Lasses, Lords, and Lovers: A Medieval Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Moreover, Dallan was a powerful knight, smart and skilled… surely he had only fallen from his horse and nothing more. Surely he was around here, somewhere, dispatching the wounded. On a whim, Drake took a look down a small ravine that cut through the trees, ending somewhere near their encampment. As he passed a glance over the heavy undergrown at the bottom, he caught sight of an arm sticking up out of the leaves.

  An armored hand that he recognized.

  “Devon!” he screamed.

  Drake slid down the side of the gully, crashing through the growth and tripping on vines in his haste to reach the bottom. As he neared the hand, Devon and de Wolfe appeared at the top and, seeing what Drake saw, began sliding and running down the side of the hill as well. But Drake reached the hand first and grabbed it, pulling it up only to realize his worst nightmare. It was Dallan’s hand and the man was covered in dirt and blood, ghostly white. Drake fell to his knees, clutching his baby brother against his chest as Devon and de Wolfe reached him.

  “I cannot see where he is injured,” Drake said, his voice trembling. “There’s blood everywhere. Find his wound!”

  Devon was in a panic, gasping as he struggled to get a look at Dallan’s body to find the injury. De Wolfe was doing the same thing, inspecting the man’s torso and lower extremities, trying to find the source of the blood. All the while, Drake held Dallan against him, tears in his eyes.

  “We have you, Dallan,” he said hoarsely. “We have found you. You will be well again, I swear it. Can you hear me, Dallan?”

  Dallan groaned, struggling to come around as Drake wiped away the mud on the man’s face. “D-Drake?” he muttered. “Drake?”

  Drake gazed down into his brother’s face, struggling to appear confident and comforting. But the tears were finding their way out of his eyes and onto his face.

  “I am here,” he repeated. “Devon is here. We will take care of you.”

  Dallan’s eyes opened and he stared up into the canopy above, dazed, as Devon, inspecting the upper portion of Dallan’s back where Drake’s arm held him, suddenly gasped.

  “Here,” he said, his features washing with horror. “Oh, God… here it is. It looks like an axe wound. Drake, it’s in the center of his back between the shoulders and runs from one shoulder to the other. It… it… cut deep, through his spine. It… it… oh, sweet Jesus….”

  He couldn’t finish, dropping his head and bursting into quiet tears, and Drake knew at that moment that his youngest brother would not survive. He had no idea what to say to the lad, who was staring up at the sky and who, so far, had yet to say more than a couple of words. Drake’s eyes filled with an ocean of tears and his throat tightened, making it difficult for him to speak. He tightened his grip on his brother.

  “Dallan,” he said quietly, tears falling onto the young knight’s neck. “Do you hear me? Feel me holding you now. Devon and I are holding you so tightly. You are our brother and we love you very much. Dallan, do you hear me?”

  Dallan blinked and swallowed, a labored gesture. “I… I cannot feel anything.”

  Drake nodded, sniffling, as Devon laid his head upon Dallan’s chest, sobbing quietly. “I know,” he murmured. “Do not be afraid, Dallan. Devon and I are with you. You are not alone.”

  Dallan blinked again, his eyes finding Drake. When their gazes met, Drake forced a smile but it was an odd gesture when coupled with the tears falling from his eyes.

  “Mother,” Dallan said, labored, because he had lost the ability to control his lungs with the severed spine. More than that, both lungs were cut by the deep axe strike. “You must tell Mother than I will be well again. Will you tell her?”

  Drake couldn’t hold back the sob as his face crumpled. “I will,” he whispered.

  “W-Will you tell her that I was magnificent in battle?”

  Drake nodded fervently. “I will,” he swore. “She will be very proud of you, Dallan. You are a great knight.”

  Dallan stared at his eldest brother. “Greater than you?”

  Drake saw the weak glimmer of mirth in his brother’s eyes and his laughter joined the tears. “Aye, greater than me,” he said. “Greater than Devon, too, although that is no difficult feat.”

