Knights of Honor Books 1-10: A Medieval Romance Series Bundle

by Alexa Aston

  Under her watchful eye, the chickens feasted. Rosalyne enjoyed watching them. Over the years, she had learned how entertaining and personable they could be. Uncle Temp had even trained a few of them to retrieve small objects.

  “I will be back to collect your eggs after mass,” she told the group and returned inside the cottage, brushing her hands up and down her arms to ward off the chill she felt. At this time of year, the hens usually laid their eggs in the early hours after the sun had risen. On Sundays, it gave her time to attend mass and break her fast before she gathered the eggs. Some would be sold but the largest of them would be used in creating her uncle’s tempera paints.

  Rosalyne pushed open the door to her uncle’s bedchamber and heard his heavy snores. Chuckling at the noise he made, she shook his shoulder gently.

  “Arise, Uncle. ’Tis time for you to ready yourself for mass.”

  Templeton Parry cleared his throat loudly and rubbed sleepy eyes. “Good morning, Rosalyne. Thank you for waking me.”

  “If I didn’t, you would probably sleep until noon,” she teased.

  Her uncle often sat up late into the night, thinking about his current work and ways to improve his painting. He’d spent his early years training to be a knight but when his parents died and left him a small sum as he reached manhood, he’d followed his dream and gone to Italy to study art instead of taking his knightly oath. The secrets he’d learned from his two years abroad had been put to good use, for he always seemed to be gainfully employed, either producing portraits for various nobleman or working on panels for churches throughout southern England.

  “Go ahead,” he told her. “I know you will want to visit with Metylda before mass begins. I will see you afterward.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Temp.”

  Rosalyne slipped on her cloak and tied the cords together. It was one thing to step out and feed the chickens in the yard but quite another to walk the two miles to Canterbury Cathedral against a brisk wind. May afternoons in England were mostly pleasant, but early mornings usually had a chill hanging over them. She longed for the arrival of the warm days of summer, her favorite time of year.

  “Rosalyne!”

  She waved as she saw her closest friend, Metylda Hann, closing the door to her family’s home.

  “Good morning, Metylda. How are you today?”

  Her friend linked arms with Rosalyne as they continued down the street.

  “I am well, though Father suffers from a most dreadful cough. He was up all night and, this morning, his nose is bright red and raw.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, but better coughing than snoring,” Rosalyne said. “Uncle Temp’s snoring could wake the dead. Sometimes, I fear our roof will cave in after shaking so much. Many a night, I have buried myself beneath the bedclothes and held my pillow to my ears in order to try and block out the noise he makes.”

  “I like your uncle. I will defend him since he is not here to do so himself,” proclaimed Metylda.

  “Oh, I love Uncle dearly. He’s all the family I have or could ever want.”

  Rosalyne knew very little about her parents, only that they had died when she was not even a year old. She never quite understood why she hadn’t remained with her father’s brother, Lord Benedict, at the family home once he inherited the title, as custom allowed. Uncle Temp told her that the situation was complicated but he had been happy to take her in as his own daughter.

  She laughed to herself. His last name was Parry and so she’d assumed for many years that hers was, as well. When she was nine and introduced herself to someone as Rosalyne Parry within his hearing, Uncle Temp sputtered until she had to clap him hard on the back several minutes. By the time he could speak, the acquaintance had left.

  That was when he told her that her true name was Rosalyne Bowyar. How foreign it sounded to her ears, especially when paired with her first name. She told him that she’d always felt like a Parry and would continue to remain one. He had laughed and said she sounded exactly like Lara, his sister and Rosalyne’s mother.

  “Lara always knew her own mind, even from a young age. ’Twas how she found herself married to Lawrence.”

  His laughter died down after that cryptic statement, piquing her curiosity. But Uncle Temp changed the subject and rarely mentioned her parents after that comment. Rosalyne knew there was some story behind what he did not share with her but she had never pressed him to divulge it. Whatever it involved seemed to make him unhappy and she would never do anything to trouble him. Templeton Parry had been both father and mother to her and taught her everything she knew, from reading and writing to cooking and painting.

