by Alexa Aston
“We have no leadership at the top, Father. The soldiers know it and dread what is to come.”
Her father nodded. “I am afraid this treaty is merely a break in the action before another phase in the war between our two countries begins. I myself worry who will lead our troops when the inevitable fighting starts up again.”
“What of John of Gaunt?” Alys asked. “Is the king’s son not up to performing his duty?”
“The Duke of Lancaster is a capable man,” her father said, his brow furrowed. “But England will need more than that.”
“Why?” Alys asked, not understanding.
“The health of both the king and the Black Prince is worrisome,” Geoffrey continued. He took his wife’s hand and looked from her to Alys. “Neither of you have seen either man in several years, not since the queen’s death.” He shook his head. “Both father and son are in pitiful shape.”
Geoffrey paused for a sip of wine. “The king is now manipulated by his mistress, Alice Perrers, while Lancaster has inserted those loyal to him in positions of power at the royal court.” He sighed. “I expect both the king and his eldest son to die soon.”
“I fear for a kingdom ruled by a ten-year-old boy,” her mother said. “It would mean the Duke of Lancaster overseeing the new king’s reign for several years.”
“Worse,” Ancel said. “The world laughs at us, Father. When you were my age, you fought at Crecy and Poitiers and tasted sweet victory. Now, the French have reduced us from ownership of Aquitaine to only a few coastal ports. England has become a shadow of itself in a handful of years.”
Alys had always had a head for figures. “What of money, Father? Wars are horribly expensive—especially now that we are on the losing end, with little to show for our time spent abroad fighting.”
“England’s royal treasury is sorely depleted. ’Twill mean higher taxes from the king, which trickles down to the common worker.” He frowned. “I fear a rebellion from the people.”
“Surely not here at Kinwick,” her mother protested.
“Nay. We have avoided most of the problems that have surfaced ever since plague and famine hit years ago.” Her father’s face grew grim. “But since plague killed off so many workers, laborers have more power.”
Alys asked, “Would it be as when the barons forced King John’s hand at Runnymeade? Would all noble families be in a similar position?”
Her father placed a hand on her shoulder. “I hope not, Alys.” He gave her an affectionate squeeze. “But enough talk of politics. How is Kinwick?”
He rose to his feet and they all followed suit. “We should go ride the property, Ancel. You have been away the longest. Ladies, we would appreciate your company.”
As the four made their way to the stables to have their horses saddled, Alys fell into step next to her twin.
“So the French are that awful?” she asked.
“The men certainly are.” He grinned. “But the women are far different.”
Alys playfully punched him in the shoulder. “Better not let Mother—or Father—hear you speak like that. Consorting with our enemy.” She sniffed.
Ancel shrugged. “I’m sure Father knows. French whores abound along the edges of both army camps. They will service their fellow countrymen or the English for a coin or two.”
“And how many women assisted you during your time in France?” she teased, watching a blush cross his cheeks.
“A few,” he admitted. “Lord Hardwin encouraged me to take an hour now and again for myself.”
She gasped. “Lord Hardwin? Surely, he didn’t—”
“Nay, the earl loves Lady Johamma as much as Father does Mother. But he understands that war is hard on soldiers, physically and mentally. It’s difficult being away from home and the ones you love.” Ancel paused. “Not only did I prepare him and his horse for battle, but Lord Hardwin also allowed me to enter the fray several times. I have no doubts now about my sword skills when tested by the enemy.”
Ancel stopped abruptly and faced her. “Tell me of any news you have. What have I missed while abroad?”
She understood that he did not want to speak of war now. Not when he had just arrived home. Instead, Alys slipped her hand through the crook of his arm and as she spoke, she sensed the tension leaving his body. She told him about the five babes who had been born on Kinwick lands and the upcoming May Day celebration plans, as well as her last visit to Sandbourne to see Michael and Elysande and their three children.
“And the horses?”
“You mean Elysande’s other children?” Alys countered.
