The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Finally, the old woman finished her last stitches and then packed a poultice onto his wound. She then wound cloth round and round his shoulder and arm to secure it. Without a word, she picked up her goods and left, the boy following her.

  No one spoke as Geoffrey heard her slow tread up the stone steps. A faint grating noise sounded. He assumed she shut a door from far above.

  Hardwin now cowered in the shadows, his eyes darting nervously from his father to Geoffrey.

  “Come,” Berold commanded, motioning to his son.

  Hardwin joined his father. Berold placed an arm about the trembling boy and pointed at Geoffrey.

  “Look upon the man who murdered your brother. He tells the tale one way, but he knows what he took from me.”

  The earl came closer to Geoffrey, bringing the reluctant boy along with him.

  “This man took my beloved son from me,” he hissed. “My heir who would one day rule Winterbourne. I now take something precious from him.” He spat in Geoffrey’s face. “Yesterday was the happiest day of this man’s life, Hardwin. His wedding day. But he will spend the rest of his life here. In loneliness. In misery.”

  Icy fear coursed through Geoffrey’s veins. Berold must be mad to think he could get away with such a scheme.

  “I’ll feed you every day, just enough to survive.” He frowned at Geoffrey. “I don’t want to kill you,” he said. “I want you to live for many years. In suffering and anguish. To atone for what you did to my boy.” He beat a hand against his chest. “My flesh and blood.”

  Geoffrey trembled with rage.

  Berold told him, “Very few people cross me at Winterbourne. In the past, I have thrown them in the dungeon for the slightest infraction. Now, I want you alone to occupy this domain. I plan to conduct all future punishments in front of everyone who lives at Winterbourne. I’ve already had the stock placed in a prominent spot in the bailey. I’ll lock those who disobey in it and cut off their hand if they displease me. Branding is another punishment for all to witness. Thumbscrews and foot roasting will also become public punishments. That will leave my dungeons free for my only prisoner.”

  The earl gripped his son’s shoulder, shaking the crying boy. “You must never come here again, Hardwin. No one shall know what became of this man. Not your mother. Not your sisters.”

  Berold paused. “And upon my death, you will take over and do the same. If de Montfort lives, then your son will do the same. Until the bastard is dead. Then he can rot in Hell.”

  The hope Geoffrey clung to slipped from his grasp. He looked at his captor as the man released his son and pushed him aside. Berold came to stand just outside Geoffrey’s reach, his eyes blazing in anger.

  “You stole the life of my eldest, de Montfort. Now I’ll steal yours. I allowed you to have a wedding day, so you would know what you were missing while you spent days and weeks and months and years in this prison. You’ll grow old and never see another face but mine.”

  Berold let loose a sinister laugh. “Your comely wife will either go mad with grief at your unexplained disappearance or she’ll grow old before her time. Her beauty will wither and emptiness will fill her heart. And she, too, will die, sad and alone, wondering what happened to her handsome husband. You’ll never hear anyone speak your name again, for down here, you are no one.”

  Berold moved his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Welcome to your new home.”

  Chapter 10

  Geoffrey lay on the stone floor. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d been brought to this Hell. He’d been feverish for what he assumed to be days. The healer came and went, inspected his wound, changed his bandages, bathed his face with a wet cloth, and often forced him to drink a weak broth.

  But she never spoke to him.

  The fever had finally broken and his body no longer burned. Even the pain in his shoulder had calmed from a raging inferno to a dull ache. He wouldn’t die.

  What awaited him was a living death.

  Now that he could think coherently, he saw no way out of this prison. The only windows were high above him and brought only weak light to his cell. Geoffrey had shouted until he had no voice, but no one had heard him. True to his word, the earl brought food as he’d promised. Not enough to fill his belly, but far from starving him.

  How could he escape?

  A sound came from a distance. His ears had adjusted to the quiet of the dungeon, so he could hear a rat scurrying about in the darkness beyond the torch that always burned.

  Someone was coming. Maybe someone who could help him.