  More than anything, Rosalyne wanted to be a painter as Uncle Temp was.

  Yet, she could not think of a single person who might hire her, no matter how much talent she possessed. Women did not paint or draw, much less get paid to do so. They did not act on stage as mummers. They were not called upon to be troubadours.

  Despite the slim possibility that she would ever earn a commission as a painter, Rosalyne practiced her art every day in hopes that the time would come when she would be able to show the world what she could accomplish if given a chance.

  They arrived at Canterbury Cathedral, a massive structure and one of the oldest churches in England. It held a tender place in Rosalyne’s heart, for her uncle had painted some of the panels inside. She thrilled to pass them each week when she came to mass, knowing his work would stand on display for many years to come. Mayhap one day, her children—nay, her grandchildren or even their children—would enter the sacred building for worship and smile when they passed by the work of their blood relative.

  Glancing around, she saw the usual group of strangers in attendance. These pilgrims had streamed to the cathedral ever since the murder of Thomas Becket, the cathedral’s archbishop, over two hundred years ago. Thanks to the thousands who made their pilgrimage in order to visit Becket’s shrine, revenue was raised from the sale of pilgrim badges made from lead alloy. The badges depicted the archbishop and his martyrdom or even the shrine itself. Her uncle often supplied these badges to the current archbishop to be sold and Uncle Temp had even begun to let Rosalyne create these for him so that he could focus more on his paintings. He told her it must be their secret and she certainly understood why.

  Mass ended and she and Metylda exited the cathedral. Once outside, she saw her uncle in conversation with the archbishop himself, who had conducted this morning’s service. William Courtenay always intimidated her. He was an imposing man, a great-grandson of Edward I and once King Richard’s Lord Chancellor of England, before being named Archbishop of Canterbury.

  “I wonder what they are discussing,” Metylda said quietly as they stopped and observed the two men. “Your uncle looks very serious.” She paused. “I think I will go. You need to see to your uncle.” Metylda scurried off like a mouse being chased by a cat. The archbishop must frighten Metylda, too.

  Rosalyne decided to put on a brave face and join the two men. Her uncle saw her coming in their direction and held out a welcoming hand.

  “Ah, my niece. You remember Lady Rosalyne, Your Excellency?”

  The archbishop nodded at her regally. “I do. Greetings, Lady Rosalyne.” He extended his hand toward her and she knelt on her left knee and kissed the massive ring that was a sign of his exalted office.

  Uncle Temp helped her rise and said to the priest, “Rosalyne is of great assistance to me in my work.” He looked pointedly at her and said, “The archbishop would like me to complete one more panel. It will be placed inside Trinity Chapel.”

  Her eyes grew large. The chapel contained the shrine of Thomas Becket and was where each pilgrim visited.

  “Many people will see your work there, Uncle,” she said, swallowing as she realized the importance of him being asked to complete such a task.

  “Aye, and I told the archbishop I would take it on if you could assist me.”

  Rosalyne maintained her composure though her insides quaked. “I
would be honored to help in any way you see fit, Uncle.”

  The archbishop laughed. “You respond like a seasoned courtier, my lady. Politics aside, will you do it, Parry? And how long will it take you?”

  “I am delighted to accept this commission, Excellency. I will take time to consider it and share my proposal with you. Once you have approved of the drawings, the actual painting will not take long. I think in a month’s time or so, the panel will be resting inside Trinity Chapel.”

  “So be it. Go contemplate what you will produce. I hope to meet with you by early next week if not sooner, so you can share your sketches with me.” He glanced her way. “You may even allow Lady Rosalyne to accompany you to our meeting if you wish.”

  The archbishop gave them a dismissive nod and sauntered away, his robes flowing in the slight breeze. Rosalyne waited until the priest entered the cathedral before throwing her arms about her uncle and squealing in delight.

