Brides of the North: A Medieval Scottish Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “He would say nothing to me,” she said weakly, her brilliant gaze finding the lancet window and the lush green hills of Dorset beyond. The scent of early summer was warm upon the air and she inhaled deeply. “He would do what he always did. He would bow to my wishes and let me do as I please. Your son was far too much of a gentleman to contradict his wife, even when she was wrong.”

  George watched the slender curve of her back beneath the blue damask surcoat and the way her reddish-brown hair fell in a heavy, shimmering sheet past her buttocks. It was long and straight and silky and she always pulled it off her face in a pleasing style that Robert had liked. Though it was the custom for married women to cover their head, Robert could not bear to see his wife’s luscious hair covered.

  As George gazed at the woman his son had outright adored, the familiar pangs of grief began to claw at him again. With her, he saw the last memories of his son and he was loath to send her away as her father wished.

  But what he wanted was of little consequence. Diamantha’s father was a powerful warlord serving the Earl of Teviot in the north and George, as a servant of the king, would do as he was ordered. It was out of his hands. With a blustery sigh, he turned back to the chair that had once held his weary body.

  “At least you will not go far,” he said softly. “You can take comfort in that.”

  Diamantha looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  George picked up the parchment that lay upon the table next to the chair. “You will go to Sherborne Castle,” he replied, not looking at her. “Cortez de Bretagne is to be your new husband.”

  Diamantha looked at him as if she did not understand his words. Then, her eyes widened. “De Bretagne?” she repeated incredulously. “Is that the man my father has chosen?”

  George nodded faintly, re-reading the missive had had received several hours earlier. It had taken him that long to summon the courage to tell Diamantha of its contents. He still did not have the nerve to tell her that her proposed fiancé was waiting in the outer bailey, far removed from the view of the main keep, for an introduction. It was, in fact, de Bretagne who had delivered the missive written by the lady’s father.

  “Sir Cortez de Bretagne, garrison commander for King Edward’s holding of Sherborne Castle,” he said as he read the words again. “You have known Cortez for years so it is not as if you will be marrying someone you have never met.”

  Diamantha could not keep the shocked look off her face. “Of course I know him,” she muttered, looking away as she struggled to digest the news. “His wife was my friend until she died three years ago, around the time Sophie was born. Helene died in childbirth and I remember Robert telling me how grief-stricken Cortez was. The man could hardly function.”

  George dared to look at her to see if he could register any manner of acceptance with the arrangement. “Then this does not displease you?” he asked softly.

  Diamantha was still caught up in the memories of Helene de Bretagne and her dark, handsome husband. She ignored her father-in-law’s question. “I wonder how my father came to this agreement,” she pondered, wandering back towards the window. “How would he know of Cortez? How would he have…?”

  “Perhaps Cortez went to him,” George interrupted with a shrug. “He was there when Robert was killed. He knew that you were widowed. Perhaps he went to your father with a proposal.”

  Her head snapped to George. “Do you think that is true?” she suddenly sounded angry again. “Why would he have done this? I have barely spoken ten words to the man the entire time I have known him. Why would he go to my father and demand my hand?”

  George put up a hand to stop any building rage. “I do not know if that is the case,” he insisted. “It was merely a suggestion. Your father is a great warlord for Edward and so is Cortez. It would not have been difficult for him to arrange an audience with your father, as they are of the same social standing.”

  She thought on that a moment before refocusing on George. There was resignation in her manner when she spoke.

  “Being the youngest of three daughters, I am sure my father was most receptive to Cortez’s offer,” she said ironically. “My father was always so protective of me and my sisters. He was probably thrilled with the thought of marrying off a widowed daughter purely for the security it would provide.”

  “Your father loves you a great deal.”

  “He means well.”

  George wasn’t sure how to respond. He wasn’t any good at gauging her mood; he never had been and neither had his son. So he set the parchment back to the table and faced her.

  “Cortez delivered the missive,” he said, hoping she would not explode at him. “He is waiting to take you back to Sherborne.”

  Her only reaction was to stare, rather dazed, at him. “Is this true?”

  “Indeed it is.”

  The reply came from the door. Both George and Diamantha whirled in the direction of the entry. Standing in the archway was a tall man with enormous shoulders, partially shrouded by the shadows. They could see his silhouette in the darkness. When he saw that their attention was upon him, he stepped forward into the light.

  Cortez de Bretagne was a big, muscular man with cropped black hair and onyx-colored eyes. He was Spaniard on mother’s side, Welsh on his father’s, giving him a dark and sultry countenance. There was something about the man that oozed strength and seductiveness, far more charisma than most pale and fair Englishmen.

  More than that, there was something about him that was unsettling in a giddy sort of way; Diamantha remembered that from the first time she had met him. Every woman in Dorset knew of the gorgeously handsome Cortez and Helene had quietly weathered the female attention to her husband. She remained composed and gracious even as flighty women would challenge her for her husband’s affection. It was a quality that Diamantha had appreciated in the woman, her friend gone these three years. Now, the handsome husband was to become hers. She could hardly believe it.

