Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Devereux fought off a grin; Hugh and Roger Mortimer’s youngest daughter, Isolde, were to be wed the following month at Wigmore Castle, Roger’s seat. Hugh and the very lovely Isolde had met at Davyss and Devereux’s second wedding ceremony and it had taken Roger years to convince Hugh to marry his daughter. He even promised him the baronetcy of Audley to entice him, but still, the de Winter stubborn streak was strong. Only when Lady Katharine threatened to disinherit him did he start taking the marriage proposal seriously.

  “You cannot fool me, Hugh,” Devereux lifted an eyebrow. “You are more excited about this wedding than your bride is and I am looking forward to a lovely event.”

  Hugh took a direct hit in the chin from Devon, finally deciding he’d had enough and was struggling to crawl away.

  “Mother was more excited than any of us,” he finally made it to his feet, fending off a charge from Drake by pushing the boy away by the forehead. “I regret that she did not live to see it.”

  Devereux’s smile faded, thinking on Lady Katharine and the illness that had swiftly claimed her life six months before. The woman had been the rock of the de Winter family and her boys were still struggling to adjust to life without their mother. Devereux moved to her husband, still standing with Katie in his arms, and wrapped her hands around his enormous bicep.

  “She lived to see four grandchildren born, including her namesake,” she tried to comfort the sons. “She lived to see a great deal. I know she was happy; she told me so on many occasions. Which reminds me; did you ever read the missive she left for you, Davyss? The one she had scribed by Lollardly when she lay dying?”

  Davyss shook his head. “I have not had the nerve.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In my saddle bags.”

  Devereux’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you mean to tell me that you have been carrying it around with you since her death?”

  He nodded, glancing at Hugh as Devon and Drake latched on to his leg and tried to pull him down. He lowered his voice and turned to his wife.

  “I have told you this before,” he said. “I do not know what she could possibly write to me on her deathbed but I do not like it. I do not want to know.”

  “Perhaps she only wanted to tell you how much she loved you.”

  “Perhaps; but I do not think so.”

  Devereux fell silent a moment, contemplating. “Perhaps you should let me read it. If I think you need to know, I will tell you.”

  Hugh went down again in a pile of boys as Davyss stepped over him, making his way to his charger. With Katie in one massive arm, he unstrapped the left saddlebag and dug around in it until finally pulling forth a small tube of yellowed vellum. It was tied with gut, sealed with Lady Katharine’s stamp. Katie was more interested in what else he had in the bag so he held it open for her as she rummaged around. She pulled forth a strip of leather, nothing of any true value or worth, and began to play with it. Davyss let her have it as he made his way back over to his wife.

  Devereux was in the process of telling Denys to stop biting his uncle as Davyss approached, extending the missive to her. She looked somewhat surprised as she accepted it.

  “This is it?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Are you sure you want me to read this?”

  He shrugged, stepping aside when Hugh rolled into him. “You may as well. I never will.”

  Devereux paused a moment, indecisive, before finally untying the gut and breaking the seal. Carefully, she unrolled the vellum and began to read.

  No one was paying much attention to her as she moved a few feet away so that she could read without getting hit by one of her wrestling sons. In fact, her back was to both Davyss and Hugh. Davyss watched her a moment before setting Katie down, immediately having to protect her from her flailing brothers. When Katie reached down and began to pull Hugh’s hair, the man howled in pain and the children laughed loudly. The more Katie would pull, the more Hugh would yell. Davyss just stood there, hands on his hips, and grinned.

  But Devereux wasn’t grinning. She finished the missive and read it through again, just to make sure she understood what she had read. With a lingering glance at her husband, she turned and headed into The House of Hope. Davyss, Hugh and the children continued to play. When Devereux finally emerged several minutes later, it was without the missive. Davyss glanced up at her, noticing her empty hands. He moved away from the writhing group on the ground.

  “What did you do with it?” he pointed to her empty fingers.

  Devereux gazed up at him steadily. “Burned it.”

  Davyss’ eyebrows lifted. “What?” he demanded. “Why did you do that?”

  Devereux thought on her reply. When she spoke, it was careful. “I did not want it to fall into the wrong hands,” she said quietly, wrapping her fingers around her husband’s big arm. “If you truly wish to know what it said, I will tell you. Otherwise, my lips are sealed. I will take the contents of that missive to my grave.”

  Davyss stared at her, feeling some trepidation. His fingers began to toy with hers. “Is it so terrible?”

  “I suppose that would depend on your point of view.”

  “If you were in my place, would you want to know?”

  She thought on that. “More than likely.”

  “Then tell me.”

  She did. Davyss wasn’t particularly surprised to find out that Simon de Montfort had fathered him.

  He took the secret with him to his grave as well.

  * THE END *

  THE DARK LORD

  A Medieval Romance

  By Kathryn Le Veque

  ‘Doomsman of Deeds and dreadful Lord,—Woe for that man who in harm and hatred hales his soul to fiery embraces’

  —Beowulf, Chapter II

  CHAPTER ONE

  May, 1180 AD

  Scots Borderlands, England

  He had her by the hair; strands of spun gold clutched in the dirty mailed glove. Perhaps it was because she had tried to bite him and he did not want to chance another encounter with her sharp white teeth. Or perhaps it was because he was a brute of a man, sworn to Ajax de Velt and knowing little else but inflicting terror. Whatever the case, he had her tightly. She was trapped.

