Fathers and Sons: A Collection of Medieval Romances

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Did you intend to use that at some point?” He gestured to the crossbow.

  Zayin chuckled. “I was commanded to use it but I did not have the opportunity. Lady Colchester had the privilege before I did.”

  Garret had a feeling it was a command from Walter or de Winter, but he didn’t ask. He was grateful. “Privilege,” he muttered. “A necessity, you mean. I suppose if it was anyone’s right, it was hers. She was married to the devil.”

  Zayin’s humor faded as he looked down at Colchester. “He looks much smaller and weaker than I remembered him as he was upon the sands of my country.”

  Garret looked at him. “I am sorry I did not kill him on that night,” he said. “I should have. It would have saved all of this anguish.”

  But Zayin shook his head. “Nay, Salibi, it would not have,” he said. “Everything happened as it should. I came to England because of you. I came because I felt I owed you my life, and I still feel that way. My time to return the favor will come, but now was not the time. As for Alfaar… had you killed him on that night, you would never have met Lady Lyssa. He is the reason you were brought together. Mayhap… mayhap that is why you let him live those years ago. God would not let you kill that which you needed.”

  It was a rather interesting take on the situation, but one that made some sense. “If everything happens as it should in the universe, then mayhap you are correct in that way,” he said. “Mayhap, that is the only way to look at it.”

  Zayin’s dark eyes glimmered in the rising sun. “In a sense, Colchester brought about some good in the end. He made you realize your love for the lady.”

  “As twisted as it sounds, he had a hand in it. He made me understand what it was to sacrifice myself for the love of a woman.”

  Zayin smiled. “A great and wise man once said that the world moves for love,” he said softly. “The world stands in awe of love. It worships the very breath upon which it is spoken. Your faith in love is what brought you through this, Garret, and your love for Lyssa is what will sustain you. I have faith that all will turn out as it should for the future.”

  Garret thought of Lyssa, lying in his bed, perhaps dying, perhaps not. He’d never known a stronger urge than he did the urge to be at her side, at that very moment. He was almost panicked with it as he turned for the horses. Zayin followed.

  “With Colchester gone and a new day dawning, I find that I want to share it all with Lyssa,” he said softly as they swiftly walked. “Nothing else matters right now but returning to her side. Even if I just have a few more precious moments with her, having known love… having experienced it… I will consider myself blessed to have something few men ever have.”

  “Then you are the richest man I have ever known.”

  Garret smiled weakly, but his anxiety to return to Westminster grew. Soon enough, he found his horse and prepared to depart with the droves of men that were already pouring from The Wix. The great conflict was over and now men would return home to tale tales of the duke who turned brother against brother, and the duchess who put an end to it all. Strange tales, indeed, as some might even accuse them of lying.

  For certain, it had to be seen to be believed.

  Once Garret mounted his steed, following the men to the gate, he happened to glance over and see Rose with several other women as they headed back into the manse, carrying a stretcher between them. It was then that he saw Gavin beside the stretcher, holding the hand of whoever was on it, and Garret suspected that Gavin had located his sister. Servants were rushing about, carrying torches, and helping the women back into The Wix where they would no longer live in fear.

  The duchess had made sure of that.

  Once Garret left The Wix, he pushed all thoughts of the duke, the battle, and the events of the night from his mind. Thundering down The Strand, he made it to Westminster ahead of most of his men, his knights bringing up the rear as they passed through the South Gate. Some of the men who had been sick were better now, up on the walls and waving in Garret and his knights, and the soldiers who had traveled with them to The Wix. Even at Westminster, all was as it should be as the new day dawned. But for Garret, he only had one thing on his mind.

  Lyssa.

  Dismounting his horse, he practically ran into the apartment block, charging into his quarters. As soon as he entered the reception room, he could see a faint light coming from his bedchamber and he went to the door, watching apprehensively from the doorway as Alpin bent over Lyssa. He couldn’t see what the man was doing so he took a few nervous steps in, his heart in his throat at what he would find. But when Alpin stepped away, he saw that the man had a bowl in his hand and a spoon. Before Garret could ask him of Lyssa condition, he heard a soft voice.

