Brides of the North: A Medieval Scottish Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  For a moment, no one spoke. They were all digesting the astounding information. Finally, Michael hissed.

  “God’s Bloody Teeth,” he said. “That would make a good deal of sense. No wonder we were not finding any bodies as we dug. None were there. The priests had taken them all!”

  Cortez nodded. “Exactly,” he agreed. “Had I been smarter about this, I would have come to the church first, but it did not occur to me that the priests would have taken an active interest in burying English dead.”

  “And if they have, in fact, buried him, what will you do?” Drake wanted to know. “Lady de Bretagne must be told. With her daughter so ill, it will be a difficult thing for her to know Edlington is already buried.”

  Cortez shook his head. “I think it will ease her mind,” he said. “To know he has already been taken care of should ease her. At least, I hope it will.”

  “What if she wants him back?”

  “I will deal with that situation if, or when, it comes.”

  No one had anything more to say to that. At this point, with no hard evidence, it would do no good to speculate on the future. They stood around for several long minutes in a tense little group until MacInnis and a priest suddenly appeared out of the darkness. The knights moved forward to greet them, unable to wait, anxious to discover truths. They closed in on the priest and the tavern keeper, surrounding them.

  “This is Father Lewis,” MacInnis said. “He helped collect the dead and wounded that day. I told him that ye were here looking fer yer friend and he has agreed tae show ye where they put all of the possessions confiscated from the English.”

  Cortez addressed the small, brown-eyed priest. “Thank you, Father,” he said. “We are grateful for the mercy you showed the English after the battle and we are further grateful for your assistance. I would like to know the fate of our friend.”

  Father Lewis was a fairly young man with bad skin and a hooked nose. He eyed the big English knights around him. They appeared rather anxious. He seemed rather wary of them but pushed it aside. MacInnis had assured him they were honorable English, if such a thing was possible, and MacInnis was a man to be trusted. Moreover, they were here in search of a friend, a noble quest. His initial reluctance faded.

  “No weapons are permitted,” he told them.

  Instantly, swords began to drop and smaller daggers also kept on the body were removed as well. Drake even pulled one out of his boot. No one argued in the least, and no one seemed to be worried that their valuable weapons were in a pile near the front entry of a church. They were more concerned with gaining access to the church itself. Everyone except Cortez, that is. He wasn’t going to part with his weapons so the most he did was release his broadsword. Everything else, including a dagger in full view at his waist, remained on his body. The priest eyed him but didn’t press. They’d mostly complied, anyway. He was willing to let it go at that.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  The group followed. Cortez in particular walked right behind the priest, his eagerness nearly overwhelming him. He was starting to feel less astonishment and more hope, hope that they could finally discover what had become of Robert Edlington and hope for closure for Diamantha. She had suffered so very much through all of this and he began to pray that finally, they would know the truth. But then he remembered he hated God so he stopped praying, only to start up again when they reached the cloisters. He was so torn that he didn’t know what to do. The next few moments would more than likely tell. If Edlington’s items were among those kept by the priest, then he would definitely give thanks. If not, then he would curse God once again. He didn’t want to face the fact that they might never know what happened to Edlington. He had to have hope.

  The cloister of St. Francis was a long, dormitory-like building. There were two floors to it, novices on the bottom floor and priests on the top. There was a room called the Warming Room, which was really just a smaller room with a hearth in it. It was on the bottom floor, near the entry door, and it was into that room that Father Lewis led them.

  Cortez couldn’t describe the impression he had when Father Lewis opened the door to the Warming Room. It wasn’t what he had expected but once he saw it, he was nearly overcome by the sight. From floor to ceiling, it was stacked with English regalia: plate armor, chain mail, swords, pole axes, shields, personal baggage, tunics, and any number of other things. The sight was both astonishing and depressing. Each item represented a life lost, a man killed, and all Cortez could see were dead English. He saw grieving families, sad children, and sorrowful wives. He saw war.

  He stood at the open door, speechless, as Keir and Michael pushed their way in, followed by Drake and the others. All of them were flooding in, searching for regalia they recognized, as Cortez stood in the doorway with the priest.

  “Is this all there is?” he asked hoarsely. “This is the only room with English possessions?”

  The priest nodded. “This is from both the dead and the wounded.”

  Cortez turned to look at him. “What did you do with the wounded?”

  The priest looked at him. “Most went home,” he said. “We sent word tae their families, but a few remain, those who cannot remember who their families are or those who simply want tae remain here until they die.”

  “Where are they?”

  The priest pointed to the ceiling. “Upstairs,” he said. “We have them in a small dormitory.”

  Cortez didn’t say anything more after that. He turned his sad gaze to his knights, now going through all of the armor and shields, calling out the names of men they recognized. De Warenne, de Berkele, Poyns, de Grundon, de Mond, Martin, Deincourt… so many names that Cortez knew. It could have just as easily been his name, shut off in here with no one to mourn him or miss him. No one to care that he’d been killed. It was a horrendously sobering sight, this room with ownerless armor. It was a shrine to death.

