Lords of the Kingdom

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Weston pulled her into his embrace as she grew hysterical. His mouth was by her ear.

  “Perhaps he did,” he whispered, trying desperately to calm her. “It makes sense now why Cecily is marrying a man with one foot in the grave and grown children. She could do no better. But you, on the other hand, have a husband who loves you deeply and is accepting your child as his own. Do not worry about Sorrell’s actions in the past; you cannot change them and nothing he does should be shocking to you. But have no doubt that someday, at the time of my choosing, I will find Sorrell and I will make him pay. For everything he did to you, every pain and every humiliation, know that I will make him pay a thousand times over. The man will wish he had never been born.”

  By this time, she had stopped gasping and was gazing up at him with tears on her cheeks. His words touched her deeply; he’d meant to comfort her and he had. But she was still upset.

  “How fortunate I am to have you,” she whispered. “I thank God every day that he has brought you to me.”

  He smiled faintly. “I do the same.”

  She watched him kiss her hand, succeeding in calming her with his tender manner and strong words. But she was still shaken, the cold grip of a bad memory struggling to pull her back into the depths of despair again.

  “Please,” she begged softly. “I just want to go home.”

  He touched her cheek, kissing it. “I know,” he said softly. “But I do not think we can pull Heath and John away from the unpledged ladies. They are like foxes in the hen house and I will not leave them here. They would wreak terrible havoc and I would be to blame.”

  It was a bit of humor in a tense moment. Amalie smiled weakly and he smiled in return, touching her cheek again.

  “Then we will stay?” he asked softly.

  She nodded reluctantly. “As you say.”

  He kissed her forehead and turned her for the door. “That is my good angel,” he whispered, opening the door for her. “Let us watch your friend marry Methuselah.”

  She hissed at him to shush him and he laughed low in his throat, taking her hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow as he led her out to the sunny garden, now full of people.

  As the September day remained clear of rain, Cecily was married to her knight by a priest her father had paid a tremendous sum to. It had been the only way the man would do it given the circumstances. But it was a joyous day full of food and laughter, and when the ceremony was over, a wedding feast ensued that went all night and well into the morning.

  Amalie, however, was exhausted before the festivities were even in full swing. She had stood through the entire ceremony, conducted like a Catholic mass in the open, so there were plenty of ups and downs. Weston would help her rise and help her back to her knees at the proper time. But she remained as long as she could in an upright position, finally seated at one of the feasting tables and eating nearly everything Weston would put in front of her.

  They sat together, mostly just the two of them, watching the dancing and revelry, laughing at Heath and John as they preyed on the single women in the room. Heath ended up with Lady Laurel Ovington later in the evening and that was where he stayed, entranced by the pale beauty with the kind eyes. John, however, remained the hunter, getting quite drunk and happy with the mayor’s young daughter, so much so that Amalie sent Weston over to the pair to break it up.

  Weston didn’t like to get involved in his knight’s affairs but he understood his wife’s discomfort with a knight being so aggressive towards a very young lady. When Amalie asked him how he would feel if John was paying such attention to their daughter, Weston immediately went on the offensive. Amalie watched him from a distance as he pulled John aside and whispered a few words to him, grinning as she watched John’s reaction. The man wasn’t happy in the least and nearly threw a fit as Weston pulled him away by the neck.

  As she sat there and observed, she began to realize that the soreness in her back that she had been experiencing all day was now manifesting itself into fairly regularly cramping that stretched around to her belly and radiated down her thighs. She was becoming aware that the pains were growing worse at regular intervals.

  Although she had never had a baby before, she wasn’t entirely naïve; it began to occur to her what the pains were and as she realized that she was in labor, she felt stabs of fear and excitement. When Weston returned to her several minutes later with a pewter chalice of ale in his hand, she simply smiled at him as he sat down beside her. He returned the gesture.

  “You have ruined John’s life, just so you are aware,” he told her.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Me? What did I do?”

