CHAPTER TWELVE
“He must have turned back for Milnthorpe,” Constance said. “There could be no other explanation, my lord. When your men told him who had come to Erith, naturally, he would do everything possible to keep my daughter and granddaughter from you. He has claimed them as his possessions, I tell you.”
Roger sat in the great hall of Erith. The fire in the heart spit and smoked, filling the room with silver haze. It was sunset, the end of a long day. He had been informed some time earlier that a party had approached and a man had entered the bailey, demanding to know who bore the colors of the blue and white standard. Then the man and his party had turned away from Erith and made haste in the direction they had come. Only curiosity, rumors, and an eventual conversation with Lady Constance had made sense of the visitor. It had not been a pleasing realization.
Roger eyed the Lady de Montfort seated across from him, toying with his wooden cup of cheap wine as he did so. There were a great many things on his mind.
“Braxton de Nerra,” he rolled the name off his tongue. “You failed to inform me when I arrived that he was involved with this.”
“His involvement is purely by sheer aggressiveness, I assure you,” Constance said. “We offered him shelter a week ago and he’s not left since. He sticks to my daughter like a disease and has taken control of Brooke. We’ve been unable to rid ourselves of him. Even now, he parades them around the countryside against their will.”
“Is it your daughter’s pleasure that he stays? Perhaps she is considering marriage to him.”
“She is not,” Constance said flatly. “My lord, I beseech you. I very much need your help if I am to save my daughter and granddaughter from that mercenary. For your aid, I assure you that your son will marry Brooke and you shall have my daughter if you deem her suitable. Will you not help me, please?”
Roger sighed, turning his attention back to his cup as he spun it in slow circles. “Did you know that de Nerra’s father is Baron Gilderdale?”
It was evident from her expression that she had not known. She did not want to come across looking like a fool. “He said he was distantly related to Anjou.”
“And he is. But he is also the son of Thomas de Nerra, fourth Baron Gilderdale. And Gilderdale is a massive war machine as I am sure you know. Anyone in Northumberland knows of Gilderdale’s military might. Where do you think Braxton achieved his connections and knowledge? He is bred from a long line of warriors. The entire family is full of bloodthirsty fiends. The Scots do not even like to go against them but God knows, they have. And they have lost.”
Constance was still trying to recover her shock, fighting off the uncertainty now that she was not in charge of the conversation. “Do you fear that he will call upon his father if you move against him?”
“He could. Certainly it would be a risk.”
William de Clare sat silently next to his father, watching the man fiddle with the utensils. William may have looked like a pimple-faced lad, but in truth, he was even-tempered and wise as his mother had been. While most de Clare men were warriors with a mean streak, William did not possess this trait. True, he was training as a knight, and a very good one, but he was not mean by character. He was the opposite.
“Father,” the lad said. “If Lady de Montfort is asking for our help, perhaps we should. There is no telling what peril Lady Gray and Lady Brooke might be in. Even if Gilderdale does support Braxton, they cannot defeat the House of de Clare. We are greater in number than they are.”
“I’ll not start a war with someone I have no quarrel with,” Roger said with irritation. Then he slowed himself; he was beginning to sound like a coward. “De Nerra’s reputation is well known. He’s as ruthless as they come. Obviously, the man saw a fortress without a man to run it and has taken advantage of the situation. He’s a mercenary. He only sees the value of this acquisition.”
William watched his father closely. “Then we will help?”
Roger pursed his lips, looking at Constance and watching her anxious features. It was apparent that he was still weighing his options, struggling not to show his reluctance and trying to see the larger picture in all of this. He did not want to provoke Gilderdale, but there was something valuable at the end of all of this. Perhaps the risk would be worth it. When he spoke, it was to Constance alone. “If I do lend aid, have I your vow that Lady Brooke shall wed my son and Lady Gray shall wed me?”
“Of course, my lord,” Constance agreed.
