Fathers and Sons: A Collection of Medieval Romances

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Her voice was quiet but firm as she eyed her apprehensive sister-in-law. “Go away, Genisa. Please go away and leave me alone.”

  Genisa’s expression washed with genuine remorse. “Summer, I am truly sorry. But you know as well as I that… we must make sure you are kept silent and protected.”

  “Protected? Ha!” Summer snorted. “You mean properly hidden.”

  “Hidden?” Genisa repeated, sincerely confused. “Not hidden, Summer. Protected.”

  “Call it what you will, Genisa. Regardless of the term used, it means the same thing. Isolating me from the world.”

  “Not by choice,” Genisa’s voice was quiet. “There are those who simply do not understand your flaw.”

  Although Genisa had meant to describe her affliction and nothing more, Summer interpreted her statement as an insult. Cheeks flushing with shame, she whirled on her sister-in-law in a vicious billow of golden satin. “My flaw is that I cannot speak a sentence without f-faltering at times. Your flaw is that you talk too much and your voice grates upon my ears like the b-bray of an injured goat. Now tell me; whose flaw is greater?”

  Genisa gasped, her mouth opening with outrage. “How cruel you are. I was merely trying to protect you, Summer!”

  “Do not protect me!” Summer practically screamed, oblivious to the curious glances upon the two shouting ladies. “I do not want your protection! In fact, I do not want you near me at all!”

  Genisa’s mouth gaped further, her cheeks mottling a hot red. “You ungrateful wench. How dare you spurn my concern!”

  Summer let out a strangled groan. “Concern for what others will think of your reputation with a sister-in-law who stutters,” when Genisa attempted to lodge a stern protest, Summer simply turned on her heel and marched in the opposite direction. “Go b-back to Stephan, Genisa. I do not need, nor do I want any more of your p-protection.”

  Genisa called to her and attempted to follow, but Summer gathered her skirts and dashed off as if the Devil himself were nipping at her heels. In and out of vendor shacks she ran, renting a wild path through the cluster of visitors in an attempt to elude her sister-in-law. She wanted to be free of the woman, if for no other reason than to compose her thoughts.

  By the time she entered the perimeter of tents housing opposing knights, Genisa’s shouts had faded and Summer slowed her pace, wiping the steady stream of tears from her cheeks. The day was waning as the sun set steadily in the western sky and high above, seagulls called loudly in their search for food.

  Summer ignored the gulls, the cooling sea breeze, and the distant roar of the crowd populating the vendor stalls and surrounding area. In spite of the clusters of unfamiliar tents, she knew the area well and realized, eventually, she would emerge onto the road leading to Chaldon. So she wandered, staring at the ground and going out of her way to avoid a knight or squire or servant within the field of the tightly clustered shelters.

  She did not want to speak with anyone. Nor did she particularly want to see anyone, given the fact that the only man she possessed a desire to see was probably lodged within the warm comfort of his tent, congratulating himself on a fine victory and putting her out of his mind.

  Toying with the ends of her hair absently, her expression molded into that of a permanent pout, she wandered to the base of a gnarled old oak and deposited herself at the roots. The pungent smells of roasting meat filled the air as the evening meal drew close, but Summer wasn’t hungry in the least. There wasn’t a food or drink in the world that could ease the ache she was experiencing at the moment. It was an ache that only intensified when she caught sight of the striking black and white tent in the near distance.

  The proud Gorgon banner flapped sharply in the brisk sea wind, silently saluting the onset of a mild evening. Summer ripped up clods of grass, venting her turmoil and wondering why God had saddled her with so horrible an affliction. She oft made a conscious effort not to stammer her speech, speaking slowly and distinctly. And sometimes, her efforts worked. But more often than not, she would forget her slowed pace and return to her natural pattern and stuttering syllables.

  Sir Bose wasn’t to blame for his unwillingness to defy her father’s denial. In truth, she did not blame him; she blamed her father for his sense of pride, unwilling to expose his daughter to a potential suitor and thereby release the secret of her speech impediment. And once Sir Bose discovered her imperfection, certainly, he would formulate his own rejection.

