Fathers and Sons: A Collection of Medieval Romances

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Maddoc looked at his father through his haze of determination and reluctantly agreed. A few hours would not change the situation with Adalind, wherever she was. He could feel himself getting apprehensive and edgy over the thought of a delay but he fought it. He hated to admit that he still felt very weak, so perhaps a good meal and some sleep would help him in regaining some of his strength.

  He was going to need all of it for what he was about to face.

  As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,

  Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time:

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Brighton was furious. Really and truly furious. He was angry with d’Aubigney and his wife for allowing Adalind to escape. The blame just couldn’t be placed anywhere else; Lady Isabelle had allowed Adalind to somehow slip away, through a servant’s passage, he was told. A couple of cooks had seen her as she had made her escape but they had no idea who she was and made no effort to stop her. Those cooks had been punished but Adalind was gone nonetheless.

  Her disappearance had occurred well before sup. No one even realized she had left until the evening meal, when the sun had gone down, and Lady Isabelle had gone to check on her. The room had been empty and the Lady Adalind, vanished. It had been at least five hours since the last anyone had seen of Adalind so there was no telling where she was or how long she had been missing. Even so, the castle was locked down and every inch of it searched for the lady. Not surprisingly, she was not to be found.

  Now it was dark, with a fat half-moon illuminating the night sky, and Brighton was preparing to depart Arundel in his search for Adalind. In the knight’s quarters in an outbuilding attached to the castle’s curtain wall, he finished securing his armor and weapons. Gloves were strapped and secured. Every movement was sharp and edgy, indicative of his anger. As he plopped his helm on his head and gathered his traveling satchel, he determined that the moment he found Adalind, he would hunt down a priest and force the man to marry them. He was no longer going to be sensitive to Adalind’s nonsense. He was finished feeling pity for her. Her escape had erased any measure of compassion he had ever felt for her.

  Departing Arundel without so much as a word of farewell or warning from d’Aubigney, Brighton set off into the night. True, it wasn’t particularly wise to travel at night, much less travel alone, but he had no fear as he took the road east. He suspected Adalind would be heading in the same direction in her haste to return to Canterbury. He was fairly certain that she was on foot, which meant he would overcome her fairly quickly if she stayed true to the road.

  Of course, there were many towns between Arundel and Canterbury, and it would take weeks for her to reach Canterbury on foot, so he would be vigilant. He was certain he could find her. But his true hope was to find her before something terrible happened to her. More than her escape, more than d’Aubigney’s negligence, he was genuinely angry over the lady’s determination to put herself in such danger. He planned to tell her so when he found her. And then he would marry her and, as her husband, perhaps take a switch to her lovely backside to drive home his point.

  Shortly after midnight, the clouds rolled in and a heavy rain fell.

  *

  Three days out of Canterbury, Daniel found himself heading south in a blinding rainstorm. It was so bad that the air itself was gray, nearly obliterating any glimpse of landscape around him. He could have been passing through hell’s half-acre for all he knew because he couldn’t see a thing with all of the mist and inclement weather. It was enough to tip his already foul mood into overload.

  Two long days of travel had given him a good deal of time to think. An inherently lonely man in spite of his enormous family and close friends, he rather preferred his own company to the company of others and preferred to travel alone, so his current situation was nothing new. He liked it that way. But it did give him time to reflect on life in general, on his father and his niece, and on Maddoc. More than once over the past few days, thoughts of Maddoc, and their adventures together, had brought a smile to his lips.

  Daniel and Maddoc were born ten months apart, so they were essentially the same age. When Maddoc had fostered at Lioncross Abbey Castle on the Welsh Marches, Daniel had as well. They had met under Christopher de Lohr’s roof and had been strong friends ever since. Maddoc had been a big child, rather silent and intense, while Daniel had been loud and brash. It had been Daniel who would coerce Maddoc into his schemes, such as stealing cheese or lifting the coin purse off a sleeping knight, but it was Maddoc who would take the punishment when they were caught. The earl’s son was rather untouchable, especially since his uncle was also an earl, but the grandson of the Duke of Navarre was fair game.

  In spite of the times Maddoc had taken the punishment for Daniel, their friendship was unbreakable. In their first battle together, squiring for other knights, Maddoc had saved Daniel’s life when a rogue soldier had tried to kill him and Maddoc ended up spearing the man. Daniel had reciprocated the next year in much the same situation.

  Daniel laughed when he thought of the time when he and Maddoc, newly knighted and off to travel for a few months, had stopped at an inn in Cumbria where a busty and lusty serving wench had set her sights on Maddoc. Being young, rather virginal, and also rather hot blooded at that point in his life, Maddoc had fallen for the woman’s charms and ended up in bed with her. At least, that was the plan. But before that rendezvous could take place, Daniel had swapped out the young wench for one three times the woman’s age. Maddoc had retired for the night to what he thought would be a hot bit of flesh and instead ended up in bed with a shriveled old corpse. Daniel could still hear the man screaming. It had been hysterical fun.

