair were deliciously attractive in a world where slender men with effeminate manners were considered desirable.

  Brogan stood out from the cultured norm with his thick, muscular arms and powerful build. When he spoke, it was in a rumbling voice with a heavy Germanic accent. It could be terrifying and sinister, uneducated and thick.

  “Brogan,” Thel purred. “What can we do for you?”

  Brogan gazed at the woman; she was petite, exotic looking with silky black hair and dark eyes. But women made him uncomfortable. The only woman he hadn’t felt uncomfortable with, besides his mother, had died eleven years ago in childbirth with his son. As he looked at the Sirens, he felt little more than disdain for the sex in general.

  “Give me a gown,” he growled. “Something soft and warm. And with none of your vermin on it.”

  The girls looked surprised, then confused. When their confusion translated into a long, puzzled pause, Brogan barked at them and they scattered like frightened chickens. They ran about the room in panic more than in an actual search. But Thel soon calmed the group enough to produce a sheath of well-washed linen and a surcoat of soft lamb’s wool. Both were worn but serviceable. Without a word of thanks, Brogan snatched it from Aggie’s outstretched hand.

  “Who is this for?” Thel asked. “Do you need our help, Brogan?”

  He growled, not one for making much conversation. He had what he had come for and was disinclined to answer questions. But something told him that St. Alban would send him back down here for female assistance. Since Thel was the only whore of the three that he could even moderately tolerate, he motioned to her.

  “You,” he said. “Come.”

  She bolted after him and they mounted the steps to the second floor. Thel was giddy with anticipation but banked herself well. When they reached the room at the end of the hall, Brogan ushered the woman inside and closed the door. St. Alban’s cat, a fat orange beast, hissed at the woman when she strayed too close to it. She kicked at it as Brogan ushered her over to the bed.

  St. Alban glanced up from his charge. “Ah, Thelchtereia,” he said. “How good of you to come. We have a visitor that requires your help.”

  Thel’s excitement drained into confusion. She peered at the woman on the bed, buried under mounds of both wet and dry material. Now thoroughly puzzled, she put her hand on the pasty forehead.

  “What happened to her?” she asked.

  Brogan just walked away. He wasn’t about to explain how he, literally, bumped into her. St. Alban knew better than to press him.

  “Our friend Brogan rescued her from a watery grave.” He had no idea how close he was to the truth. “We must take her from these wet clothes.”

  Brogan pulled the curtain to allow St. Alban and Thel to strip the unconscious woman and replace her clothing. Odd that he felt a certain amount of anxiety as he paced the floor. Somehow, he felt responsible for the woman. On the most selfish night of his life he found himself concerned for another when he clearly should not have concerned himself. He should walk right back to the bridge and finish what he started. But he couldn’t.

  St. Alban pulled the curtain back after a short amount of time. Brogan wandered over, gazing down at the ill woman; Thel was drying her hair and he could see, now that she wasn’t sopping and there was some color back in her cheeks, that she was an exquisitely beautiful creature. He found himself staring at her fine features with a fair amount of curiosity. She had been small and light in his arms, and her brown hair was drying into a delightful shimmering chestnut shade. He could see hues of gold and red intertwined as the firelight played upon the strands.

  “A friend of yours?” Thel asked him softly.

  He must have been staring harder than he realized. Thel’s voice pierced his thoughts and his reaction was brief embarrassment, followed by his usual growling manner. Thel smiled and it only served to inflame him. They both knew she had caught him in a moment of genuine interest.

  “I dragged her from the river,” he said.

  “What on earth was this woman doing in the river?” Thel held up one of the rough, red palms. “Look at her hands. They’re blistered and worn. Perhaps she is a servant and her master grew angry with her.”

  Before Brogan could reply, the unconscious woman stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing golden-brown orbs the color of a Cat’s Eye stone. The shade was mesmerizing. She blinked once, twice, her gaze falling upon Thel as the woman stood over her. When her eyes came to Brogan, an enormous bear of a man, she stiffened with fright.

  “Where am I?” she hissed, struggling to pull away. “Who are you?”

  Brogan just stared at her. St. Alban answered. “You are at the Tower, my lady,” he said gallantly. “It seems that you were brought here in some distress.”

  The woman blinked again, attempting to clear her thoughts and form her last recollection. Her lovely face flickered with confusion and a cold hand came up, smoothing a strand of hair from her forehead.

  “Distress?” she murmured with pale lips. “I do not recall.…”

  “You were found in the Thames.”

  It was as if a flame suddenly ignited. Her eyes widened. “My horse… what happened to my horse?”

  St. Alban and Thel looked at Brogan. His granite features were unreadable and he did not reply. Either he did not know or he would not say. St. Alban could see the lady was growing agitated.

  “Were you riding, then?” he asked. “Did your horse fall into the river with you?”

  The woman shook her head helplessly. “I do not know. He was spooked and we were heading for the bridge. I remember… I remember dark streets, a half-moon, and naught else.”

  St. Alban motioned Thel to bring the lady some hot broth that was simmering on the hearth. “Then we shall take good care of you until you are ready to leave,” he said. “What is your name, my lady?”

  “Avalyn du Brant.”

  “Ah,” St. Alban smiled. “A lovely name for a lovely lady. Where do you live so that we may let your family know of your whereabouts?”

  Avalyn Arabella de Beauchamp du Brant glanced at the two men standing over her. Now that her wits were returning, so was her inherent sense of caution. She was at the Tower; that much she knew. But she did not know these men, nor did she know their loyalties. With her family ties and the current political upheaval between the Yorkists and the Lancastrians, she must be very care
ful. Everyone had sides in the War of the Roses, whether or not they wanted to.

  The man standing to her right was of particular interest; she swore that she had seen him before, though she could not place his face. And it was quite a face; strong, angular lines and magnificent blue eyes set within weather-tanned skin. His hair was brown with flecks of gold and his powerful neck was as wide as his head. A glance at his arms told her they were absolutely enormous, as was the rest of him. She could tell just by looking at him that the man was pure muscle and power, bred for war like the mighty chargers the knights rode to battle. He was a battle machine.

  No, she wasn’t comfortable divulging her background in the least. These were days of vigilance. But she was clever at masking her resistance.

  “That will not be necessary,” she said. “I feel much better, in fact, and shan’t trouble you further. If you would just give me my clothes, I shall be gone.”

  She attempted to toss back the mounds of covers, but St. Alban stopped her. “Please, my lady, rest a while longer. Take some broth. You’ve had a nasty evening.”

  Truthfully, she was very sore. Her head hurt horribly. “Though I appreciate your concern, it is quite unnecessary. I would like to go look for my horse and return home.”

  It was apparent the lady did not want to be their guest. St. Alban looked at Brogan for silent support, though he truthfully expected none. Brogan was not the type to bother himself with compassion or persuasion, which was the very reason why the lady’s presence here was so remarkable. Brogan concerned himself with no one unless ordered to. But in this case, he had.

  “My lady,” Brogan spoke in his deep, heavy accent. “You took a serious fall. You should rest a while before returning home. I will find your horse if that will bring you comfort.”