Lasses, Lords, and Lovers: A Medieval Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Arn was only mildly interested; he wasn’t sure what hope young John Maxwell could give and even his men, including his younger brother, William, showed a great deal of apathy towards the statement. William, standing near his brother, near the small hearth that was spitting more smoke into the chamber than heat, spoke up.

  “What hope?” he demanded. “Did ye come tae ask for help regaining what ye lost? I dunna call that hope. I call it foolishness.”

  John wasn’t particularly fond of William Douglas, mostly because the man was arrogant and rash where his brother was not. He didn’t like dealing with him. Therefore, he kept his attention on Arn.

  “Before the Sassenach army closed in on Caerlaverock, me Uncle Eustace received a missive from France,” he said. “Ye’ll recall that me grand-uncle, Argyle, was married tae a Frenchwoman. Mabelle was her name.”

  Arn waved him off. “I dunna remember Argyle,” he said. “Ye have many grand-uncles and uncles, Johnny. I canna remember all of them.”

  John nodded patiently. “That is true,” he agreed. “But Uncle Argyle is special. He has been dead many years, but Mabelle is still alive. She lives in France and her daughter, who is me cousin, is married tae the Earl of East Anglia, Christian du Reims.”

  Arn lost some of his apathy at that moment. “East Anglia?” he repeated, looking at his brother as if now suddenly trying to recall if he’d ever heard such a thing about the Clan Maxwell and Eustace Maxwell’s uncles. When William shrugged in response, Arn returned his attention to John. “I dunna ken if I’ve ever heard such a thing. What are ye telling me?”

  John pointed a finger at Arn for emphasis. “It is the hope I’ve been telling ye of,” he said. “Lady Mabelle has been in contact with Uncle Eustace. Sometimes she has information on the Sassenach plans and she has been helping us. Ye recall the Sassenach ambush in the spring outside of Lockerbie?”

  Arn nodded. “Of course I do,” he said. “Eustace knew the bastards were coming and we were able tae fight them off.”

  John nodded. “Mabelle sent Uncle Eustace that information.”

  Arn hadn’t known that. He was increasingly interested in the French connection. “Eustace never revealed his source,” he said. “Has she sent ye more information, then?”

  John continued to nod. “Before Edward attacked Caerlaverock, she sent us a message,” he said. “She told Uncle Eustace that her granddaughter is marrying intae the House of de Winter.”

  Arn was still very concerned with what he was being told but he wasn’t quite sure what John was driving at. “I ken that name,” he said. “They are great warriors. They fight for the Crown.”

  John nodded. “Aye,” he said. “Lady Mabelle says her granddaughter will help us with what information she can. She’s married intae the de Winter family tae spy on them.”

  Arn lifted his eyebrows in response. He had to admit that he was somewhat impressed by the news. “But why should the Frenchwoman help us?” he wanted to know. “This is the first I have heard of this Lady Mabelle, the wife of your grand-uncle Argyle. Eustace has kept this information close tae him.”

  John had a knowing expression on his weary features. “She has been helping me da and Uncle Eustace for some time now,” he said. “She is very rich with old French money. Ye know ’tis old French money because Uncle Argyle was never a man of much wealth. Uncle Eustace said that Argyle married the Frenchwoman because he loved her. She must have loved him, too, because she’s still helping our cause. She hates the English as much as we do.”

  Arn was increasingly impressed by what he was being told. “She must hate them if she would sacrifice her own granddaughter by marrying her intae a Sassenach family simply tae spy on them,” he said. “But why would she hate them so much? What’s her motive, lad?”

  John raked his fingers through his short, red hair, a weary gesture. “Because Edward killed Uncle Argyle in battle years ago,” he said. “Mabelle has been hatin’ the Sassenach for many years, more than most. If she can destroy them, she will.”

  It made sense to Arn and to every man in the room. An old Frenchwoman avenging her Scots husband. Aye, every man in the room understood that motive implicitly and because they understood that motive so well, it instantly made the news John was delivering more trustworthy. Revenge was something every man in the chamber had experienced in their lives at one time or another.