Ancel laughed heartily. “I know our cousin loves the three she gave birth to but I have never seen anyone, man or woman, who adores horses as much as Elysande does.”
They reached the stables and found her parents awaited them with their horses already saddled. As the four of them rode through the gates of Kinwick, Alys hoped the doom and gloom her father predicted would never come to pass. And if it did, she wondered what it would mean for her and her loved ones.
Chapter 3
Relief washed through Kit as he saw Brentwood in the distance.
He regretted his haste in leaving London alone, something he had done many times in the past. Yet England was a different place from the one he had left when he eagerly plunged into the war in France. Travel had become more dangerous in the last decade. Bands of highwaymen roamed the roads, sometimes led by minor noblemen who had fallen on hard times. Kit had avoided two large groups of men, skirting through the woods when he spied them. Last night, he had camped without starting a fire so that he wouldn’t bring attention to himself. Mayhap he was maturing after all and would no longer rush head first into situations without giving them some thought.
Now, as he approached his boyhood home, anxiety over his mother’s health returned. Berengaria Emory had always been more friend and ally than parent to him. He admired how she managed Brentwood as well as any man since her husband was gone at court a majority of the year. Kit had no brothers and sisters, so he had remained especially close with her through the years. His father had granted him the privilege of staying home for two years instead of leaving to foster with another nobleman’s family in order for him to learn how to run a large estate under his mother’s tutelage. The experience had strengthened the bond between them even more.
Once his father deemed Kit ready again for service to a nobleman, he was sent to Lord Brutus’ household for a last, ill-fated time spent fostering. Godwin Emory chided his only son to rein in any wild impulses and keep his mouth closed, instructing him to do whatever task Lord Brutus assigned him cheerfully and willingly. The Christ Himself knew how hard Kit had tried to please this ill-tempered nobleman, but the man had earned his nickname of Lord Brutal long before Kit Emory set foot on his lands.
The gatekeeper welcomed Kit with a wave as he rode through the opened gates to the stables, where he handed his borrowed horse to a groom. He had lost his own horse in the last days of fighting in France and would miss the faithful companion that had been with him most of his life.
A flash of the battle crossed his memory. The blood. The cries. Ralf dying in his arms. Kit quickly pushed away the images to a far corner of his mind.
No one stood to greet him as he entered the keep, but it did not surprise him, knowing that his mother and wife were both ill. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, he saw Dawkin hurrying toward him. The man had been Brentwood’s steward for as long as Kit could remember.
“Hello, Dawkin. ’Tis good to see you.”
“Greetings, my lord.” The steward lowered his eyes a moment too long. When he raised them, hesitation hung in the air.
Panic surged through Kit. For a moment, he believed his beloved mother had already passed away and that he was too late to see her one more time.
Dawkin must have read his thoughts, for he quickly said, “Lady Berengaria is still with us, my lord. Weak, but very much alive.” He cleared his throat. “’Tis your lady
wife.”
“I saw Father in London before I journeyed home. He said Richessa has been ill.”
Dawkin shook his head back and forth slowly. “She is gone, my lord, from Saint Anthony’s Fire. We lost her two days ago. I had her buried yesterday morning.”
Kit hated that relief was the first feeling he experienced at hearing his wife was no longer alive. Living with Richessa had been as if someone had attached an anvil around his neck. He had dragged the weight of her around in misery. She had been the most empty-headed and vain person of his acquaintance, short of temper and unkind to everyone she met. He could not muster any sorrow upon hearing about her death.
“I see.” He paused, his head bowed, but only prayers of gratitude at her passing came to mind. He raised his head and met Dawkin’s eyes. “I wish to see my mother now.”
“Your lady mother is resting in her chambers, my lord. I know it will definitely lift her spirits seeing that you have returned to Brentwood safe and sound.”
Excusing himself, he made his way to the solar. The outer room stood empty. He moved to the bedchamber door and rapped lightly before entering.
