Lasses, Lords, and Lovers: A Medieval Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Beyond that, I know nothing. It has taken nearly all of my wealth to ascertain this evidence alone. But should this information be employed in a useful capacity against Henry’s growing opposition, I am positive the king can be managed. My sources tell me that he is diligently kept abreast of the girl’s well-being all of these years gone by.

  I supply this information not for the glory of Wales. My reasons are my own. Use well the knowledge given, I implore you.

  Written this fifteenth day of November

  Leachwood Manor, Shrewsbury

  Sir Charles de Worth

  *

  Year of our Lord 1402

  Lambourn Castle

  Berkshire, England

  In spite of the chill cloaking the air, bugs danced upon the surface of the water like a thousand happy fairies, frolicking in the damp mist. In the reeds, frogs burped and water lilies hovered silently as small fish nipped hungrily at their edges. All would have been peaceful and serene in this delightful, icy little world had it not been for The Horde invading the shores of the blissful sanctuary.

  The Horde was not comprised of a host of vicious cutthroats as indicative of such a title, but rather of three delicate, well-born young ladies. William de Lohr, part of the powerful de Lohr family and Earl of Berkshire, had saddled the women with the term because he was positive they were England’s secret military weapon. Not because they were born and bred for warring; their fragile white hands were barely beyond mastering a needle and thread much less a dagger. Lord de Lohr knew that he could have destroyed any foe simply by lodging the three young noblewomen into the heart of the enemy’s cause. Within an hour, their incessant female prattle would have driven God himself daft.

  And this day was no different. As it was rapidly approaching the nooning meal, not one of the three realized the time. They had been too busy talking.

  “I cannot believe you would venture into the lake, Emma. It’s far too cold.”

  Lady Emma, skirts hiked up to her knees, smiled. “’Tis refreshing, Riss. Come in, ’else I shall be forced to throw you in myself.”

  Arissa de Lohr wrinkled her pert nose distastefully. “I had a bath this morn and I shall not contaminate myself with that muck-polluted water.”

  The blond companion seated on the cool grass beside her nodded in agreement. “Your legs are already turning green, Emma.”

  “Her legs are green,” Arissa giggled.

  Emma put her hands on her hips irritably. “They match your teeth.”

  Arissa stuck her tongue out at her friend before bursting into a fit of snickers, revealing teeth that were anything but green. Straight, white, and beautifully complimented by a bow-shaped smile. But it was not merely the smile that was beautiful; the entire package that comprised the Lady Arissa Ellyn de Lohr was more magnificent than mortal man could comprehend. Barely eighteen years of age, she was a rare and precious enchantress.

  Hair as black as a raven’s wing, satin and sheer with a hint of curl, tumbled to her buttocks. A sweet oval face displayed sensuous lips that men would gladly die for and eyes of the palest green hovered beneath delicately arched brows. With her thick lashes and pink cheeks, she was a beauty to behold.

  “Is your surcoat finished for the celebration tomorrow night?” Arissa’s dry companion inquired.

  The raven-haired beauty turned her attention the fair young maiden she had known since childhood. “Mother is finishing the surcoat herself. She insists that she’s the only seamstress qualified to work on it. Sweet St. Jude, ’twill be a miracle if she allows me to wear it at all given the care she’s given the garment.”

  Emma sloshed onto shore with muddy feet. “Penelope made her own surcoat,” she said with a twinkle to her eye, demonstrating as she spoke. “The neckline is cut to her navel and sure to drive Daniel to his knees.”

  As Arissa and Emma giggled, Penelope flushed. “Not true, you little pigeon. It is a tastefully designed surcoat.”

  “Aye, and he shall be able to taste all of you,” Emma snickered, sending Arissa into gales of laughter.

  Flustered, Penelope turned away. Arissa knew how sensitive Penelope was when it came to her strong young knight. She put her hand soothingly on the pale blond head.

  “Do not be so serious, Pen,” she said. “We have the utmost respect for Daniel.”

  “And Daniel’s good taste,” Emma couldn’t resist adding the final insult.

