Brides of the North: A Medieval Scottish Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Will there be dancing at the wedding feast?” Cora turned to him, adjusting her collar.

  Creed nodded. “I would expect so.”

  Cora cocked her head thoughtfully. “And plenty of young men?”

  This time, Creed’s composure took a hit. He puffed out his cheeks. “Good lord, lass; you are only nine years old. Why are you asking about young men?”

  Cora lifted her slender shoulders, thrusting her pert little nose up in the air. “Because Marion de Witt is already betrothed and she is only a year older than I am. I do not want to be an old maid, Dada.”

  Creed just looked at her and shook his head. “Marion de Witt is betrothed to Rory Burleson from Hexham because they are close neighbors. And I promise that you will not be an old maid.”

  Gaira came back out of the chamber she shared with her five other sisters, sneering as she fussed with the blue cloak on her shoulders. “And Romney Burleson has his sights set on Emma,” she taunted her sister. “She has the breasts of a woman and you are as flat as a board.”

  Cora turned red-faced. “I have so got breasts!” she thrust out her flat chest. “See? They are growing larger every day.”

  Creed put his hands over his ears. “Stop!” he roared, scaring the girls into silence. When he saw their wide-eyed expressions, he quickly regrouped. “Downstairs, ladies,” he said calmly. “Now, if you please.”

  “Dada, do you think I am as flat as a board?” Cora asked.

  Creed whistled loudly, pretending not to hear her. Receiving no answer from her father, Cora resumed sticking her tongue out at her sister but dutifully descended the stairs. Emma was right behind the battling pair while Moira, the five year old, was still fussing inside the large chamber. Creed stood in the door of the big, cluttered bower, watching his black-haired, blue-eyed daughter dig under her bed.

  “Moira, my love, we must go,” he hissed gently. “What are you doing?”

  Moira’s head came up. “My poppet, Dada. I cannot find her!”

  Creed set down the bags and cloaks in his arms and found himself on the floor, in full armor, searching under the bed for a doll.

  “If you cleaned some of the clutter out from under here, you might be able to find her more easily,” he told her.

  “Please, Dada!”

  Creed grunted as he was forced to stand up and move the bed aside in order to retrieve the doll. But Moira’s happy face soothed any irritation. He cupped her little head in his massive hands and kissed her cheek.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Thank you, Dada,” she said sincerely.

  With his child in tow, Creed picked up the bags and cloaks once more and descended the stairs only to find the entry hall at the bottom empty. Holding Moira’s hand, he quit the keep and descended the exterior stairs into the bailey. There was an entire entourage of de Reyne soldiers waiting to escort the baron and his family to the nuptials of Sir Gilbert d’Umfraville. Oddly enough, the spoiled young lad had grown into a rather calm and handsome young man, so the nuptials were something of a joyous occasion.

  A soldier came running to him as he neared the entourage, taking the baggage from his arms and going to load it on one of the pack wagons. Creed approached the carriage that held his five daughters, two sons and two nurses and lifted Moira up into the cab. Making sure everyone was properly settled, he looked at Carington as she stood next to the carriage. Their eyes met and he smiled.

  “Ready?” he blew out his cheeks in a heavy sigh.

  She nodded wearily. “Finally.”

  “Do you want to ride with me for a little way?”

  She looked into the cab, already seeing that Cora and Gaira were not getting along. They tended to be the most aggressive pair and she shook her head sadly.

  “I’d better not,” she said. “I canna leave the wolf pack alone for too long. They might eat each other.”

  “Can I at least take Rossalyn? She loves to ride with me.”

  Carington shook her head. “She stays with her sisters. I dunna like her on that snappish charger and ye know it. ’Tis no place for a young lady.”

  His looked disappointed, yet resigned, as he pulled her into his arms. His dusky blue eyes were soft on her. At thirty-one years of age, she had hardly a line on her face. She was still as beautiful as she had been when he had first met her at nineteen and there were no words strong enough to describe his adoration for her. He worshipped her.

  “I have said it before and I will say it again; the girls act just like you,” he murmured, bending down to kiss her tenderly. “You only have yourself to blame for their wild streak.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, her body filled with the fluid warmth she associated with her husband. Something about the man filled her, comforted her, like nothing else. He was her rock.

