by Alexa Aston
“I would like nothing better than to paint your sons and daughters,” Rosalyne assured the monarch.
“Now that we have settled that matter, we would be happy for all of you to join us in a celebratory meal,” the queen said.
They filed into an adjoining room and spent the next several hours dining and telling stories. The king remained in high spirits throughout the meal.
As others spoke around them, Edward took Rosalyne’s hand. “Your portrait has been deemed a success, Wife.” He smiled at her with unabashed affection.
“And you will make an outstanding baron someday, Husband,” she said in return.
Edward raised her hand to his lips and pressed a fervent kiss against it. “May all our dreams come true, my love.”
Rosalyne smiled at the man who held her heart. “They already have.”
Epilogue
Canterbury—September, 1405
Edward strolled through the bustling main thoroughfare of Canterbury, Rosalyne on his arm. They had not been back to the city since they had left it many years ago. Now, Rosalyne was two score and he would reach that age in another six months.
He glanced down at the woman who had held his heart for so long. Though her blond locks still caught the sun, he spied a few gray hairs mingled within. Tiny laugh lines had been etched around the corners of her eyes but her figure was still trim—even after birthing four sons and two daughters.
“It seems so odd to be back,” she remarked. “Everything seems vaguely familiar and yet it’s almost as if I have never been here before.”
“Cities change,” Edward said. “People change. We have changed.”
Rosalyne gave him a warm smile. “I don’t mind change. As long as I am with you.” She squeezed his arm affectionately.
“I feel the same.”
They stopped where they had once purchased a meat pie and decided to share one. The owner looked the same, as if no time had passed at all, but Edward realized it was the man’s son who served them because he caught sight of the father helping someone else.
They returned to the street after they’d eaten. The cathedral loomed in the distance.
“I am glad you wanted to return,” Rosalyne said.
“I promised myself years ago that once Master Yevele completed the nave, I had to view his finished work. It was already impressive enough when half-completed.”
“At least England has calmed enough for us to travel,” she remarked.
The current state of affairs saddened him. Richard no longer held the throne. He had lost it shortly after Edward and Rosalyne left court, when the Lords Appellant took control. Though the king claimed his throne again a year later, he waited years before taking revenge on the aristocrats who had ousted him, exiling some and executing others.
Then Richard’s first cousin and childhood playmate, son of the Duke of Lancaster, deposed the king and claimed the crown as King Henry the Fourth. The former king died in captivity soon after. Edward had heard the rumors that Henry starved Richard to death but, knowing the former king, Richard just as well might have starved himself since he no longer held any power.
“Henry has had a rough go of being king,” Edward said, “what with Owain Glyndwr and the Percys in a constant state of rebellion against him.”
“It would not surprise me if a new king asserts himself not too long from now.”
Edward thought his wife might be right.
They walked in silence after that until they reached the great cathedral. Pausing before it, Edward drank in the building’s grandeur.
“Shall we enter?” he asked and led Rosalyne inside.
Henry Yevele’s new nave had taken a score and five years to complete but it was well worth the wait. Both the nave and transepts had been rebuilt. The perpendicular nave ran from the entrance all the way down the central aisle to the altar far ahead, with the transept crossing it, forming a true cross inside the cathedral. The old aisle walls had been torn down. Tall, slender pillars now supported the structure, with exceptionally high arches in their place.
They walked the length of the cathedral and back, admiring the new stained glass windows that had been placed inside the church. A new choir screen stood at the east end of the nave.
“The details are incredible,” Edward said, in awe of the structure.
“It took a true master to create this vision and see it to fruition. As an artist, I can appreciate what it took to bring this to life.”
“Shall we visit Trinity Chapel—and your triptych?” he suggested.
They went to the chapel, still full of pilgrims who came to see where Thomas Becket had been martyred. Edward steered Rosalyne toward her panel, which remained near the shrine to the Black Prince. It saddened him that Richard, being so young, had never really known his father as the rest of England had. And poor Richard had never had any children of his own. His beloved Queen Anne had died childless. The king mourned her death and only married again for political reasons. His child bride, only seven years of age, became a widow soon after, ending the line the Black Prince came from.
Edward allowed Rosalyne to study her work at length. He knew she viewed it with a critical eye yet he couldn’t help but remember the days in which she had created it. How he had helped her prepare the wood and sand it down and coat it with the sparkling gesso. Those were his earliest memories of their time together. They would go with him to his grave.
“Are you ready to depart?” his wife finally asked.
“Only if you are,” he replied.
She nodded and he escorted her from the cathedral. As they took to the streets again, the September sun beat down upon them, heating his clothes to the point where they were hot to the touch.
Much like the many nights of heat and passion that he had spent caressing the woman beside him.
“You know you mean the world to me,” he murmured into her ear, sensing her shiver at his touch.
“You are the world to me, Edward de Montfort,” Rosalyne told him. “You always have been and always will be. My love for you has grown stronger, day by day, as each year has passed.”
