Oh, God….
“Very well,” she finally said, forcing the words out. They tasted like poison upon her tongue. “I will do as I am told. But know that I do not agree with you or take any pleasure in this. You are a vile, evil woman, Grandedame… I hope there is a special place in hell for you when you finally die. I shall be happy when you do.”
Agnes gasped at her daughter’s wicked words but stopped short of chastising her. It was true and they all knew it, although Agnes wasn’t as brave as her daughter to speak such things. Grandedame, however, simply turned away from her granddaughter and moved back in the direction of the hearth.
“Go now,” she said simply. “Supper will be in a few hours. I will see you at that time.”
Elizaveta shook her head sadly at a woman who deflected insults with such apathy. The woman truly didn’t care what anyone thought of her. Without another word and without acknowledging her mother, Elizaveta fled the lavish solar and tried not to weep as she did so. She suddenly found herself very emotional about her future, being married to an English lord, a stranger, and being expected to use her position to spy on the English cause. She wasn’t sure she’d make a good spy because she was quite open and honest about things. She’d never been one to be sneaky or covert.
Fearing for her life and her future, Elizaveta never made it to supper that evening. She spent the night in prayer.
St. Michael the Archangel,
Defend us in battle.
Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray,
and do thou,
O Prince of the heavenly hosts,
by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan,
and all the evil spirits,
who prowl about the world
seeking the ruin of souls.
This was most definitely a battle. She never looked at it any other way.
CHAPTER ONE
Year of our Lord 1300 A.D.
Month of May
Norwich Castle
“Mother, I have looked everywhere,” a knight in heavy armor said breathlessly, seriously. “You know that when we find him, he will not come quietly. He is in here, somewhere, hiding. And he is heavily armed. It is going to be a battle ’til the death when we finally locate him.”
An older woman, still quite beautiful at her age, stood at the base of the stairs in the keep of Norwich. She was dressed quite well, wrapped in lovely black shawl, gazing up at the knight midway down the spiral staircase that ran from the third and top floor of Norwich’s big keep.
“He is here, somewhere.” Lady Devereux Allington de Winter wasn’t apt to take any foolishness from any of her five children, and most especially not from one of her eldest sons. Her eyes narrowed at the man’s twin brother, standing on the stairs. “Find him, Devon. Find him before I do or I swear there will be blood spilled on these walls this night. I did not nearly die giving birth to him only to have him shame me at this crucial moment.”
Devon de Winter, the younger twin by nine minutes, sighed heavily. “Mother, you cannot….”
Devereux cut him off. “Find him.”
Devon, frustrated, threw up the hand that wasn’t holding a broadsword. “And then what?” he demanded, although not too forcefully. Being forceful or rude to his mother never seemed to work out well for him in the end. “He will try to kill me. Is that what you want? One son killing another?”
Devereux’s eyes narrowed. “He will not try to kill you,” she said, her voice hard. “He has a duty to perform, Devon, and you know as well as I do that he’s expected to perform that duty in a little over an hour. There are already people congregating at the cathedral in preparation for this marriage and if Drake thinks he is going to fight his way out of a contract his father and I brokered, then he is sadly mistaken and grossly delusional.”
Devon held up the same empty hand to quiet his mother’s rage; he’d heard the argument before, many times, and he knew her speech by heart. “Mother,” he said, trying not to sound upset or impatient. “You very well may have to accept the fact that one of your four sons does not wish to wed. It is not a crime to not want to marry. You have pushed Drake almost to the breaking point with your constant harassment.”
Devereux’s eyes narrowed further with displeasure, looking quite similar to her long-dead mother-in-law in that gesture. The Lady Katharine de Winter was another strong woman that had once forced her eldest son, Davyss, into a marriage. Now, almost thirty years later, it seemed that a matriarchal de Winter was once again in the position of forcing a son into an unwanted marriage.
“Drake is the first-born son of the family,” Devereux said. “Like it or not, he was born nine minutes before you were and he has certain obligations. All of his father’s titles and properties will pass to him and through him they must go to his son. He has an obligation to all of us to wed and provide children to carry on the family name and I am finished being patient with him. Why must I explain this to you? You already know this.”
Devon did indeed know it. He agreed with his mother but he also was very protective of his brother, which put him in a bad position. Torn feelings gave way to frustration.
“Aye, I know it,” he said, slapping his mailed thigh in resignation. “Drake knows it, too. He is only twenty-eight years of age. He is still young. Why must you force him to marry before he is ready?”
“Are you going to go up into the upper floors again and look for him or must I do it?”
Now Devon was just plain irritated at his mother’s unbending stance. “You go.”
Devereux didn’t hesitate. She moved to push past him, up the stairs, and reached out to snatch his sword. “Give me your weapon.”
Devon pulled away from her, including his weapon. “Nay,” he said flatly. “I will not be responsible if you gore Drake in a fit of anger. Go find your own weapon.”
Devereux pointed at the sword in his hand, now several feet away. “I paid for that weapon,” she said. “Give it to me.”