“And Erith shall become William’s holding?”
“Indeed it shall.”
That was enough for Roger. He had just acquired a castle for his youngest son and a wife for himself. He was anxious to have more sons to carry on the de Clare name; there was no guarantee the three he had would survive to perpetuate the family. One had to plan for all possibilities of the future and Lady Constance’s suggestion of marriage to her widowed daughter had been an attractive one. Unexpected, but attractive nonetheless.
“Then we shall send for more troops to reinforce Erith as we search for de Nerra and his bunch,” he abruptly stood up, startling William. He reached down and yanked his son to his feet. “Go tell the captain of the guard to send a rider home to Bronllys Castle to assemble two hundred of our men. Send to Caerphilly Castle for five hundred more. If we are going against de Nerra, then I would be prepared. The men will proceed to Erith immediately for further orders.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Constance said sincerely, perhaps a bit dramatically. “I am sure my daughter will thank you as well when she is free of this menace.”
Roger lifted an eyebrow at the woman. For some reason, he was coming not to like her. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something untrustworthy and intolerable about her. He hoped he hadn’t just consigned himself to a nasty fight against Gilderdale.
“We shall see,” was all he said.
When the men had left the hall and she was all alone with the dim flicker of the hearth, Constance sat at the table and smiled. De Nerra might have been able to defeat her in her attempt to rid him from Erith, but he would not defeat Gloucester. Roger de Clare would squash him and the de Montforts would once again be in favor with a political marriage. And Constance would return to the life of luxury she deserved.
Her smile grew.
*
To the south of Milnthorpe near an ancient mound built by the Saxon forefathers, Graehm located a small church. It was a dark and boxy structure with few windows. Vespers had ended and the two priests that lived at the church were locking up for the night. It seemed they weren’t very interested in Graehm at first; in fact, they seemed rather fearful of him and his purpose. But the promise of a sizable donation to their cause was enough to prompt the older priest to ride with Graehm back to Braxton’s encampment. Even though the man loaded himself onto the oldest mule Graehm had ever seen, they were still able to return to Braxton’s camp within an hour.
Once arrived, there was little time for introductions or niceties. Although it wasn’t exactly how Gray would have planned a wedding, and it certainly wasn’t how she would have planned a wedding for her daughter, it really didn’t seem to matter. She stood next to Braxton as Brooke stood next to Dallas, her daughter still sobbing intermittently as the priest said the mass. The ceremony itself was short, to the point, and before Gray realized it, both she and her daughter were married women. Even when Braxton kissed her lips, her cheeks, and both her hands, it did not seem real. Even so, she knew in her heart it was the best thing she had ever done. She felt content, and she felt at peace.
Brooke, however, was a completely different story. She was terrified of the tall blond knight eleven years her senior who was now her husband. He had hardly said a word to her but had shown an inordinate amount of courtesy and patience. When the priest blessed their union, he leaned down and, very properly, kissed her cheek. He came away with tears on his lips.
Graehm, Norman, and Edgar had witnessed the ceremony. The priest scribed marr
iage certificates on pieces of vellum he brought with him and had each man sign their name. In Norman and Edgar’s case, writing their name was the only thing they knew, as neither of them had acquired the skills of reading or writing. Then the priest sanded the documents and handed them over to the respective grooms, whereupon Braxton paid the man more money than he had earned the entire previous year. It was a tidy sum.
And with that, Lady Gray de Montfort Serroux became the Lady Gray de Montfort Serroux de Nerra, and her daughter became the Lady Brooke Serroux Aston.
It was nearly midnight by the time everything was said and done. The priest would spend the night with them because traveling the roads in the dark was not safe, even for armed men. They gave him a bedroll and plied him with food and drink. Braxton’s men were spread out and several campfires burned throughout the dark, eerie oaks. Gray stood with her arms around her daughter, comforting her as they watched Dallas and Norman pitch another tent under the half-moon sky.