  But, Dear God, somehow she wished he would be able to overlook her flaw in lieu of her better qualities. As if, somehow, he would be able to tolerate her stammering in lieu of coming to know the woman beneath the defect. Dear God… she wished he would be different from the rest.

  The sun descended in the western sky, turning the colors from blue to orange to gold; still, Summer continued to sit beneath the old oak tree in gloomy silence. As dusk drew nigh and the damp sea breeze turned cold and wet, still, she sat and pondered her impending future. Realizing that, indeed, she appeared not to have one at all.

  *

  In spite of the fact that the evening meal should have been a victory celebration, there was very little happiness at all. Within the encampment of the House of de Moray, the mood was oddly sullen and strangely quiet. As the knights in Bose’s service commenced their meal of mutton, onions and sweetened carrots, there was far less joviality than usual. Little talk, meaningless banter, and at the head of the silence sat none other than Bose himself.

  A trencher of half-eaten mutton sat before him, cooling and scarcely touched. On his right, Morgan picked through his meal in respectful silence, eyeing Tate now and again to make sure the knight had every intention of keeping his mouth shut on the subject of Lady Summer. To make sure they all kept their mouths shut. There was not one man among the morose crowd that wished to broach the truth.

  They had all seen Bose ride to the dais with the intention of speaking to the beautiful young woman. And they had all seen the lady escorted from his presence. What could have been a potentially pleasing situation turned dark and moody the moment the lady left his company.

  Even after the lady had long since vanished, Bose had remained silent and pensive and isolated, poised before the lodges that had once been filled with people screaming his name. There was no one left to congratulate the victor; not even the only woman from whom he would have gladly accepted the accolades. So he turned away from the vacant seats and returned to his encampment, empty-handed and closed mouth.

  There was not one man in the tent that hadn’t suspected Bose’s purpose when he boldly approached the dais. Knowing their lord as they did, his reserved nature and disinterest toward life in general, it must have taken a tremendous amount of courage for him to initiate the action. And further knowing the man as they did, there wasn’t one man in the tent immune to the sting of rejection their liege was experiencing.

  Beyond Morgan’s pensive silence and Tate’s deliberate quiet, Farl McCorkle eyed his liege with a good deal of sympathy. A massive, burly Irishman, he had served with Bose for several years within the Household Guard. His bushy red eyebrows and overgrown mustache almost gave him the appearance of an unkempt heathen; in truth, there was no finer warrior in the heat of battle and Bose considered himself fortunate to warrant the man’s loyalty.

  Seated next to the crusty Irish knight was a diminutive warrior by the name of Adgar Ross. Where his Celtic counterpart was brawny, loud and curt, Adgar by contrast was quiet, well-manicured and faintly handsome. Nearly as old as Morgan, in spite of his small stature and meek manner he was a fierce fighter and an intelligent tactician. Bose and Adgar had carried on many a conversation regarding battle methods and maneuvers before competition, establishing a winning pattern that carried through to this very day.

  Aye, Farl and Adgar were worth their weight in gold as far as Bose was concerned. As in the melee today, they had been powerful contenders who had lasted admirably. But this night, their usual advice and commentary regarding the day’s match w
as unwanted by their brooding liege. Having been advised of the circumstances regarding a certain young lady, the two knights maintained their respectful silence just like the others.

  That is, all except for Artur. Bose’s great-uncle wasn’t a knight, nor had he ever been. He was a tiny old man born with a crippled arm that had prevented him from training as a proper knight. In spite of his defect, Artur possessed the extreme de Moray trait of determination. He had fostered in a fine household and although unable to participate in actual knightly training, he nonetheless learned all he was able and soon took to training knights himself, working in apprenticeship with a collection of powerful warriors.