Devon continued to move away from her as she pointed. Now, he was verging on laughing at her because it was all so utterly ridiculous. But he knew, ridiculous or not, she would take that weapon, quite happily, and go after his brother with it. He’d seen such things before because his mother was, if nothing else, determined and fearless. Those were traits that both impressed and terrorized the family.
“You did not pay for this,” he told her. “I did. And you cannot have it.”
Devereux was greatly displeased with her disobedient son. “Your father shall hear of this,” she said. “He will cut you off. He will strip you of everything. You will be a penniless wretch left to wander the filthy streets and beg for your food.”
Devon had to cover his mouth lest she see his grin. He knew she wasn’t entirely serious because she was being overly dramatic, but still, it wasn’t good to work the woman into a froth. She could be quite formidable, even against her grown sons.
“Fine,” he said, moderately sassy because foolishness was in the air. “But know that I will not beg. I will steal food, destroy homes, and piss in the middle of the church so that everyone can see what a terrible son you have raised. The blame will fall on you and you will be branded a horrible mother.”
Now it was Devereux’s turn to fight off a grin. “You vile creature,” she hissed. “I should have sold you to the gypsies when you were a child. I had the opportunity once and I let it slip away. I was a fool.”
Devon burst out in soft laughter, watching his mother reluctantly grin. He went to her, still keeping the sword out of her reach as he hugged her with one arm and kissed her forehead. “I love you very much, Mother,” he said. “I am glad you did not sell me to the gypsies. But I truly believe you should not force Drake into doing something he desperately does not wish to do.”
Wrapped up in one big arm, Devereux gently pushed Devon away. “I understand your concern,” she said. “But I am afraid he
has no choice; Baron Rothwell is expecting him to wed his daughter, whom he has brought to the cathedral on this very day. Lady Gabriella Summerlin is a lovely girl and will make a very fine wife. Moreover, if Drake does not marry the lady, we will have the lords of Rothwell down upon us. They own half of Lincolnshire. This will be an excellent marriage, Devon. Drake must understand that.”
Devon sighed heavily. “But he does not want to be married.”
“It is no longer his choice.”
Devon knew that, especially since there was a contract involved. The lords of Rothwell were a powerful bunch and if Drake didn’t marry the woman he’d been contracted to marry, it would go very bad for the Earldom of Thetford. Devon’s father, Davyss de Winter, was the Earl of Thetford and was a very powerful man with tremendous connections to the crown. This would be an advantageous marriage all around. But only if they could get Drake to the cathedral.
“Very well,” Devon said, sounding resigned and unhappy. “I will look for him again. Where is everyone else? Where are Papa and Denys and Dallan?”
He was asking about his father and remaining brothers, all on the hunt for Drake. Satisfied her resistant son was finally seeing reason eased Devereux’s stance somewhat. “The last I saw, they were combing the hall and stables,” she said. “Your father said something about going into the storeroom. Go back upstairs and see if you can locate him. Go quickly; time is growing short.”
Without another word, Devon turned and headed back up the stairs. But he held his sword up in front of him, In spite of his mother’s reassurances that Drake would not try to kill him, he wasn’t so sure.
Better to be safe than sorry.
*
Davyss felt like an idiot.
Well, not so much an idiot as a man being forced by his wife to do something he very much did not want to do. Well did he remember being forced into marriage by his own mother and it had been a humiliating experience. But the marriage had turned out to be a loving one and he adored his wife more than words could express. But he still remembered that shameful situation when his very powerful mother had forced him into the union, and he well remembered how much he had resisted. Now, oddly enough, he found himself doing the same thing to his own son.
Davyss was dressed in battle armor as he looked for his eldest son because he knew, as the rest of the family knew, that Drake would not be taken easily. Drake was intelligent and powerful and, Davyss thought, a much better knight than he ever was, although that wasn’t exactly true. Davyss had been legendary in his younger years, wielding the ancient sword of his forefathers. The weapon was called Lespada and it was something Drake now carried as the eldest de Winter son. Therefore, that made him more formidable. The men who wielded Lespada were not men to be taken lightly.
Down in the storage vaults of Norwich’s mighty keep, it smelled like dirt and cold-stored grain. It was a scent that made Davyss’ nose itch. The dirt floor was uneven in the dim light, lending to the sense of apprehension as Davyss walked along, slowly, sometimes off-balance due to the angle of the floor. But he kept going, his dark eyes alert to any movement in the depths. He was fairly certain Drake, if down here, wouldn’t harm him, but he wouldn’t put it past his son to ambush him, tie him up, and run. He wanted to avoid that if at all possible.
“Drake?” he called out quietly. “If you can hear me, I beg you to reconsider before making any attempt against me. Your mother has sent me but I only wish to speak with you, lad. Do not be foolish and disable the only parent who is allied with you in this matter.”
He was met with silence. Feeling somewhat frustrated, perhaps even desperate, Davyss took a few more steps into the dimness, timidly scanning the darkened recesses as he tried again.