  Penelope fixed her younger friend with a vicious gaze. “At least I have a man, Emma. Pray, darling, can the same be said for you?”

  Emma’s smile faded. As sensitive as Penelope was about Daniel, Emma was equally sensitive of the fact that at sixteen years of age, she hadn’t yet been presented with the opportunity of courtship. Very pretty in her own right, with dark blond hair and a tendency for fat, she was an unfortunate pale shadow in comparison to Penelope’s fragile blond grace and Arissa’s magnificent beauty.

  “You can have all of my suitors, Emma,” Arissa said, casting Penelope a reproving glance. “In a few weeks, I shall have no need for any man.”

  The focus immediately shifted from Emma’s shame to Arissa’s future. Gone were the smirking expression and taunting smiles.

  “Do you have to go?” Penelope asked softly. “We have never been apart, not even for a small amount of time. Knowing that we may never see you again….”

  “Whitby Abbey is so far away,” Emma agreed, wriggling her toes in the mud. “North Yorkshire is nearly to Scotland.”

  Arissa sighed, brushing a stray lock of black hair away from her face. “’Tis my destiny, ladies. I was pledged to the abbey at birth and they are expecting me and my substantial dowry. Surely they will perish without us both.”

  “But you shall be a nun,” Emma shook her head sadly. “No more suitors, no more parties, no more… no more anything. How can you give it all up so easily?”

  Arissa shrugged. She, too, wondered how she was going to be able to relinquish all of the material delights that brought her such pleasure. Certainly she was being selfish in her thoughts, for it was an honor to devote one’s life to God. But she was feeling particularly selfish on the eve of her eighteenth birthday.

  “I shall simply have to,” she said after a moment, forcing bravery that she did not feel. “Which is why Mother is throwing a grand party for my birthday. Mayhap I shall simply indulge myself until I cannot stand the sight of another sweet cake or the feel of another corset about my waist. Mayhap I shall make myself so sick of material delights that to retreat far from the sinful pleasures of life will come as a welcome blessing.”

  Neither lady believed her, but they said nothing. The thought of Arissa going away, never to return, left them feeling hollow and empty. Arissa could read their melancholy but she refused to allow it to settle.

  “The de Beckets should be here this eve,” she said brightly, struggling to divert the subject. “Emma, certainly you remember Ronald?”

  Emma, emerging from her depressing thoughts, blinked thoughtfully. “Ronald de Becket? Isn’t he the knight with the mole on the end his nose that makes him look like a troll?”

  Before Arissa could respond, Penelope shook her head. “Nay, Emma, he’s the knight with the receding blond hair. Not un-handsome by any means.”

  Emma thought a moment. “Aye, I remember him. He kept scratching his arse the last he was here. I heard the men say he has saddle warts.”

  “Saddle warts?” Penelope looked puzzled.

  Arissa cleared her throat delicately. “A most painful malady, the poor fellow. I understand they bleed and…. well, it is most painful to evacuate one’s bowels.”

  Emma’s face lit up with malicious humor and she crowed with laughter. “I have heard that they can grow as big as melons and then burst!”

  Penelope made a horrified face as Arissa fought off the urge to join Emma’s mirth. “Surely not, Emma. How awful.”

  Still snorting, Emma turned away from shore and forged deeper into the water, digging her toes into the s
ilky mud. “Who else is coming?”

  Arissa looked thoughtful. “Nearly every important house within twenty miles. The de Rydals, the Wendovers, the de Clares. Pen, don’t the Wendovers have a son?”

  Penelope nodded. “He’s fostering in Durham. Daniel told me that Tad de Rydal has recently returned from Derby Castle.”

  “I understand he was serving the Earl of Leicester,” Arissa mentioned. “I wonder why he has returned?”

  “Who can say?” Penelope shrugged, picking at a blade of grass. “Will Richmond be here?”

  The mere sound of his name was enough to knock the wind from Arissa. She swallowed hard, trying to control the quivering that had suddenly overtaken her hands. Unable to find a casual position for the appendages, she sat on them.