  The woman and her father were on their knees in great hall of the keep that had once belonged to them. Now it was their prison as enemy soldiers overran the place. There were memories of warmth and laughter embedded in the old stone walls, now erased by the terror that filled the room.

  Pelinom Castle had been breached before midnight when de Velt’s army had tunneled under the northeast tower of the wall, causing it to collapse. The woman and her father had tried to escape, along with the populace of their castle, but de Velt’s men had swarmed them like locusts. It was over before it began.

  Around her, the woman could hear the cries of her people as de Velt’s men ensnared them. She had been captured by an enormous knight with blood splashed on his plate armor and she had understandably panicked. Even now, trapped against the floor of the great hall, she was panicked and terrified. Tales of de Velt’s atrocities were well known in the lawless north of England, for it was a dark and lawless time. She knew they were about to enter Hell.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see her father on his knees. Sir Keats Coleby was a proud man and he had resisted the invasion gallantly. Why he hadn’t been outright killed, as the garrison commander, was a mystery. But he was well-bloodied for his efforts. The woman couldn’t see his face and she fixed her gaze back to the floor where the knight held her head. He very nearly had her nose pushed into the stone.

  There was a great deal of activity around them. She could hear men shouting orders as the screams of her people eventually faded. Horror consumed her, knowing that de Velt’s men were more than likely doing unspeakable things to her servants and soldiers. Tears stung her eyes but she fought them. She wondered what horrors de Velt had planned for her and her father.

  She didn’t have long to wait. With her
face nearly pressed to the stone, she heard a deep, rumbling voice.

  “Your name, knight.”

  The woman’s father answered without hesitation. “Sir Keats Coleby.”

  “You are commander of Pelinom, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  “And the girl?”

  “My daughter, the Lady Kellington.”

  The silence that filled the air was full of anxiety. Kellington could hear boot falls all around her, though it was difficult to see just how many men were surrounding them. It felt like the entire army.

  “Release her,” she heard the voice say.

  Immediately, the hand in her hair was removed and she stiffly lifted her head. Several unfriendly faces were glaring down at her, some from behind raised visors, some from helmless men. There were six in all, three knights and at least three soldiers. There could have been more standing behind her that she did not see, but for now, six was enough. Kellington’s heart was pounding loudly in her ears as she looked around, waiting for the coming confrontation. The knight to her right spoke.

  “How old are you, girl?”

  She swallowed; her mouth was so dry that there was nothing to swallow and she ended up choking. “I have seen eighteen years, my lord.”

  The knight shifted on his big legs and moved in front of her; Kellington’s golden-brown eyes dared to gaze up at him, noting a rather youngish warrior with a few days growth of beard and close-shorn blond hair. He didn’t look as frightening as she had imagined, but she knew if the man was sworn to de Velt, then he must be horrible indeed.

  “Does your husband serve Pelinom?” he asked, his deep voice somewhat quieter.

  “I am not married, my lord.”

  The knight glanced over at Keats, who met his gaze steadily. Then he turned his back on them both, leaving them to stew in fear. Kellington watched him closely, struggling to keep her composure. She wasn’t a flighty woman by nature, but panic was the only option at the moment.

  “Are there any others of the ruling house here?” the knight paused and turned to look at them. “Only the garrison commander and his daughter? No sons, no husband, no brothers?”

  Keats shook his head. “Just my daughter and I.”

  He deliberately left out ‘my lord’. If it bothered the knight, he did not show it. Instead, he turned his focus to the gallery above, the ceiling and the walls. Pelinom was a small but rich and strategically desirable castle and he was pleased that they had managed to capture her relatively intact. The chorus of screams that had been prevalent since the army breached the bailey suddenly picked up again, but the knight pretended not to notice. He returned his focus to Keats.

  “If you are lying to me, know that it will only harm you in the end,” he said in a low voice. “The only class spared at this time is the ruling house. All others are put to death, so you may as well confess before we kill someone who is important to you.”

  Keats didn’t react but Kellington’s eyes widened. She had never been a prisoner before and had no idea of the etiquette or behaviors involved. Living a rather isolated existence at Pelinom for most of her life, it had left her protected for the most part. This siege, this horror, was new and raw.

  “What does that mean?” she demanded before she could stop her tongue. “It is only my father and I, but my father has knights who serve him and we have servants who live here and…”

  The knight flicked his eyes in her direction. “You will no longer concern yourself over them.”

  She leapt to her feet. “My lord, please,” she breathed, her lovely face etched with anguish. “My father’s knight and friend is Sir Trevan. He was with us when you captured us, but now I do not see him. Please do not harm him. He has a new infant and…”

  “The weak and small are the first to be put to the blade. They are a waste of food and space within a military encampment.”

