Brides of the North: A Medieval Scottish Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  But Diamantha was. After tending her daughter, she allowed Cortez to escort her to her palfrey, a rather big-boned mare that Robert had given her. It was a gray horse, with black speckles, and she mounted silently, gathering her reins as Cortez and one of his knights covered her with an oiled cloth to protect her from the rain. Cortez was polite, as he had been the night before, and Diamantha again felt a jolt when their eyes met. He smiled faintly at her, which made her heart leap strangely. He was, indeed, a devilishly handsome man, and perhaps for the first time since he appeared in George’s solar, she allowed herself to feel it. She didn’t try to chase it away or talk herself out of it. For once, she allowed herself to feel the thrill of his smile. Even if she didn’t want to admit it, the man was starting to grow on her.

  Diamantha watched him make his way to his big black and white charger. When he mounted, someone gave a shout and the entire party began to move. The great gatehouse of Sherborne Castle was open and men on horseback began to trickle out, heading out into the land that was brilliant green and wet with rain. Diamantha rode beside the wagon where her daughter was sleeping peacefully, hardly believing that they were finally on their way. It seemed dream-like and surreal.

  The great questing to locate Robert Edlington’s body had begun.

  No glory, no great triumph. No inspiring thoughts or words. No great shouts of encouragement or great blessings from God.

  In all, the trek north out of Sherborne was nothing that Diamantha thought it would be. It was, in truth, a monotonous march through horrible weather, sloppy roads, and whipping winds. The storm that had crept upon them yesterday as they’d made their way from Corfe was now a part of their very fabric, a constant travel companion with seemingly no end. It was wretched and vicious as the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed. Everyone in the party was beyond miserable but had the sense not to show it. It was simply the way of things and the men were used to it. The only person that was seemingly comfortable was Sophie.

  As the procession moved north through the small and flooded village of Kington, the fields were so saturated with water that the soldiers were coming across groups of wet rabbits and foxes who had been flooded out of their dens. Most of them ran off when the troops moved through, but a tiny little bunny and a small fox kit didn’t move fast enough and were picked up by a couple of the men so they wouldn’t get stepped on. They were too small to eat so the men took them back to the little girl in the wagon.

  Sophie, of course, was thrilled with a baby bunny and a fox kit, and she put them in her little cage where they could dry off and warm up. The kittens were too young to care that there were intruders in their cage, and after the rabbit and the fox dried off, they snuggled up with the kittens and fell asleep. Sophie was very proud to show off her growing collection to anyone who came near the wagon, including Cortez. He had been riding at the head of the column but had come back to see how Sophie and Diamantha were faring in the terrible weather. One look at the four small animals cuddled up in the cage, and Sophie’s joyous features, and the rain and storm suddenly didn’t seem so bad. There was sun, somewhere, and he had found it unexpectedly in the back of his provisions wagon. It was enough to make him forget his misery.

  As Sophie fed her animals with some apples and jerky procured from the quartermaster, Cortez walked alongside the wagon, watching her tend the hungry creatures. He was surprised by how gentle she was with them, considering most children her age didn’t have a strong concept of being gentle with smaller creatures. It was sweet to watch, inevitably reminding him of the little girl he lost and wondering if she would have been like Sophie. He would have liked to have believed so. As he observed the child, he very much wanted to look at Diamantha but kept his eyes away from her deliberately. He was, in fact, working on a theory.

  For the past hour, riding alone up at the head of the column, he was starting to wonder if backing away from her might do some good. After all, he’d chased her relentlessly so he thought perhaps backing off might make her more receptive to him. He really didn’t know what else to do because nothing he’d done up to this point had worked. Women who were chased usually ran, but women who were quietly wooed were usually much more amenable. It went against his nature to do anything quietly, but he had to admit that in this case, he might have to. Therefore, he essentially ignored her. It wasn’t long before he heard a soft voice behind him.

  “How far do you plan to travel today?”