  “You have separated him from the only woman he has ever loved.”

  She made a face at him. “Pah,” she sniffed. “He will not even remember her name in the morning.”

  Weston snorted into his cup, taking a healthy swallow of the ale. He noticed that Amalie was simply sitting there, watching the room, and he collected her hand and kissed it.

  “Can I get you something else, my love?” he asked. “I am sure there is at least one dish on that table you have not yet tasted.”

  She pursed her lips wryly. “You needn’t be so smug about it,” she scolded. “There is not one bottle of wine or ale around this place that you have missed out on.”

  He laughed and kissed her cheek, hugging her as he did so. He was fairly liquored up at this point but not terribly so; just enough so that he was laughing at nearly everything that went on. Amalie put her hand up, patting his cheek as he nuzzled her neck and kissed her chin. He was being quite affectionate with her in public, something he didn’t normally do, but the alcohol had that effect on him. Amalie was enjoying it.

  “West,” she began casually.

  “Aye, my love?” he responded softly, kissing her ear.

  “I think we should return home soon.”

  “Why? Are you not enjoying yourself?”

  “I am,” she said. “But I do not wish for our child to be born at Brundon.”

  He kissed her ear again, her cheek, and then suddenly froze. He pulled back to look at her, his dark blue eyes wide with astonishment.

  “What do you mean?” he whispered fearfully.

  She was smiling. “I mean that I believe the baby is coming.”

  “The baby is coming?” he repeated.

  She saw the instant fear in his eyes and she laughed, patting him on the cheek. “Not to worry, sweetheart,” she said. “All is well. But I do think we should return home soon just to be safe.”

  Weston was on his feet, suddenly looking very sober. “Are you in pain?”

  “Not much. But it is growing worse.”

  That was all he needed to hear. Weston whisked her out of the great hall with little noise or fanfare, collecting Heath as he went and informing the man of the issue at hand.

  Heath swung into action, collecting John from the great hall, Owyn and the ten men at arms from the kitchen area, and forming the escort party for Weston and Amalie in record time. In the dead of night, but with a full moon to guide them, they made it back to Hedingham in under an hour.

  Weston was holding his beautiful new daughter by morning.

  Chapter Twelve

  September 1392

  The kitchen of Hedingham was on the ground floor of the keep, a big room that served as both storage and cooking area. Heat traveled upward and, consequently, the floor above it was always fairly warm. On this warm September day, the kitchen was fairly steamy as the cook, a fat woman with wild red hair and limited teeth, made a fruit compote of apples, pears, honey and cinnamon. Heat was steaming up from the big pot into the floors above it.

  Amalie stood next to the woman, supervising the process and making sure the women didn’t over-cook the fruit. She had two toddlers who wouldn’t eat it if it was cooked to a brown mush, so she hovered over the woman and watched her stir, making sure there were no brown spots on the fruit until she was satisfied. As the cook continued to stir, Amali
e made her way out of the kitchen and up to the first floor of the keep.

  The room smelled heavily of rushes and smoke. There was a blockage in the chimney and three male servants were attempting to unblock it. She watched them for a moment and, determining there was nothing she could do to assist or encourage, she made her way towards the entry. As she neared the door that opened into the fore building, she was met by Esma.

  The serving woman had garments in her hands of some sort, holding them up to show Amalie and nearly hitting her in the nose with them. As Esma apologized, Amalie stood back with a grin.

  “I nearly lost an eye,” she teased the woman, trying to get a look at what had her so rattled. “What do you have?”

  Esma was obviously upset. “This,” she held up a tiny pair of breeches. “They are too small for him, my lady. He is a big boy now and these breeches are far too small. I must either extend the legs or make him new ones.”

  Amalie waved her off. “Make him a new pair,” she said. “’Tis nothing to get upset over.”

  Esma nodded. “Aye, it is,” she insisted. “If the lord sees these breeches on the boy, he’ll become upset about it. He does not like the baby ill-dressed.”