  Kellington’s eyes grew wider, tears constricting her throat. Her hands flew to her mouth. “You cannot,” she whispered. “Sir Trevan and his wife waited years for their son to be born. He is so small and helpless. Surely you cannot harm him. Please; I beseech you.”

  The knight lifted an eyebrow at her. Then he glanced at the other knights and soldiers standing around them; they were all de Velt men, born and bred to war. All they knew was death, destruction and greed. There was little room for compassion. He looked to Keats once more.

  “Explain to your daughter the way of things,” he turned away from them, seemingly pensive. “I will listen to what you tell her.”

  Keats sighed heavily, his gaze finding his only child. Though a woman grown she was, in fact, hardly taller than a child. But her short stature did nothing to detract from a deliciously womanly figure that had come upon her at an early age. Keats had seen man after man take a second look at his petite daughter, investigating the golden hair and face of an angel. He was frankly surprised that the de Velt men hadn’t taken her for sport yet, for she was truly a gorgeous little thing. He was dreading it, knowing it was only a matter of time and there was nothing on earth he could do to stop them. The thought made him ill.

  “Kelli,” he said softly. “I know that you do not understand since you have never seen a battle, but this is war. There are no rules. The victor will do as he pleases and we, as his prisoners, must obey.”

  “He will kill a baby?” she fired back. “That is unthinkable; it’s madness. Why must they kill the child? He’s done nothing!”

  “But he could grow up to do something,” Keats tried to keep her calm. “Do you remember your Bible? Remember how the Pharaoh killed all of the first born males of Israel, afraid that one of them would grow up to be the man prophesized to overthrow him? ’Tis the same with war, lamb chop. The enemy does not see man, woman or child. He only sees a potential killer.”

  “You understand well the concept of destruction.”

  They all turned to the sound of the voice; a deep, booming tone that rattled the very walls. Keat’s had the first reaction all evening, his brown eyes widening for a split second before fading. Kellington stared at the man who had just entered the great hall as all of the other men around her seemed to straighten. Even the knight who had been doing the questioning moved forward quickly to greet the latest arrival.

  “My lord,” he said evenly. “This is Sir Keats Coleby, garrison commander of Pelinom, and his daughter the Lady Kellington. They claim that they are the only two members of the ruling house.”

  The man who stood in the entrance to the great hall was covered in mail, plate protection and gore. He still wore his helm, a massive thing with horns that jutted out of the crown. He was easily a head taller than even the tallest man in the room and his hands were as large as trenchers. The man’s enormity was an understatement; he was colossal.

  He radiated everything evil that had ever walked upon the earth. Kellington felt it from where she stood and her heart began to pound painfully. She resisted the urge to run to her father for protection, for she knew that no mortal could give protection against this. The very air of the great hall changed the moment the enormous man entered it. It pressed against her like a weight.

  The great helmed head turned in the direction of the knight who had been doing the interrogation, now standing before him. Then he loosened a gauntlet enough to pull it off, raising his visor with an uncovered hand. The hand was dirty, the nails black with gore.

  “I’ve been told the same,” he replied, his voice bottomless. “We counted only four knights total, including Coleby, so this is the lot of them.”

  “Would you finish questioning the prisoners, my lord?”

  For the first time, the helmed head turned in their direction. Kellington felt a physical impact as his eyes, the only thing visible through the helm, focused on her. Then she noticed the strangest thing; the left eye was muddy brown while the right eye, while mostly of the same muddy color, had a huge splash of bright green in it. The man had two different colored eyes. It unnerved her almost to the point of
panic again.

  “I heard some of what you were saying,” the enormous knight said, still focused on Kellington. Then he looked at Keats. “Your explanation was true. You comprehend the rules of engagement and warfare so there will be no misunderstanding.”

  Keats didn’t reply; he didn’t have to. He knew who the man was without explanation and his heart sank. The knight continued into the room, scratching his forehead through the raised visor. Kellington followed him, noticing he passed closely next to her. She barely came up to his chest.

  “I am de Velt,” he said, returning his attention to both Kellington and Keats. “Pelinom Castle is now mine and you are my prisoners. If you think to plead for your lives, now would be the time.”

  “We must plead for our lives?” Kellington blurted. “But why?”

  The massive knight looked at her but did not speak. The second knight, the one in charge of the interrogation, answered. “You are the enemy, my lady. What else are we to do with you?”

  “You do not have to kill us,” she insisted, looking between the men.

  “Kelli,” her father hissed sharply.

  “Nay, Father,” she waved him off, returning her golden-brown focus to de Velt. “Please, my lord, tell me why you would not spare our lives? If you were the commander of Pelinom, would you not have defended it also? That does not make us the enemy. It simply makes us the besieged. We were protecting ourselves as is our right.”

  De Velt’s gaze lingered on her a moment. Then he flicked his eyes to the man at his side.

  “Take Coleby.”

  “No!” Kellington screamed, throwing herself forward. She tripped on her own feet and ended up falling into de Velt. With small soft hands, she clutched his grisly mail. “Please, my lord, do not kill my father. I beg of you. I will do anything you ask, only do not kill my father. Please.”

  Jax gazed down at her impassively. When he spoke, it was to his men. “Do as I say. Remove the father.”