“Drake?” he called out, louder this time. “Please show yourself. I only wish to speak with you, I swear it. I could just as easily bring your mother down here to look for you but I do not think you want that.”
It was a threat that worked to his advantage. A figure suddenly appeared in the darkness before him, several feet away. Davyss could see the outline of a very tall and very big man, a man with a sword in his hand. Davyss could see the sword quite clearly because he recognized it. It had belonged to him, once. He came to a halt, his eyes fixed on the figure in the distance.
“Drake?” he asked softly.
The figure took a couple of steps, coming forward into the light. As Drake de Winter finally came into view, he faced his father with barrels of grain and other stores between them. There was a brief pause as the men faced each other, sizing one another up; at four inches over six feet, Drake was a big man, taller than his father, with very broad shoulders and enormous hands. He had the de Winter dark hair, dark eyes, and granite-square jaw, but his features looked a good deal like his mother’s. His face had the shape of her eyes and nose, straight and true, and when he smiled, it was very much shaped liked Devereux’s smile. He also had her stubborn determination, something that had never been more evident before now. Davyss could see all of that powerful resistance rolled up into the man’s expression and he braced himself.
“Father,” Drake greeted steadily. “I see you come fully armed to speak with me.”
Davyss lifted his dark eyebrows. “And I see you come fully armed to respond.”
“An odd conversation this shall be. Shall we use swords instead of words?”
“That would not be my first choice.”
“Nor mine.”
Davyss sighed heavily, seeing how defensive his son was. He tried to ease the situation. “May we discuss this calmly before you try and cut my legs off so that I cannot run after you?”
Drake smirked, without humor. “I do not need to cut your legs off,” he said. “You could not keep up with me should I decide to run.”
That was true but Drake meant it as an insult. Davyss grunted both his displeasure and agreement. “Lad, I have a great problem I wish to discuss with you for I need your counsel,” he said. “Will you calmly hear me?”
“I will always calmly hear you.”
Davyss sighed again, this time more deeply. Weary, both physically and mentally, he planted himself on the nearest storage barrel that could support his weight. He sheathed his sword as he sat, bracing his hands against his knees and looking up at his tall, stubborn son. He was fairly certain that Drake knew what he was about to say so he immediately delved into the issue.
“Let us say, for example, that there is a man,” he began. “A wealthy man of status. He has a wonderful wife and five children, including four sons, but his greatest pride has always been in his eldest son. He is a knight beyond compare and great things are expected of him. Now, the man’s wife has been determined to marry off all of their children to give them security and happiness. That is truly all she wishes for them. However, the man’s eldest son, whom great things are hoped for, is extremely reluctant to wed for unknown reasons. He simply refuses and cannot provide a valid explanation for that refusal. Now, if you were in this man’s position, Drake, what would you say to the son?”
Drake pursed his lips, mildly irritated, and sheathed Lespada. The gorgeous, bejeweled sword was tucked back neatly into his scabbard. Drake then folded his big arms across his chest in a relatively defensive gesture.
“I would not force him to wed,” he said flatly.
Davyss’ dark eyes were intense. “Why not?”
“Because it is his life and he must live it how he sees fit,” Drake said somewhat passionately. “Mayhap he prefers swords and shields instead of women and marriage. Many men do, you know.”
“But does he not have an obligation to his family?”
Drake frowned. “What about his obligation to himself?” he fired back softly. “Does he not have the right to be happy or must he put his family before himself?”
Davyss could see that his argument was going nowhere. He tried another tactic. “Why do you not want to get married, Drake?” he asked softly. “Is there some specific reason? A lover, mayhap, that we
do not know of? God’s Bones, boy, it had better not be a lover. Your mother will have your hide.”
Drake fought off a grin in spite of himself. “Why?”
Davyss threw up his hands. “Because if she is your lover, presumably you have bedded the woman,” he said. “Trust me when I say that bedding a woman you are not married to can cause… complications.”
“Bastards.”
“I prefer to call them complications.”
Drake stifled a chuckle. “You mean like the two half-sisters you provided to me and my siblings?”
Davyss simply nodded, averting his gaze. “It was a long time ago,” he said, “long before I met your mother. She accepted those women as my children nearly the moment she found out about them. The point is that it was a shameful thing to do to her. I do not want you facing the same shame should you ever find a woman to love.”
It was a moment for the great Davyss de Winter to confess a personal weakness and some of the tension left the conversation as the defensiveness drained away. Drake could see his father’s side of it, truly, but he was still disinclined to agree with him. Feeling rather sorry for his father, which he suspected was his father’s intention all along, he moved towards the man.
“Father,” he said quietly, crouching down in front of the man and putting his hand on the man’s knee. “Why is it so hard for you and Mother to understand that I simply do not wish to be married to a woman I do not even know? I have so much I want to do in life and so much I want to see, and a wife does not fit into those plans. When I marry, it will be because I want to marry her. Because I am fond of her. You and Mother love one another and I wish for that kind of marriage as well. Why can you not understand that?”
Lasses, Lords, and Lovers: A Medieval Romance Bundle Page 37