Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Rod was puzzled. “What goal?”

  Christopher sighed heavily. “De Velt’s oldest daughter was there, a novice nun,” he said, his tone filled with dread. “This army took the girl and burned the priory, killing everyone inside. But they left one old nun alive to deliver a message, which was picked up by de Bouler’s men.”

  Rod was completely shocked at the news. “God’s Beard,” he hissed. “What message could that be?”

  Christopher glanced at Edward before continuing, as if the two of them held a great secret that was about to be unfurled.

  “The army that took de Velt’s daughter is essentially inviting de Velt to come and get her,” he said. “It is a challenge, a summons, if you will. The army that took her has retreated to Cloryn Castle from what we are told and there they wait. Cloryn, as you recall, is an impenetrable fortress but they somehow managed to reclaim it and kill de Velt’s garrison commander in the process.”

  Rod thought on that event, sighing heavily and scratching his dark head in thought. “De Velt’s commander had to be a very old man,” he said. “In fact, de Velt still controls five remaining castles along the northern Marches. All of de Velt’s commanders, at least the ones that originally confiscated the castles, must be quite old by now.”

  Christopher nodded faintly. “Old indeed,” he agreed softly. “De Boulers and I have discussed such things in the past. He believes the original commanders are no longer in control and that second generation de Velt men hold the castles.”

  “No one knows for sure?”

  Christopher shook his head. “No one has approached those castles since they were originally taken,” he said. “It is well understood to give them a wide berth. Even the Welsh will not go near them, fearful of bringing down de Velt’s wrath.”

  Rod pondered that information. “But someone has approached them now, or at least has approached Cloryn,” he said. “Whoever has done this obviously does not fear de Velt if he has taken the man’s daughter and now uses her for bait.”

  Christopher had been mulling over just that fact for the past several days. He stroked his blond beard in thought. “This army… these men… are not from this land,” he said. “Rumor says they are from Ireland, but de Boulers says they are mercenaries of the worst degree, men who feed on money and blood. Their commander, however, does not have an Irish name. He gave his name to the old nun as Bretton de Llion.”

  Rod stared at the man as his words sank deep. There was a very long and tense pause. But once realization dawned, Rod’s eyes widened and his mouth flew open. Before he realized it, he was on his feet.

  “Bretton de Llion?” he repeated, shocked.

  “Aye.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Aye.”

  “But that… that is not possible!”

  Christopher remained calm. “Why not?”

  Rod was seized with disbelief. “Because Bretton de Llion is the name of the lad who perished when Jax de Velt destroyed Four Crosses Castle and killed my mother’s brother,” he nearly shouted. “He was my mother’s brother’s son – my cousin!”

  Christopher watched Rod, who had a naturally passionate nature, work himself up into a lather. “I thought he might be related to you,” he said evenly. “That is why I called you here – to see if you knew the name. I see that you do.”

  “Of course I do!” Rod exclaimed. “It is the name of my dead cousin!”

  “Was his body ever found?”

  Rod’s mind was wild with the possibilities. “Nay,” he said, dazed. “The castle was burned, the bodies burned. We only knew of my uncle because my grandfather never gave up hope that the man had survived and only found out well after the fact that he had not, nor had his family.”

  Christopher glanced at Edward, who took up the cause. “It is possible that the lad escaped, Rod,” Edward said, taking the man’s attention off Christopher. “If there was no body, then there is no confirmed death. It is quite possible he has survived and has now returned for revenge against de Velt.”

  Rod could hardly believe what he was hearing. He looked at Edward in utter and complete shock. “Are you suggesting that my cousin, whom we believed to have been murdered as a child by Ajax de Velt, has somehow come back to life?” Rod couldn’t decide if he was more startled or outraged by that thought. “It is pure madness, de Wolfe!”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Christopher said softly. “You cannot discount anything. Certainly, the leader of this mercenary army could have assumed Bretton’s name, but why? To what purpose? And what man other than someone who has spent his entire life stewing over the death of his family at the hands of de Velt would have the drive and hatred to go on a rampage like this and seek revenge against the very man who destroyed his loved ones? It makes perfect sense.”

