Brides of the North: A Medieval Scottish Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Christian nodded firmly. “Indeed he did. Notice that I listened to him.”

  Gaithlin reached out, touching his cheek sweetly. “Of course you did,” she murmured. “Little Alexander will be a fitting legacy for his great father.”

  Christian looked at the baby cradled against his wife’s breast. “You realize that people will call him the Demon’s Spawn or something like that,” he sighed. “My son will have quite a reputation to live up to.”

  Gaithlin gazed down at the infant slumbering so peacefully. “He is the link of two great houses,” she whispered. “He is the culmination of all that is great and wonderful from my family and from yours. Mayhap, in a sense, he is his own legacy, an example of the new future between Winding Cross and Eden.”

  Christian nodded, laying his head against Gaithlin’s shoulder, looking his son in the face. It was such a handsome little face. Then he lifted his head to kiss his wife on the lips, feeling the same surge of passion and adoration he had felt from the very first kiss they shared. More than ever, she was everything to him, a love that could only be dreamt of in men’s wildest dreams.

  “We are the future,” he murmured, kissing her again. “And I have never in my life looked forward to anything more than I look forward to spending my life with you.”

  Gaithlin’s hand was on his cheek as he nuzzled her face, her neck. She closed her eyes, savoring the love that they shared. It was as much a part of her as the blood that flowed through her veins. When his mouth came close to hers, she kissed him deeply.

  “I love you, my Demon.”

  “And I love you, enemy wife.”

  She grinned, losing herself in his tender kisses and sweet touches.

  The baby slept right through it.

  ‘He is already greatness;

  The shining sun of a thousand souls, the happy making of a thousand memories.

  This child, this son, named for two great houses;

  May he always know his legacy, and may he always be loved

  Until the end.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. XIII, p. XXI

  * THE END *

  Author Note

  Christian and Gaithlin’s story is written in a more flourished style simply because that is the tone of Christian himself – a true Renaissance man, a powerful warrior as well as a man of deep feeling in his chronicles. He is a passionate man in so many ways and the style of the novel reflects that. His love for Gaithlin, and hers for him, ran deep. It was enough to unite two warring families, and enough to start a peaceful legacy all their own. Did you recognize the name of the author who wrote the Foreword? Dr. Bud Dietrich, colleague of Dr. Rory Osgrove of THE CRUSADER and KINGDOM COME. Although this book is not affiliated with either of those novels, Dr. Dietrich is an expert on all things Medieval, even Christian St. John.

  THE QUESTING

  A Medieval Romance

  By Kathryn Le Veque

  Dedication

  To my Team – the best team an author could have:

  Kris – who harped on me for a year and a half to finish this book (harped in a good way!). You have motivated and inspired me!

  Scott – a kick-ass editor if there ever was one. Thank you for your feedback, your wit, and your friendship.

  Also, to fellow authors Suzan Tisdale and Tanya Anne Crosby, who are a constant source of knowledge, camaraderie, and humor.

  And finally, to my readers – you keep me striving with every click of the keyboard for a bigger, better novel. My deepest thanks for your support.

  Love to all!

  PROLOGUE

  July 22, 1298 A.D.

  Falkirk, Scotland

  The skies had opened up sometime around mid-afternoon, pounding the gently rolling hills with a terrible onslaught of rain. It had rained the day before, too, soaking the already saturated ground to the point where it could no longer absorb the water that was now falling from the angry black clouds in buckets.

  In a field to the south of what was known locally as Callendar Wood, a drastic scene was taking place; Scotsmen, led by William Wallace, were taking a pounding from the English who outnumbered them by more than two to one. Wallace, an excellent tactician, had his pikemen in four great armored groups, called “hedgehogs”, making them difficult to penetrate by the English. The Scot archers hadn’t fared so well. They were already mostly destroyed by a wave of Sassenach knights who had descended on them with all of the good manners of a horde of starving locusts. The battle between the mounted cavalry and the archers on foot had not lasted long.