  “Y-You have returned.”

  It was Lyssa.

  Startled to hear her voice, and even more startled to see that she was awake, he pushed past Alpin and took a knee beside the bed. After what he’d been through, he was having trouble controlling his emotions so he forced a smile as he gazed into her eyes, a big hand stroking her hair.

  “Aye, I have,” he murmured, bending down to kiss her cheek tenderly. “How do you feel?”

  “Better,” Alpin answered for her. He set the bowl down as Garret looked at him. “The lass woke up a few minutes ago and demanded food. If she’s hungry, ’tis a good sign.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “As certain as I can be. There is hope.”

  Garret couldn’t describe the relief he felt at the news. He was weak with it. Briefly, he closed his eyes in thanks, feeling the tears threaten. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that Lyssa was looking at him.

  “W-Where did you go?” she asked. “A-And why do you look so beaten?”

  He didn’t want to tell her. Eventually, he would but, at the moment, he didn’t see the need. A story like that was for a time when she was stronger. In fact, he wasn’t even sure he could tell her without breaking down, so it was better if he didn’t for now.

  “I fell off my horse,” he told her, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it gently.

  Her brow furrowed. “I-I am to believe that?”

  “For now.”

  Lyssa didn’t push. He looked like he was about to break as it was, so she let it go. “T-Then at least tell me where you went,” she said. “T-To summon the priest?”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “For what? Last rites? You must be mad.”

  Lyssa smiled faintly. “T-That is not what I mean,” she said. “Y-You promised me a sunrise wedding.”

  “Of course I did, but we should do it when you are feeling better.”

  “W-Why?”

  He couldn’t think of a good enough reason, and the lady got what the lady wanted. With Zayin, Gart, Rhys, Knox, and Walter as witnesses, the only priest they could locate at Westminster Abbey with the authority to perform a wedding mass joined Sir Garret de Moray and Lady Lyssa du Bose in marriage near the time of the nooning meal. The bride was in bed, the groom on his knees, and his friends crammed in to the small bedchamber to witness such an event. Even under what most would consider less than desirable circumstances, for those in that room, it wasn’t the surroundings that made the marriage.

  It was the couple.

  The final words Garret spoke to his new wife, paraphrased from Zayin, confirmed that love was, indeed, alive and well in the heart of Garret de Moray, for the love he spoke of was the strongest thing about him, the shield which he would bear for a lifetime. A strength that could only come from a love stronger than time itself.

  “The world moves for love. It stands in awe of love. It worships the very breath upon which it is spoken. My faith in love is what binds me to you and my love for you is what will sustain me until the end of all things.”

  Finally, Kronos, the man who was great and wise in all things, the man who had once been accused by men of being immortal, knew the true meaning of a life everlasting.

  The key was love.

  * THE END *

&n
bsp; Children of Garret and Lyssa

  Bose

  Lara

  Nicola

  Sage

  Roan

  Chaunce

  THE GORGON

  A Medieval Romance

  By Kathryn Le Veque

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Month of May, Year of Our Lord 1235

  Chaldon Castle

  Dorset, England

  The sultry August heat was manageable this day. As the sun broke the eastern horizon, the lush English countryside embraced the coming day with open arms. Not only was the advancing day glorious of weather and promise, but the inhabitants of the gentle hills of Dorset were anticipating this day with excitement.

  In faith, the day itself could have been wrought with storms and foul weather and still it would have been a grand morn. For on this day, a long-standing celebration was preparing to mount and nothing could dampen the spirits of peasant and noble alike, fine blood and common lines readying the stronghold of Chaldon Castle for the activities of the approaching gala.

  The mighty stronghold of Chaldon guarded the road between Dorchester and Weymouth and was being prepared as a new bride for her husband. Proud banners of du Bonne red and white streamed from the mighty battlements, snapping in the steady ocean breeze. The constant hint of salt-air was heavy upon the fortress, licking man and beast alike with dampness as they went about their duties.