  “My father seems to think so,” her voice was quivering, too. She wondered if Penelope and Emma could detect it. “He’s been in London for several months, you know. I…. I have no way of knowing if he even received the invitation.”

  Emma was still sloshing about in the pond; only Penelope saw the trembling and observed the faint mottling around Arissa’s cheeks. She always reacted in the same fashion when they spoke of Richmond le Bec. She’d been in love with the man for as long as any of them could remember.

  “He shall be here,” Penelope said softly. Richmond was a subject off limits to the usual taunts. It ran far deeper than Arissa would ever admit; in fact, she’d never admitted to anything at all. As of late, she’d tried her hardest to remain distant on the subject of the mighty knight, to assume a neutral manner when his name entered the conversation. But as hard as she tried, she was not always successful.

  “I care not, truthfully,” Arissa said as steadily as she could manage. “The man is a friend of my father’s and sworn to the service of King Henry; he’s of no concern to me. Now, as I was saying, I believe the House of Harcourt will….”

  “Aren’t you the least bit awed by the man?” Penelope was not about to let her slip away so easily. “After all, he organized Henry’s armies against his cousin Richard II and nearly single-handedly secured the throne for our king. ’Tis said that he and Sir Henry Percy of Northumberland are blood brothers. Doesn’t his reputation impress you in the least?”

  Arissa slanted her friend a wavering glance. “Of course not. Why should it?”

  Before Penelope could reply, Emma turned about and began to wade onto shore once again. “The man is a god. Too bad he’s so old.”

  “He’s not old!” Arissa said hotly, defending Richmond before she could control herself.

  “Bartholomew says he’s thirty-nine,” Emma wandered onto the grass and wiped the mud off her feet. “He might as well be one hundred.”

  Arissa lowered her gaze, toying with the icy clover beneath her hand. “My brother doesn’t know everything. Richmond is ageless. He has remained the same in manner and appearance for as long as I can remember.”

  Penelope leaned back on her arms, eyeing her raven-haired friend. “I would wager to say I have never seen a more handsome man. Rich brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a smile that makes me swoon simply to think on it. And, of course, being as tall as the sky certainly doesn’t hurt,” she winked at Emma. “Aye, I would say he was the image of a god. Only a god would be so fortunate.”

  Arissa did not reply; she did not want to think on Richmond le Bec. She’d spent the past several months attempting to forget him and a part of her hoped he would not come to the celebration on the morrow. But a major portion of her whispered desperate prayers that he would make an appearance, if only so she could gaze into his amazing face one last time before she was shut away from the world.

  Even as she pledged to distance the man in hopes of complete abandonment, she knew it was a foolish venture. She had grown up living on the sight of Richmond, sustaining herself on his rich baritone voice and anticipating the moments when he would turn his incredible blue eyes on her fondly. Six years, eight years, twelve years old… she couldn’t remember when Richmond le Bec hadn’t been an integral part of her daily existence. She couldn’t remember when she hadn’t loved him.

  As Arissa lost herself in thoughts of Richmond le Bec, a lanky, aged knight came marching across the dead winter grass. His lined face was grim.

  “Have you no idea what time it is?” he demanded.

  The three women jumped. Penelope was startled into a sitting position, her eyes wide at the man.

  “It’s… it’s, uh…,” she turned helplessly to Arissa and Emma, who were quickly regaining their feet.

  “It’s time for the nooning meal,” the knight said sternly, resting his large fists on his hips. “God’s Truth, Penelope, if I hadn’t fathered you myself, I would swear you’d been born without a brain.”

  Penelope rose to her feet, her gaze sheepish. “We lost track of time.”

  He rolled his eyes, beseeching the gods for patience. “And if I hear that excuse one more time, I swear I shall do something drastic to the lot of you,” he pointed a gloved finger at the fortress. “Inside. Now.”

  Penelope brushed off her surcoat and scampered past her father. Emma followed in close pursuit, while only Arissa seemed unfazed by the knight’s anger. She smiled pleasantly at him.

  “Good day to you, Sir Carlton,” she said, trying to ease his fury. “How goes the preparations for my party?”

