Word of Honor (Knights of Valor Book 1)

by Lauren Linwood

  Berold stepped away. “Till tomorrow.”

  Geoffrey waited till the retreating steps ended, leaving him once again in darkness.

  For the first time, he wept.

  ***

  “My lord?”

  Geoffrey stirred from sleep. He sat up and saw a figure standing at the bars.

  Hardwin.

  Hope stirred within him. Mayhap the boy’s guilt would spur him to act responsibly and set him free.

  “I brought you something.” He tossed a leg of meat through the bars. It hit the floor.

  That didn’t matter. Geoffrey pounced on it, eager for the taste of meat after being deprived of it for God only knew how many days or weeks. He had no way to count time.

  “My name is Hardwin. My friends . . . call me Hardi.”

  He chewed a moment. He needed to gain this boy’s trust.

  “’Tis good to know your name, Hardi. I am Geoffrey.”

  “I know,” the boy said sullenly. He looked around. “I’m not supposed to be here,” he muttered.

  “But you are.” Geoffrey held up the leg. “I thank you for the meat. I don’t know if I’ve tasted anything better. I appreciate this small kindness on your part.”

  “Did you really kill my brother?”

  How should he answer that? He couldn’t alienate this boy, but he also could not hide the truth.

  “I had a part in his death.” He paused. “What has your father told you?”

  Hardi snorted. “He tells everyone that Barrett died a hero on the battlefield. That France only capitulated because of brave men such as his courageous son.” He looked searchingly at Geoffrey. “But I have heard the whispers amongst the servants. And when I questioned Father in private, he told me you were responsible for Barrett’s death.”

  “Nay, I’m not.”

  “I know who you are. You are our neighbor. From Kinwick Castle. You fostered with Sir Lovel.”

  “You are correct. Have you fostered in another household? Been a page? Or surely by now you’d be a squire?”

  The boy’s bottom lip stuck out. “I was attached to Lord Herry’s household, but Father decided I would be better served if I were under his tutelage. I returned home when he came back from France.”

  “I see.” Geoffrey wondered why the earl brought the boy home. He guessed the only reason would be in case Berold died so that Hardi could continue with this ghastly blood feud in case of his death. From the look on the boy’s face, Hardi had come to the same conclusion.

  “I liked Lord Herry. I didn’t want to leave his service.”

  Geoffrey wanted to encourage his defiance of his father. His freedom might be won through this child, but ‘twould be baby steps to take in order to accomplish the deed.

  “I’m sorry that your father chose to remove you from one as important as Lord Herry.”

  “You know him?” Hardi’s eyes lit up.

  “Aye, indeed. He’s a great warrior. You could have learned much under him.”

  The boy became sulky again. “He would kill me if he knew I were here.”

  “Nay. You are his heir. Blood of his blood. You will have the title and Winterbourne one day.”

  “Well, he would certainly punish me.”

  Geoffrey offered a small smile. “Then I suppose you’ll have to be careful whenever you come to visit me.”

  Hardi sneered. “Why should I visit you? You killed my brother.” He kicked his boot aimlessly, staring down at the ground.

  “Look at me, Hardi.” His firm tone was one he’d used to command others.

  Slowly, the boy’s head rose.

  “I shall tell you how your brother died. ‘Twas not a hero’s death but a coward’s. He betrayed king and country to our enemies.”

  Geoffrey took his time, setting the stage and painting the story of Barrett’s betrayal. Part of him did so to allow Hardi to understand the events that unfolded. Yet a part of him longed for keeping the boy as company. He judged he was a month into his imprisonment, and already loneliness swallowed him whole.

  When he finished, horror was written across Hardi’s face. Even his posture became defeated, knowing his brother had been executed as a traitor in front of the Black Prince.

  “Because your father had been far from these events and only arrived with the Duke of Lancaster and his army, your family is spared. Usually, a traitor’s lands and title revert to the king whilst his family lives in shame and poverty.”