Despite being in the midst of hundreds of people, Edward stopped and took Rosalyne into his arms and kissed her with all the passion and fire that had never died in the years of their marriage.
Breaking the kiss, he smiled and told her, “I need your bare skin against mine, my sweet baroness. I plan to take you back to the inn and make love to you until we leave for Shallowheart tomorrow.”
Rosalyne’s palm touched his cheek. “I am forever yours, Edward. Lead the way.”
The End
Gift of Honor
Knights Of Honor
Book Eight
Alexa Aston
Prologue
Whitley Castle—1371
Elinor Swan opened her eyes, not sure where she was. She glanced around the darkened chamber and remembered that Eunice had lifted her from her bed last night when the bedclothes around her were wet and cold. The servant told Elinor to stay here and sleep while her mother birthed the new babe.
But no one had come to wake her this morning. Had her mother already given birth?
Elinor wished she understood more about birth but she was only six. Eunice told Elinor when she grew older, her mother would explain everything to her and it would make perfect sense.
Twice before, her mother had grown large, her belly swelling, along with her face and feet. She’d promised Elinor both times that soon she would have a new brother or sister to watch over. Yet, Elinor heard the servants whispering about the babe being stillborn. If a babe still wanted to be born, why didn’t it show up? Elinor could tell that it wasn’t hiding in her mother’s belly any longer until it was safe to come out. Maybe that’s what made her mother weep so much.
Last year, Elinor overheard Eunice telling someone that the baroness had lost another babe—but how could a small babe be lost? Where did it go? Was it lost inside and couldn’t find its way out? Her mother’s
belly hadn’t even grown large that time. Elinor wondered if her mother might be broken inside because no babe ever appeared.
It was so confusing and no one explained anything to her. Ever. They patted her on the head and sent her on her way, shushing her when she asked a question. She’d learned to keep quiet around their servants because she wouldn’t learn anything from them.
Elinor wished she could ask her father. He knew everything. He was smart. Handsome. Powerful. Elinor couldn’t help but be afraid of him, though. Any time she found herself in his presence, she tried to make herself small and not bring any attention her way. Yet, she longed for him to notice her. Talk to her. Pull her onto his lap. Tell her stories. Tickle her. She craved attention and never received any.
She thought her mother might have loved her when she was tiny. But each time no babe came, her mother grew weaker and saw her daughter less than before. It was as if the baroness had lost interest in Elinor as time passed. And Father was always with his soldiers—training, talking, drinking—never bothering to glance her way. She couldn’t remember him ever speaking to her or calling her by name. It was as if she didn’t exist for him.
In that moment, Elinor realized how lonely she was. One parent was too sick for her while the other one ignored her. She had no siblings. No one to play with. She angrily brushed away a falling tear and got out of bed. She was a big girl. She could make herself useful. That might gain her some attention. Then her parents might decide they loved her.
More than anything in world, Elinor wanted to be loved.
She realized she could start by helping her mother birth this new babe. She would make sure it didn’t get lost or misplaced this time. Everyone would think she was so clever and praise her for helping the babe to come live with them at Whitley. Excited by this idea, she dressed quickly and left the bedchamber. Creeping down the hallway, she stopped in front of the door to the chamber where she slept with her mother each night.
The door was closed. For some reason, fear filled her. She raised her hand to open the door but lost the courage to do so. Her hand fell back to her side.
“I can do this,” she told herself, determined to help her mother and gain a brother or sister in the process. Standing tall, she nudged open the door and peered inside as a guttural moan began. It sounded like a wounded animal that had been caught in a trap for many hours. Then the groaning increased in intensity and turned into a full-blown, bloodcurdling scream. The sound bounced off the stone walls and continued to echo in Elinor’s head even after it died down.
It came from her mother.
The baroness was lying in the bed they shared, surrounded by several women who fussed over her. Her mother’s hair was plastered to her head and her face was unnaturally white. Sweat soaked her bed gown. She thrashed around, moaning again, before her scream pierced the air once more. This time when it ended, she collapsed against the pillows, sobbing.
From listening to the servants, Elinor had learned her mother needed to provide Whitley with a son and heir. But it pained her to watch her mother in this effort. She caught the uneasy glances the women surrounding the bed gave one another. Elinor’s chest tightened. Panic set in.
Wordlessly, she closed the door and leaned against the wall, her breath coming in spurts. Her heart pounded viciously, each beat driving the fear that threatened to swallow her whole. She couldn’t get the awful image out of her mind, seeing her mother helpless and in agony, with no one able to relieve her pain.
Elinor never wanted to have a babe if it meant doing what she had just seen. In that moment, she understood she would never be able to marry. Wives had children—and Elinor wanted nothing to do with that.
Instead, she fled downstairs to the great hall where people were breaking their fast. She sneaked toward the dais and took a seat on the end. Her father sat in the center, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bread he tore from a loaf placed before him. She wondered if he even knew his child was being born upstairs and how much his wife suffered.