  Artur had helped train Bose’s father, and Bose himself when he had come of age. Throughout his grand-nephew’s years of service as Captain of the Guard, Artur had been at the forefront of organizing and instructed the captain’s men. Bose refused to be without the little man – he may have been stubborn, private and independent, but he was extremely loyal to those closest to him. ’Twas a tightly knit group encompassing the House of de Moray, protective and strong, and if Bose never accomplished another feat of glory in his life, he would have gone to his grave extremely proud of the life and relationships he had nurtured.

  “Why would not the baron let you speak with his daughter, Bose?” Artur finally asked the fateful question they had all been pondering for the better part of an hour. “Did you offend him somehow?”

  Morgan and Tate looked to each other, waiting for their liege to explode. Although Bose wasn’t a naturally violent man, he had been known to break furniture on occasion when pushed beyond his limits. Farl simply pretended he hadn’t heard the question while Adgar focused on his half-finished meal. When his grand-nephew did not answer right away, the old man pushed.

  “What did you do, Bose?”

  On his fourth cup of ale, Bose contemplated his pewter chalice in silence. After a lengthy pause, during which Artur grunted an additional measure of encouragement, he grasped the cup and drained the contents. Morgan refilled it immediately.

  “In faith, I do not know,” his baritone voice was hoarse with fatigue and alcohol. “I suppose I am not considered a fine enough prospect for the baron’s lovely daughter.”

  “Posh,” Artur spat, shuffling across the floor and shoving Tate from his chair. Taking the man’s seat, he focused intently on his brooding nephew. “You are as fine a knight as has ever lived, Bose, and certainly a suitable match for a baron’s daughter.”

  Faintly, Bose shook his head. “It’s not the fact that she is a mere baron’s daughter. She is so damn beautiful that surely they are awaiting a more… attractive prospect.”

  “Rubbish!” Artur crowed, jabbing a gnarled finger into the man’s chest. “There’s nothing wrong with your appearance. So you have a few scars; so what? There’s not one perfect individual upon the face of the earth, including Lord du Bonne’s daughter, I’d wager. Surely the girl has a flaw.”

  “Not this girl.”

  Artur shook his head in exasperation. “You are too quick to praise and too quick to concede defeat. The Bose I know would not have given up as easily as this. Are you so lacking in confidence that you will not fight for what you want?”

  Bose’s brow furrowed with confusion and he took another hearty draw of ale. After a lengthy hesitation, he emitted a loud sigh. “God’s Beard, Artur, I never said I wanted the girl. I merely wished to ask for her favor and suddenly, everyone is acting as if my marriage proposal was rejected.”

  “’Tis because you are acting in the same manner. I would tend to believe that you want more than a favor from the girl.”

  Looking into Artur’s face for the first time, it was an effort for Bose to scowl convincingly. “You are mad,” he hissed, draining his cup and rising from the table. Still clad in his mail tunic and plate armor, he wandered away from the table. “How would you know what I am feeling? You’ve never even seen the woman; you are basing your observations on what these fools are telling you. They insist I am somehow in love with a woman I do not even know, and you believe them.”

  “I believe my eyes and ears and instincts. And they are confirming what I have been told.”

  Bose grunted with frustration, turning away from the collection of men huddled about the small cherrywood table. “You are all mad. The woman means absolutely nothing to me.”

  “Then why are you so troubled?”

  Bose stared at the half-open tent flap, his frustration fading as he pondered Artur’s softly-uttered question. God’s Beard, why was he so troubled? He’d never spoken to the Lady Summer; he’d seen her barely twice and the relationship they shared was purely one of smiles and glances and nothing more. There was no physical contact involved, no stolen kisses, nothing whatsoever to warrant a strong emotional attachment.

  … then why was he so troubled?

  “I am not troubled by the lady,” his reply filled the drawn-out pause. “’Twould seem that my collection of knights is intent to exaggerate the situation and for that, I am indeed distressed. Now hurry and finish your meals and be out of my sight.”

  The order was taken literally. Those with food remaining on their trenchers began to shove huge bites into their mouths. But Artur continued to stare at the dark warrior and knowing that there was far more supporting the refusals of his interest in the lady than he was willing to voice.