  Now, the English archers had been called in and the knights had fallen back, allowing the archers to bombard the hedgehogs with their spiny arrows in great falling clouds, more numerous than the raindrops falling from the sky. After a few rounds of well-aimed English arrows, the small number of the Scots cavalry abandoned the battlefield, leaving the pikemen in their hedgehogs to face the barrage alone. Those men were now falling, too, and the English were sitting atop a great victory. It was only a matter of time.

  Near the east end of the field, there was still a bit of skirmish going on between the Scottish cavalry and the English knights that had blocked their escape. There were no more than thirty or forty mounted Scots against two dozen English knights, big men on big horses, well armored and well trained. The lesser trained Scot cavalry never stood a chance as the English knights swarmed them.

  A big knight on a bay charger finished off two Scotsmen, toppling one off of his horse by punching him squarely in the chest and then using his broadsword on the other. It was brutal, and messy, but it was a job well done. He was still in combat mode when another knight came up behind him, startling him.

  “Ease yourself, Edlington!” the man shouted, holding up his sword to fend off Edlington’s powerful blow. The man flipped up his visor, a grin on his face. Dark eyes, as black as night, glimmered humorously. “You have them on the run, man. Ease down that vicious weapon.”

  Sir Robert Edlington grinned at his fellow knight, a friend, lifting his hinged visor and wiping the sweat that had trickled into his right eye. Edlington was a handsome man with blue eyes and dark blond hair, now plastered against his wet forehead.

  “I think we all have them on the run,” he said, turning to gaze off towards the west where the last remnants of the battle were occurring. “Edward’s might once again rules the day.”

  The other knight nodded as he, too, looked off into the distance where the Scots were making their last stand. The stench of defeat was heavy in the air, leeching into the Scot soil upon which they stood.

  “Indeed it does,” the knight with the black eyes said. “Mayhap now we can finally return home.”

  Edlington glanced over at the man. “Until the next time,” he said, almost begrudgingly. “We shall all end up in Wales next time, scaling those jagged mountains with a rope in one hand and a sword in the other. Edward would have us fighting like mountain goats.”

  The knight with the black eyes snorted. “He does not care how you fight for him, as long as you do,” he muttered, watching the clash in the distance. “Mayhap we should join the others. This will go a lot faster if we help, you and I. I suspect they are waiting for us to deliver the death blow.”

  It was a humorous quip, one that set Edlington to laughing. Just as the man reached down to gather his reins and prepared to follow his friend back to the heart of the fighting, they both heard a high-pitched buzz overhead. Too late, they realized it was an arrow and before either one of them could move, Edlington was struck squarely in the chest. The blow of the arrow was so forceful that it knocked the man cleanly off his horse. Edlington went flying off backwards, hitting the mud behind him with a sickening thud.

  His friend, his companion, was off his charger in a moment, falling to his knees beside Edlington.

  “Sweet Jesus,” the companion breathed as he realized that the arrow had struck Edlington cleanly in the middle of his torso. “Let me see, Rob. Let me get this o
ut of you.”

  Edlington lay on his back, gazing up at the sky. He was stunned, that was true, but he was also rather bewildered.

  “A… Scots arrow,” he said with disgust. “I… I thought the Scot archers were all dead.”

  His companion was tearing at his tunic, pulling it back so he could get a look at the arrow where it had pierced the mail and entered Edlington’s chest. But what he saw sickened him; the arrow had been what was called a “blunt.” The head of it was sharpened but it didn’t follow the usual shape of an arrowhead. It was meant to enter the body and tear great holes in its victim, which is what it had done to Edlington.

  There was a big hole in him, sucking in air as the knight struggled to breathe with the arrow buried several inches deep into his body. The companion could see that he was going to have to work quickly in order to save the man’s life, if it were at all possible. He didn’t want to entertain the thought that there was no hope, not now. Not when they were so close to victory. But deep in his heart he knew that it was already over. Edlington was already dead.