  Devon, who had been weeping deeply upon Dallan’s chest, lifted his head when he heard the insult. It was a light moment when there should not have been one, the last humorous moment the three brothers would share in this life. It was a memory that Drake and Devon would cherish for the rest of their lives.

  “If I could think of any of de Wolfe’s insults at the moment, I would say them to both of you,” Devon said, positioning himself so he could look Dallan in the eye. “Of course you are greater than Drake is and even greater than I am. You always have been. It is a privilege to be your brother, Dallan.”

  Dallan’s lips flickered with a smile, looking up at his twin brothers, mirror images of one another. It seemed as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t manage it. His lips worked but his chest was heaving oddly, tremulously, and the light in his eyes began to fade. He was still looking at Devon when he spoke for the last time.

  “Mother….,” he whispered, out of breath. “My… I want to see my Mother….”

  With that, he drew his last breath. His body twitched and his eyes flickered, but the light went out of them completely as he was left open-eyed, staring at his brother. Devon, seeing the life pass from his brother, burst into quite sobs again and lay his head on Dallan’s chest once more, wrapping his arms around the man to hold him close.

  Drake, too, lost the battle against sobs and buried his face in the top of Dallan’s head. He and Devon held their brother as he passed from this life, whispering of their love for him, telling him that it was all right to go. The youngest de Winter brother with the bright future ahead of him would never know his destiny. It ended in a Scots ambush at the bottom of a muddy ravine.

  And that was how young Dallan de Winter died.

  De Wolfe had watched all of it, tears in his eyes as Drake and Devon held their brother as he died. William had two brothers himself, both of them young and both of them knights, so he could sympathize with what he was witnessing. It made him sick and angry and devastated. Such a damnable waste, he thought. There was nothing he could do for Dallan de Winter that Drake and Devon weren’t already doing, but there was something more he could do to help the brothers in their moment of sorrow.

  He could find out who was behind the ambush.

  Leaving the de Winter brothers to their grief, he made his way back up the ravine in search of prisoners to interrogate.

  God help the first man he came to.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The rains fell particularly heavy that night, turning into an ice storm as the de Winter army nursed their bruises and wounds after the attack by the Scots. Surprisingly, there were only three dead, Dallan included, and Drake and Devon had wrapped their young brother up in his rain cloak, tying up the body tightly and then putting him in one of the provision wagons.

  All the while, Drake and Devon hadn’t spoken to one another. It seemed that there was nothing they could say for something like this went beyond words. The pain of Dallan’s passing was like a great open wound for both of them, so as they gently removed him from his armor, cleansed the dirt from his body, and then wrapped him up, there was no talking, only the gentle and loving gestures of brothers. Drake remained somewhat stoic but tears streamed down Devon’s face the entire time. It was a tragic and painful duty they completed, but once Dallan was loaded into the wagon bed and properly secured, Drake turned to Devon.

  “We must take him home, you know,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “We cannot simply send him back with riders. We must escort him home and be present for his burial. I would not have it any other way.”

  Devon nodded, his face pale and his eyes red-rimmed. “I know,” he said. “Edward may not appreciate the fact that we have gone back to Norwich, but I hope he will at least understand.”

  Drake�
�s nostrils flared. “I do not care if he understands or not,” he said flatly. “Tomorrow, you and I will take Dallan home whilst de Wolfe takes the army on to Hexham. I will make sure de Wolfe tells Edward that we will join his march into Scotland when we can, but for now, I intend to be home with my mother and father when we bury our youngest brother. And my wife, too; I intend to be home with her as well.”

  Devon didn’t disagree in the least. “Father will support us in the face of Edward’s displeasure,” he said. “But I cannot truly believe that Edward would be offended by us returning our brother home for burial. God… for his burial… I still cannot believe it even as I say it.”

  Drake turned to look at his brother’s wrapped body in the wagon bed. “Nor can I,” he said, feeling the lump in his throat again. “Mother… I cannot even imagine how Mother is going to deal with this. It will destroy her.”