  “So she has been waiting tae plant a spy close tae the king?” Arn asked, wondering on the woman’s plans that seemed to have taken a long time to come to fruition. “She marries her granddaughter tae a warlord close tae Edward and forces the girl tae spy?”

  “Mayhap she isn’t forced at all. Mayhap she hates the Sassenach like her grandmother does.”

  “ ’Tis possible,” Arn said. “But if she’s the daughter of East Anglia, then she’s Sassenach by birth.”

  That threw a bit of suspicion into the conversation, about this mysterious granddaughter who was English by birth yet seemed to be spying on her own countrymen. John simply shrugged at the speculation.

  “Uncle Eustace believes Lady Mabelle, so if ye doubt his faith, ye’ll have to tell him yerself,” he said, watching the expression of doubt flicker on Arn’s face. He knew the man would not contest the powerful Eustace Maxwell. “He says he’ll share her information with ye if ye vow to support him in fighting the Sassenach and help him regain Caerlaverock. What information Lady Mabelle sends us could affect us all, Arn. Uncle Eustace wants tae make sure he has yer support if he shares the information with ye.”

  Arn pushed aside any doubts he had; he reasoned that the lure of potentially life-changing knowledge from the Maxwell spy outweighed any suspicions he might have. “Tae ken what the Sassenach are up tae straight from the House of de Winter,” he said, speculating on the quality of the information they might receive, “we could meet Edward at every turn. We could have a fighting chance.”

  “That is what Uncle Eustace thinks.”

  Arn pondered what he’d been told a moment longer before looking to William. His big, bad-tempered brother was seemingly interested as well. Any intelligence they could have fed to them from the heart of Edward’s service was more than they could have ever hoped for. A spy in the House of de Winter. Was it really possible? John seemed to think so, or at least Eustace Maxwell seemed to think so. Whether or not that spy was born English, perhaps her loyalty was stronger to her French and Scots family. Based on that confidence, Arn was willing to place some trust in it.

  “Very well, Johnny,” Arn finally said, glancing around to the group of Douglas men crammed into the small, stuffy chamber. “Tell Eustace we’ll fight with him. But the moment he isna forthcoming about the information from the Frenchwoman….”

  John cut him off. “He said he would share it with ye,” he said. “Uncle Eustace has never gone back on his word.”

  “Nay, he hasna.”

  There wasn’t anything more to say. Eyeing Arn, then William, and then the rest of the dirty Douglas warriors, John pulled his brother from the chamber. They emerged into the sunset, knowing it was too late for them to travel this night. The rest of the defeated army from Caerlaverock had moved east to Castle Creca, a small but secure Maxwell property, and John knew those men were well ahead of them by now. There was no use in trying to catch up. Therefore, he decided quickly, at the setting of the sun, that he and Robert would spend the night in the barn before setting out in the morning. They’d take turns sleeping so one could always be on watch, fearful that the Douglas might turn on them somehow. With the Douglas, that was always the fear.

  When morning dawned misty and cold, John and Robert set off on foot to catch up to the rest of their clan, men heading east, but they were men who had a secret weapon against the Sassenach king that was so determined to claim their country for his own.

  The Scots had a dagger pointed straight at Edward’s heart and the man didn’t even know it.

  It was a de Winter dagger.

  CHAPTER FIVE

 
; ~ A Change of Destiny ~

  Thetford Castle

  Norfolk

  For a couple that wanted nothing to do with marriage, neither of them, the eventual wedding at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the ensuing wedding feast had been calm and, at times, even pleasant.

  The truth was that the day itself had been quite unusual, especially at the church when Lady de Winter had snatched Lady Elizaveta and pulled the girl into the sanctuary, having her husband and son shut the door behind them and then refusing to let anyone in. Lady Agnes had been beside herself, thinking that Lady de Winter was beating her child, whilst Mme. Mabelle had cursed at the de Winters using antiquated French phrases that no one had ever heard of. Something about a dog for a mother and a pig for a father. Eventually, Christian du Reims was forced to move his wife and her mother away from the church, praying that the de Winters weren’t working his daughter over inside the church. A bruised bride would only bring chaos. Therefore, like everyone else, he waited fearfully.