Braxton had walked the perimeter to make sure the posts were set for the night. He couldn’t remember ever feeling lighter of heart. For the first time in his life, he was actually happy. When he returned, it was to stand behind his new wife and daughter, watching as Gray gently stroked her daughter’s arms, whispering soft words to the girl. He felt rather guilty, knowing Brooke was frightened and upset by the turn of the day’s events. But it had been in her best interest. And he knew Dallas, and the man’s character, better than she did. She had nothing to fear.
He moved from behind them and stood alongside. He cast a sidelong glance at Brooke, intermittently sobbing with her head on her mother’s shoulder.
“Brooke,” he said quietly. “May I express my pleasure at becoming your father?”
Both Gray and Brooke looked over at him; Gray was smiling faintly and Brooke was hiccupping with a finger in between her teeth. She blinked her luminous blue eyes at him.
“T-thank you,” she replied only after her mother gave her an encouraging squeeze.
Braxton smiled at her. “May I tell you something?” She nodded and he continued. “I realize this night has been upsetting and surprising to you. I know you were not prepared for this. But you must realize that Dallas was not prepared, either. This is as much a life change to him as it is to you. And I promise you that I would have never suggested this to either of you if I did not, for one moment, believe it was the right thing to do. Do you believe that?”
Brooke’s sniffles were fading and she removed the finger from her mouth to wipe the tears from her eyes. “A-aye,” she said quietly.
“Good.” He reached out and pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. It was a gentle, fatherly gesture. “Dallas is a very fine man. I have known him many years and he has never once shown me that he is anything other than chivalrous, kind, and wise. If you searched your entire life for such a man, you could not have found a better one. I know he will make a fine husband and you must give him that chance. Will you do this?”
Brooke slowly lifted her head from her mother’s shoulder, her gaze moving to the tall man tying off the last of the tent lines. She sniffled again, but it was only remnants. Her tears, for the most part, were gone.
“Aye,” she said, her eyes still on him. “But… but I do not even know him.”
“Nor he, you. All he knows of you is a scrapper who fights with boys. Now show him a wife he would be proud to have.”
She looked at him, her big eyes blinking thoughtfully. “How do I do that?”
Braxton’s smile broadened. “Ask your mother. She is far more knowledgeable in these areas than I.”
Brooke turned to her mother, who wriggled her eyebrows in response. “I am not sure if I am more knowledgeable, but I have had some experience. All I can tell you is to be kind, patient and obedient. The rest you must learn on your own.” She gave her daughter a squeeze. “I like Dallas. I believe he will be a fine husband for you.”
By this time, Dallas had finished the tent and was half way over to them. Brooke saw him coming and her eyes widened. But she admirably controlled herself and settled down as he came upon them. It would seem that Braxton’s words had some impact on her.
“Norman and Edgar are going to bed with Graehm tonight, my lord,” Dallas said to Braxton. “Lady Brooke and I shall have the smaller tent while you and your lady wife share the larger one.”
Braxton nodded his acknowledgement, thinking it would perhaps not be much of a wedding night with Geoff a few feet away. But he said nothing to that effect; impatient as a bridegroom though he may feel, he was well aware of the logistics of their sleeping arrangements.
“It has been a long day,” he said. “I would suggest that we all retire and take what sleep we can. We will leave for Erith before dawn.”
He took a step back in the direction of the larger tent, noticing that Gray hadn’t moved. She was still standing with her arm around her daughter. Dallas was standing there, looking between Brooke and her mother, and the mood was becoming awkward. Though not unfeeling, Braxton could see Gray’s reluctance and he understood. Yet he would do what needed to be done; moving to the women, he took Gray’s hand and gently pulled her away from her child.
“Let us retire, Lady de Nerra.” God, how he loved using that title for the first time. “I am sure Brooke is exhausted and wishes to sleep. Bid her a good night and we shall see her on the morrow.”
