Lasses, Lords, and Lovers: A Medieval Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Unwise, John,” de Wolfe said evenly. “You saw what just happened. If we approach the gatehouse again, they will cut us down. The best strategy is to have the trebuchet pummel it enough so that it drives them from the gatehouse and gives us the opportunity to get close to it.”

  John spat. “Ridiculous,” he said. “I will take my men now and charge the gatehouse. We will get across while you are sending for Edward’s war machine. We will be there and have it open before you can even move that monstrosity into position.”

  He started to move but de Wolfe put out a hand, stopping him. “You will get yourself and your men killed,” he said, his voice low. “In this case, you are very wrong.”

  John flared. “Take your hand from me,” he said. “I shall lead my men and you cannot stop me.”

  De Bretagne stepped in. “Think about what you are saying, my lord,” he said, more placating than de Wolfe had been, although Cortez was known to have a fiery temper when aroused. “You just saw several men cut down by arrows. By now, those inside of the castle have had time to reload. If you go now, you will be walking into a hail of arrows. You and your men will be cut down. I do not think that will please the king.”

  John faltered; anything that displeased the king always made him think twice. But his indecision didn’t last long, for he came back quickly, stronger than before. He was determined to assert himself, in any situation, especially over men who were wiser and more talented than he.

  “Edward favors the brave,” John said arrogantly. “I am going now. If you wish to come with me, I will not stop you.”

  With that, he turned swiftly and began calling to his men, gesturing for them to approach while he relayed his plans. The men he had so recently left, the group including de Bretagne and de Wolfe and Drake, watched Brittany gather his men with some trepidation.

  “You cannot let him go this alone, my lord,” Drake said to de Bretagne. “If you do and he is cut down, you know that Edward will blame you. He will think you responsible for Brittany’s folly.”

  De Bretagne grunted unhappily, making a face of displeasure as he looked to de Wolfe. “Drake is correct,” he said. “You know that Edward will blame us if we do not protect that idiot.”

  De Wolfe snorted in both humor and disgust. “Idiot hardly encompasses what I think of John of Brittany,” he complained. “I would like nothing better than to watch the man cut down by a storm of arrows and then I will not have to worry over him any longer, but you are absolutely correct – Edward will blame us if he suffers harm.”

  There was resignation in that statement, for they all knew what had to be done – the fool would have to be protected which meant putting good men at risk. De Bretagne turned to his knights, all three of them – in addition to Drake, there was Sir Oliver St. John and Sir James de Lohr, both of them fair, blond, and big knights from excellent families. He threw his thumb in Brittany’s direction.

  “Go,” he muttered. “Stay vigilant, but stick with Brittany. See if you can save him from himself. I am going to find Edward and get that enormous war machine moved into position so we can batter the gatehouse.”

  The knights were on the move, taking with them a host of de Bretagne soldiers lingering nearby. De Wolfe went with de Bretagne in search of Edward while his men followed Drake, all of them fanning out in Brittany’s direction. Beneath sunny skies that were beginning to cloud up again with angry gray clouds and brisk winds, the men made their way to Brittany as the man began shouting both commands and encouragement to his men.

  His commands were simple and stupid. He ordered his men to charge towards the gatehouse and make their way to the moat. Brittany reasoned that if even some were cut down by arrows, a few would survive and make it. All he wanted was for his men to get across that moat and he seemed to care about little else. His troops seemed hesitant and even though they were armed with shields, arrows had a way of penetrating them. No one wanted to commit suicide in spite of what Brittany was saying. As Brittany began screaming and charging towards the gatehouse himself, the first singing sounds of flying arrows could be heard.

  Arrows began to rain down upon them and men began to scatter. Brittany was still screaming, calling his men cowards now, as Drake bolted in his direction. He was closer than anyone else and therefore logically assumed that he could get to the man faster to protect him. Or kill him. At this moment, with arrows falling from the sky, Drake was considering either action just to shut the fool up. As he came up behind Brittany, he threw himself on the man, tackling him with his big body, and sending him straight to the ground.