  Rod was looking at Christopher with his mouth hanging open. Now that the initial shock and outrage had passed, he was clearly overwhelmed. In fact, he was weak with it. He plopped back into his chair and took his cup of wine, draining the entire thing.

  “Oh, God,” he breathed, pouring himself another measure. “This is madness, all of it. To say that Bretton has returned and is seeking vengeance against de Velt… dear God, is it even possible?”

  Christopher sat forward, his razor-sharp gaze drilling into Rod. “Sometimes the dead aren’t truly dead,” he said softly. “They can return.”

  Rod returned the man’s stare, realizing in that moment that Christopher was speaking of his brother, Rhys. Rod didn’t know just how he knew that, but he did. He sensed it. Everyone believed Rhys to be dead even though he wasn’t. Somehow, someway, Christopher knew the truth. It was in his tone, his expression, and his words. Perhaps David had told him. It was the only explanation and Rod knew the man was in on their secret as surely as he was living and breathing. De Lohr knows!

  But this wasn’t about Rhys. It was about Bretton, and with that awareness, Christopher’s words came to make a great deal of sense. Sometimes the dead aren’t truly dead. Aye, anything was possible. The more Rod thought about it, the more he realized that de Lohr was correct. Anything was possible.

  Oddly, that mindset seemed to calm him. The wave of hysteria had rolled over him, leaving still waters in its wake. Not completely calm, but still nonetheless. Rod looked at Christopher, choosing his words cautiously.

  “Possibly,” he finally murmured. “But this is fantastic to say the least.”

  Christopher held Rod’s gaze a moment longer before averting it as he rose from his chair. “Incredulous and amazing,” he agreed. “But it is not impossible. There would be no other reason for the leader of the mercenary army to give the name of Bretton de Llion if he was, in fact, not Bretton. Why would he? It would serve no purpose. In my experience, the man gave his name because he wanted to be known. He wanted de Velt to know that one of his former victims was back to seek vengeance.”

  It made perfect sense. Rod, however, was still reeling. He drank the last of the wine in his cup, struggling to come to terms with what he had been told. He looked up at Christopher as the man moved to pour himself some wine.

  “Then why am I here?” Rod asked. “What would you have of me?”

  Christopher poured rich, red wine into an earthenware cup. “I wanted you to know the contents of Shropshire’s missive,” he said quietly, turning to face Rod with cup in hand. “I truly have no idea what is happening near my borders but it bears watching. My greatest concern at this point is that de Velt will respond to the challenge and if that occurs, we may once again be facing a horrendous bloodbath along the Marches greater than anything we have ever seen. De Velt is not dead. The man lives in Northumberland and he has, over the years, been quite generous in making restitution to those he wronged. He has donated heavily to several priories, Alberbury being one of them, and he holds a portion of the Scots border for King John. The Scots are not foolish enough to cross the border that de Velt defends. Bear in mind that, as I say this, de Velt still has a big army and I
am quite sure this abduction of his daughter will not go unanswered. That is my greatest fear because if de Velt moves into Shropshire’s lands, and consequently my lands, I will be forced to answer. I do not want to be sucked into a war against de Velt.”

  Rod knew that. He sighed heavily. “Bronllys Castle, my grandfather’s castle, is only a few miles from Erwood Castle, which is a de Velt holding,” he said. “It concerns me a great deal that this… this mercenary army would possibly try to reclaim all of de Velt’s holdings. That would put us too close to the action and we’d suffer from the fall out.”

  It was evident that Rod couldn’t bring himself to say Bretton de Llion’s name, at least not now. It was still too new and shocking, all of it. Christopher could see how shaken the man was.

  “That is why I wanted to tell you all of this personally,” he said. “Not only because of the name of the commander of this army, but also because you must return to tell your grandfather what has transpired. It might be wise to vacate Bronllys and move south to Whitebrook until this matter has settled.”