  “Edlington’s standard was blue and white,” he reminded the group of what they were looking for. “His shield is white with a blue chevron and three sunbursts on it, and he was wearing a tunic of blue and white when I last saw him.”

  “Was it this?”

  The question came from Drake, who was back in the corner of the room. He held up a tattered blue and white tunic, barely recognizable through the dim light and battle damage. Cortez entered the room and took the tunic from Drake, holding it up for all to see. There was a massive, stained hole in the center of it and a smaller hole with an equal stain on the back.

  He knew this tunic.

  “Aye,” he said, feeling as if they had just reached the conclusive end of their long and arduous journey. The relief, the sorrow, was indescribable. “This belonged to him. These holes are where he was wounded. Is there more in that pile? The man had a shield, a broadsword, and other items. See if there is more in that pile.”

  With the knowledge that they had found Edlington’s tunic, both sadness and acceptance descended on the room. It filled every man, every heart. But the knights dutifully converged on the stack of armor in the corner where the tunic had been found, searching for more Edlington possessions.

  His attention on the shredded tunic, Cortez wandered out of the room, wondering if he should bring this relic, this testament of Robert’s death, to Diamantha. It was a rather brutal bit of reality. He paused in the open doorway, staring at it.

  “Was that what ye were looking fer?” the priest asked.

  Still staring at the tunic, Cortez nodded faintly. “Aye,” he said morosely. Then, he unfurled the tunic and held it up again so the priest could see it. “Do you remember the man who wore this? I would not be surprised if you did not, for there were many dead that day. But mayhap you can remember him and tell me where you buried him. On that day, you would have found him to the extreme east of the battlefield, propped up against an oak tree.”

  The priest reached out to finger the tunic. “There were many men that day, m’laird.”

  “I know,” Cortez said patient
ly. “But think hard, if you will. As you can see, he was struck by an arrow in the torso and it went all the way through him. He was a tall man with short blond hair. He always liked to wear a bit of a mustache, too. Do you remember him?”

  The priest’s brow furrowed as he continued to finger the tunic. He went back to that day, such a terrible day, when he led an ox cart around the east side of the battlefield to collect the dead and wounded with. So much rain and mud, death and destruction. East side of the battlefield…. After a moment, a light of recognition came to his eyes.

  “Is this the man ye are looking fer?” he asked, incredulous. “He had a mustache!”

  Cortez caught the priest’s excitement. “Aye, I told you that,” he agreed quickly. “Do you remember him now?”

  The priest nodded eagerly. “Aye, m’laird,” he said. “We did no’ bury this man.”

  Cortez looked at him strangely. “What… what do you mean you did not bury him?” he asked, now gravely concerned. “What did you do with his body?”

  The priest lifted his shoulders. “But he is no’ dead!”

  Cortez had no idea what the man was talking about and he began to grow agitated. “Of course this man is dead,” he said. “He had a gaping chest wound. It would have killed him. What did you do with him?”

  The priest shook his head and grabbed him by the wrist. “The man who wore this tunic is no’ dead,” he insisted. “He is upstairs with the rest of the wounded.”

  Cortez had never run so fast in his entire life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The priest was calling after him. In fact, most of his men were calling after him, but Cortez ignored them. He mounted the stairs to the second floor faster than he had ever moved in his life, ignoring the sounds of running boots behind him as his men overtook the priest and practically shoved the man down the stairs in their haste to get to Cortez. They thought he had gone mad and were desperate to get to him. They hadn’t heard what Cortez had heard. All they knew was that he was running like the devil.

  The dormitories on the second floor were divided into a bigger dormitory and a smaller one. The smaller dormitory was directly to the right at the top of the stairs and it was the first room Cortez burst into. Immediately, he could see several beds in the room, shoved close together so they could get as many men as possible in the room, and he could see that the beds had occupants. As the priest came in behind him, Cortez turned to the priest and barked.

  “Where in the name of God is he?” he roared.

  Frightened, the priest pointed to the bed in the corner, back by an alcove that had a big drape across it. Cortez turned in the direction of the bed. All he could see was a body in it but not much else. Rushing to the bed, he threw back the rough linen coverlet only to be confronted with something he’d never thought he’d ever see again.

  Robert Edlington in the flesh.

  With a cry, one of anguish and utter, complete astonishment, Cortez fell to his knees next to the bed. He stared at Robert, who didn’t look like the man he knew. He was sporting a massive growth of beard and his dark blond hair was long and unkempt. The mustache he had taken such pride in was blending in with the rest of the hair on his face. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull and he was at least one hundred pounds lighter than the last time Cortez had seen him. He didn’t look like himself at all, little and shriveled and skeletal, but as Cortez’s knights came up behind him, he could hear each one of them gasping in turn. Edlington! Christ, it’s Edlington!

  Cortez didn’t know what to say. He sat there on his knees, staring at the man who was just starting to come around. He was feeling so much anguish that it was eating him alive. He was so selfish, he knew, to think that Edlington’s life meant death for his marriage to Diamantha. If the man wasn’t dead, then Diamantha was still married to him. His Diamantha. As he sat on his knees, watching Robert’s eyes flutter open, he began to openly weep. It was the worst day of his life.