  As Brittany screamed beneath him, infuriated, two arrows hit Drake – one in the back of the right thigh and the other in his torso near his right shoulder blade. The truth was that if the arrow had been a couple of inches to the right, it would have missed him altogether, but as it stood, Drake had taken two arrows that surely would have hit Brittany. As he lay there in pain, Brittany managed to free his arm from beneath Drake’s body and began pummeling Drake’s head.

  “Get off me!” Brittany howled. “How dare you touch me? How dare you…?”

  “My lord!” one of Drake’s men had come up, seeing the state of his liege. “Can you hear me, Sir Drake? Can you move?”

  Drake grunted as someone grabbed Brittany and dragged Brittany out from beneath him. He hit the muddy ground once Brittany was removed, propping himself up on his left elbow.

  “I can move,” he said, sounding disgruntled and in pain. “Remove these arrows. Be quick about it.”

  By now, there were a few men standing around Drake, including Brittany, who suddenly wasn’t so angry at the knight when he saw the arrows sticking out of him. In fact, he became rather aghast when he realized that the knight’s actions quite possibly saved his life. With that awareness, he changed his attitude rapidly.

  “Do not touch this man!” he barked. “I will have my personal physic tend him. Do not touch him, I say! Quickly! Call for my litter bearers!”

  A couple of the men began to scramble as thunder rolled overhead, signaling the onslaught of yet another rain storm. As Drake tried to get a look at the arrow in the back of his thigh, a heavily armored knight knelt down beside him.

  “Good Christ,” the knight muttered. “You took arrows for that fool. Why did you not let them hit him?”

  Drake managed to grin up into James de Lohr’s face. “I should have,” he said. “Look at me. Now I am a martyr for Idiotdom.”

  James laughed. He and Drake had been good friends for many years, as long as they had both served de Bretagne. But his smile quickly faded. “How bad is it truly?” he asked. “Can you breathe well enough? You took one in the back.”

  Drake nodded his head. “I can breathe fine,” he said. “If you can remove the arrows, I would be grateful.”

  As Brittany stood over Drake and screamed at de Lohr, James ignored the man and quickly removed both arrows. Carefully, he inspected the open wounds.

  “Neither one of them went very deep,” he told Drake. “But the wound in your thigh has mail shoved into it. You will need to have a physic remove it.”

  Drake pushed himself up onto his knees. “I can walk.”

  “Nay!” Brittany cried. “You will not walk. My litter bearers are coming and we shall remove you to my tent, do you hear? Stay where you are!”

  Drake rolled his eyes, looking at James, who shook his head at Brittany’s antics. “Let his physic tend the wounds,” de Lohr mumbled. “You will never hear the end of this if you do not. Besides, he may feed you fine wine to ease your pain that you would otherwise not have the opportunity to sample. You know he travels with the finest wine money can buy.”

  Drake wasn’t in any mood for Brittany and his foolery, but as he struggled to stand, Brittany’s litter bearers appeared and Brittany began shouting at them, demanding they remove Drake immediately. Drake found himself manhandled by six men, all trying desperately to move quickly to do Brittany’s bidding. Soon enough, he was on the litter an
d being carried off towards Brittany’s tent. He had to hold on to the sides of the litter or risk being bounced off because of the rapid and unsteady pace, and he caught a glimpse of James’ grin as they carted him away. He cursed James under his breath.

  Drake and the litter reached Brittany’s lavish tents by the time the sky opened up above and the storm began in earnest.

  *

  The wine had been extremely fine, just as James had suggested. Something from the Bordeaux region that had been rich, red, and sweet. It had been delicious. Brittany had poured him cup after cup, just as fast as he would drink it, as Brittany’s physic had plucked debris from both arrow wounds. By the time the physic was finished, Drake was drunk from all of the wine he had been given. He lay on his belly, half-unconscious and snoring on occasion, dozing on and off as the physic worked and the rain pounded outside. At that point, he really didn’t care about the state of the battle. He wanted to get his hands on more of that wine.