  “I must roll you onto your back, Rob,” he said hurriedly. “Help me. Roll with me if you can.”

  Grunting as he tried to pull the man over from his right side, he realized that he couldn’t because the arrow had gone all the way through. It had sliced directly through Edlington’s spine and at least two inches of arrow protruded out of his back. His horror must have reflected in his eyes because Edlington suddenly grabbed his hands, squeezing tightly.

  “Cortez, listen to me,” Rob gasped as it became increasingly difficult to breathe. “You must promise me something.”

  Cortez de Bretagne stared at Rob, grief etching his features. “Let me help you,” he pleaded softly. “If I can get this arrow out, I can….”

  Edlington cut him off. “Nay, my friend,” he whispered. “It is over. I cannot feel my legs. This is the last of me now and I must say what is in my heart before I die. Will you listen? Will you please?”

  Over to the west, they could hear the sounds of fighting again as more Scots and more English came together. It was too close for comfort and Cortez stood up, grabbing Rob under the arms and dragging him away from the fighting, through a cluster of trees, slugging through knee-deep mud in places to reach what appeared to be a safe spot. There was a big oak tree to protect them from the rain even though the tree itself was surrounded by a sea of dark, clinging mud.

  Grunting with effort, Cortez propped Edlington up against the tree trunk, falling to his knees beside the man. He grasped the spine of the arrow, preparing to remove it, but Edlington stopped him.

  “Nay,” he gasped. “Leave it. There is nothing you can do.”

  “But…!”

  “Leave it,” Edlington begged, grasping for Cortez’s hands again. He found them and held them tightly, gazing into the face of his friend. “Please, Cortez… you must promise me something.”

  Cortez was verging on tears of sorrow, of rage. He knew this was the end for his friend and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  “Anything at all,” he said hoarsely, squeezing Robert’s hands tightly. “Whatever it is, I shall do it.”

  “Diamantha,” Robert breathed. “My wife. This will be very hard on her, Cortez. She must be comforted. I ask that you tell her my last thoughts were of her and of Sophie, my daughter. You will tell her, won’t you? You will tell her that I was very proud to be her husband.”

  Cortez nodded vigorously. “You know I will,” he said, feeling tears sting his eyes. “But let me try to remove this arrow. Mayhap there is….”

  “Cortez, listen to me,” Robert interrupted him; he was having great difficulty breathing. “Diamantha… I want you to take care of her. Swear to me that you will. Since your own Helene is gone these past three years, you are free to marry Diamantha. I want you to, Cortez. Swear to me you will marry her and that you will be very good to her.”

  Cortez looked at the man in shock. “Marry her?” he repeated, stunned. “But… Rob, she may not want to….”

  “Please!” Robert gasped with anguish.

  Cortez couldn’t refuse the man. He couldn’t stand to see his pain, to see his life draining away. The anguish he felt was staggering.

  “Of course,” he assured the man quickly, to ease his mind. “I will do what you ask. Rest assured, my friend. I will take care of her. She will want for nothing.”

  Robert still had a grip on him. “Seek out her father,” he muttered. “He is a great knight, living at Norham Castle. Seek him out and tell him what has happened. He will give you his blessing, I am sure.”

  “If that is your wish, I will do it.”

  Robert seemed to relax a great deal after that, slouching back against the tree trunk as the rain poured down around them. Off to the west, they could hear a horn sound, a call to arms. Cortez knew that it was Edward, summoning all of his available fighting men to deliver the death blow to the Scots. The day was growing late and he wanted to tie up his business. Cortez looked at Robert, collapsed against the tree, and squeezed the man’s hands tightly.

  “I will be back,” he said determinedly. “Edward has need of his knights but I will return as soon as I can. Do you hear me? I will be back.”