  “Then it is my duty to ride in the cab and keep the beasts at bay,” she murmured. “I’ll not be far away if ye need me.”

  His lips were on her ear. “I always need you.”

  She smiled, feeling him kiss her ear, her cheek. “Which is why we’ve had seven children in twelve years.”

  He pulled back, grinning, and released her. “Complaining?”

  She shook her head slowly, her emerald eyes filled with reverence. “Never.”

  He began to close up his helm in preparation for mounting his warhorse. Carington watched him proudly, gradually distracted by the squabbling in the cab. Forced to look away from her beloved husband, she glared at her tussling daughters.

  “Cora,” she snapped. “I am going to sit in that cab between ye and Gaira for the entire ride to Prudhoe and so help me, if either one of ye utter a harsh word, I’ll tan yer hides.”

  Cora and Gaira immediately shut their mouths, their eyes wide at both their mother and father. That lasted about two seconds until Moira decided she was chilly and yanked the traveling blanket off of Gaira. That started the avalanche all over again and Creed stuck his head into the cab.

  “Ladies, please,” he said softly, reaching out a massive mitt to still the tussling hands. “If you behave yourselves, I promise that when we arrive at Prudhoe, I will take you into town and buy you all something very pretty.”

  The girls squealed with excitement. “Me, too, Dada?” Annabella wanted to know. Being the only obedient girl in the bunch, she didn’t want to be left out of the bribe.

  He reached out and touched her dark head. “Of course, honey. All of you.” He looked back at the three squabblers. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed, Dada,” they said in unison.

  Creed stood back from the cab and winked at his wife. He was not sure if he believed the girls but he had to try; he hated to see their mother punish them and he knew from experience that she would. Carington just pursed her lips at him in disapproval.

  “Ye spoil them, Creed,” she admonished softly.

  He took her elbow and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I treat them like I treat you.”

  Carington had no snappy reply to that. She allowed her husband to help her into the cab, receiving a tender kiss from him as he departed. The last she saw of her husband was as he made his way back towards the head of the escort.

  Creed was smiling as he made his way to his warhorse. Life was good and there was no reason not to smile. Furthermore, he was thinking of Ryton this day, so many years after the man’s death at Hexham. Every time he returned to Prudhoe, he thought of his brother. He wished the man could see him now.

  A conversation lingered in his mind, one he had reviewed many times over the years as one daughter after another was born. He could just see Ryton’s reaction to six daughters; the mere thought always made him laugh. He knew what Ryton would have said.

  Creed, you’re a saint.

  He was not a saint. But he had certainly found heaven.

  * THE END *

  THE LION OF THE NORTH

  A Medieval Romance

  By Kathryn Le Veque

  Author’s Note

  Welcom
e to Atticus’ story. We have some interesting names in this tale, so I want to make sure we’re all on the same page with pronunciations (the emphasis is on the capitalized syllable):

  Isobeau – Eees-uh-BO

  Tertius – TER-shiss

  Titus – TIE-tus

  Warenne – war-EN (if you recall, de Warenne was the family name of Davyss de Winter’s mother, Lady Katharine, in LESPADA)

  “A Day of Much Slaying”

  That’s what the Battle of Towton was called, which is a major battle in the War of the Roses. It was also a battle that was fought in late spring in a blizzard and is one of the more terrible historical battles ever fought in England. If the men weren’t freezing, then they were drowning in the river north of the battlefield as they tried to flee. It’s said that so many men drowned in the river that they created a human bridge for the remaining armies to flee across. Over 70,000 men faced off on the field that day; 42,000 Lancastrian alone, so this was an absolutely massive battle. Towton is to England what Antietam is to the American Civil War. The total dead at Towton were estimated at 1% of England’s population, or about 20,000 men. Towton plays a small but pivotal role in this novel.