  But the rain meant that the battle had been called off, at least for the moment. The sun was beginning to set and even the heavily-fatted torches wouldn’t stay lit in the torrents of water falling from the sky, so Edward’s army had backed off from Caerlaverock for the moment. Drake could hear the sounds of men outside the tent, mingled with the thunder, but the wine had him so drowsy that he was sleeping more than he was actually listening.

  Drake had no idea how long he’d been passed out in a drunken stupor when he awoke to sounds of men in conversation. Their voices were fairly close, and loud, and it took him a moment to realize that the conversation was happening in the tent. Struggling to open his eyes, as the effects of the alcohol still had him very groggy, he turned his head to see that there were men standing a mere few feet from him.

  The tent was fairly well lit from banks of expensive tallow candles, sending a yellow glow against the canvas walls. Drake recognized de Bretagne immediately, who smiled at him when their eyes met. He went to Drake, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Ah,” he said. “The great martyr awakens. How do you feel?”

  Drake gingerly tried to move his right shoulder and right leg. “Not too terribly,” he said. “But the wine that Brittany gave me still has my head swimming.”

  De Bretagne chuckled. “Only the finest wine for Brittany will do,” he said. “Your actions were quite heroic, Drake. You have made me look good.”

  Drake smiled weakly as he pushed himself onto his left elbow; his right shoulder was still too tender at the moment to support much weight. “That is my only goal in life, my lord,” he quipped with a painful grunt, “to make you look good. But what is happening? Why are these men here?”

  Before de Bretagne could answer, another man approached, interrupting the conversation. Drake caught a glimpse of the movement, a man in heavy leather breeches and a dirtied tunic beneath a very long fur and leather coat. When he looked up into the man’s face, recognition was instant.

  “De Winter,” the elderly man spoke. “You are to be commended. Your actions of valor in protecting Brittany are worthy of the de Winter legacy.”

  Drake tried to sit up a bit to at least face the man. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said. “I am sure my father will be pleased that I did not kill myself in the process of adding another act of bravery to the family legacy.”

  Edward the First of England laughed softly; a man in his sixties, he was still strong and tall and quite active at his age. His hair, once blond curls, had turned gray long ago and now tumbled in silver strings to his shoulders. He was bearded these days, covering his weathered skin because it kept him warm, and the fire behind the dark eyes was something that had never dimmed from his younger days. It was still smoldering and powerful. Someone pulled up a chair for the king and he planted his lanky body next to Drake.

  “I am sure he will be pleased also,” Edward said. “I miss your father these days. I miss his sword. But I am glad he has, at least, supplied me with you. One would think with all of the sons he has, I would be provided with more. But it is of no matter. It would seem that I have the bravest son in you. I want to personally thank you for saving Brittany’s life under what were evidently foolish circumstances.”

  Drake didn’t want to speak ill of Brittany, especially to Edward. “A fine line separates foolishness from heroism, Your Highness,” he said, somewhat avoiding Edward’s statement. “It would seem I have walked that line myself, hence the wounds in my back. But I will recover and Brittany is unharmed. That is all that matters.”

  Edward grunted softly. “You do not have your father’s arrogance,” he said. “Davyss de Winter would have told me how great and powerful he is by now. He would demand I pay him homage for the rest of my life. I see you have some of your mother’s humility, at least.”

  Drake gave him a half-grin, ironic in nature. “I have not yet achieved my father’s status that would afford me to be so arrogant in the face of the king, Your Highness,” he said. “Your thanks on the life of Brittany will suffice.”

  Edward shook his head. “In faith, it will not,” he said. “That is why I have come. It is my intention to reward you for your bravery, lad. You deserve my thanks as well as my reward.”

  Drake was very interested in the conversation now that a reward had been mentioned. “Truly, Your Highness?” he was pleased and flattered. “I am deeply honored.”

  Edward nodded. “You should be,” he said. “You will be well-rewarded for your act of courage. Brittany is my nephew and I am quite fond of him. I would have been devastated had injury or death befallen him. You have saved me such anguish. I am therefore very pleased to be able to bestow great gifts upon you.”