  And waited. A ceremony that was supposed to take place just after Matins didn’t take place until mid-afternoon when the church doors suddenly opened. Not only did Lady de Winter and Lady Elizaveta appear, both of them quite unharmed, but a very big knight also appeared with them. Drake de Winter was quickly introduced by his father, who seemed rather shocked to see his son, but after that, the ceremony was performed without trouble. Drake and Elizaveta were joined without a hint of resistance from either one of them and everyone retreated to Thetford Castle.

  Thetford Castle was a rather small castle with an enormously tall motte in the center of it and the keep perched atop. There were great earthwork berms to the north and a great moat that encircled the motte, but between the motte and one of the big berms to the east was a bailey with outbuildings and a hall. It was inside this hall where the feasting was taking place. The hall could hold about two hundred people in a very crowded group but with two long, well-scrubbed tables, it held about forty family and wedding guests.

  It was warm in the hall, smelling of smoked and crushed rosemary, which Devereux was particularly fond of. It was a pungent, clean scent, now mixing with the smells of food that were starting to come forth. Several different types of bread were upon the tables; breads with cheese and herbs mixed in, or currants, or cinnamon and raisins, which Denys de Winter was particularly fond of. The big de Winter brother collected at least three of the loaves and was walking around the hall with them, gorging himself, while his father rolled his eyes at the impolite behavior.

  More food was brought to the tables as the guests seated themselves. Cheeses, fruits, great bowls of boiled beans and peas, and a swan in the middle of one of the tables that had been roasted and then had its features put back on to make it appear alive. The illusion was quite lovely until Dallan de Winter ripped one of the wings off and began devouring it, much to the chagrin of his mother. By that time, the feast was in full swing and no one much cared. The wine flowed freely.

  Drake, who had politely helped his wife to sit on the bench before taking his seat beside her, collected the nearest pitcher of wine and filled her expensive pewter cup with the de Winter crest forged onto it. He was coming to hope that the display of wealth impressed her so she would feel better about the house she had married in to. It was odd that, as reluctant as he had been, he didn’t want her to be reluctant. Her reluctance made him feel oddly insecure and for a man with the ego Drake had, he wasn’t used to insecurity. Therefore, he wanted to impress her so that she would actually show some interest in the marriage. He, of course, would still be reluctant and ever would be, at least in theory, but his reluctance boosted his ego whereas hers tore it down.

  “How do you feel, Lady de Winter?” he asked her as he finished topping off her wine.

  Elizaveta reached for her cup, looking at him as if confused by the question. “I am well, thank you.”

  He grinned, that impish look she had seen before. “I am glad,” he said, moving to fill his own cup. “I am glad that setting foot in the church with me did not set off fits or cause heart palpitations. It would seem, contrary to popular belief, that the act of marriage did not kill either one of us.”

  Elizaveta grinned as she sipped her very sweet wine. It was delicious. “That remains to be seen,” she said. “The day is not over yet.”

  Drake looked to the big windows in the hall, seeing the sunset beyond. “I believe that it is almost finished,” he said. “If neither one of us fades away by darkness, then this marriage will hold.”

  He was lifting his cup to her, as if in a salute, and Elizaveta reluctantly clinked her cup against his. “Let us pray that it does.”

  There was a deeper meaning in that, something that Drake sensed. He was still too naïve about his new wife, or marriage in general, to know what she really meant, but he reasoned that their wedding feast was the place to discover such things.

  “Then let us start the process,” he said. “I would be happy to tell you something of myself if you will also indulge me and tell me something of your background. As for me, my upbringing is unremarkable. I fostered at Winchester Castle, and Prudhoe in the north, before swearing fealty to Cortez de Bretagne, a great supporter of Edward’s. I have been stationed at Sherborne Castle in Dorset for the past six years.”

  Elizaveta listened with interest and when he was finished, she knew he had glossed over any events of bravery that would have made him the decorated knight his mother had alluded to.