  Hope sprung in his heart and fled just as quickly.

  The Earl of Winterbourne appeared at the cell’s locked door. He opened it and put the day’s allotment of food before Geoffrey. The earl never came close enough for Geoffrey to touch him. He would eat later, not wanting Berold to see how hungry he was. Nor how dependent Geoffrey had become on his jailor.

  “You may remove your bandages.”

  Why would the earl tell him that?

  Geoffrey knew the answer but said, “The healer must do so. She should look to see if I’ve made good progress.”

  “She assured me you will be fine. That you will live.” Berold paused. “She won’t be returning.”

  With that, the earl locked the door again and hung the key on the wall opposite his cell. He folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “They came here today.”

  They?

  But once again, Geoffrey knew without asking. This time he remained silent.

  Berold’s eyes met his. “’Twas your father, cousin, wife.”

  Geoffrey’s fists tightened. Thoughts of Merryn flooded him.

  His captor frowned, as if concerned. “She seemed almost ill. She was quite pale. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in—”

  “Enough!” he roared. “You aren’t to speak of her. Ever.”

  “I sympathized with them, of course. My tone hushed and respectful.” Berold smiled. “And all the while, I wanted to shout to the heavens that you resided below in my dungeons. That you’d survived the crossbow attack. And that you would never see your family again.”

  Berold backed away. “Till tomorrow.”

  Geoffrey waited until the sound of the retreating steps ended, leaving him once again in isolation.

  For the first time since he’d arrived here, he wept.

  “My lord?”

  Geoffrey stirred from sleep. He sat up. A lone figure stood at the bars.

  Hardwin.

  Mayhap the boy’s guilt would spur him to kindness and set Geoffrey free.

  “I . . . brought you something.” He tossed a leg of meat through the bars. It hit the floor.

  That didn’t matter. Geoffrey pounced on it, eager for the taste of meat after being deprived of it for God only knew how many days or weeks.

  “My name is Hardwin. My friends . . . call me Hardie.”

  Geoffrey chewed greedily. He needed to gain this boy’s trust.

  “’Tis good to know your name, Hardie. I am Geoffrey.”

  “I know,” the boy said sullenly. He looked around. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “But you are.” Geoffrey held up what remained of the roasted leg. “I thank you for the meat. I don’t know if I’ve tasted anything better.”

  “Did you really kill my brother?”

  How should he answer that question? He couldn’t alienate this boy, but he could not hide the truth from him.

  “I had a part in his death,” Geoffrey admitted. “What has your father told you?”

  Hardie snorted. “He tells everyone that Barrett died a hero on the battlefield. That France only capitulated because of brave men such as his courageous son.” He looked searchingly at Geoffrey. “But I have heard whispers among the servants. And when I questioned Father in private, he told me you alone were responsible for Barrett’s death.”

  “Nay, I’m not.”

  “I know who you are, Geoffrey de Montfort. You are our neighbor. An hour’s
ride away. You’re from Kinwick Castle and fostered with Sir Lovel.”

  “I did spend time in service to Sir Lovel. Have you fostered in another household? Been a page? Or surely by now, you’d be a squire?”

  The boy’s bottom lip stuck out. “I was attached to Lord Herry’s household, but Father decided I would be better served under his tutelage. I returned home when he came back from France.”

  “I see.” Geoffrey wondered why the earl brought the boy home. He guessed the reason was for Hardie to continue with this ghastly blood feud in case his father died. From the look on the boy’s face, Hardie had come to the same conclusion.

  “I liked Lord Herry. I didn’t want to leave his service.”

  Geoffrey wanted to encourage Hardie’s defiance of his father. His freedom might be won through this child, but it would take many small steps to accomplish the deed since he could see that the boy was terrified of the earl.

  “I’m sorry that your father removed you from Lord Herry’s service. You could have learned much from him.”

  “You know him?” Hardie’s eyes lit up.

  “Aye. Lord Herry is a great warrior. One of the best in all of England.”