  Robert’s vision wasn’t what it used to be and neither were his reflexes, but when he opened his eyes and saw Cortez next to his bed with tears streaming down his face, he stared at the man for a full minute before reacting, and he only reacted at that point because he saw Keir St. Héver kneel down next to Cortez. Up until that moment in time, he wasn’t entire sure he hadn’t been dreaming. But now, he was coming to realize that it was no dream at all.

  “Cortez?” he asked weakly. “My God, is it you?”

  Cortez nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks as Keir put an arm around his shoulders to comfort him. Cortez didn’t seem to be able to speak so Keir answered softly.

  “Robert,” he whispered. “We thought you were dead, man, and here we find you alive? ’Tis a miracle!”

  Robert looked at Keir, blinking his eyes rapidly. “St. Héver?” he groaned. “What… what are you doing here?”

  Keir reached out and grasped Robert’s fleshy arm. “We came to bring you home for burial,” he said, his pale blue eyes glittering. “We thought you were dead and we came to find your corpse and bring you home for burial.”

  “Diamantha wanted you to come home,” Cortez found his voice, feeling so much grief that he was having difficulty functioning. “I came here to bring you home because she wanted it.”

  Robert just stared at him, growing more lucid as he began to realize what was going on. “Diamantha?” he whispered. “My wife… she has sent you?”

  Cortez couldn’t help it. It was an emotional rage like nothing he had ever known. “My wife,” he hissed through clenched teeth as tears and spittle when flying. “You asked me to marry her, remember? You begged me to do it and I did. She is my wife.”

  Keir had hold of Cortez, eyeing his friend with great concern. “Cortez,” he whispered, his heart breaking for the man. “You cannot blame him. He did not plan it this way.”

  As Cortez struggled, Robert’s hand shot out and he grabbed Cortez by the arm. “You married her?” he breathed.

  Cortez nodded, so very miserable. “I did,” he whispered. “I married her. I love her. She is my wife.”

  As Keir tried to quiet him, Robert yanked on his arm with as much strength as he could muster.

  “Good!” Robert cried, his voice sounding strange and weak. “You married her and for that I am glad. Glad, do you hear? I am half a man, Cortez; look at me. The priests were miraculously able to save my life but at what cost? I cannot walk or move. I lay in this bed day after day, praying for death. Diamantha does not deserve what I have become and I could not bear to be such a burden to her. You must not tell her that you found me, do you hear? You will not tell her!”

  Cortez burst into sobs. “How can you ask me not to tell her?” he wept. “You are her husband and she has mourned you deeply. You are her rightful husband, not I. It is you!”

  “Nay!” Robert rasped, trying to grab on to Cortez with two hands now. He was desperate. “You will not tell her! She cannot see what I have become, a wasted shell of a man! She must remember me how I was! It is the only chance I have to know peace, knowing she remembers me as her strong husband and not as a crippled invalid. Please, Cortez. Grant me this mercy. You must not tell her!”

  It was a gut-wrenching situation to all concerned. Cortez’s knights watched the scene with tremendous anguish; Robert, for not wanting Diamantha to see him as a cripple, and Cortez for understanding that Robert was her rightful husband. Both men were weeping, filling the air with their utter and complete torment. The pain in the room was a palpable thing, cutting through them like the blades of a thousand knives. No one was immune. Suffering was everywhere.

  Drake watched the scene with his hands on his head in agony while James stood there and wept. Oliver, who had once been a good friend of Robert’s, had to go to the other end of the room. He slumped against the wall, heartbroken and crushed. There wasn’t a dry eye in the chamber as Cortez and Robert vented their mutual anguish. Keir, next to Cortez, reached out and grasped Robert’s hand.

  “No matter what you want, Diam
antha is still legally your wife,” he said, a lump in his throat. “She has every right to know you are still alive.”

  Robert squeezed Keir’s hand. “What if you were lying on this bed, Keir?” he rasped. “You cannot feed yourself. The priests must clean your mess constantly because you have no control over yourself. I am not a man. I am a thing, a thing to be tended. Would you want your wife to take care of you like this for the rest of your life? How fair is that to her?”

  Keir didn’t have an answer to that. He understood what Robert was saying. He understood very well. He understood the pride of a man in being a man, not a cripple who couldn’t do for himself. But this wasn’t his battle. He couldn’t make a decision that would affect Cortez or Robert, so he stood up and moved away from them, afraid he would be overwhelmed by the emotion surrounding the two of them.

  When Keir walked away, Robert returned his attention to Cortez. He was struggling to calm himself, realizing that, in all likelihood, Cortez was going to tell Diamantha that he was, in fact, alive. No amount of begging was going to stop the man from doing what he believed he had to do, no matter what the cost. He couldn’t let that happen. Somehow, someway, he couldn’t let it happen.

  “Cortez,” he begged quietly. “I purposely did not send word to Diamantha that I was alive. No matter how much the priests begged me to tell them of my kin, I would not do it. I do not want her seeing me like this. Do you understand?”

  Cortez had his head down, staring at the ground. When he lifted it, it was covered with tears but he wasn’t openly sobbing as he had been earlier. Now, he simply felt numb.