  “All quite interesting,” she said, “but your mother informed me that you were rewarded for bravery in battle. I, in fact, have come to understand that I am the reward. I would like to know my worth as a reward, Sir Drake. What did you do to earn me?”

  He smiled, although he was eyeing his mother across the table with some disapproval for having spoken to Elizaveta about the circumstances regarding their betrothal.

  “That is true,” he admitted. “What, exactly, did my mother tell you?”

  Her eyes twinkled, enjoying the fact that he seemed uncomfortable. “Only that,” she said. “I would ask you for the details.”

  He saw no harm in telling her. Perhaps if he did, she might be more pleased about marrying him. She might even be impressed.

  “I took two arrows for the king’s nephew in a battle up in Scotland,” he said. “For my bravery, I was given a bride of extremely noble blood. I was given you.”

  Scotland… where my mother was born. The mention of Scotland immediately brought about thoughts of Mabelle’s directive to her granddaughter – you have a duty to your family and you will fulfill that duty. Grandedame was sitting down the table from her, on her left-hand side with only her mother, Agnes, between them. Even so, Elizaveta had never felt the woman’s presence more heavily as she did at that moment. She was, once again, reminded that the only reasons she was here, sitting next to this handsome knight, were because she had been strategically placed there to spy on him and to spy on the English. God, she hated that directive more now than she did when she first heard it.

  I am not a spy, Grandedame!

  You are now.

  Elizaveta’s smile faded somewhat as she struggled against her harrowing thoughts, praying her new husband could not read minds. “Two arrows?” she repeated, sounding both shocked and concerned. “It must not have been too bad. You seem healthy enough now.”

  Drake pointed to his right side. “One in the back, near my shoulder, and the other in the back of my right thigh,” he said. “Any arrow strike is bad, my lady, but fortune was smiling on me that day. The injuries were not too severe.”

  Elizaveta sipped her wine. “Fortune has nothing to do with it,” she said. “God was watching over you that day. ’Tis He who spared your life.”

  The smile was back on Drake’s lips. “Mayhap that is true,” he said. “But I have seen enough to know that God has help from the Fates from time to time. He cannot be everywhere at once.”

  Elizaveta grew serious. “That is where you are wrong,” s
he said. “He is everywhere, always. He is here with us, right now.”

  Drake watched her intently, the way her mouth moved when she spoke. She had quite a luscious mouth. “I see that you are very pious,” he said, avoiding a religious discussion with her mostly because he’d seen enough things to believe, at times, that there was no God at all. But he would not tell her that. “Tell me of your background. I would like to know something of the woman I have married.”

  Elizaveta thought carefully on her reply as she sipped her wine. “My upbringing is unremarkable as well,” she said. “I was born at Thunderbey Castle, my father’s home. I was five years of age when I went to foster at Rochester Castle. When I grew a bit older, I was educated by the nuns from Rochester Cathedral. In fact, I lived in the cloister for two years. Therefore, when I tell you that God is everywhere, I know that for a fact. The nuns have told me such things and they would not lie.”

  Drake poured her more wine. “Rochester is an impressive castle,” he said. “I have seen it before. So is the cathedral; a monstrous place.”

  Elizaveta nodded. “It is,” she said. “It is home to me. I… I hope to visit it again someday.”

  The servants were bringing out more dishes and everyone at the table was sitting back, watching the presentation begin. Drake politely moved Elizaveta’s wine cup out of the way of a servant placing a rather large pie in front of them.

  “If that is your wish, I will take you,” he said. “When did you leave there?”

  Elizaveta was quite interested in the big, brown-crusted pie in front of them, for she was very hungry. “Two years ago,” she said. “I went to live with my father for a while before going to France to live with my mother and grandmother.”

  Drake glanced at her as he used a big spoon to break the crust of the pie. “Your mother does not live at Thunderbey?”

  Elizaveta shook her head. “She lives in France with my grandmother,” she said, lowering her voice because her mother was next to her. “She cannot stand the English climate or the English for that matter. She was born in Scotland, you know.”