Berengaria Emory lay in bed, propped up by pillows. A smile lit her pale face as she caught sight of her only child.
“Kit!”
He rushed to her side, taking her hands in his and covering them in kisses. He could feel the heat in them. Placing a palm against her forehead, he noted how hot the skin burned.
“What ails you, Mother?” he asked as he drew a chair near the bed and sat.
She shrugged. “Father William said ’tis dysorexy, mixed with a fever. I simply have no energy as of late.”
Hearing that concerned him. His mother had the stamina of ten men and worked harder than anyone he had ever seen. She ruled the entire estate and castle and its inhabitants, never slowing down.
“We need to bring in a healer,” he told her. Theirs had passed on three years ago and had never been replaced.
“I am just so tired,” she murmured. “But we must be thankful that you have returned from that awful fighting in France.”
He took her hands in his again. “I am blessed to be alive and returned to you. I won’t lie. Fighting was fierce. Many did not come home to their families as I have.”
“I do love you, my son.” She sighed. “I cannot say how long I will be here. Because of that, I believe it’s time to find you a good woman. You need to raise sons—and hopefully—find love.”
Kit’s thoughts immediately went to Alys de Montfort. She always danced around the periphery of his mind. And now that Richessa had passed?
What if she could be his?
“Dawkin told me of Richessa’s illness and death.”
His mother nodded. “I am ashamed to say I won’t miss that child, for that’s what she remained her entire life. She never matured, even after you brought her to Brentwood as your bride. She played at being a wife and had to be the most disagreeable woman in all of England.”
Berengaria pushed herself up. “I would see you happy, Kit. It seems a lifetime ago since I heard you laugh.”
“May I have your permission to bring someone here, Mother? It’s a woman I met briefly at court years ago. She was skilled in the healing arts. I want her to examine you and see what can be done for your ill health. If anyone can cure what ails you, I believe she could.”
She studied him. “There is more to this woman than you are saying, my son.”
Kit nodded slowly, as if reaching a decision. “I believe there is. Not only did she serve in Queen Philippa’s household, but both the king and queen trusted her and her medicinal remedies. Many people at court came to her for their own ailments, as well.” He sighed. “And she happened to be the most vivacious and charming person I met at court.”
“You had feelings for her?”
“I did,” he admitted aloud for the first time. “I could not act upon them, thanks to my betrothal to Richessa, but now that I am free?” Kit sensed his resolve strengthening. “I would locate her and not only see if she would come to minister to you, but I would pursue her with everything I have.”
“I can see she made quite an impression upon you.”
“She did,” he said resolutely. “I have thought of her many times over the past five years.”
Interest brewed in her eyes. “Could you possibly love this woman?”
He heard hope in her voice. “Nay, for I only met her the one time. It’s been years since I have seen her. But I believe, if given a chance, one day I could.”
“Yet you have never mentioned her to me.”
Kit shrugged. “What good could have come for wishing for someone I could never have? I am a man. I had a betrothed who became my wife. I moved on. But she left an indelible mark upon my heart long ago.”
Berengaria reached a palm to his cheek. “Then I can only hope she is free, Kit, and that you have a chance at happiness. What is her name?”
“Alys. Alys de Montfort.”
*
Kit was glad he had encountered an old friend from his days in the king’s service before he left London for Brentwood. He had nonchalantly asked about several acquaintances from the past and then steered their conversation to the men who had been present at the signing of the peace treaty in Belgium. His friend had actually met Lord Geoffrey de Montfort and been to the nobleman’s estate since he’d accompanied the king there on the royal court’s summer progress last year. The man shared with Kit the location of Kinwick Castle, a three-day ride from London.
Since he had traveled a day and half north of London to reach Brentwood, Kit decided he could carve off at least half a day by skirting around London in order to reach Kinwick. He realized he should have sent a messenger first to see if Lady Alys still resided at her home, but concern for his mother’s condition caused him to act hastily. He wished he’d had another few moments with Devereux and Fairfax, for he would already know what had become of her.