  “I hated him,” Hardi revealed. “Barrett. He was so mean to me. He was older and cruel, never kind.” He gripped the bars, his knuckles turning white. “I’m glad you discovered his treachery, Geoffrey.”

  Just to hear his name spoken aloud seemed like manna from Heaven above. And to experience a glimmer of hope. This boy was on his side. He must carefully cultivate their friendship.

  “I hope you’ll grow to be a better man than your brother or your father, Hardi.”

  CHAPTER 11

  KINWICK CASTLE—May, 1363

  “Tilda, give the king’s messenger food and drink. I shall read his missive and compose my answer.”

  Merryn left the Great Hall and returned to their chamber. She still thought of this room as theirs. The one night they’d spent as man and wife both haunted and tantalized her after all this time.

  She knew what Edward’s letter would contain before she even broke the seal.

  Ferand insisted upon writing the king a month after Geoffrey disappeared. He wanted to keep his liege informed. The king had visited Kinwick twice since then, both times while on summer progress, with his full court in tow. He’d instantly taken to Merryn, insisting she walk with him. Edward loved history, and she had read and knew a great deal about it. They’d shared long discussions over England’s past—and what he wanted for its future.

  She broke the seal and opened the missive, spreading it across the small table.

  My dear Lady Merryn—

  I hope this finds you in both good health and high spirits. I myself feel a few creaks in my knees. I should, I suppose. ‘Tis not every day a man reaches two score and ten as I have.

  I write to tell you that I shall return on summer progress Kinwick way and will stop to call upon you. I bring with me a knight I should like you to meet. His name is Sir Symond Benedict, and he has served me faithfully in my royal guard. You might recall him from my last sojourn at your lovely estate.

  ‘Tis time, my lady. I have not pressed you, knowing the sorrow you have been burdened with and wanting to give you ample time to grieve. But I insist you make a marriage and find some happiness for yourself. Almost seven years is a long time to mourn a husband of one day. Symond would make a good partner to you. He is courteous and respectful, and he has a good head on his shoulders—though I believe you would be the more intelligent.

  All I ask is that you think upon it. We can discuss it together when I next see you.

  I receive excellent reports of the wonderful work you do at Kinwick. The wise decisions you make. How your crops thrive. And of your healing hands. I may beg of you to make me some of your special remedy that soothes the aching in my head from time to time. I have run out of the last batch you so kindly provided me on my last visit.

  I shall make my way to Kinwick next month, arriving in mid to late June. Till then, my lady.

  Merryn pushed the parchment aside. She did remember Sir Symond. The one time Edward had motioned him over for them to speak, he’d turned bright red, as red as his hair and beard. The soldier was Geoffrey’s opposite in every way, from coloring and size to personality. She wondered if he wished this Symond to be her marriage partner for that very reason, so no resemblance would remind her of her beloved husband.

  The king had been more than patient with her. Most widows remarried quickly under his order. Only the rapport that had been struck up between them had saved her from doing so.

  Till now.

  Merryn’s head told her it was time to move on. But not a day went by that her heart didn�
�t cry out for Geoffrey. She fingered the sapphire brooch pinned to her cote-hardie, affixed next to her heart. It remained a daily reminder of him and his love for her.

  And the king was wrong. It wasn’t a husband of a single day that she mourned. It was her best friend of many years. The boy who had grown into a man. The man she’d waited for years to marry. The husband who’d introduced her into the hidden mysteries and passion of lovemaking.

  The only one who would forever hold her heart.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. She didn’t indulge in them often. She had too much to do and too many people dependent upon her. She believed tears a sign of weakness, though she’d cried a river of them in those first weeks as they scoured the countryside for Geoffrey.

  But the king’s missive gave her the excuse to pull off the scab that never seemed to heal. Merryn flung herself onto the bed and sobbed. She raged at God for taking her beloved and not allowing her to know why He’d done so.