  Amalie just shook her head. “The baby will not be ill-dressed,” she scolded softly. “He is the best dressed two-year-old in all of Essex, I would wager, and the most spoiled. In fact, both children are terribly spoiled. Do you know where my husband has taken them?”

  Esma shook her head. “Nay,” she replied. “The last I saw, he was heading towards the stables.”

  Amalie sighed and moved for the door. “That is because Aubria very much wants a pony,” she said. “I must stop him before he makes any foolish promises I will not let him keep.”

  Taking the steps from the keep, Amalie emerged into the warm and unseasonably dry September sunshine. Dressed in a pale blue shift and darker blue surcoat, she looked serene and lovely. As the years had passed, Amalie had only grown more beautiful, something that matched the wise and generous soul beneath. She and Weston had become great benefactors in Essex, generous to the nunnery, the poor and to the churches in the surrounding communities. Slowly but surely, they had rebuilt the prestige of Hedingham and the de Vere name, something that was important to them both.

  Especially with two children, who would benefit from the legacy set forth by their parents. It was important to both Amalie and Weston that the children be left a strong reputation. Amalie moved through the outer bailey, greeted by John overhead on the walls, pointing towards the stables when she asked if he had seen her husband. Just as she passed the big troop house that her husband had built a few years ago, the stables came into view and she could immediately see Weston and her two children in the stable yard.

  Weston was standing with a tow-headed toddler in his arms while a small girl at his feet was being shown a black and white pony. As Amalie approached, an old stable groom held the pony by his halter, leading it around in a couple of small circles for the little girl’s approval. Amalie could see her daughter jumping up and down with excitement and her lips twisted wryly, knowing she was going to have a fight on her hands when she denied her daughter the pony.

  Weston caught movement from the corner of his eye, turning to see that Amalie was nearly upon them. He smiled at her, drinking her radiant beauty. He swore that every day saw his love for her deepen, so enchanted by the glorious creature he had married.

  “Greetings, my angel,” he said sweetly.

  Amalie smiled at him; it was difficult to be cross when he was so sweet and handsome. “Greetings,” she replied. “What are you doing?”

  It was an obvious question, to which Weston wriggled his eyebrows. When the baby saw his mother, he whined and extended his arms to her. Amalie took her son from his father, kissing his blond little head as he snuggled up against her.

  Weston moved away from his wife and son, crouching down beside his daughter. “Aubria is inspecting a pony,” he said, casting his wife a long look. “What do you think about him, Mummy?”

  Amalie rolled her eyes at him but smiled when her daughter turned to look at her; Aubria Maud de Vere de Royans was surely the most beautiful child to have ever walked the earth. With her big brown eyes, long blond hair and her mother’s delicate features, she looked like an angel. She was sweet, bright and very persuasive, characteristics that had Weston deeply in love with the child. She belonged to him regardless of the fact that he had not fathered her and he spoiled her accordingly.

  “I think he is a beautiful pony,” Amalie said the only thing she could say as her daughter beamed up at her. “Are you happy, sweetheart?”

  Aubria nodded so vigorously that her blond hair flopped down over her eyes. “Dada says I am old enough to ride him.”

  Amalie smiled weakly. “He did?” she motioned to her daughter. “Pet the pony, sweetheart, while I speak with Dada.”

  Aubria happily did as she was told as Amalie’s smile faded and she crooked a finger at her husband. Weston caught the look, kissed his daughter on the head, and stood up. He went over to his wife, looking like a scolded dog, knowing she was displeased. They moved a few feet away from Aubria so the conversation would not be heard by little ears.

  “You know how I feel about this, West,” Amalie half-whispered, half-hissed. “She is too young for a pony.”

  Weston did the only thing he could do; he put his big arms around both her and the baby, trying to soothe the savage beastie.