Kit prayed to the Blessed Christ that he would find Alys de Montfort upon reaching Kinwick, and that she would agree to return with him to Brentwood and treat his ailing mother. Selfishly, he begged that she would also be free of a husband.
He couldn’t put into words why he had been so taken with this young girl and still found himself intrigued by her so long after their brief encounter. Mayhap because she seemed wise beyond her years. The fact that she had earned the implicit trust of both the king and queen at such a young age factored into it. But something about her spirit drew Kit in. Her image had stayed with him all this time.
His eagerness grew since this would be the last day of his journey. By his calculations, he should arrive at Kinwick in the next hour or two. Once again, he had impetuously set off alone in his travels, though he had taken precautions along the way. Kit scanned the road ahead and saw no one in sight. He cantered along at a steady pace in the warm sunshine, the English meadows he passed full of spring flowers in full bloom on this April day.
As he rode, his thoughts wandered to what he might find when he arrived. He would be interested in meeting Lord Geoffrey and hearing his opinion of the peace treaty since de Montfort was a man who had held the king’s ear for a score or more. Devereux and Fairfax had mentioned that Alys’ mother had taught her the healing arts. He wondered if Alys’ rich chestnut hair was inherited from this mother. How he had fantasized about running his fingers through it after their single meeting.
Again, Kit whispered a fervent prayer to the Living Christ that his mother would be saved by Lady Alys’ ministrations. Berengaria Emory was the strongest influence in his life, and he had learned everything about how to care for Brentwood and its people at her knee. He needed for her to be in his life many more years, keeping Brentwood thriving—and God Almighty willing—seeing her grandchildren play on the estate. Kit knew it would give his mother a reason to live if he could wed again and provide an heir. It would also give him a new outlook on life to bring home a new bride to Brentwood, one he could respect and ev
en enjoy being in her company. And dare he wish for—one that might bring love into his life. After all the fighting and ugliness he’d witnessed in France, he longed for a different kind of life with a woman who could bring him happiness and fulfillment.
Watching his parents, Kit had understood from an early age that their union had never been close, much less joyful. They lived entirely separate lives, with his father at court most of the year. Godwin Emory thrived on all the political intrigue court provided and he relished the power given to him by the king. Many years, his father had chosen to go on summer progress with the royal court and had not even returned home during that season.
His mother had the heart of a lion and the head of the wisest counselor. She ruled Brentwood with a firm yet loving hand, never afraid to make an unpopular decision if it was in the best interest of the estate and its people. She had hired multiple tutors for Kit so he would be well versed in languages and history, but he learned the most from her regarding decision making and arranging priorities, as well as how to manage people and what made a great estate work seamlessly.
That was why he wished for her to stay healthy for years to come. He believed he still had much more to learn from her. Besides, he truly enjoyed his mother’s company.
Suddenly, he spied a large group ahead on foot. Their bedraggled appearance made him wary, though he didn’t spot anyone armed. His daydreaming had caused him to lose focus. Kit decided since none of the men before him were mounted, he would ride quickly by the potentially hostile strangers.
As he drew near the group, they paused as one mass, spreading out across the road. It didn’t matter to him if he injured any of them by barreling through their line of resistance. Nothing would cause him to come to a halt. He refused to play things safe and ride slightly off the road away from the troublesome band, for his horse could step in a hole. If it did, the animal might stumble—or worse—break a leg. That would prove disastrous.
One of the men raised a dolon from behind his back. His face looked all the more menacing thanks to the deep scar that cut across his cheek. At least the stranger threatened him with a mere club and not a mace, which held a metal-tipped end. Kit could easily withstand a blow from the club as he rode by. He glanced at the side of the road as he approached, which narrowed due to the trees on each side. He understood that was why the group halted where it had. He realized even if he’d wished to, he wouldn’t be able to ride to the side of the group since the trees proved far too dense. That route would cause him to slow his horse too much, and he was unwilling to do so and be overtaken.