by Tamara Leigh
Unfortunately, the opposing injuries to shoulder and rib made that impossible.
“But far worse it would be had Otto cut all of the word into my flesh,” he conceded.
She shivered in remembrance of what she had seen in aiding the physician. “Only T and R,” she said.
“And the cut where the blade slipped.”
“Aye, it curved—makes the T look nearly a P.”
“Does it?” At her nod, he said, “I had thought the T would serve as a reminder to think much, the R to regret little, but when I could think no more, I told myself to pray much. Thus, mayhap a P it will be.”
“Pray much. Regret little.”
“A good thing.” He lowered his lids. “The physician’s draught presses upon me.”
She lightly touched his bruised cheek. “I will be here when you awaken, and then I will tell you what I have wanted to give back.”
“Hmm. Words of love?”
“Aye, I found— Nay, not found. I drew them from the well of my heart.”
He was silent so long she thought he slept, but he murmured, “Though acts of love, with which you have gifted me, are of greater import, still I would hear the words now.”
“But what if you do not remember?”
He chuckled. “They can be spoken only once?”
“Of course not.”
“Then tell me so my sleep will be sweeter. Do I not remember, you have but to tell me again, as I pray you will do often throughout our long lives.”
She brushed her mouth across his. “You, Griffin de Arell, are the beginning and end of me. The now and then of me. The keeper of my joy and my heart. The future I did not know I could possess, and the only one I would have. That is how I love you. How I shall ever love you.”
There. A small, uneven smile that returned her to the day she had first laid eyes on him when, unmoved by the great number of enemies before his walls, he had looked down upon her with that infuriating, crooked smile. And in the midst of their contentious exchange, he had bitten into an apple.
“Certes, those words I shall not forget,” he said. “And when I awaken, we shall speak of them.”
“Will we?” she teased.
“Aye, they bear closer discussion.”
It was nearly what he had said the day he had come down from the gatehouse. And when she had entered his walls, his hand had closed over hers and they had both felt something that made him suggest there could be good between them.
“Aye, Husband, it does bear closer discussion.”
He gave a barely perceptible nod. “I love you, Quintin de Arell.”
EPILOGUE
Wulfen Castle
England, 1350
“Do you think women will ever be admitted?”
The words seeped into Quintin as she considered the great edifice that was Wulfen Castle, for centuries renowned for training boys into men and where her son, Rhys, had earned his spurs and a Wulfrith dagger four years past—as had Eamon a year later.
“Admitted, Lianor?” Elianor laughed. “Of course you do not speak merely of a woman being permitted to observe warriors in training.”
“I do not,” agreed the eldest Boursier child, all sixteen years of her.
“What think you, Thomasin?” Elianor asked. “Will there be lady knights in England?”
Quintin glanced at her daughter and saw she would not be distracted by such talk, no matter how well-intentioned, while her twin boys remained in sight. But they would not much longer. In the company of their male kin, they neared Wulfen Castle where they were to begin their knight’s training.
Touching the weapon she wore on her girdle despite the protests of men who called it sacrilege for a woman to don a Wulfrith dagger, Quintin shifted around on the stallion Griffin had gifted her years ago despite the disapproval of those same men who believed only a mare was tame enough for a lady.
“Methinks one day, dear niece, women will openly train to become warriors and fight alongside men to protect their loved ones and country.”
A snort sounded, and she picked out the perpetrator—one of a dozen soldiers left behind to watch over the women.
Rollo muttered it was a man’s duty to bear arms, glanced at her father’s dagger, and grinned.
How she loved this big man who, in wedding Elianor’s maid, had fathered half a dozen children. She returned his grin, then continued, “However, ’twill be many years beyond your own, Lianor.”
“Unless she dares what Lady Annyn Bretanne dared two hundred years past,” Thomasin said, though still her eyes were on her youngest sons.
“Annyn Bretanne?” Lianor said. “What did she do?”
“What she wished to do.” Thomasin nodded at the fortress. “She cut her hair and, disguised as a squire, trained whilst awaiting an opportunity to work revenge on Baron Wulfrith for what she believed was the murder of her brother.”
“Tell!” Lianor exclaimed.
“Do not encourage her, Thomasin,” Elianor teased.
Magnus’s wife glanced at those who awaited the return of their men. “I do not suggest she do the same. I but make the wait for the return of a certain De Arell more tolerable.”
Lianor gasped. “What do I care when, where, and with whom goes Rhys de Arell?”
Quintin exchanged a look with Elianor. Until a year past, Lianor and Rhys had carried on well. But shortly after celebrating ten and five years, Lianor had become easily offended by her cousin who, eight years her senior, continued to regard her as a child while flirting with other women not much older than she.
Her behavior annoyed Rhys. Were he not like his father in temperament, he might have been harsh with her. Instead, he mostly ignored her, but the tension was growing so thick it seemed one of them would say something unforgivable.
Last eve, Quintin had pressed Griffin to intervene, but he had said that though his experience was limited to his Boursier bride, such dissension could prove the way to great love—so many obstacles that one could not long hide one’s true self, and in overcoming them together, a man and woman would be more strongly joined.