  Drake’s interest grew. “I am listening, Your Highness.”

  Edward sat back in his chair, accepting some of that fine Bordeaux wine that had sent Drake into a drunken stupor. Edward drank deeply before continuing.

  “The earldom of East Anglia,” he said, smacking his lips of the wine still on them. “What do you know of it?”

  Drake’s eyebrows lifted in thought. “East Anglia?” he repeated. “I know it well. It borders my father’s lands. It is a very old earldom that belongs to the House of du Reims.”

  Edward nodded. “It does indeed belong to the House of du Reims,” he said. “They have had it since the time of Matilda and Stephen when their ancestor murdered the de Mandeville earl in order to obtain it. You know that the House of de Mandeville has been trying to gain it back ever since.”

  Drake nodded. “I do know that,” he said. “De Winter and de Mandeville and du Reims are all Norfolk and Suffolk-bound. There is not much we do not know about one another.”

  “Then you know the de Mandevilles are going to turn their venom on you when you become the new earl.”

  Drake forgot all about the pain in his right shoulder or his thigh. He pushed himself up to sit, facing Edward with pure shock. “Me?” he asked, aghast. “The Earl of East Anglia?”

  Edward nodded, enjoying the astonishment in Drake’s features. “Aye,” he replied. “I told you I would reward you greatly. East Anglia, and her holdings, shall be yours in thanks for saving Brittany’s life.”

  Drake simply stared at the man. He was having difficulty putting together the proper words of gratitude. His head was spinning and not merely from the excess drink. Surprise didn’t completely encompass what he was feeling at the moment. Of all the rewards in all of England, the gift of an earldom, or any title really, had never entered his mind.

  “I… I am astonished, Your Highness,” he finally said, struggling to speak. “If you grant me the East Anglia earldom, when my father dies, I shall inherit the Thetford one as well. That will make my holdings the largest in Norfolk and Suffolk, if not the whole south of England.”

  Edward nodded. “I realize that,” he said, taking another drink of wine. “I am not a fool, lad. I know what this will mean to you and to the de Winters. But I also know that I would rather see it with you than with anyone else. East Anglia is very i
mportant. It also holds a portion of Kent, including Rochester Castle. When Christian du Reims dies, I do not want the holding to go to someone who is not utterly and completely my ally, which is why it must go to you. The House of de Winter has two hundred years of service to the crown and I know that will never change. I know something about you, Drake. I have heard how you are noble and true and of moral character. De Bretagne has told me such things. In fact, we had a long conversation about you while your wounds were being tended to. We have both decided that the earldom of East Anglia will suit you. I will feel confident knowing it is yours.”

  Drake had no idea what to say to all of that. Oddly enough, his head was no longer swimming. He was thinking quite clearly. As thrilled as he was about the gifting of East Anglia, there was one small question in his mind, a question that was perhaps the biggest factor in all of this. He knew enough about East Anglia to know that the earl had one child, a daughter… so what about the daughter? Already, he thought he knew the answer and he didn’t like it in the least. Not one bit. He cleared his throat softly.

  “As I recall, Your Highness, East Anglia had one child,” he said, trying not to sound ungrateful or hesitant. “I believe it was a daughter.”

  Edward knew where he was leading and he quickly met the subject head-on. “He does indeed,” he said. “Du Reims has asked me to find a husband for his daughter and that husband will be you. Through the daughter, you will inherit the earldom and all of her riches.”

  It was a tactical move on Edward’s part, making sure Drake understood the wealth that came with East Anglia in spite of him having to marry the heiress to get it. He could see the instant defiance rippling through de Winter’s expression, the resistance and displeasure. But Drake was also very good at masking what he was feeling so the flicker of emotions was just as quickly gone.

  “I am afraid that is impossible, Your Highness,” Drake finally said. “My mother and father have already brokered a marital contract for me with the House of Summerlin. In fact, I was due to marry the girl before your march to Scotland circumvented that.”