  Rod shook his head. “My grandfather will not leave his post,” he said what they all knew. “He is an old knight and has been there for over twenty years. He will never leave it.”

  Christopher watched the man’s expression, seeing sadness and resignation there. “Then I would ask that once you inform your grandfather of what is happening, you return to me,” he said. “Losing Lawrence and Rhys last year has left me low on trained knights. True, I have de Wolfe and Max Cornwallis, and I even have Jeffrey Kessler, who was my wife’s family’s captain of the guard before I married her, and I also have a stable full of young and strong knights, but I could use a seasoned commander like you.”

  Rod knew it was not a request. It was a kind way of saying de Lohr was demanding his services. “I understand, my lord,” he said, “but my grandfather may have need of me, especially if I cannot convince him to leave Bronllys.”

  Christopher grew more impassioned. “That is exactly why I need you with me,” he said. “I have the largest army on the Marches and if de Velt moves, if this mercenary army moves, my army will be the first to engage them. Mayhap we can prevent them from getting to Bronllys. Do you see what we are facing, Rod? With de Velt provoked, this could be the resurgence of something more deadly and bloody than England has ever seen.”

  Rod was coming to see that and the truth was that it scared him. Not much in this life scared him, but this did. Perhaps the only way to help his grandfather, or even his family, was to remain with de Lohr. After a moment, he nodded his head.

  “Very well,” he said. “I will remain with you until this crisis is over. But let me return to Bronllys to tell my grandfather. He must be on his guard.”

  Christopher couldn’t disagree. In fact, he was in full support of it. “When you tell your grandfather, will you speak of Bretton de Llion’s apparent return?” he asked. “I am not entirely sure how much good that will do your grandfather to know that. There is nothing he can do about it in any case.”

  Rod shrugged, thinking of how his grandfather might react to such news. “I am not sure what to tell him,” he said. “Knowing my grandfather, he would ride to Cloryn Castle to see if the commander really is Bretton and more than likely get himself killed in the process. But, on the other hand, he lost a grandson last year and he has not recovered from it. Mayhap… mayhap it will do him some good to know that it is possible another grandson has returned from the dead.”

  “A returned grandson who is tearing up the Marches and murdering nuns?”

  Rod merely shrugged again. He didn’t have an answer. Christopher drank his wine, mulling over the situation in general, as he turned for his seat near the hearth. Somewhere outside of the solar door he could hear a baby crying, reminding him of his family safe within these old walls. Walls that could face a beating if the Marches were consumed by the flames of warfare. He didn’t like the thought.

  “Let us hope we all live through this,” he muttered, lowering his bulk into the chair. There was gentle fire in the hearth and he gazed at it a moment, deep in thought. “There was something else that de Llion told the old nun, something interesting.”

  Rod looked at him. “What was that?”

  Christopher was still staring at the flames. “He told her to tell de Velt that the Devil was coming for him.”

  Edward grunted at the arrogance of the statement. “There is a very old proverb that says it is better to be the right hand of the Devil than in his path,” he muttered, interjecting his opinion into the conversation. “In this case, however, I have no desire to side with Satan. I do not even wish to side with de Velt.”

  Christopher looked up. “There is another saying, from the Bible, and it is all I can think of at the moment,” he said. “Somehow, it seems very prophetic for this situation.”

  Edward glanced at him over the top of his cup. “What is it?”

  Christopher’s attention returned to the flame, seeing death and destruction within the flickering embers. He simply couldn’t help the feeling of doom in his heart. “Behold a pale horse,” he murmured, “and his name that sat on him was Death. And Hell followed with him.”

  They sat in silence after that until the wine was gone and the fire died out. Even then, they continued to remain, each man lost to his own particular thoughts of disaster. No matter which side of the Marches one was sitting, the Devil seemed to be approaching from all sides.

  And Hell would undoubtedly come with him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cloryn Castle

  Welsh Marches

  Three long weeks.