  More adventures followed the pair as they grew older, but Maddoc’s focus was on his career while Daniel’s remained on travel and adventure. Maddoc settled in at Canterbury and the pair went on with their lives as they chose them, but they had always remained very close. As Daniel plodded along through the pouring rain, he alternately laughed at the memories and raged at the current situation. All he knew was that Brighton de Royans was going to suffer a painful and lingering death. He hated a man he had never even met. He was going to kill him with his bare hands.

  As the day began to wane and the thunder rolled, Daniel was seriously thinking about seeking shelter. In spite of the weather, he had managed to travel between twenty and twenty-five miles a day, mostly because he traveled so much and knew how to get the most mileage out of the day no matter what the conditions. He was seasoned, and he was hearty. As he directed his steed off of the pitted road and up onto an embankment of smooth, wet green grass to make the path easier for the horse, he noticed that he was coming upon a town. Coming down off the embankment and back onto the road where it leveled out near the edge of town, he decided this would be the place he sought shelter for the evening.

  He passed by wet homes and businesses as he plodded along the road. He kept an eye out for an inn and came across one near the center of the town. There was actually a square of some kind with a big trough in the middle of it which he realized was a well as he drew close. It was the town meeting place, usually full of vendors and buyers, now empty as the rain pounded. As he approached the inn, he noticed a church off to his left, a gray-stoned building blending in with the gray rain and mist. It appeared cold, as churches often did, and crowded, oddly enough. He could see people standing just inside the entry, perhaps seeking shelter from the rain just as he was.

  Finding some shelter for his horse behind the inn in a rather crowded stable, he paid the boy tending the horses a pence to see to his stallion and proceeded to make his way towards the rear of the inn. He sloshed through the mud, knowing he was going to have to pay someone to clean the rust off his mail that night. The stuff would seize up if he didn’t have it cleaned off and he wouldn’t be able to wear it.

  Opening up the inn door, he was hit in the face with heat and the stench of smoke and too many dirty bodies. The place was absol
utely packed and he took a couple of steps in, scoping out the landscape, before realizing there was no use in going any further. Every single corner was jammed with people. Frustrated, he quit the inn and left the back door hanging open as he made his way back to the stables.

  He was halfway across the swampy yard when it occurred to him that there was a church across the road. At least it would be dry shelter and, perhaps, he could impose upon a priest to direct him to a family willing to provide him with a meal for a few coins. Wiping the water out of his eyes, he shifted his route and headed in the direction of the church.

  The weather was worse now, if such a thing was possible. He’d never seen such rain. Making his way quickly across the square, he headed for the enormous church that was now looming ahead through the gray. He had his satchel and broadsword under his left arm, trying to keep both of them dry as he made his way through a rock-filled lake that was really the walkway leading up to the church. At this point, all he could think of was getting dry until the sounds of screams filled the air.

  At first, he didn’t pay much attention. He wasn’t about to involve himself in someone else’s affairs but he did keep an eye out just so he wouldn’t inadvertently get caught up in something. There was always someone looking to challenge a well-armed knight, wanting to make a name for himself, so his plan was to stay clear of whatever was going on and stick to the shadows. Then he’d find that priest who would direct him to a family in need of coin in exchange for a dry spot and hot food.

  At least, that was his hope until he spied the commotion that was causing the screaming. He could see it, clear as day, as he entered the church. There was a pair over near a small alcove, a man and a woman in mortal combat. It took him a moment to process what he was seeing and when realization finally dawned on him, his satchel hit the floor as did the heavy leather sheath for his broadsword. The weapon was unleashed and so was Daniel.

  Before he could draw two true and steady breaths, Daniel charged across the sanctuary floor with his broadsword held high and murder in his heart.

  He was out for blood.

  Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, its age-old pain,

  Its ancient tale of being apart or together.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The storm was legendary. In fact, Adalind had never seen such rain. It was as if God Himself were angry, casting down big lightning bolts with His eyes and creating thunder with His loud booming voice. She tried not to think that the weather was the result of God being angry with her, personally, for all of the sins she had committed over the past five days. She hoped He was an understanding God. If He wasn’t, then she hoped one of those lightning bolts wasn’t aimed at her head.

  It all started after her escape from Arundel. Adalind never knew she had a mind like a criminal but she evidently did because the first thing she did was steal some clothes that had been hung out to dry. As she had crossed through the town, a mad dash to get away from the castle, she ran through a cluster of poorly constructed homes where washed clothing had been hung out to dry on a sapling tree.

  As she ran, she almost passed it by but the thought that Brighton, or anyone else for that matter, would be able to spot her in her fine clothing had her stealing what she could off the tree and dashing into the woods with it.

  A quick inventory in the undergrowth showed that she had stolen a coarse linen shift, a type of surcoat, dyed red, that was more of a girdle with a skirt attached, another large red tunic that was more like a cloak than an actual tunic, and a pair of hose that were surprisingly soft. Very quickly, she had pulled off her fine clothing, all except her shift and corset, and pulled on the girdled skirt, hose, and cloak-like tunic. The material was rough, and the dye job was uneven, but the clothes were surprisingly clean and comfortable. They also blended in and made her look like a peasant. Please with her acquisition, she buried her fine clothing under a pile of moldering leaves and continued her flight.