  Robert nodded faintly. “I am at peace, Cortez,” he muttered. “Whatever happens now, I am at peace knowing my wife and daughter are in your hands. Pray be good to them. Love them as I do.”

  Cortez stared at him a moment as the man took a deep, ragged breath and closed his eyes. Filled with sorrow, Cortez leaned over Robert and kissed his exposed forehead.

  “You are my brother,” he whispered. “You are one of the finest knights I have ever known. Godspeed, Robert, wherever your path may take you.”

  Robert’s eyes flickered, giving Cortez a sign that he had heard him, and with that, Cortez staggered wearily to his feet and chased down his charger as the animal grazed several feet away.

  With a lingering glance at Edlington, propped up against the ancient oak with the split trunk, Cortez spurred his charger to action, avoiding the great swamps of mud as he headed towards the death throes of the battle of Falkirk, as the Scots fell beneath the English hammer. The end, at that point, was not long in coming and soon enough, it was finished. The English had triumphed.

  Before the sun set, Cortez made it back to Robert but when he arrived at the split tree, all that met him was a sea of mud, so deep in places that it could have easily swallowed a man. Edlington was gone, returned to the earth as all men did when it was their time to meet God. A search for him the next day turned up no sign of the big, strapping knight who had been gored through the chest. Just like that, he was gone, and the battle of Falkirk faded into the annals of history.

  But the quest to find Robert Edlington’s body did not end that day. In fact, it had only begun.

  For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart.

  It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul.

  ~ 13th Century Poet

  CHAPTER ONE

  Corfe Castle, Dorset

  October 1298 A.D.

  “For the love of God, he has only been dead these three months. Why must you force my husband from my memory so quickly?”

  A lone woman faced off against a man clad in pieces of mail and leather, her words of anguish filling the air between them. The question was infused with sorrow and curiosity. Yet, it was a legitimate query. In the lavish solar that was the heart of Corfe Castle’s mighty stone keep, the emotions filling the room were as heady as the black smoke from the snapping fire.

  The man with the silver hair tried to be stern with his reply but found he could not when he gazed into her agonized face. Her dual-toned eyes, a mesmerizing shade of bright green with a splash of brown around the iris of the right orb, slashed into him until he could no longer hold his gaze. He ended up rising from his chair and turning his back to her. It was the only way he could breathe.

  “I am not attempting to erase his memory, Diamantha
,” he said quietly. “Robert was my son and my grief exceeds your own. However, the fact remains that he is no longer with us and it is your father’s wish that you remarry as soon as possible. You are young and wealthy, and your father wants you to find a suitable husband.”

  The Lady Diamantha de Bocage Edlington changed moods as swiftly as a flash of lightning; she charged to her father-in-law, forcing the man to look her in the eye. When she spoke, it was through clenched teeth.

  “My father,” she seethed. “By all that is holy and right, I knew he was behind this. I knew it!”

  Sir George Edlington was old; too old for what he was about to face. A dead son, a grieving daughter-in-law, and pain in his heart that was deeper than an ocean. No parent should ever have to bury a child. With a deep breath for courage, he grasped Diamantha by the arms as if to shake some sense into her.

  “Your father wants his daughter to be taken care of,” he said firmly. “Robert, God rest him, would want this also. He would not want you to spend your life reliving memories that are of no use to anyone. And he would want Sophie to know a father again.”

  Diamantha yanked away from him, her small body showing more strength than George had imagined it held.

  “Sophie’s father is dead,” she half-hissed, half-wept. “She will never know another. And I do not want another husband.”

  “So you would let your daughter live her life without the guidance of a father?” George was growing agitated. “And you would rather live your life alone and bitter? That makes little sense.”

  She lost some of her fire. “It is my life. How I live it is none of your concern.”

  He cocked a dark, bushy eyebrow. “I wonder what Robert would say to that?”

  She opened her mouth in preparation for a scathing retort but found herself unable to muster the energy. After a moment, she shook her head and turned away.