  “’Tis a big task we will undertake,” he proclaimed after swinging her around and placing her back on the ground.

  “But we are up to it. After all, we are Parrys,” Rosalyne said. “And Parrys meet every challenge head on.”

  *

  Edward awoke, drenched in sweat. Images of Saint Giles Cathedral and Edinburgh’s Town Hall in flames slowly receded from his mind as the nightmare dissipated. He’d often dreamt of the burnings that occurred in Holyrood and Edinburgh after that last skirmish outside Carlisle—though never of the fighting itself. He supposed his mind justified battle and the deaths that occurred on the field between armed opponents.

  What troubled him still after all these months was the deliberate destruction of government buildings and places of worship, with innocent bystanders being caught in the crossfires. As he’d laid torches at Richard’s command, Edward’s heart told him his king wronged the Scottish people. The monarch’s anger at not gaining a decisive victory on the battlefield resulted in the deliberate destruction the royal guardsmen and other knights and soldiers partook in.

  Not only did he resent following orders he believed to be detrimental but Edward hated serving the king as a member of his select guard, mostly because he felt like an outsider. In years past when other Plantagenets sat on the throne—or even in the very early years of Richard’s reign when Ancel served the king—royal guardsmen were drawn from the best knights in the kingdom.

  That had all changed in recent years.

  The royal guard’s majority belonged to the bowmen of Cheshire, known as the best archers in the land. Some of their number had been recruited by the old king to serve him, wearing the green and white livery issued to them by Chester Castle’s chamberlain. The Black Prince had even used Cheshire bowmen at both Crecy and Poitiers, resounding English victories in which the bowmen played a crucial role. Now, though, King Richard used the Cheshiremen to fill the ranks of his bodyguards. The bowmen guarded the king’s bedchamber all night, rarely allowing any other knight of the royal guard on this duty. To Edward’s disgust, King Richard had unofficially sent members of the bowmen on a mission of intimidation recently. A group of handpicked bowmen surrounded the Westminster Hall during the trial of one of Richard’s enemies to ensure the correct verdict would be reached.

  The bowmen’s conceit often got in the way since they’d been given full reign within whichever palace the king resided. Edward heard rumors of cases even involving murder, where various bowmen had been granted pardons for their crimes as the king turned a blind eye to their illegal activities.

  His short time at court had disillusioned him, much as it had his cousin, Avelyn. She had served Queen Philippa for a year as a lady-in-waiting and begged to come home to escape the petty politics at the royal court.

  Edward was ready to do the same, though as a grown man, he didn’t know how to go about solving his dilemma. That’s why he eagerly waited to speak to his father today. Geoffrey de Montfort, much to the surprise of those at court, had been called to Windsor Castle by the king two weeks ago to help negotiate a new treaty between England and Portugal. Edward had only seen his father in passing but Geoffrey told him yesterday that he would ask for his sons to be present at the signing of the treaty this morning.

  Because of that, Edward nudged a sleeping Hal, who lay next to him, and said, “We are to report to the king’s chambers once we break our fast.”

  Hal grumbled good-naturedly as he threw back the bedclothes. His brother seemed to be enjoying their time at court far more than Edward had. Often, Hal was assigned to Queen Anne and watched over her and her numerous ladies-in-waiting. Very few, if any, of the Cheshire bowmen pulled that duty. Mayhap Edward should request that he spend more time in the queen’s wing of rooms. He might feel more useful than he did now.

  The brothers headed to the large room designated for the royal guardsmen’s meals when they weren’t attending the king or queen. As they ate, Edward revealed to Hal what would happen today since Hal had arrived after Edward fell asleep last night.

  “Father said that everything has been agreed to with Portugal and signing the documents today is a mere formality.”

  “You spoke to him?” Hal asked, tearing off a piece of bread and chewing on it.

  “Only briefly. The negotiations have gone ’round the clock and only were settled late last evening. Father said he would ask the king for permission to allow our presence at the signing of the treaty. ’Tis why we need to report to the king’s rooms as soon as possible.”