  “She is not too young,” he countered softly. “I promise she will only ride it when I am with her, or even Heath or John. She will never ride alone, I swear it. She has to learn to ride sooner or later, Ammy. You cannot keep her a baby forever.”

  Before Amalie could reply, the baby in her arms rubbed his eyes and began to fuss. She tucked her son’s head down onto her shoulder and began to rock him before refocusing on her husband.

  “I do not like it,” she said simply. “If she were to fall and get hurt, I do not know what I would do.”

  Weston kissed her forehead, then kissed his sleepy son on his soft little cheek. “Nor do I,” he said. “But we cannot keep the children in a cage until they grow up simply because we are fearful for their safety. Children must grown and learn; this is just one of those times. Aubria will be fine and soon enough, Colton will have his own pony as well.”

  Amalie rolled her eyes, gently rocking two year old Colton Marston de Vere de Royans; thirteen months younger than his sister, he was the spitting image of his father. Named for his grandfather, and carrying the de Royans traditional name ending in ‘ton’, he was also extremely strong willed and stubborn. Amalie knew what that meant should his sister get a pony.

  “If Aubria gets a pony, Colton will want one,” she pointed out. “He wants everything she has and I do not want a two year old riding a pony.”

  Weston smiled at her, at his sleepy son. “He has to learn to ride some time. There is nothing wrong in starting him young.”

  Amalie didn’t want to argue with him; she had made her wants known and they would have to reconcile this at some point very soon when the children were not around. For now, she wanted to bring the children inside and feed them. It was nearing noon and they would be hungry.

  “We will discuss this later,” she said. “I am going to take the children inside and feed them.”

  Weston pulled her close, kissing her sweetly until Colton grunted and put his baby hand on his father’s face to push him away from his mother. The baby was territorial, irritable and sleepy, a bad combination. Weston laughed softly at his son, grabbing the little hand and kissing it.

  “You cannot have her all to yourself, little man,” he teased the boy gently. “She belongs to me.”

  Colton growled at him again but he was grinning. He laughed and fussed when Weston nibbled on his fat little fingers and pretended to eat his arm. As Amalie turned for the keep with the grumpy child in her arms, Weston returned to his daughter, who was still petting the black and white p
ony.

  About the time he coaxed her away from the animal and picked her up, he could hear commotion near the gatehouse. With his daughter nestled in his enormous arms, he made his way across the outer bailey, following his wife who was several feet ahead of him. Just as he neared the bridge to the inner bailey, a shout from Heath stopped him.

  He could see the red-haired knight jogging towards him, mail jingling. Amalie continued on as Weston came to a halt and waited. Heath came upon him, his gaze fixed on Weston.

  “Your brother is here, West,” he said.

  Weston’s eyebrows rose. “Sutton?” he looked surprised. “Where is he?”

  Heath pointed to the gatehouse. “He is at the gatehouse speaking with John.”

  Weston veered away from the keep and headed towards the gatehouse. He was excited to see the brother he hadn’t seen in almost five years, a man who also served Bolingbroke and had been in Lithuania doing battle for the Duchy of Vilnius for the past several years. Not only was he excited to see him, but he also wanted Sutton to meet his family. That, more than anything, excited him.

  Weston arrived at the dusty gatehouse to find his brother off his mount and laughing uproariously with John. But Sutton de Royans’ attention was diverted by the appearance of his older brother and, for a moment, his handsome face slackened in surprise. Weston kept walking until he was within arm’s reach; he threw a big arm around his younger brother, hugging him fiercely and attempting not to smash his daughter in the process.

  “Sutton,” he pulled back to look his brother in the eye; the man was a couple of inches taller than him with the same dark blue eyes, big body and good looks. He smiled broadly. “When did you return from Vilnius?”

  Sutton returned his brother’s grin. “A few months ago,” he told him, his gaze then moving between his brother and the beautiful blond child in his arms. “I spent some time at Bolingbroke Castle before returning to Netherghyll. I have just come from there; we must speak, West.”