  “Father would kill me if he knew I were here.”

  “Nay, Hardie. You are his heir. Blood of his blood. You will have the title and Winterbourne one day. He would not harm you.”

  “He would certainly punish me.”

  Geoffrey offered a small smile as he planted his first seed. “Then I suppose you’ll have to be careful whenever you come to visit me.”

  Hardie scowled. “Why should I visit you? You killed my brother.” He kicked his boot aimlessly, staring down at the ground.

  “Look at me, Hardie.” Geoffrey’s firm tone was one he’d used to command others.

  Slowly, the boy’s head rose.

  “I will tell you how your brother died. ’Twas not a hero’s death but a coward’s. He betrayed king and country to our enemies.”

  Geoffrey took his time painting the story of Barrett’s betrayal. When he finished talking, Hardie could not hide his horror. Even the boy’s posture became defeated, knowing his brother had been executed as a traitor in front of the Black Prince.

  “Because your father had been far from these events and only arrived with the Duke of Lancaster and his army, your family was spared. Usually, a traitor’s lands and title revert to the king while his family lives in shame and poverty.”

  “I hated Barrett,” Hardie revealed. “He was cruel to me. He never treated me as a brother should.” He gripped the bars, his knuckles turning white. “I’m glad you discovered his treachery, Geoffrey.”

  Just to hear his name spoken aloud seemed like manna from Heaven. For the first time, Geoffrey experienced a glimmer of hope. He could draw this boy to his side. He must carefully cultivate their friendship.

  “I hope you’ll grow into a better man than your brother or father, Hardie.”

  Chapter 11

  Kinwick Castle—May, 1363

  “Tilda, give the king’s messenger food and drink. I’ll read his missive and compose my answer.”

  Merryn left the great hall and returned to the bedchamber she had shared with Geoffrey for less than a day. The one night they had spent as man and wife in it haunted her to this day.

  She knew what Edward’s letter would contain before she even broke the seal.

  Ferand had insisted on writing the king a month after Geoffrey disappeared. He wanted to keep his liege informed. The king had visited Kinwick twice since then, both times while on summer progress, with his full court in tow. He’d instantly taken to Merryn because they shared a love of history. During long walks together, they’d discussed England’s past and what the king wanted for its future.

  She broke the seal and spread the missive across the small table.

  My dear Lady Merryn—

  I hope this finds you in both good health and high spirits. I myself feel a few creaks in my knees. I should, I suppose. ’Tis not every day a man reaches two score and ten as I have.

  I write to tell you that I shall return on summer progress and will stop at Kinwick to call upon you. I bring with me a knight I should like you to meet. His name is Sir Symond Benedict, and he has served me faithfully in my royal guard. You might recall him from my last sojourn at your lovely estate.

  You know the time has come, my lady. I have not pressed you, knowing your sorrow and wanting to give you ample time to grieve. But I insist you make a marriage and find some happiness for yourself. Seven years is a long time to mourn a husband of one day.

  Benedict would make a good partner. He is courteous and respectful, though I believe you would be the more intelligent one in this match.

  All I ask is that you think upon it. We can discuss it together when I next see you.

  I receive excellent reports of the wonderful work you do at Kinwick. The wise decisions you make. How your crops thrive. And of your healing hands. I may ask you to make me some of your special remedy that soothes the aching in my head from time to time. I have run out of the last batch you so kindly provided me with on my last visit.

  I shall make my way to Kinwick next month, arriving in mid to late June. Till then, my lady.

  Merryn pushed the parchment aside. She did remember Sir Symond Benedict. The one time Edward had motioned him over for them to speak, he’d turned bright red, as red as his hair and beard. The soldier was Geoffrey’s opposite in every way, from coloring and size to personality. She wondered if the king wished this man to be her husband for that very reason, so no resemblance would remind her of her beloved Geoffrey.

  Merryn realized that the king had been more than patient with her. Most widows remarried quickly under his order. Only their friendship had saved her from doing so.