  Also, let’s clarify the family ties here of the secondary characters because there are a lot. It’s probably best to do it this way rather than a diagram:

  • Warenne de Winter – descendent of Davyss de Winter (LESPADA)

  • Maxim de Russe – son of Sir Bastian de Russe (BEAST) and his wife, Lady Gisella le Bec. Gisella is the youngest daughter of Sir Richmond le Bec (GREAT PROTECTOR).

  • Alec le Bec – son of Gannon le Bec (second son of Sir Richmond le Bec) and his wife, Lady Sparrow Summerlin. Alec is named for his ancestor, the great Alec Summerlin (THE LEGEND).

  • Adam Wellesbourne – Married to Audrey Wellesbourne, Maxim’s sister and the daughter of Sir Bastian de Russe and his wife, Lady Gisella. Adam and Audrey are the parents of Matthew Wellesbourne (THE WHITE LORD OF WELLESBOURNE). This means that Matthew Wellesbourne has the blood of Richmond le Bec and Bastian de Russe in him, among others.

  • Kenton le Bec – son of Stefan le Bec, who is the eldest son of Richmond le Bec (GREAT PROTECTOR), and his wife, Lady Arissa (who is the bastard daughter of Henry VI). Kenton is Richmond’s eldest grandchild.

  • Tertius de Shera – a descendant of Maximus de Shera (THE THUNDER WARRIOR) and Lady Isobeau’s brother.

  It’s all very complicated, but suffice it to say that all of the le Bec knights, as well as Maxim de Russe, are related to Henry VI through their grandmother, who is the bastard daughter of Henry IV (read GREAT PROTECTOR for this background if you haven’t yet already), so fighting for Henry’s cause for these knights is a given. Warenne de Winter, Earl of Thetford, fights for Henry’s cause because the de Winters always fight for the crown, no matter who it is (or how poor a king he is!).

  And there are so many connections in this book! Isobeau de Shera, as mentioned, is descended from Maximus de Shera, so if you haven’t read the LORDS OF THUNDER trilogy, then it’s a must-read. It will give you a ton of insight into Isobeau’s ancestors, the great Thunder Lords. Also, as mentioned, is the Wellesbourne clan (THE WHITE LORD OF WELLESBOURNE). We meet Matthew Wellesbourne’s grandfather and see his father, Adam, as a young man. Matthew’s grandfather, Andrew, is a badass. Enough said.

  Lastly, Kenton le Bec, a secondary character, will have his own novel coming out shortly after this one called WALLS OF BABYLON. Don’t miss it. I’m particularly fond of Kenton.

  This “author’s note” is a little long, so I’ll conclude by saying I truly hope you enjoy Atticus and Isobeau’s story. If ever two people deserved a happily ever after, these two do.

  Hugs,

  Kathryn

  PROLOGUE

  March 29, 1461 A.D.

  Battle of Towton, Yorkshire

  Ascension of Edward IV

  “There he is,” a knight in snow-covered armor hissed. “Do you see him?”

  His companion, with a bushy red beard and dirty blond hair, was focused on a copse of white-encrusted trees off to the south. It was early morning and snow was falling so heavily that it was as if a thick blanket of the stuff had been tossed onto them. Breath hung in the air from both man and beast alike, and the sun, though risen, was shielded by heavy clouds.

  “I see him,” the knight with the bushy beard said. “He has already deployed all of the men, including his brother. He will not be alone much longer.”

  “Are you sure Atticus is away?”

  “I am sure. I saw him ride off.”

  “Then we must move quickly. We promised Mowbray we would start with Titus.”

  “He really wants Atticus.”

  “I know. But if we can sway Titus, Atticus should follow.”

  Spurring their horses forward, the pair charged down a small and snow-covered incline, heading towards the right flank of the massive Lancastrian army that was poised on the rise, waiting for the Yorkist opposition to move into place. This day had been weeks and months in the making, years even, as the largest army England had ever seen upon her own soil was moving into position to decide the fate of the country. Would Henry VI remain on the throne, or would his young cousin, Edward, wrest the royal reins of command? Well over seventy thousand men would soon decide upon an answer. Hell was coming and it was coming very soon. With that in mind, the two knights made haste towards their target in the distance.