  Then she dried her tears and composed herself. She wrote a response to her king, telling him of her delight at his upcoming visit in a month’s time. She promised to serve him his favorite dishes and told him she looked forward to a private chat with him. She even stated she would be interested in talking with Sir Symond Benedict if it pleased her king.

  She made no promise to take this Symond in wedlock. But Merryn knew that by the time Edward’s progress moved on, she would be a wedded wife once again, a new husband in her bed.

  She sealed the letter and returned to the Great Hall. The messenger flirted with a servant girl. She caught his eye, and he came to her at once.

  “Here is my reply to the king’s missive.”

  “Thank ye, my lady, and for the brief respite and meal I received. I’ll be off.” He bowed to her and left.

  Tilda came and joined her. Hugh had been kind enough to allow Tilda to come to Kinwick in those first bleak months when Merryn had been out of her head with grief. Having the familiar servant nearby eased her. Once she decided to move on with her life, Tilda stayed at Kinwick. She was fond of the old woman, who mothered her to no end.

  Thinking of Hugh, she told Tilda, “I need to look in on Milla. Her eyes are most weepy when spring arrives in England. Mayhap I can create a concoction to bring her some comfort.”

  The servant frowned. “She’ll be weepy till she gives your brother a child, that one will. I say she’s barren. Lord Hugh should ask her to remove herself from Wellbury and have her go to a convent so he can seek a new wife who will give him babes.”

  “Sometimes a child is a long time in coming. Look at Geoffrey, for instance. His two sisters were half a score older than he. Lady Elia had given up hope of bearing a son when he appeared. Mayhap the same will happen for Hugh and Milla.”

  Tilda touched her arm briefly in comfort. Merryn had learned to speak Geoffrey’s name calmly to the outer world, but inside a torment of rage and passion rumbled each time she did so. Yet she brought him up in casual conversation from time to time. She did not want him to be forgotten.

  Her mother-in-law appeared in the doorway and came straight her way.

  “A messenger brought this,” Elia said. “He did not stay since he was from Winterbourne. He said no reply would be expected.”

  “Hmm. I wonder what the earl might want.” The family at Kinwick Castle had never been close to that at Winterbourne, so any contact was out of the ordinary. Merryn accepted the letter Elia handed her since her mother-in-law had never learned her letters. She opened it and scanned it quickly.

  “It seems Lord Berold has passed on. A funeral mass is scheduled on the morrow, and the new earl would have us attend.” She thought a moment. “What was the boy’s name? I saw him, years ago.”

  Merryn remembered the exact occasion. They had gone to Winterbourne to search for any news of Geoffrey. Lord Berold had briefly introduced the boy, who’d slipped from the room. She had supposed he was the shy sort.

  “Hardwin,” Elia replied. “I remember names if not faces. And the boy is a man now. He’s to be married soon, or so I’m told.”

  ***

  They sat in the chapel at Winterbourne. Merryn found it odd the two families so rarely had contact. They were the closest neighbors to Kinwick, even closer than her own family at Wellbury to the south—yet no ties kept them in touch.

  She glanced over at Hugh, handsome as always. Milla sat on his other side. As usual in springtime, her nose dripped and was red in color. Her eyes watered constantly as she dabbed at them. Merryn so wished for them to have children. She prayed for that every morning at mass.

  And for Geoffrey to come home to her.

  Her attention turned to the new earl. She barely recognized Hardwin from her last glimpse of him all those years ago. He’d grown slightly taller, but his body had filled out. His face had also matured. She hoped they would be able to share a word of comfort with him once the funeral mass ended.

  Merryn’s mind wandered as the proceedings went on. She wondered if she should have had some kind of mass for Geoffrey. It was so hard. He was neither alive nor dead, almost as if he’d been in a Purgatory all these years.

  Just as she had.

  Yet in her heart, Merryn believed she would have sensed his death. No inkling of that ever came to her. Others might call her foolish, but she had faith that one day Geoffrey would walk through the doors of the Great Hall, and all would be well again.