  Just outside of the open fortress gates lay the field of celebration, a margin of meadow that had been prepared for the events of competition. A large bank of lodges had been constructed to accommodate the noble visitors that would be gracing Chaldon this day, and already a small army of peasants had constructed their vendor’s shacks and stalls to provide refreshment between contests.

  In the enormous keep of Chaldon that housed the reigning Constable and his family, all was not as sunny as the day appeared. The object of the pending celebration was not the least bit pleased at the moment as he tripped over the clutter of his bower.

  “God’s Blood,” the young man spat. “I cannot find anything in this place.”

  A smirking face appeared in an adjoining door, features similar to those of the cursing young man. “Temper, temper, my young lord,” he cautioned. “You’ll chase all of the young women away with your foul temper and nasty disposition.”

  The frowning man slugged his fist into his smug companion’s chest, lacking any power to the blow. “Shut your mouth, Ian. Where in the hell is my hauberk? I cannot find the thing anywhere.”

  Ian, at least a head taller than his testy younger brother, maintained his smirk as he kicked through a pile of clutter on the floor. “Here it is, lover. Do not fret so.”

  The younger man snatched the mail hood from his brother, scowling fiercely. “God’s Blood, I’d rather get dressed by myself. Go and bother someone else.”

  Ian snorted humorously, ignoring his brother’s demand for solitude and moving for the suit of armor against the broad stretch of wall. Two young squires sat against the cold stone, polishing the armor furiously.

  “There is no one else to tolerate me,” he said, examining a recently-cleaned greave. “Stephan is with Genisa, probably mounting her for the fourth time this morn, and Summer has been in her solar since dawn, demanding to be left alone. She swears this gala to celebrate your knighthood will drive us to the poorhouse.”

  The cross young man grunted as he fumbled with his mailed protection. “I did not ask for a party. ’Twas at father’s insistence.”

  Ian returned the greave to one of the young squires and moved to stroke the crafted hilt of his brother’s sword.

  “Be glad he insisted on celebrating your knighthood at all, Lance,” his voice was somewhat subdued. “Stephan received a new sheath for his broadsword. I received a handshake.”

  Lance glanced to his middle brother, two years older and sixty pounds heavier. Much larger than any of his siblings, he was a mild-mannered lout with a wicked sense of humor. It was a quick wit that Lance had missed terribly when the man had been knighted two years ago, leaving his youngest brother to finish his training alone.

  Stephan, Ian and Lance du Bonne had fostered together at Shrewsbury Castle on the Welsh border, far from their coastal fortress of Chaldon. It was an unusual move to keep siblings together to foster, but the three had insisted. The three men had lived together, practiced together, and protected each other from the brutal realities of a careless world. They were a fearsome trio with an unusual reputation of family unity. Some had even wondered if the brothers were able to work one without the other.

  But they somewhat disproved that theory when Stephan was inducted into the knighthood at twenty-one years of age; Ian and Lance functioned quite well when Stephan returned to Chaldon. Four years later, Ian received his spurs and also found his way home, leaving young Lance alone at Shrewsbury to finish his training. As the gallery of critics awaited Lance’s failure, the lad proved them wrong and honorably earned his knighthood.

  In a sense, the festivities planned for this day were in celebration of the du Bonne brother’s reunion, not merely the recently attained pair of golden spurs. The three were looking forward to a future of tournaments, leisure and exhilarating adventure.

  At this moment, however, Lance could not consider the future beyond locating his boots. As Ian lingered against the wall, continuing his inspection of the squires’ handiwork, Lance fumbled about in his cluttered chamber like a huffing bear.

  “Damn… I cannot find a damn thing!” he grumbled, managing to locate one boot but not the other. After a moment, he stood tall and shook his fists in frustration. “How is it that everything I need is missing?”