  Cortez glanced at George but his focus returned to Diamantha. His attractive, chiseled face smiled timidly as he bowed in her general direction.

  “Lady Edlington,” he greeted in a soft baritone voice.

  “I thought I told you to stay in the bailey until I sent for you,” George was the least bit perturbed.

  “I was in the bailey,” Cortez cast him a long glance, his tone no longer soft. “Now I am here. I think a six-hour wait was sufficient.”

  Diamantha stood there gaping at him, shocked by his appearance and not at all certain she was able to grasp what was going on. Not a moment before she was a young widow with a young daughter, looking forward to a lonely future. Now she was betrothed and heading for Sherborne Castle. Rather than become confrontational about it, she turned away and sank into the nearest chair.

  “God’s Blood,” she breathed. “This has all happened so quickly.”

  George opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a stern look from Cortez. The younger, more powerful man was not one to be trifled with. George knew that; he had seen the man in battle and he was absolutely ferocious. And he had the reputation of having quite a temper when aroused, something attributed to his mother’s Spanish blood. Therefore, when Cortez jerked his head in the direction of the door, George took the hint and left. It was out of his hands, anyway.

  Diamantha didn’t see George quit the solar. She was turned in the direction of the fire, watching the flames as they licked against the stone. And she didn’t see Cortez kneel beside her chair until it was too late. By the time she caught a glimpse of him, he was nearly upon her and she started at his nearness.

  “Forgive me,” he said, his voice soft once more as he addressed her. “I did not mean to alarm you. But I must speak with you.”

  Diamantha was leaning against the opposite arm of the chair, as far as she could get from Cortez without actually leaving the chair. She studied his face, reacquainting herself with the man she remembered from distant memories.

  At Robert’s funeral mass,
she had seen him at the church of Corfe’s village but she hadn’t given him any thought. There had been many knights there to pay homage to the memory of Robert Edlington and Cortez had been one of the many. It had been a memorial service and nothing more. They did not have a body to bury. Robert had been left, like so many others, at Falkirk where he had fallen.

  As she studied Cortez’s square jaw and dimpled chin, she noticed that he was studying her in return. He was smiling faintly while she was clearly not returning the gesture. It didn’t seem to deter him, however. His smile grew the longer she stared at him.

  “I realize this is something of a shock to you, my lady,” he said in his deep, almost gentle voice. “I wanted to be present when the missive was delivered to you but George thought it best that I wait. But I could not and I do apologize if that seems rash.”

  Diamantha’s brow furrowed slightly as she watched his full lips form words, spewing forth information that was puzzling and slightly urgent-sounding.

  “Rash?” she repeated. “Rash that you wanted to be present? Or rash that you burst into the solar in the midst of a private conversation?”

  He seemed somewhat chagrined. “Both,” he admitted. His black eyes lingered on her. “May I speak plainly, my lady?”

  Her brow furrowed even more. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, eagerly, as if he was preparing to swoop down upon her. She did rise from the chair, then, to put some distance between them. He was making her uncomfortable.

  “I… I am not sure…,” she stammered.

  “Please,” Cortez rose to his considerable height, watching her as she moved away from him. “I realize that all of this is unexpected and I find that I must explain myself so there will be no misunderstanding.”

  She paused several feet away to look at him, her hand on her forehead as if shoving back the headache that threatened. There wasn’t much she could say to deny him. She was feeling very resigned at the moment.

  “Very well,” she said. “Speak if you find it necessary although I am not sure there is much that either of us can say given the contents of the missive. What is done is done.”

  He nodded in concession. “Indeed it is,” he replied. “However, there is something I would make clear to you. I was present when your husband was cut down by archers. In fact, it was I who pulled him out of the line of fire once he was struck. Given the fighting going on around us and the severity of his wounds, we both knew it was of no use to attempt to save him.”

  Diamantha’s features paled and the hand came away from her head, moving to her chest as if to hold in her heart. “Why must you tell me such things?” she demanded in a hushed tone. “I do not wish to hear of it.”

  “I realize that,” he said honestly. “But you must. You must understand why you find me standing here tonight.”

  She realized she was blinking back tears but she fought them. “Speak, then. But know this conversation gives me no pleasure.”

  “Nor I,” he insisted softly. “Still, it must be said.” He paused, choosing his words carefully as he continued. “When Robert realized his time was growing short, he swore me to an oath. He spoke of his beautiful wife and daughter and how he worried for them. He made me promise that I would see to their safety and to their future, and since I lacked the courage to deny a dying man, I agreed. I promised him that I would take care of you both and although I was inclined at first to forget my pledge, in my heart I know that I cannot. Robert was my friend, my lady. He was a good man. And I would be forever guilty if I did not hold true to my promise to him and that is why you find me standing before you this night. I am here because I promised him that I would come.”

  By now, the tears were streaming down Diamantha’s cheeks. As his words sunk in, she hastily wiped at her face and sniffled delicately, struggling not to fall apart. But she found that she could not take her eyes off of the man. As he spoke those gentle words, something inside of her had changed. Her opinion of him had changed. She now saw him through different eyes, as if the man before her held some semblance of honor. He could have well forgotten a promise to a dying man and no one would have known. But he had not forgotten.