  Though she knew it was time to move on, not a day went by that her heart didn’t cry out for Geoffrey. She fingered the sapphire brooch pinned to her cotehardie, affixed next to her heart. It remained a daily reminder of her husband and his love for her.

  And the king was wrong. It wasn’t a husband of a single day that she mourned. It was her best friend of many years. The man she’d waited for years to marry. The husband who’d introduced her to passion and love.

  The only man who would ever hold her heart.

  Tears wet her eyes. She had too much to do and too many people dependent upon her. She believed crying to be a sign of weakness, though she had wept a river of tears in those first weeks as they’d scoured the countryside for Geoffrey.

  Merryn flung herself onto the bed and sobbed. She was breaking in two, once more. Though she clung to her faith, she could not understand why God had taken her beloved.

  Spent, she dried her tears. Merryn composed a response to the king, telling him of her delight at his upcoming visit. Promising to serve his favorite dishes, she told him she looked forward to a private discussion with him and shared her interest in talking with Sir Symond Benedict, if it pleased the king.

  Merryn made no promise to take this man in wedlock, but she knew that by the time Edward moved on from Kinwick, a new husband would be in her bed.

  She sealed the letter and returned to the great hall where she found the king’s messenger finishing a meal. Merryn caught his eye and he came to her at once.

  “Here is my reply to the king.”

  “I will leave at once, my lady.” He bowed and left.

  Tilda joined her then. Hugh had been kind enough to allow Tilda to come to Kinwick in those first bleak months when Merryn had been out of her head with grief. Having the familiar servant nearby eased her. She was fond of the old woman. Tilda mothered her sometimes as if she still were a child.

  Thinking of Hugh, Merryn told Tilda, “I need to look in on Milla. Her eyes are most weepy now that spring has arrived. I have a new concoction that should bring her some comfort.”

  “I’m afraid Lady Milla will be weepy until she gives your brother a child.”

  “Sometimes a child is a l
ong time in coming,” Merryn said. “Look at Geoffrey. His two sisters were born half a score before he was. Lady Elia had given up hope of bearing a son when God blessed her with a child again. Mayhap the same will happen for Hugh and Milla.”

  Merryn had learned to speak Geoffrey’s name calmly, despite the hurt that it caused her. Yet, she brought him up in casual conversation from time to time. She did not want to forget him.

  Her mother-in-law appeared in the doorway and came straight to her.

  “A messenger from Winterbourne brought this,” Elia said. “He said no reply was expected.”

  Merryn accepted the letter. “I wonder what the earl might want.”

  The family at Kinwick Castle had never been close to those at Winterbourne, so any contact was unusual. Merryn broke the seal and scanned the contents.

  “It seems Lord Berold has passed on,” she shared with Elia. “A funeral mass is scheduled on the morrow. The new earl would like us to attend.” She thought a moment. “What was the boy’s name? I met him years ago.”

  Merryn remembered the only time she had traveled to Winterbourne. They had gone there as they searched for Geoffrey. Lord Berold had briefly introduced the boy, who’d slipped from the room as they spoke. She had supposed he was shy and uncomfortable with strangers.

  “Hardwin,” Elia replied. “I remember names if not faces. And the boy is a man now. He’s to be married soon or so I’m told.”

  Merryn sat in the chapel with Lady Elia, her brother, and his wife. She found it odd the two families so rarely had contact. Next to Hugh and Milla at Wellbury, Winterbourne was the closest estate to Kinwick.

  She glanced over at Hugh, handsome as always. Milla sat on his other side, her red nose dripping as it always did in springtime. Poor Milla’s eyes watered constantly as she dabbed at them. Merryn prayed every morning at mass for them to be blessed with children.

  And for Geoffrey to come home to her.

  Her attention turned to the new earl. She barely recognized Hardwin from their only meeting. He’d grown much taller and his face had matured. She hoped they would be able to share a word of comfort with him once the funeral mass ended.