  Diamantha had reined her horse up behind him and he turned to see her beautiful face gazing down at him from beneath the hood of her cloak. As he’d hoped, limiting his attention to her had garnered a positive reaction. She had approached him instead of the other way around. He wiped water out of his eyes before replying.

  “Shaftesbury, I hope,” he said, glancing up at the sky. “Even at this pace, we should reach it by sundown. I have sent some men ahead to secure rooms at the first available inn.”

  Diamantha cocked her head. “Why?” she said, indicating the second provisions wagon behind them that was stuffed with rolled canvas. “You have brought shelter. Why the expense of an inn when we can stay in your shelters?”

  He looked at her. “Because these shelters are damp at best and it would not do for you or your daughter to become ill this early on in the journey,” he said. “It is worth the cost to pay for a dry chamber and a warm meal. Wouldn’t you rather see your daughter in a dry bed as opposed to a damp tent?”

  She was forced to agree. “I would,” she said. “Sophie is usually a very healthy child and I would like to keep it that way.”

  Cortez nodded to agree with her, glancing at Sophie and her pets one last time before politely excusing himself and making his way back to the front of the column. He’d decided that he wasn’t going to say anything more to Diamantha since ignoring the woman had seemed to make her marginally more sociable. Perhaps that was the way to handle her and he had been doing it wrong all along. In any case, he was willing to make an experiment out of it. He left the woman without so much as a hind glance.

  Diamantha watched him go, her gaze lingering on the man who was now her husband. The more she reminded herself of the fact, the more accustomed she was becoming to it. As he walked away, she found her attention lingering on his rather large form. For such a big man, he moved quite gracefully and had an easy gait about him. As he moved through his men, he gave them a word here and there. She could see that his men were pleased with the attention. That was an important attribute of a knight as far as she was concerned, whether or not he showed interest in those he commanded. Compassion was a rare and valuable trait in a fighting man.

  He’s a good man. James’ words ran through her head again as she lost sight of Cortez in a group of soldiers up towards the front of the column. She was coming to think that perhaps James might be right. For all she’d put Cortez through, his attitude towards her hadn’t changed. He was still polite, and still very kind to Sophie. A good man, indeed.

  As she plodded along next to the wagon, lost in thoughts of Cortez, her horse suddenly slipped on the soft shoulder of the road and tumbled down a small incline, sending Diamantha flying. She went face-first into the wet grass, landing heavily on her left wrist. She could hear the shouts of the men on the road and as she was shaking off the ringing in her ears, hands were reaching down to help her.

  “I am fine, truly,” she insisted to those trying to assist her.

  “Stay down, lady,” someone said to her. “Do not try to rise. Just sit a moment and gain your bearings.”

  Diamantha lifted her right hand to wipe the wet and grass from her eyes, looking up into the concerned faces of two of Cortez’s knights. She recognized Drake de Winter first.

  “My horse?” she asked, straining to look about. “Is she well?”

  Drake, crouched down beside her in full armor, looked over to see someone tending to the now standing horse. “She looks well enough for the most part,” he said, returning his attention to her. “And you? Did you
hit your head?”

  Diamantha lifted her left arm, moving to put a hand to her head, but she winced when pain shot through her wrist. Instinctively, she gasped and grabbed it. “God’s Bones,” she hissed, realizing she had hurt her arm. “Now, that is not a good sign, is it?”

  It was a rhetorical question. But there was a second knight with de Winter and he, too, crouched down next to her. Oliver St. John was a very tall man with piercing blue eyes. He had heard her comment and his expression was one of concern.

  “May I see, my lady?” he asked, holding out a hand. “Mayhap it is not broken.”

  Timidly, Diamantha extended her hand about the time Cortez came thundering up on his big hairy war horse. The entire column had come to a halt by now and he bailed off his charger as he hurried to her side. St. John was just starting to examine the wrist when he came up.

  “What happened?” he demanded, looking rather frightened. “My lady, are you well? Did you hurt yourself?”

  She opened her mouth to answer but winced when St. John touched a tender spot. “I am well enough,” she said, sounding disgusted. “It was stupid of me, really. I was not watching where my horse was going and she slipped down the embankment. Is she truly well?”