  “It’s Margot, isn’t it?” the old man’s voice was quiet. “She has managed to convince you that any normal interest you should experience for a woman is a direct insult to Lora’s memory.”

  Bose looked to his grand-uncle, the onyx-black eyes smoldering with restrained emotion. “She has not convinced me of anything. And you will not bring Lora into this.”

  “The old bitch has you chained to her daughter’s memory as if you were an eternal prisoner.” Artur was unafraid of his hulking nephew’s wrath; when speaking of Margot or Lora, the calm persona that was the epitome of Bose’s character saw a rapid collapse. Artur was genuinely distressed over the peculiar power Margot seemed to wield against her son-in-law, a strength Bose oddly refused to acknowledge.

  “Do you not see what she is doing to you, Bose?” the old man hissed pleadingly. “She is controlling you through her dead daughter and you are allowing her to do so.”

  Bose’s cheek ticked faintly as he eyed his uncle a long moment. “I will not discuss this with you, uncle. Not tonight.”

  “So you are not. ’Tis I who am discussing it with you. Margot has persuaded you to live only for Lora’s memory and not for the future that lies ahead. What if this Lady Summer is someone with whom you could arrange a satisfactory contract? Will you give it all up for the ramblings of a bitter old woman and the memory of her dead daughter?”

  Bose’s face mottled a dull red. Had he not forced himself to turn away, he most likely would have said or done something unreasonable.

  “Good knights, if your meal is concluded, then be gone with you,” he said quietly. “The joust is on the morrow and I will insist my men retire early.”

  Tate needed no further encouragement. He had already provoked his liege well beyond the limits this day and from his liege’s current mood after Artur’s pestering, suspected it would be wise to make himself scarce. Farl and Adgar abruptly lifted themselves from their chairs, determined to finish their food elsewhere. This was not a place they wanted to be.

  Only Morgan and Artur were left, alternately staring at each other and the massive man frozen near the shelter opening. Seeing that it would be of no use to press the topics of Margot or the obscure Lady Summer, Artur wisely concluded to rest both subjects. All thoughts of Bose’s manipulative mother-in-law aside, he would again press the focus of the mysterious woman with the next opportunity.

  “Where’s Antony?” Bose shifted the focus.

  Artur looked around, disinterestedly at first, but with more conviction when Morgan leapt from his chair and joined the search.

  “He was here when we commenced with o
ur meal,” Morgan replied, sifting through the bedding at the opposite side of the tent. “I fed him a piece of bread.”

  Bose’s brow furrowed as he began to search, looking under the table and chairs, rummaging through the boxes and satchels. But as the search progressed and still no ferret, Bose realized that his clever friend must have escaped the tent.

  “God’s Beard,” he hissed, more frightened that Antony would come to harm than he was for the fact that his secretive pet would be discovered. “I have got to find him. Come along, Morgan, and help me search. He knows you.”

  Without hesitation, Morgan quit the tent in pursuit of his liege, leaving Artur to finish combing the far reaches of the tent. But the old man realized that the black-eyed animal was not within the boundaries of the black and white shelter. If he did not end up as mashed guts beneath the hooves of a charger or the main course of a peasant’s meal, it would be a miracle.

  But Artur believed in miracles. Slowing his search, he lowered his weary body to Bose’s comfortable chair and sighed deeply, listening to the cries of the nightbird. Even as his thoughts were focused on his nephew’s attachment to the pet, somewhere in the midst of gray and white fuzz again came thoughts of a certain young lady. He wondered if the lady liked ferrets, too.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Damnation!” came the foul roar. “You did that on purpose!”

  “Quit your bellowing and allow me to finish.”

  Small, piercing blue eyes glared daggers at the aged physic as the man finished the last of the stitches. When he was finished, the injured man with the unruly mass of bright red hair snatched the pewter hand mirror from the table beside him and peered intently at his reflection.

  “Damnation,” he spewed again with far less volume. “It will leave a scar. Just inside my hairline.”