Elinor only hoped this child didn’t get lost like the others. She wanted to help with the babe. She couldn’t feed it. But she could bathe it. Play with it. Spend time with it. Even love it. If she took care of it and showed what a good girl she was, then her parents would be proud of her. They would want to love her.
No one brought her anything to eat or drink since the meal was almost over, so she sat and watched the others present, not daring to glance at her father. Looking across the filled room, she saw the serfs who worked the land at Whitley. The servants who kept the keep running smoothly and efficiently. The soldiers who guarded the estate and were sworn to protect the Baron of Nelham and the entire Swan family.
Movement near the doorway caught her eye. Elinor saw Eunice and another servant hovering in it, standing close together. One held a bundle in her arms. Eagerly, she sat tall. Was it the babe? Did they bring it to show her father? Mayhap, she could also hold it and wash it and dress it.
Disappointment filled her as the servant scurried away with the bundle, leaving Eunice to enter the great hall. Reluctantly, the old woman made her way to the dais. Elinor held her breath.
“My lord?”
“What?” her father snapped as the servant approached.
Eunice flinched. Swallowed hard. Elinor saw her red eyes and thought Eunice might have been crying. She bit her lip, not wanting to hear what the servant would share.
“My lord, I am here to tell you that—”
He held up his hand to silence her. “Let me guess. My wife failed—again—to give me a son. To give me, the Baron of Nelham, an heir.”
The large room grew quiet at his raised voice. Elinor already winced at his harsh tone.
Eunice sighed. “It was a boy, my lord. He was stillborn.”
The baron glared at the servant but she bravely continued. “And my lord, she . . . the baroness . . . she is gone.”
“Gone?”
Elinor heard surprise in his voice even as tears filled her eyes, for she understood exactly what Eunice meant.
Her mother was dead. She would never come back. Ever.
“Gone?” he echoed.
“Aye, my lord,” Eunice confirmed and bowed her head a moment.
Her father slammed his hands down on the oak table in front of him. A thick silence clung in the air.
“So, she is dead. She and the boy. My son.”
Eunice nodded. “Shall I send for the priest?” she asked.
His lips curled in distaste. “I don’t care what you do. I wash my hands of her, a worthless wife who gave me a lone girl child. What good is a girl?” he shouted. “No good at all. I have no need of her.”
Tears stung Elinor’s eyes. She was the girl child he spoke of so callously. The one he couldn’t bring himself to even name. The one he had ignored ever since her birth.
She was nothing to him. Nothing.
He rose and looked across the great hall at those gathered. “You people can bury my wife and this lifeless babe. I have no use for the dead.”
“And what of Lady Elinor?” asked Eunice boldly. “The poor girl just lost her mother.”
“Well, she lost me, as well,” her father replied. “I have no need to parent a female brat. I don’t care if I ever see her again.”
Elinor began to shake. She felt all the eyes in the room turn to gaze on her in pity.
“She’s your daughter, my lord,” Eunice insisted. “You must do right by her.”
The baron rested his hands on the table and leaned toward the servant. “I have no son. Therefore, I have no child,” he said, his voice low and deadly. “Do something with her. I never want to see her inside my keep again. Do you hear me?”
Elinor knew everyone present had heard. She froze as her father strode from the great hall without a backward glance. Immediately, voices broke out, buzzing in her head as a group of bees. Then her trembling grew out of control. Elinor shook so badly she feared she might pitch from her seat and embarrass herself. Pushi
ng against the table, she stood on wobbly legs as she gripped it tightly for support.
Her mother was dead. She would never see her again. And that last terrible image of her trying to give birth kept rolling through her mind.
“Eunice?”
Elinor turned and saw a man standing in front of the dais, next to Eunice. Something passed between them. Eunice nodded as if in agreement before facing Elinor.
“Lady Elinor? Come here.” The servant motioned her over.
Elinor was reluctant to release her grasp on the table. She forced her fingers to relax before she took the few steps to the edge of the dais.
The man stepped to meet her. Pale blue eyes in a tanned face the color of leather looked her over. His brown hair had bits of gold in it, as if he spent a lot of his time outdoors. He wasn’t very tall and looked lean and wiry, so unlike her father and all of his soldiers.
“My lady,” he said softly, “I live here at Whitley. I lost my wife and son years ago.” He gave her a smile. “I’ve always wanted a daughter.”
She looked at him, not sure why he told her this. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry you lost your family.”
“I am sorry, too, for what has happened to you,” he replied. “I could use a hand with my falcons. Would you like to come live with me and help me with my birds? I could teach you to be a falconer.”
Elinor didn’t know what a falconer was. She only saw the same sadness she felt inside reflected in this man’s eyes. He said he needed help and she wanted to make herself useful.
Especially since her father never wanted to see her again.
Elinor nodded.
The man took another step toward her. “I am Jasper.”
“I am Elinor.”
He lightly grasped her waist and lowered her to the ground before taking her hand. As her hand rested in his, she drew comfort—and strength—from their contact.