  She pinched herself, forcing the fantasy to fade. She had to prepare herself for the king’s upcoming visit.

  And make a decision regarding Sir Symond Benedict.

  Mass ended. She’d heard there would be food and drink offered afterward for those in attendance, but she was in no mood to stay.

  She leaned toward her brother. “Let us go offer our condolences to the new earl and be off.”

  He nodded and escorted her and Milla toward Hardwin. As they drew closer, the earl looked up. Their eyes met, and he gave her a slight nod.

  They reached him and exchanged pleasantries and then told him of their sorrow for his loss.

  “You understand loss, my lady,” Hardwin said, his eyes locking on hers.

  His words took her aback, but she recovered. “Yes. I do. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish for my husband to be back at my side.” She fingered her brooch absently.

  “’Tis a lovely piece you wear,” the nobleman told her. “Are those sapphires?”

  “Yes. Geoffrey found it for me in France. ‘Twas his wedding gift to me.” Her eyes closed for a minute, and she was back in the moment when he presented it to her. She opened them again, forcing herself back into reality.

  “We must be off, my lord. Please let us know if there is anything we may do for you.”

  His gaze held hers. “Thank you, Lady Merryn. And mayhap one day I can return the favor.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “Nine hundred ninety-nine. One thousand.”

  Geoffrey dropped his arm. He’d finished rubbing his shackled right hand against the stone wall the prescribed thousand times. He did this each day with both his cuffed wrists and ankles, hoping to wear through the iron.

  He never did.

  But it was part of his routine. Routine helped keep him sane.

  He moved his limbs as much as he could so that they would not grow weak with disuse. He prayed—though that was more out of habit and not true belief. He’d long quit raging against a God that would abandon him in such a manner. A small part of him thought that his life had been golden as had Job’s. God punished Job for his arrogance and took everything from him. Only when Job was truly humbled and contrite did God reward him for his faith and bring riches back into his life. Mayhap God would restore all he had taken from Geoffrey one day.

  Thus, he prayed.

  He also spent long hours reciting passages in Latin and Greek from The Iliad and The Odyssey. He conjugated verbs in both those languages and French.

  And he daydreamed. Of a life with Merryn.

  He limited the amount o
f time he thought of her. If he didn’t, he might have driven himself mad long ago.

  At first, his mind couldn’t comprehend the evil lengths Berold went to in order to hold him captive. He rejected it, railing against the earl. Against the world. All that had cost him was his voice, worn hoarse, then finally gone after long days and nights of screaming at the top of his lungs.

  The earl appeared almost daily with his food allotment. The times he didn’t, Geoffrey surmised it to be a feast day. Berold did love his food and drink. He supposed the monster ate and drank himself into a stupor as he celebrated. Eventually, he reappeared. Never contrite. But with a bit extra for him to chew upon to make up for the days he did without.

  Enough of those occurrences had passed for Geoffrey to know that time marched on.

  That—and seeing Hardi’s growth.

  The boy had been ten and two when Geoffrey had been locked away in this prison. Now he’d grown a few inches in height, but he’d filled out considerably. His limbs and bearing were that of a man.

  Geoffrey hadn’t the heart to ask him his age, for it would only tell him how much time he’d passed in this oblivion.

  He’d done his best to gain Hardi’s confidence. They’d actually become friends. The boy sneaked down to the dungeon several times a week, bringing him extra food. Because of that, Geoffrey always kept his tattered cloak tightly about him. He didn’t want Berold to see what he looked like. Not that the earl could see in the dim light from the single torch he brought upon his visits.

  The rest of the time, Geoffrey existed in darkness.

  Hardi even brought a blanket every now and then, which Geoffrey used to lie atop. Even in the warmest of times, the dungeon floor was cold to the touch, while the dampness seeped into his lungs, making it painful to breathe. He made sure to hide the blanket behind him during the earl’s daily visit.