  Devon nodded, fighting off the tears welling in his eyes again. “I hope we have the opportunity to tell Father first,” he said. “Let him tell her. I do not want to see her grief, wondering why you and I did not protect her youngest son. I ask myself the same thing but I do not have a good answer.”

  Drake looked at him. “There is no answer, Dev,” he said. “Dallan is a knight. He was felled doing what he was born to do. We could not have protected him in any case. The circumstances were not right for such a thing. We were all spread out, all fighting for our lives. What happened to him did not come from negligence on anyone’s part; it simply happened. You cannot blame yourself and neither can I, although I have tried to, as well.”

  Devon knew that, but guilt and sorrow had the better of him. “Speaking of fighting,” he said, turning to look off into the outskirts of the camp where they had six captives, all taken prisoner after the fighting had died down. “I wonder what de Wolfe has discovered about those who ambushed us. Mayhap you should join him and find out.”

  Drake cocked his head curiously. “Why only me? Will you not come?”

  Devon shook his head. “Nay,” he said, moving past Drake and perching himself on the end of the wagon bed. “I will sit here, watching over Dallan. I do not want to leave him alone. You go and see what you can find out about these bastards who did this.”

  Drake understood. He patted his brother’s knee as he walked away from the wagon. “I will,” he said. “And then I shall return and relieve you in watching over Dallan.”

  Devon shook his head, turning to look at the wrapped body. “No need,” he said. “I will remain vigilant all night. You do not need to relieve me.”

  Drake knew it was his grief speaking. Devon was deeply sensitive and not about to leave Dallan alone, even though the man was not in any need of any protection. It was simply the bond of brothers, watching over one another, never leaving each other alone, even in death. Drake and Devon had spent their entire lives watching over Dallan, their lively little brother. This was just another one of those times.

  So Drake left Devon sitting in the wagon as he moved off across the clearing towards the area where the prisoners had been staked. Each man had been bound hand, foot, and neck, tied to a stake so they could not escape. Freezing rain pelted him through the canopy as he moved among the cooking fires, offering a word or two to his men, finding out who was injured and who had escaped unscathed.

  A few of his men offered sympathies for Dallan, which Drake stoically accepted, but he quickly came to realize that Dallan’s passing wasn’t something he wanted to discuss or even acknowledge. He still hadn’t fully accepted it himself. It still seemed too terribly surreal. Therefore, he began to avoid his men altogether as he passed through the end of the encampment, fearful they would bring up Dallan and fearful he would have to acknowledge it.

  He simply couldn’t face it.

  De Wolfe had kept the prisoners well segregated from the main encampment area, surrounding the captives with guards he had personally chosen. Drake hadn’t paid any attention to what de Wolfe had done with the prisoners, mostly because he’d been singularly focused on preparing Dallan for the trip home, but as he came upon the cluster of trees where de Wolfe had the prisoners gathered, he could see that all of the prisoners were bloodied and battered.

  Every single man looked as if he’d been beaten within an inch of his life, which pleased Drake a great deal. There was great satisfaction in seeing that de Wolfe, or his men, had exacted revenge for Dallan’s death out of the prisoners’ hides because that was exactly what Drake intended to do. He wasn’t a brute by nature. He was always well controlled and ethical, but he saw nothing among these slovenly, beaten men that warranted fair treatment. They had killed his brother and weren’t even worthy of doing so. All he could feel as he came upon them was rage and he fully intended to demonstrate it.

  De Wolfe, however, had other ideas; he had seen Drake approach from the clearing so he was able to intercept him before he drew close. Drake came to a halt as de Wolfe put a hand on his chest to stop him from going any further.

  “How is Devon?” de Wolfe asked. “Where is he?”

  Drake pointed back to the clearing and the wagon with Dallan and Devon on the other end of it. “Back over there,” he said. “He will not leave Dallan. I told him I would see to the prisoners and report back to him.”