  De Winter stood up and went to check on the horse himself for the lady’s peace of mind. Cortez took his place beside her, realizing when he looked at her face that it was covered with pieces of grass. It was in her beautiful hair. Before he could comment, St. John looked at him.

  “We must wrap this wrist,” he said. “She must have used it to catch her fall and it is already swelling.”

  Cortez was concerned. “Is it broken?”

  St. John shook his head. “I do not believe so,” he said. “But we must wrap it just the same.”

  Between Cortez and Oliver, they managed to pull Diamantha to her feet as the rain pounded down upon them. She turned to walk back up to the road but Cortez was already in motion. He swept her into his big arms and carried her up to the wagon where Sophie was trying to catch a glimpse of her mother. When she saw Cortez carrying the woman in the direction of the wagon, she popped out from beneath the oiled tarp.

  “Mama!” she called. “Mama, what ’tis wrong?”

  Cortez set Diamantha carefully down on the end of the wagon bed. “Nothing is wrong,” Diamantha assured her child. “My horse slipped, ’tis all.”

  As St. John and Cortez moved to wrap Diamantha’s wrist with items brought around by Cortez’s quartermaster, Sophie plopped herself onto her mother’s wet lap. Diamantha shrieked softly.

  “Sophie, nay,” she said, trying to hold her child back with one good hand. “I am all wet!”

  Cortez intercepted the little girl and picked her up, taking her away from her mother and tucking her back beneath the oiled tarp where it was dry. When the little girl started to whine, he pointed to her caged pets.

  “Have you named them, yet?” he asked, trying to distract her. “I should think you would have thought up many names by now. What have you named the kittens?”

  His ruse was working. Sophie turned to look at her little pets, who were sleeping contentedly after their feeding. As Cortez had hoped, she crawled back beneath the tarp and went to the cage, hovering over it and pointing.

  “This kitten’s name is General,” she told him.

  Cortez shook his head. “You already have a pony named General,” he said. “The kitten deserves his own name. What else have you thought of?”

  Sophie’s brow furrowed as she thought on his question. “I do not know,” she said. “I do not know any other names.”

  Cortez cocked his head, mulling over the situation. “Well,” he said slowly, “when I was young, my mother had two cats named Edward and Eleanor, after the king and queen.”

  Sophie’s expression brightened. “I will name my kittens Edward and Eleanor, too!”

  Cortez grinned. “What about the rabbit?” he asked. “Rabbits like grass and clover. Why not name him Clover?”

  Sophie squealed happily and nodded her head. “What about the fox?” she wanted to know. “I want to name him after my father!”

  Cortez patted her little leg. “I believe he would like that,” he said softly. “The fox shall be called Robert.”

  Sophie’s face fell. “But I want to call him Father.”

  Cortez bit off a chuckle. He was trying to prepare a reply she would not only understand, but agree with, when Diamantha spoke.

  “Sweetheart, your father’s name is Robert,” she told her. “You know that is his name. You cannot name a fox Father.”

  Sophie was moving into a pout. “Why not?”

  Cortez and Diamantha looked at each other. Why not, indeed? With a shrug, and fighting off a grin, Diamantha replied.

  “Very well,” she said. “If that is what you wish, my little love.”

  Sophie was back to being happy again and Cortez’s gaze lingered on the little girl for a moment before returning his attention to Diamantha, whose wrist was very nearly wrapped by now. St. John, who usually tended the wounded because it was a great skill he had acquired in the Holy Land, had wrapped it quite neatly. The knight tightened up the bindings to the point of Diamantha wincing.

  “There,” he said, inspecting his work. “That should do for now. I will take a look at it tonight to see how it fares. Meanwhile, we should keep it cold. The cold will help with the swelling. Keep the wrist exposed to the rain and let it soak. The temperature is so cold that it will keep it chilled.”

  Diamantha had never heard of such a thing but she didn’t argue with him; she simply nodded. “May I ride my horse?”