  Sir Carlton de Long gazed at his little mistress, wondering how his daughter was going to survive when the Lady Arissa left to join the cloister next month. The two had been inseparable since three years of age, long enough to form an unbreakable attachment. He, too, would miss her terribly. She was a bright, wonderful bit of sunshine.

  “Running smoothly, my lady,” he offered her the customary elbow. Arissa took his arm and he began to lead her towards the keep. “Your mother has gone to great lengths to make it the grandest celebration in these parts for years to come.”

  Several feet ahead of them, Penelope and Emma walked arm in arm, casting baleful glances at Arissa. With her sweet nature, men were naturally eating out her hand and her companions were understandably jealous of her talent; they always managed to find trouble whereas Arissa seemed to possess the power to soothe the savage beast.

  Arissa was acutely aware of their pouting looks and stuck her tongue out at them, twice, while Carlton’s attention was diverted. The more she antagonized them, the angrier they became and she bit her lip to keep from laughing. By the time they reached the massive entrance to the bailey, Penelope and Emma were prepared to throttle her and Arissa braced herself for the barrage of temperamental insults.

  But the revenge of Emma and Penelope would have to wait; high atop the battlements, shouts abound from the sentries, distracting the women. All straining ears and eyes, they turned their attention to the commotion at hand.

  A party was swiftly approaching, it was announced, bearing Henry’s banners of lions and leopards. Carlton, still clutching Arissa, stared up at the sentries as if he had not understood their words.

  “Henry is approaching?” he demanded for clarification.

  The sentries, hawk-eyed and seasoned, peered sharply at the southern horizon. Arissa wait with bated breath for their reply, hardly aware when Penelope and Emma joined her.

  “Nay, my lord,” one of the men finally shouted down to them. “Richmond le Bec!”

  Richmond. Arissa’s heart leapt into her throat; she must have swayed with shock, for she could feel Penelope’s hand against her back in a steadying gesture. Carlton, oblivious to her surprise, turned to the three young ladies with a wide grin.

  “How grand! Lord William will be pleased indeed,” he brushed past the women, having apparently forgotten why he had been escorting them to the castle in the first place.

  Arissa heard his footfalls fade; her focus was riveted to the road that led from Lambourn into the green countryside beyond. In the distance, she could decipher a tiny group, black figures flying minuscule banners.

  Around her, the bailey was swarming with
soldiers and servants in preparation for le Bec’s mighty column. But Arissa was completely ignorant of the activity; all that mattered was Richmond’s imminent approach, drawing closer with each passing moment. She hadn’t seen him in nearly six months; she giddily wondered if he had changed. She couldn’t imagine that he was any different, or that she would love him any less.

  Arissa had always loved him; a wasted effort, but one she could not control. With the impending circumstance of the cloister lingering in her mind, she wondered how she was ever going to forget the man. She couldn’t remember ever being without him…. how was she supposed to cleave all memory, all feeling, as if she were severing a limb?

  Staring at the advancing party, she knew there was no other choice but to amputate quickly. She had to sever him, all of him, and do it before she lost her nerve. ’Twould be less painful if she were to do it rapidly… but how?

  Unsteadily, she turned away from the half-open portcullis and began to wander back toward the castle. How indeed? Unaware of Penelope and Emma’s shadowing presence, she began to plan exactly how to rid herself of the mighty Richmond le Bec. For the sake of her mental faculties, she had no other choice. She simply couldn’t spend the rest of her life fantasizing over the object of a young maiden’s adoration.

  Be firm, she told herself forcefully. No unsolicited smiles, speak to him only if necessary. Remain polite but aloof. And, by all means, no games! Richmond had a fondness for games and would spend hours with Arissa and her sister, Regine, playing cards or indulging in a round of Hot Cockles. He made her love him all the more with his gentle smile and deep laughter when he allowed her and Regine to best him.

  Still immersed in her thoughts, she was hardly aware when the massive structure of Lambourn allowed her to pass deep into the safety of its innards. Penelope’s mother, the Lady Maxine, met the three young ladies in the foyer.