  De Wolfe studied Drake a moment. “And how are you?” he asked quietly. “Please permit me to express my deepest condolences on the death of your brother. I came to like Dallan a great deal in the short time I knew him. He will be missed.”

  Drake swallowed hard, fighting off the lump in his throat yet again. “Aye, he will,” he said softly. “Thank you for your sympathy. But I am more concerned with what information you have been able to glean from the captives. Who are these bastards and why did they attack us?”

  De Wolfe sighed heavily. “We were able to capture seven men,” he said, turning to glance at the group. “I managed to discover they are Maxwell and Douglas men. At least, that is what six of them will admit to. They said they were ordered to ambush the de Winter army by none other than Eustace Maxwell. But the seventh man… we must get him off alone, Drake. We must interrogate him without the others.”

  Drake felt a bolt of shock run through him. “Maxwell?” he repeated. “This far south?”

  “Aye.”

  A hand flew to Drake’s mouth as if to cover his astonishment. “They were ordered to attack us by Eustace Maxwell, Lord of Caerlaverock?” he clarified, watching de Wolfe nod grimly. “And what about this seventh man? Why must we interrogate him alone?”

  De Wolfe’s expression was ominous. “Because he is English.”

  Drake blinked, startled by all he was being told. Nothing made sense in the least and his grief-hazed mind was struggling. His patience was wearing thin. He snapped his fingers at de Wolfe.

  “Then bring him to me,” he growled. “Bring me this English traitor and let us hear what he knows or, with God as my witness, he will not be able to handle the pain I will deal him.”

  De Wolfe was already on the move. He went to the circle of trussed-up prisoners and grabbed one man by the arm, dragging him along the frozen, rocky ground and over to where Drake stood. De Wolfe dumped him at Drake’s feet. Being tied neck to hands to feet did not afford the prisoner much ability to sit up or even move, so as the prisoner struggled to pull his face out of the frozen earth, Drake put a massive boot across the man’s back, right between the shoulder blades.

  “Do you feel that?” he rumbled, digging his hard heel into the man’s back and listening to him groan. “That is what my brother felt when some bastard Scotsman drove an axe into his back. Does it hurt? Shall I make it hurt more so you can feel the pain my brother suffered?”

  He was putting most of his weight on it now, watching the prisoner gasp and squirm with pain, but to the man’s credit, he said nothing. He dug his heel right into the man’s spine, hard, until the man finally let out a yelp. Then, he removed his foot and kicked the prisoner squarely in the gut.

  The captive grunted w
ith pain, his face turning vibrant red. Drake rolled him onto his back, crouching down to get a look at his face. He was fair-haired and young. Drake’s jaw ticked.

  “I want you to listen very carefully to me,” he said. “I am without mercy so it is best for you to listen to my instructions without question, delay, or refusal. Do you comprehend me so far?”

  The prisoner was still gasping for air but managed something that looked like a nod, made difficult because of the rope around his neck. Drake continued.

  “I have questions that you will provide answers for,” he said. “If you do not, I will continue kicking you in the same spot until your guts liquefy and you die a slow, horrible death. Is this in any way unclear?”

  The prisoner coughed, bringing up some blood. He struggled to breathe, but somewhere in all of that pain was another nod. Drake’s gaze moved down the man, at his tattered clothing, inadequate against the frozen temperatures.

  “Then if you do not wish to die, you will answer me,” he said. “I am told you are English. Is that true?”

  The prisoner lay there with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. “I… I was born in Peterbrough,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But I am not English. My family is Scots.”

  “You speak with an English accent.”

  “My family is Scots.”

  Drake wasn’t quite sure what to make of it other than the man was declaring his loyalties and they obviously weren’t to the country of his birth. That was evident by his actions. Drake hoped the man wasn’t going to try and give him obvious answers, things they already knew, by phrasing the answers differently. The situation would not go well for him if he did.

  “Then if your family is Scots, yet you were born in England, what are you doing running with these Scots savages?” Drake asked.