  St. John and Cortez glanced over their shoulder as a soldier brought Diamantha’s mount up onto the road. The horse had bloodied knees. Cortez went over to the animal and ran his hand up both front legs, feeling for injury. After a moment, he turned to Diamantha.

  “I feel some swelling in the left front leg,” he told her. “Mayhap you should ride in the wagon with Sophie until we stop for the night. You do not want to put undue strain on your horse right now.”

  Diamantha had no choice but to agree. As they tied her horse to the back of the second provisions wagon, next to General, Diamantha moved beneath the oiled tarp where her daughter was. Sophie was excited for her mother’s company and happily pointed out her bunny and fox kit. Diamantha showed interest in her daughter’s pets as she removed her wet cloak, using it as a blanket to better cover her from the rain coming in off of the oiled tarp.

  Even as she listened to her daughter speak of Clover and Father, her attention seemed to drift back to Cortez, who was speaking with one of his men about Diamantha’s horse. They were both watching the horse as it walked, making sure nothing else was wrong with it. Diamantha thought it was rather kind of the man to take such an interested in her palfrey. And sweet, aye, it was sweet. He was showing an inordinate amount of kindness and concern towards her.

  When he had picked her up and carried her back to the wagon, the power of his arms hadn’t gone unnoticed by her. In fact, she rather liked the hard bulk of the man, his strength radiating out from behind the armor. It was hard to miss. She realized that in those brief few seconds that she felt safe and protected. She hadn’t had that feeling in a very long time. She wasn’t hard pressed to admit that she liked it.

  Perhaps she was coming to like him, just a little.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “What do you think of de Bretagne’s new wife?”

  The question came from Drake de Winter, proposing the query to either of his two companions. Oliver St. John and James de Lohr were standing just inside the front door of an inn in the city of Shaftesbury, watching Cortez and Andres from across the room. The brothers were negotiating with the fat innkeeper, a man with a great pot belly and big scabs on his knees. They could see them through his torn breeches. Before Oliver could answer the question, James put up a hand.

  “Before you say anything, you both should know that I am a cousin of the lady,” he sai
d, watching their surprised expressions. “We discovered that my grandfather and her grandmother were siblings, both children of Christopher de Lohr. So keep that in mind when offering your opinion of the new Lady de Bretagne.”

  Oliver grinned faintly. “I was not going to say anything to the negative,” he said. “In fact, she seems rather pleasant. Quiet, but pleasant.”

  Drake lifted his dark eyebrows. He was the son of Davyss de Winter, who had been a major player in the wars against Simon de Montfort thirty years earlier. He had his father’s legendary arrogance and his mother’s legendary compassion, a paradoxical combination. He was conceited to the core but a brilliant commander and a deeply loyal friend. He was very loyal to Cortez and, at the moment, he didn’t seem convinced of Oliver’s opinion.

  “I was at Corfe when Cortez went to retrieve her,” he said. “Those two have not had an easy start. Rumor has it that George Edlington was very much opposed to the marriage. In any case, she did not make it simple for Cortez. She fought him every step of the way.”

  James looked over his shoulder at Cortez and Andres as they continued to barter with the innkeeper. “That is because she is still in mourning, I am sure,” he said quietly. “God’s Bones, Rob Edlington has only been gone three months. The woman has not yet had time to grieve.”

  “She’s had three months,” Oliver muttered. “The man is not coming back.”

  James looked at him, pointedly. “Aye, he is coming back,” he said. “Why do you think we are heading to Falkirk? Cortez told me that she wants Rob home for a proper burial, and that is exactly what we are going to do. You all knew Rob Edlington. You know what kind of man he was. It is the least we can do.”

  Oliver St. John was another legacy knight from a long line of great knights. His father, Christian St. John, was Lord of Eden, a castle far to the north in Cumbria. Oliver had his father’s blond good looks and a rather ironic way of viewing the world. He was pragmatic to the bone and he saw this entire venture north to retrieve Edlington’s body as a folly. He shook his head to James’ statement.