  They finished their meals, washing the last of them down with cold ale, and made their way toward the area where the king’s rooms were located. Edward liked Windsor more than any of the other Plantagenet palaces, especially the park land surrounding it. Richard’s grandfather, King Edward III, had been born at Windsor and spent much of his time here, using ransom money from prisoners taken at successful battles in France to build additions and improvements to this royal residence.

  When they reached the hallway that led to the king’s rooms, a double line of Cheshire bowmen greeted them. Before Edward consulted one of them to gain admittance, his father arrived.

  “My sons are here to accompany me,” Geoffrey de Montfort said coolly, and the way parted for the three men to enter the king’s chambers.

  The monarch, already dressed, sat eating. The three de Montforts greeted him and bowed.

  Richard looked them over. “I can tell you, Lord Geoffrey, that Sir Hal has proven to be quite popular with the queen and her attendants. She often asks for him by name.”

  His father’s lips twitched in amusement. “Hal has always proven to be good company and I am sure he takes his duties seriously.”

  “Quite so.” The king dabbed his mouth with a cloth and pushed away his empty cup. “Sir Edward, on the other hand, is most solemn and steadfast. He earnestly takes on any task that I ask of him, much as his oldest brother did. How do Sir Ancel and Lady Margery fare?”

  The king looked in his direction, so Edward responded, “They are well, sire. Ancel has enjoyed making various improvements at Bexley. Cyrus turned three last month and talks constantly. Lady Margery is with child again and she will deliver come October.”

  “I am happy to hear this.” The king paused. “I know that my grandfather is your namesake, Sir Edward.”

  Edward glowed with pride as he recounted, “Aye, your majesty. King Edward and Queen Philippa came to Kinwick several times on summer progress over the years. Mother was a great favorite of them both. She honored me by giving me his name. I only hope I live up to the ideals the old king represented.”

  “Hmm.” Richard grew thoughtful. “Sir Ancel served as my eyes and ears on many occasions away from court, being places I could not go and informing me of things I needed to know. Would you be interested in doing the same for me, Sir Edward?”

  Excitement burst within him. “I would be honored to go wherever your majesty wishes and report on whatever you need me to investigate.”

  “Good. Then I wish you to leave for Canterbury tod
ay in order to view the progress being made there on the city walls. Grandfather worried how they’d fallen into disrepair and began rebuilding the old Roman defenses in fresh stone, integrating them with the older walls that still remained. He worried about the French raiding the city since it lies on the coast.”

  The king stood and began pacing the room as he spoke. “I have continued this task, though progress is slow. The royal treasury is almost exhausted, thanks to the costly wars against the French and Scots, so I have used murage to fund the repairs instead.”

  Edward had never heard the term before. “What is murage, sire? If I am to go, I wish to understand the situation before I arrive in Canterbury.”

  “’Tis a toll that is used to build or repair town walls throughout both England and Wales. I called for murage again last year because some of the recently completed construction suffered tremendous damage after the earthquake that occurred there three years ago. We even felt the earth rumble here in London, so you can imagine what damage it did in Canterbury. The funds from murage are helping continue work on shoring up the walls, as well as repairing the bell tower of Canterbury’s cathedral and the cloister walls that were damaged.”

  “So what is the mission, your majesty? What am I took look for?”

  “Observe the work at hand. See what has been accomplished at this point and how much is yet to be done. Speak to the men in charge of this project and gauge both their leadership and the work ethic of the laborers.”

  “How long do you wish for me to be gone?”

  The king shrugged. “As long as it takes. Use your judgment in the matter.”

  “Then I foresee a few weeks, your highness, if not a month or more. They will know I am your emissary and might put on a show if I am there but a handful of days.” Edward thought a moment. “In fact, I may choose to become a common laborer at these walls and see for myself how the work progresses and how the hands are treated. It might extend my time there but I would gain invaluable knowledge this way, with no one knowing who I truly am or that I represent your interests.”