  Ian shook his head, moving away from the squires and into the center of the room. “Mayhap if you cleaned the chamber, you could find what you are looking for.”

  “Enough from you, swill-brain,” Lance snarled, crowing with triumph when he caught sight of his other boot. Falling to the mussed bed, he pulled on his footwear. “Stephan said that Genisa was finishing my new tunic. He should have brought it to me by now.”

  Ian pursed his lips wryly. “I told you that he is most likely with his wife, driving himself into her lovely body until he dies. In fact, I should be so fortunate to warrant such a death.”

  Lance eyed his brother a moment, his irritation fading as he gazed into the familiar features. “You are still quite fond of Genisa, are you not?”

  The mirth in Ian’s eyes faded as he averted his gaze. “She is my brother’s wife.”

  Lance rose from the disheveled mattress to collect his hauberk. “You’ve been in love with her since you met her. Two years ago, I believe.”

  Ian refused to look at his brother. “I never told you that.”

  Lance put his head through the mail hood, moving for the open door. Holding out his arms, Ian took the silent request and helped his brother don the remainder of the heavy mail.

  “You did not have to,” Lance’s voice was quiet as he adjusted the protection about his shoulders. “I can see it in your eyes every time you look at her. I can only imagine that the feeling for her blossomed when you first met her upon returning home from Shrewsbury two years ago. Summer swears that you have never looked at Genisa with anything other than love in your eyes.”

  The mood between the brothers du Bonne was reversing; where Lance had been irritable and sullen only moments before, Ian was now taking on brother’s characteristics.

  “Our little sister does not know everything.”

  “Aye, she does. She has wisdom beyond her years.”

  Ian scratched his blond scalp, uncomfortable with the subject of his lovely sister-in-law. If truth be known, Summer was right. And so was Lance. But he would not admit the truth, not when he loved Stephan far more than his beautiful wife. A sweet fantasy was Genisa and nothing more.

  Moving away from his brother, he pretended to busy himself with his Lance’s armor. He was eager to change the subject.

  “Speaking of Summ
er,” he said casually, “What are we going to do about our baby sister today? Has Stephan made any suggestions?”

  Lance shrugged, aware of Ian’s bid to shift the subject. “I do not suppose there is anything we can do except be with her constantly. Summer should not be alone for a single moment, Ian.”

  Pleased that his brother had taken the hint to change the topic, Ian nodded gravely. “Indeed. I do not suppose we could discourage her from attending the tourney altogether, could we?”

  Lance snorted. “Not a chance. She has hardly been out of Chaldon as it is and, as with all young maidens, is eager to attend her first tourney.”

  Ian let out a long, harsh breath. “So be it. We cannot discourage her from attending the festivities,” scratching his head again, he seemed to be regaining his good humor. “God help the idiot who is the first to criticize her condition.”

  “Which is why one of us must be with her at all times,” Lance said firmly. “Under no circumstances must Summer be allowed to express herself.”

  “You mean speak.”

  “Aye, that’s exactly what I mean. We will do the speaking for her.”

  Ian’s gaze was pensive as he watched his brother mill about the piles of disarrayed clutter.

  “God’s Blood, Lance, what did she do before Stephan returned home from Shrewsbury six years ago?” he wondered aloud. “Who protected her from the ignorant rabble?”

  Lance found the pair of protective inner gloves he had been searching for. “She was only three when I left home to foster and had not yet learned to speak,” he said. “By the time Stephan returned, she was eleven. Kermit, her childhood tutor, kept her sequestered in the solar most of the time, teaching her to read and figure mathematics. I suppose that is why the solar is still her favorite place; she can hide from the world within its shielding walls. It is the only safe haven away from those who would taunt her.”

  Ian shook his head in disgust, moving to the lancet window. Unlatching the latticed grate, his gaze wandered over the brightly colored grounds below, inspecting the visitors that had begun arriving yesterday. Many more were expected during the course of the morn, for the tournament was scheduled to begin after the nooning meal.