  “But why you?” she asked hoarsely. “It is not as if you were as close as brothers. You were friends, that is true, but there were men he was closer to. Why you?”

  “Because I was the only one there,” he replied quietly. “While everyone else was laying waste to the fields of Falkirk, I was near your husband when he was struck. It just happened to be me, my lady; it could have been anyone. But it was me.”

  Diamantha understood a great deal in that softly uttered explanation. But it also deepened her sense of despair. It was what Robert had wanted and she would be forced to comply with his wishes. Her bright gaze was intense.

  “How did my father become a part of this pact?” she asked. “Did you seek him out?”

  Cortez nodded slowly. “I did,” he replied. “I explained the situation to him and he was more than happy to comply.”

  So it was as she thought; or, at least, partially so. But the fact remained that she was betrothed to Cortez and there was nothing she could do about it. Resigned, she turned away from him. She realized that she found it difficult to look at him, difficult to realize that she was gazing at her next husband. She needed to acclimate herself to the idea. But there was still something else, something that had been gnawing at her since the day she had received news of her husband’s death. It was something that was difficult to think on and not look at Cortez with a great deal of resentment.

  “But you left him there,” she murmured. “You left my husband on the battlefield. You did not bring him home so that he could be properly buried.”

  Cortez knew that subject would arise and he was prepared. He had been prepared for three months. But now, gazing at the lady’s lovely profile, he resisted the urge to plead for her forgiveness.

  “It was not by choice, I assure you,” he responded quietly. “I explained the circumstances to your husband’s father at the time we delivered the news of Robert’s passing. I assumed he had told you.”

  Her head came up again and he was struck by the anguish in those beautiful dual-colored eyes. “I was told that the circumstances for bringing him home were impossible,” her voice was soft and hoarse. “Beyond that, I was not given the courtesy to know the details.”

  Cortez sighed softly, wondering if he should tell her the truth. As he gazed into her distressed features, he found himself telling her, whether or not it was a wise idea. He felt a good deal of pity for the woman.

  “It had been raining for weeks, my lady,” he spoke softly, deeply. “The ground surrounding Falkirk was a marsh. It was thick, black mud we found ourselves fighting in. A massive storm hit just as we were beginning our siege. Robert was struck in the midst of a horrible storm. As I tried to help him, Edward was making a final charge against the Scots and I was forced to leave him to answer the call of the charge.”

  She looked at him, not comprehending what he was saying. He exhaled sharply, running his fingers through his short black hair.

  “My lady, I cannot think of a way to delicately phrase what I must tell you so I will simply be truthful,” he fixed her in the eye. “I was not able to return to the place where I left Robert until the next morning. By then, the rains had stopped and the ground had begun to dry. There were literally hundreds of bodies that had been caught in the horrific mud. When the ground dried, it dried over and around them. There were many we could not recover simply because they were buried in the muck. Your husband was one of them.”

  She had no outward reaction other than to stare at him. It took several seconds for his words to sink deep. When they did, Cortez watched the magnificent eyes fill with tears and spill over. Like a waterfall, they coursed down her cheeks.

  “Then you left him buried in the muck with the others,” she whispered.

  “There was no way to find him.”

  “But surely you remembered where y
ou left him?”

  He eyed her, nodding after a long pause. “I remembered.”

  “Did you at least return?” she wiped at her cheeks furiously, smearing tears. “Did you at least try to find him or did you simply discard him as one would a pile of rubbish?”

  Cortez kept his cool in what could be interpreted as an accusation. He knew she was distraught. “I returned to the area where I left him,” he said patiently. “The mud had partially dried over the entire area. There were no bodies.”

  “Then you assumed he was under the mud?”

  “There was nowhere else he could be.”

  She sniffled, wiping at her eyes as she contemplated his words. But there was something brewing in the brilliant green-brown depths, something he could plainly see. She took a deep breath, laboring for composure, when she met his gaze again.

  “Was my husband dead when you left him to return to the battle?” she asked.

  He stared at her. That was a question he had not expected. He did not want to lie to her but he wondered what manner of grief he was opening himself up for with his honest reply. “Nay, lady, he was not,” he whispered. “He was still alive.”

  Her eyes flickered, growing intense. “Then it is possible he did not die at all.”

  He shook his head. “There was no way for the man to survive the wound,” he was beginning to lose his calm demeanor. Even on the best of days, he was not a normally patient man. “Even if he had crawled away, he would not have made it very far and we covered that entire area with men. Someone would have found him.”

  She shook her head, hard. “Nay,” she said firmly. “Robert was a strong man. It is possible that he simply crawled away to hide. Perhaps he survived somehow and even now is waiting for someone to come and find him. ’Tis possible that….”

  “Nay, Lady Edlington,” Cortez reached out and grabbed her arms, gently but firmly. She seemed to be losing grip with the reality of the situation. “You will understand me when I say that there was no way for the man to survive.”