  Sir Titus de Wolfe was standing next to his big, brown charger, a mean horse with a fierce temper. He was rather fond of the beast, though, and had been feeding him small green apples and handfuls of oats throughout the morning, an incentive for the horse to obey him. He needed persuasion. As Titus muttered a last few encouraging words to the horse, he had no idea he was being stalked.

  The end, for him, was nearer than he knew.

  “De Wolfe!”

  Titus turned towards the sound of his name, seeing two Northumberland knights riding up to him. These were men under his command, men he had fought with for a few years. He knew and trusted them. He put the apples for his horse back in his saddlebags.

  “What are you two doing away from your posts?” he asked. “I told you two to cover the far end of the right flank. Why have you returned?”

  The knight with the bushy beard dismounted. “Something very serious, de Wolfe,” he said. “We must speak with you.”

  Titus looked up from his saddlebags. “Now?” he asked, perturbed. “The earl wants you in your position, de la Londe. Get to it. We can speak afterwards if there is still a need.”

  Simon de la Londe shook his head, ice crystals from his beard raining onto his chest. “I am afraid it is too important to wait,” he said. “I will only take a moment. I come with a message for you.”

  Titus scowled. “A message?” he repeated. “From whom?”

  “Norfolk.”

  Titus’ scowl faded and genuine bewilderment took hold. “De Mowbray?” he asked. “How is that possible? He is not even here yet.”

  De la Londe nodded patiently. “He is a few hours out,” he said. “We received his messenger with a message for you.”

  Titus’ confusion only deepened. “What in the world would the Duke of Norfolk have to say to me?” he asked. “And how does he even know me? I am one knight among thousands here today.”

  De la Londe looked over the battlefield, at the lines being drawn and the thousands of men preparing to risk their lives for two men who would be king. He glanced at his companion, Declan de Troiu, and noted de Troiu’s serious expression. The man nodded, firmly, as if to give de la Londe the push he needed to speak. De la Londe returned his attention to Titus.

  “The Duke of Norfolk wishes to deliver this message,” he said. “Wield your sword for him, swear fealty to him, and he shall provide you with a manse and lands in Westwick. The lands are rich, as are the taxes. Convince your brother to join you and he will grant Atticus a baronetcy. Do this and you shall be well rewarded. Refuse and you sh
all die.”

  Titus was staring at de la Londe. There was no discernible reaction in his features but his gaze implied that he was both confused and shocked with de la Londe’s message.

  “You cannot possibly be serious,” he hissed. “Did Norfolk’s messenger tell you that? Where is the bastard?”

  De la Londe drew in a long, deep breath. “He is out of range,” he said vaguely. “The messenger came to remind us of what Norfolk himself told us this last night when we met with him. He has granted Declan and me lands for swearing fealty to him. Titus, don’t you see what is happening here? We fight for a madman, a king that is daft and unstable. We fight for a lost cause. Edward has the support of the major barons and he also has the support of France. He has Warwick with him, for God’s sake. Warwick is nearly impossible to beat.”

  A warning bell went off in Titus’ head; it was clear that Simon and Declan were not here as a neutral party or even an allied party to relay a message from the enemy. From what de la Londe had just said, they were now the enemy. Shocking as it was, it was the truth.

  Titus thought quickly; his broadsword was sheathed in his saddle behind him. He couldn’t get to it undetected. He had an assortment of daggers on him, but de la Londe probably did too. So did de Troiu. It would be two against one but Titus was confident he could prevail. But he had to get the upper hand and strike first, eliminating de la Londe before de Troiu came down on him. He could already sense a battle coming and he was disgusted; enraged and disgusted.

  “Am I to assume you have accepted Norfolk’s bribe?” he asked steadily.

  De la Londe nodded. “We have,” he said, sounding almost regretful about it. “Titus, come with us. Fight with us. This is a fight that Henry cannot win.”

  “We outnumber the York supporters.”

  De la Londe sighed heavily. “For now,” he said. “Norfolk is four hours away and he brings ten thousand men. When he comes, he will turn the tide. Lord Fauconberg, fighting with Warwick, has hundreds of archers and he has the wind at his back. You will be killed, Titus; everyone here will be killed. I, for one, do not want to die.”