  As the night fell on the first evening, she was afraid to travel in the dark so she sought shelter in a barn with a pair of cows for company. The barn was part of a small farm, for she could see the farmhouse in the distance, and she hid in the loft that was filled with dry and crunchy grass.

  As the sun set completely, the farmer brought his big shaggy horse into the barn and fed and watered all of the animals as Adalind hid in the loft and prayed he would not find her. He left, eventually, and went to the house, leaving Adalind with the animals and building up a powerful hunger.

  So she had crept out of the loft and scooted over to the house, staying to the shadows as the man and woman came outside and moved in and out of a cellar of sorts that was made out of stone. The old man would roll the stone door away and the woman would gather food items and take them back into the house.

  It gave Adalind an idea and before the night was over, she had managed to steal quite a bit of food from the stone cellar and the farmer’s shaggy horse. She left in the middle of the night, fearful she would be caught if she tried to leave before dawn because farmers were always up before the sun. Therefore, by the light of the half-moon, Adalind and her stolen horse traveled north.

  On the run, she began to think like the hunted. It was easier than she thought. She knew Brighton would have discovered her absence and she was positive he was trailing her so she had to be smarter than he was. She had to find a convent, a church, anywhere that would provide her sanctuary. It was her only hope because she had to assume she could not outrun Brighton over the long run. He would catch her and marry her and she would live in hell for the rest of her life. She couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Therefore, thinking like an outlaw became easier. She stole food when she could, hid in the shadows, and traveled in the trees that paralleled the road so she could stay away from those that traveled in the open.

  On the eve of the third day, she came across a small encampment and watched from the bushes, like a thief waiting to pounce, only to discover that the man she thought was sleeping by the fire was actually dead, so she stole his horse and most of his possessions. Coinage, food, weapons… it all became hers, and she rode off on a fine Belgian warmblood, feeling bad she had stolen everything but concerned only with her survival.

  With the money and her stolen wardrobe, she was able to pay for food for the next couple of nights and she even slept on a bed on the fourth evening. Being paranoid that Brighton would happen upon her at any moment, she stayed in a small inn with terrible food and a horrible stench. Surely Brighton would never stay in such a place and surely he would never look for her in such a place. It was the best night’s sleep she’d had in almost a month, safe in the arms of that smelly hostel.

  The fifth day had dawned stormy and windy, and she had traveled a short way before deciding to seek shelter from the elements. She entered into a larger village with a town center and a big well, riding comfortably because she was covered up with the dead man’s enormous cloak.

  Almost immediately, she spied the bell tower of a church and she made her way towards it. As she drew closer, she could see that it was a fairly large church with a cloister attached and she began to pray she found a safe haven that would protect her from Brighton. She could only imagine where the man was, nearby, on her tail, at any moment ready to capture her, so she was thrilled to have finally found safety. She was sure of it.

  There was a livery behind a small inn across the street from the church and she paid the boy handsomely to feed and water the fat Belgian warmblood that had, thus far, been a smooth and steady ride. He was a good horse. She left the stable as the boy was drying the horse off, lugging the big satchel with all of the possessions she had stolen. Other than the saddle, she wasn’t going to leave anything behind in the stable where it could be filched. Covering her head with the hood of the enormous cloak, she made her way through the mud and rain to the church across the square.

  It was fairly crowded inside and the soot given off by the tallow candles gave the air a greasy smell. It was stuffy,
but it was dry and relatively warm, and Adalind peeled off the hood of the cloak as she wandered into the cavernous sanctuary. She was looking for a priest, someone she could speak with about her quest for sanctuary and eventual commitment to a nunnery. There were plenty of peasants and travelers in the church, huddling in quiet groups, but it took her several minutes before she came across an acolyte who directed her to an alcove near the door where the priest was.

  Retracing her steps towards the front of the church where an arched doorway evidently led into the priestly alcove, she was about to enter the room when she heard a familiar voice. Not a friendly or comforting voice, but one from her nightmares. It took her a moment to digest what she had heard and come to a confused stop. Confusion turned to fear. Startled, she threw herself against the wall next to the door and, with a deep breath for courage, peered around the corner.

  Brighton was standing with the priest several feet away. He was in conversation with the man in stained brown robes, his back partially to the entry, but it was all Adalind needed to see. Panic filled her as she scampered away, trying not to make too much noise, struggling to camouflage herself in the groups of people that were huddled in the sanctuary seeking shelter from the elements. It was a harried flight, one that attracted some attention, as she made it to the other side of the church where shadows concealed the corners.

  Dear God, he is here! She thought frantically, throwing herself behind a big stone pillar that was part of the roof support. Her breathing was coming so fast and furiously that she ended up breaking down into terrified tears, covering her mouth so she wouldn’t make any sounds. Still, the shock was too great and she allowed herself a few seconds of hot, frightened tears. She knew he would come after her and was unhappy to realize she’d been correct. Of all the towns between Canterbury and Arundel, they both happened to stop in the same one. The irony was unfathomable.