Though she had liked that, she had said she but wished her niece and son to return to friendly terms. He had laughed, swept her into his arms, and made love to her. Before falling asleep, he had whispered, “They are cousins by marriage only. Though Rhys fights it, he is ever more aware they are far more man and woman.”
“Well?” Lianor returned Quintin to the present. “What do I care?”
“It seems much,” her mother said.
Before the young woman could object, Thomasin sighed loud. “Now they go.”
So her sons did, having been greeted on the drawbridge by one who came on foot—the lord of Wulfen Castle.
“Pray, look back,” Thomasin beseeched.
And one, then the other of her sons turned in the saddle and raised an arm.
“Oh, have mercy!” Thomasin gasped.
Quintin urged her horse near and laid a hand on her daughter’s back. “They will visit at Christmas.”
It was the same reassurance Griffin had given her when Rhys, then Eamon, had begun their knight’s training. Her boys. Her sons. And years from now, when Justina wed, he would reassure her again.
She considered the top of her nine-year-old daughter’s head. Hair confined to a braid that held tight to its crossings, its strands thick and golden, it was much like Griffin’s. Her disposition, however, was more like Quintin’s. One would never know their blood did not flow through the girl.
Eight years past, the club-footed babe had been abandoned at the church outside the village of Cross. During a visit with the frantic priest, Quintin had assured him she would find a home for the child. And so she had.
Griffin had been doubtful, more so than when she had wished to bring Eamon into their family following his mother’s death from fever, but Justina quickly became as beloved to him as she did to Quintin—Quintin who was now the mother of three children, grandmother to Thomasin and Magnus’s c
hildren, and quite the aunt. And that was not all.
Arturo was now gone, but his sons and daughters roamed and protected Castle Mathe. Too, she had one of Diot’s daughters, given her by Thomasin who had accepted her grandfather’s gift when he had attained his quietus a year after the deaths of Simon and Otto Foucault.
“Look, Mother!” Justina exclaimed. “’Tis Eamon.”
Quintin squinted at the one who guided his mount beneath the portcullis. Though she saw her youngest son twice a year when he left his position as Wulfen Castle’s armorer to visit Mathe, he would not miss an opportunity to greet his mother and sister.
As she watched, he embraced Griffin, Magnus, Bayard, then Rhys.
“The Lord is good,” Quintin said.
“Always,” spoke the one behind.
She peered over her shoulder at the priest who had insisted on making the journey to Wulfen though the injury sustained to protect her years ago made it difficult for him to sit astride longer than two hours at a time, and for which their party had departed a day early—as the three families did each time they delivered a son to Wulfen, now seven in all.
She inclined her head. “Father Crispin.”
He smiled. “As ever, I am blessed to be here with you.”
“As ever, we are blessed to have you with us.” Though it had taken months for him to recover from Simon Foucault’s blade, he had finally wed Griffin and her. And as on that day as this, she had worn the beautiful dark blue gown Elianor and Hulda had made for her during her grieving all those years ago.
“There are your brothers, Lianor,” Elianor said.
The fourteen-year-old had his father’s hair, the eleven-year-old his mother’s, and both were of a size that belied their ages.
“And my eldest,” Thomasin said, her sorrow at seeing her twins away eased by the joy of her impending reunion with Rand. And when they departed Wulfen Castle, she would find further ease in the child pressing its way into the world. Perhaps when the babe was delivered four months hence, it would be a much-longed-for daughter.
A thrill flew through Quintin when she saw her men and those of Elianor and Thomasin put heels to their mounts. And then Eamon was at her side and out of the saddle. He lifted Justina down, whirled her around, and returned for his mother.
“I miss you always,” he said as they hugged.
She drew back and cupped his face between her hands. He was not handsome—too rugged for that—but he drew the attention of many a woman. “And I you, dear Eamon.” She had known she could not replace Nanne, but the boy had allowed her to become the mother he needed and returned her love.
“Father says the king has granted a license to build another castle on Blackwood,” he said as they stepped apart.
Which would make three, the second recently completed to be administered by Rhys until he came into his father’s title. God willing, a score or more years from now.
“So Edward has. Did your father tell he would have you be its keeper when it is completed”—she gave a short laugh—“ten years hence?”
“Aye. By then I ought to be ready to leave Wulfen and take a wife.”
“’Tis as your brother and I would have it,” Griffin said, striding toward them.
Seeing Justina had captured her father’s left hand—out of affection, rather than the need to counter the hitch in her step—Quintin took her husband’s right and turned with them to watch the reunions of the other families.
“Rand Verdun shall have his pick of the ladies,” Quintin said. “He is more handsome each time I see him.”
Griffin chuckled. “The Verdun Curse.”
In looks only, it seemed, none of Magnus and Thomasin’s boys presenting their father’s nervous tics and intense need for control.
“A fortnight past,” Eamon said, “Baron Boursier’s eldest son and Rand stole out of Wulfen and took to drinking at a nearby inn. Likely, they would have avoided discovery had not Lord Wulfrith stopped there upon his return following a sennight at court.” He lowered his voice. “Rumor is the king honors him with membership in his Order of the Garter.”