  Well, at least she thought it had been three weeks because she had scratched off every passing day on the wall with a small rock. It had been three weeks since she had been abducted from Alberbury Priory and taken to an unknown castle and put into a vault that was dank, dark, and dirty. Moss grew on the stone like green slime and there was a constant water drip against one of the walls, puddling up on the floor and giving everything a terribly moldy smell. It also made Allaston sneeze and she had been doing little else since being locked up in this dismal hole. It was a horrible, depressing place.

  She had a bed of old straw to sleep on and a few rough blankets that smelled like horses, so she assumed they were for the livestock. Normally, she would have shunned such things, for she grew up in a house where she wanted for nothing. Her parents had spoiled her, just as they had spoiled all of their children, but the past year had seen her attitude for finery change dramatically. The nuns of Alberbury had pushed thoughts of material pleasures right out of her mind, which had been difficult considering how overindulged she had been. Her pride, and tastes, had been a difficult thing to contain, but now, sitting on her bed of straw and covered with horse blankets, she found she had no pride at all in material things. If she hadn’t the blankets, she would have frozen to death so she was grateful for what she had, however raw.

  Three weeks. Those words kept rolling around her head because she was fearful that she was going to spend the rest of her life down here in the darkness. Since the cell had no window, she really only knew the number of days from the meals she had been brought. She was given food to break her fast and then a small supper every night, usually consisting of terrible leavings from what looked to be bigger feasts. She was given the scraps. Hungry as she was, she ate them.

  Allaston hadn’t seen the blue-eyed knight since the day she had been brought to this place and locked away. The only people she saw were soldiers as they brought her food, and those soldiers spoke with Irish accents. Two of them did, anyway, which confused her but she didn’t dare strike up a conversation with them to ask them where they were from. They didn’t seem to be the conversational type.

  So she sat and waited, but waited for what, she didn’t know. She had no idea why she was even here and she had long since gotten over being terrified for her plight. No one had hurt her or had even tried to in spite of the fact that she was a prisoner. She
was cast into the vault and left alone, forgotten. She was positive she was forgotten.

  Until the morning of the nineteenth day of captivity. She had slept a miserable night, cold and hungry, and the sneezing she’d suffered from since her arrival had turned into a cough. Her head was stuffy as was her chest, and her throat felt as if it was on fire. As she lay on the straw, shivering, she heard the iron grate at the top of the stairs open. The stairs led down from the gatehouse into the vault and she could hear heavy bootfalls on the stone as someone descended. She assumed it was a soldier bringing her some food but she was too weary and ill to sit up. Besides, there was no reason to eat if she was going to spend the rest of her life in a dank cell. The quicker she hastens her death, the better. She didn’t want to live like an animal for the rest of her life and from her perspective, she couldn’t see any way out. She was trapped.

  So she lay there, unmoving, as someone came to her cell door. She heard the bolt being thrown and the door as it was jerked open. Because of the moisture in the vault, the oak door tended to swell and stick. Big, heavy footsteps entered the cell.

  “Get up, woman.”

  It was a deep, raspy voice. Allaston had heard it before. Startled, her head popped up and she struggled to sit up as her eyes fixed on a man of enormous proportions. He was clad in a leather tunic, woolen breeches, and massive boots, and she would have had no idea who the man was except that she recognized the vibrant blue eyes. They were the eyes of the knight who had burned Alberbury.

  Stunned, Allaston managed to sit up enough so that she was on her arse, but the entire time her focus was riveted on the man before her. He had black hair, cropped short, and a square jaw beneath a sprouting beard. His neck was thick and muscular, just like his shoulders, and his arms were easily as big around as her torso. She’d never seen such size. True enough, he’d been covered with tunics and mail the night they had met and she had attributed that to his colossal size. She was coming to see, however, that the man was simply big in general. The mail and other protection didn’t make a significant difference in his overall bulk. He was, simply put, built for the raw brutalities of warfare.