In control for most of the evening, Gray suddenly looked as if she was about to burst into tears. She reluctantly let Braxton lead her away, her gaze lingering on her daughter as the distance between them grew. Brooke just stood there with her head down, looking at her feet. When Gray and Braxton finally disappeared into the tent, Dallas spoke.
“You must be very tired,” he said in a quiet, deep voice.
She nodded, still looking at her feet. “I… I am, a little.”
“Perhaps we should retire.”
Woodenly, she headed for the tent. Dallas followed. He reached over her head to shove the flap out of the way and she froze when she entered; Norman and Edgar were finishing laying out the bedrolls. An oil lamp sat on the ground, burning brightly in the black of the tent. The boys looked up at her, uncomfortable emotions in their eyes as they gazed at her, but just as quickly lowered their heads and vacated the tent. Brooke swallowed hard as the shelter cleared, leaving her standing there with Dallas, still in the doorway.
“My lady?” Dallas urged her gently inside.
Brooke took a few strained steps into the tent, startled when Dallas let the tent flap fall shut. He was quiet as he removed pieces of his armor, down to his hauberk. She just stood there, unmoving and uncertain. Then he turned to her.
“My lady,” he said. “Would you be so good as to help me?”
She eyed him with hesitation but obediently went to him. “What would you have me do, my lord?”
He bent over and extended his arms to her. “Pull on the mail.”
She grabbed hold, timidly at first, but then got a good grip on it and yanked. She almost pulled his head off and he pitched forward against her. He grabbed her so he would not topple her over, still restrained by his half-removed hauberk. Brooke took hold again and pulled and pulled. Because he was sweaty, the mail seemed to want to stick to him and to his padded shirt beneath. She only managed to remove one arm and was still struggling with the other when she heard a low rumble.
She paused, wondering where the sound was coming from. It took her a moment to realize that Dallas was laughing.
Brooke dipped her head so she could look him in the face; because of the placement of the hauberk, he couldn’t lift his head. “What’s so funny?”
He was giggling like a fool. “I am not sure,” he gasped. “But the more you pull, the more twisted I become.”
In spite of herself, Brooke grinned and gave another yank. The hauberk got stuck around his ears, covering his face. Dallas only laughed harder and Brooke’s grin broadened.
“What should
I do?” she demanded. “You are stuck.”
He snorted and snickered. “Just keep pulling,” he told her.
She did. Eventually, the piece came off, but not before it almost ripped his ears off. Brooke fell back with the weight of it when it finally came free, falling on her arse as she did so. But it was very humorous. When she fell on the ground, she laughed uproariously. Dallas stood there with his hands on his hips, looking down at her.
“You are going to have to become much more adept at helping me dress or I shall have my ears ripped off every time,” he scolded with a grin on his face.
She shrugged, trying to get back up. He pulled on her arm and set her on her feet.
“This is my first experience with removing armor,” she told him.
“I can tell.”
She tossed the hauberk back at him and he deftly caught it. “I haven’t had years of practice like you have.”
Laughter fading, he threw the hauberk to the ground with the rest of his armor. “You will from now on, I promise.”
He went about removing what was left of his leg armor. Levity waning, Brooke felt her trepidation rise once again as she watched him. She had many questions and many fears, and she knew that he was the only one who could satisfy them. She summoned her courage.
“Sir Dallas?”
He looked at her. “I am your husband, my lady. You do not have to address me as ‘Sir’.”
She cocked her head. “And I am your wife. You do not have to address me as ‘my lady’.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “True enough.”
“But it seems strange to call each other by our names so informally, doesn’t it? We hardly know each other.”
His smile grew. “It does indeed. We will do whatever you are comfortable with.”
It was a kind statement. Brooke was comforted by it somewhat. He didn’t seem pushy or assertive of his new role. Her courage grew.
Noble Line of de Nerra Complete Set: A Medieval Romance Bundle Page 70