“Impressive,” Griffin said.
Quintin silently agreed, the recently formed order exclusive to the worthiest of King Edward’s nobles—a total of twenty four. “Was young Verdun and Boursier’s punishment fair, Eamon?” she asked.
“Aye, lessons well-learned.”
Griffin considered Boursier’s youngest son, a quiet, serious youth. “He fares well?”
“Mostly. Though warring does not come naturally, he is determined to be among the class that fights. And that counts for much.”
Though initially denied entrance to Wulfen, it believed the Church a better fit, Bayard’s son had pleaded to train with Rollo. Quintin knew it had bothered her brother that he could not himself bring forth the warrior in his son, but as Elianor had assured him, it was not for lack of trying. Blessedly, what the boy could not excel at beneath his father’s guidance he had learned well enough from Rollo to gain admittance to Wulfen. All he had required, it seemed, was distance from comparisons between himself and his father and brother.
“Poor Lianor,” Justina said, and Quintin followed her gaze to the young woman.
Past her embrace of the oldest of her brothers, Lianor’s eyes were all for Rhys—whose eyes were all for Wulfen Castle where he stood alongside his horse idly running a hand over its neck. Though his training there was long past, he surely missed the years that had ended with him as first squire to Lord Wulfrith.
“I shall distract her,” Justina said and hastened forward, unconcerned her step was less than graceful. As it should be. Years ago, when Griffin’s brother and wife had journeyed from Spain to visit, Constance had despaired in Justina’s hearing over the girl’s clumsy gait. In Constance’s hearing, Griffin had told his daughter a graceful heart was far more important and that Justina had in full—unlike others.
When Eamon strode from their side to join Rhys, Griffin said, “Well, Wife?”
She slid her arms around his neck. “Husband?”
“I do not need reminding, but…”
“You would have me speak it again.”
“You were warned.”
She repeated the words of love she had given him sixteen years ago, ending on, “That is how I love you. How I shall ever love you.”
He kissed her and repeated his own. “What I did not know was missing from me, I would never cease to miss were it lost. Thus, I will do whatever is required to keep you safe.”
“A promise kept,” she said and claimed his kiss.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed Quintin and Griffin’s love story. I dare not say it’s my favorite since I feel that way about each book upon reaching its happily ever after, but…
As for the Wulfrith dagger. Why does it keep popping up in my medieval romances? Homage to my much-missed Age Of Faith series. It whispers, “There is more to the Wulfrith tale. Time to pick up a pen (literally), put it to paper (literally), and return to the 12th century England of King Henry II and his feisty Eleanor of Aquitaine (literally—I wish).
If you would like to know more about the Wulfriths of the Age of Faith series, visit my website at www.tamaraleigh.com to read the excerpts, beginning with The Unveiling’s Baron Garr Wulfrith and something-of-a-lady Annyn Bretanne. And you might want to peek at the excerpt in this book—yes, I’m finally giving readers the story they asked for. Sir Durand’s will be the sixth book in the Age of Faith series. Excited!
One more thing. I would appreciate it if you would post a review of Baron Of Blackwood at Amazon.
Wishing you many more hours of inspiring, happily-ever-after reading. ~ Tamara
For new releases and special promotions, subscribe to Tamara Leigh’s mailing list: www.tamaraleigh.com
EXCERPT
AGE OF FAITH: Book Six
From USA Today best-seller, Tamara Leigh, comes the long-awaited sixth book in the AGE OF FAITH series—Sir Durand’s tale.
CHAPTER ONE
Normandy, France
December, 1161
Women were more trouble than they were worth. Or so Sir Durand Marshal told himself each time one dragged him into a mess like this one promised to do.
Black hair and mantle shaking themselves out in the chill air stirred by her flight, the woman rode ahead of three riders who protectively fanned out behind and to the sides of her though they stood little chance of outrunning their pursuers—seven armed men who wore the colors of one who risked much in trespassing on King Henry’s lands. And therein lay the mess, one that could see the crisp layer of snow splashed with crimson of sufficient heat to melt it through.
“Lord, protect us,” he rasped and drew his chain mail hood over his head and gave the signal.
The men under his command did not voice displeasure when the thrust of his arm further delayed the promise of the warm hearth and hot meal denied them these past days of hard riding. They did as bid and followed him from the cover of trees that reached gnarled, wintry fingers toward a sky dark and thick with clouds that looked more like the billowing smoke of a great fire.
“King Henry!” he bellowed and drew his sword as he spurred his destrier forward.
His men repeated the battle cry, voices thundering across the frosted land and causing those bringing up the rear of the pursuers to whip their heads around and shout warnings. But the one leading the pursuit, a broadly-built knight whose red beard jutted on either side of his face, did not give up his prey. Thus, his companions stayed the course.
So be it, Durand accepted the likelihood of bloodshed. He had given King Louis’s vassals a chance to peaceably withdraw from the French lands held by King Henry of England, and if they paid a terrible price, it was on their heads. Unfortunately for their wives and children, the woman who yet evaded capture could not possibly be worth their deaths.