Love Above All

by Speer, Flora

  “And now, my friends, it’s time to reward your efforts. Squire Braedon!”

  “Yes, my lord?” For the first time since Quentin had known him, Braedon looked frightened.

  “On your knees, my boy,” the king ordered in a stern voice.

  Braedon knelt before the king. Henry picked up the sword from the cleric’s table, drew it from its sheath, and used it to tap Braedon lightly on either shoulder.

  “Arise, Sir Braedon,” Henry said.

  When the young man stood, looking astonished by what was happening, the king made a fist and clouted him on the shoulder in the traditional way. Then Henry embraced him, kissing the new knight on each cheek. The king laughed when he noticed the expression on Braedon’s face.

  “Be glad I’ve done it here, in private, and haven’t made you wait to be knighted on Christmas day, along with the crowd of noble sprigs who have come to St. Albans,” Henry said. “This way is easier, you know; you didn’t have to fast all night and pray in a cold church before receiving your knightly accolade.”

  “My lord,” Braedon stammered, “I – I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then be wise and say nothing,” Henry advised him. “Dare I hope you are willing to remain in my household?”

  “My lord, I will do anything for you!” Braedon exclaimed.

  “Yes, I expect you would. Have no doubt, lad, I will soon think of a task for you.” Henry re-sheathed the sword and offered it to Braedon. “This is yours now. Down in the courtyard you will find a suit of chainmail, two horses, and your own squire waiting for you. Be kind to the boy; yesterday he was a mere page and he’s a bit bewildered by his sudden promotion.”

  “So am I bewildered,” said Braedon, accepting the sword from the king’s hand. “My lord, you will never know how greatly I appreciate your generosity. Not having the means to purchase my knightly equipment, I feared I would remain a squire all my life.”

  “You deserve what I’ve awarded you.” Henry looked pleased and oddly moved by Braedon’s thanks. But he recovered quickly and his next words carried the ring of a strict schoolmaster commanding a laggard student. “What are you waiting for, boy? Go, see if the armor fits.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you!” Braedon bowed and departed, carefully closing the door behind him. A moment later those remaining in the audience chamber heard his loud bellow of happiness.

  “Now, Sir Cadwallon,” said the king. He reached out his hand, flicking his fingers, and the cleric hastened to give him a roll of parchment plucked from among those on the table. “There is a small castle in Devon, where the baron has recently died without an heir and the honor has thus reverted to the crown. However, a cousin of the late baron has ensconced himself in the place and won’t give it up. Do you think you can persuade him that his way of thinking is sadly mistaken? I am told the local folk are most unhappy with their new lord, so they are unlikely to raise any objections to his removal, whether it is accomplished voluntarily on his part, or by force.”

  “Sire,” Cadwallon responded, his eyes on the tantalizing parchment, “it will be my pleasure to seize the castle in your name.”

  “Once you have it,” the king said, “you are to hold it in my name, as my baron. Permanently. Here is the grant.” With that, he handed the parchment to Cadwallon, who immediately unrolled it. Cadwallon gazed at the royal seal at the bottom of the document as if he saw the promise of paradise in that round red blob of wax.

  “Sire,” Cadwallon said in a voice that trembled slightly, “I have a mind to marry, once I can provide a home for my intended bride. Have I your permission to wed a Scottish lass? She is no commoner; she was born into the minor nobility.”

  “You know I am in favor of good relations with Scotland,” Henry said, smiling at the new baron. “You have my permission.”

  “I will need a few men for the enterprise in Devon,” Cadwallon noted.

  “Take some of my men-at-arms,” Henry said, “and return them as soon as you acquire men of your own. I think Sir Braedon could use a bit of experience in warfare. What say you?”

  “I’m sure Braedon will be as pleased by your suggestion as I am,” Cadwallon responded, grinning.

  “Go, then,” King Henry said, waving his newest baron out of the room.

  While all of this was happening, Quentin had noticed how studiously Henry avoided meeting his eyes. Now, with only Quentin and Royce left in the room with the king and his cleric, Henry was looking distinctly uneasy – and that made Quentin uneasy.

  “Well, Royce,” Henry said, “you are exceptionally cheerful. What can I do for you, old friend?”

  “I’ve had an idea,” Royce said, “that I’d like to discuss with you at some length. If you are too busy today, perhaps we can meet again, later.”

  “Tell me now,” King Henry said.

  “It will take some time, Sire. Perhaps you’d like to finish your business with Quentin first.”

  “Quentin.” Henry frowned at him and fell silent.

  “Yes, my lord?” Quentin prompted. He didn’t know what the problem was, but the king’s peculiar reaction to him was worrisome, to say the least. When Henry began to speak, his reluctance was plain to see, and to hear.

  “Before you left for Scotland,” the king said, “I mentioned to you the possibility of your marriage to a certain orphaned heiress.”

  “Yes, you did,” Quentin responded. “But about that suggestion, my lord—”

  “The thing is,” Henry broke in, looking distinctly guilty, “the thing is, Achard de Ferrars has asked for her hand and Lady Eleanor declares she is eager to wed him. In fact, she claims she will marry no one but Achard. The girl is proving to be remarkably stubborn.”

  “I see,” Quentin said, trying to conceal the sudden hope that filled his heart and mind. He knew the correct way for him to appear was disappointed at the prospect of losing a well-dowered bride, yet understanding of the king’s problem. He did his best to look the way he should while he struggled to find something appropriate to say. He ventured a glance at Royce, hoping for a hint. Royce came to his aid at once, though not in the way Quentin anticipated, and at first he wasn’t sure what his friend was trying to do. But he trusted Royce, so he listened patiently.

  “I am acquainted with Achard,” Royce said to the king. “All of his estates are in Normandy, aren’t they?”

  “They are,” said Henry. “Lady Eleanor’s inheritance is also chiefly in Normandy.”

  “Is it wise to grant one nobleman the power implicit in control of two large estates that are located close together?” Royce asked.

  “Perhaps not,” Henry said. “It’s not an arrangement I’d ordinarily approve. But, if I deny Achard the girl he so passionately wants he may turn against me and pledge himself, along with the large army he can muster, to Louis of France, with whom I expect soon to be at war. On the other hand, if I give Achard his heart’s desire he’ll have a good reason to remain loyal to me and to send his men to fight on my side against Louis.”

  Having successfully maneuvered Henry into explaining his reasoning, Royce sent an expectant look in Quentin’s direction. Quentin recalled a few clever ruses that Royce had concocted in their days of spying together and thought he could guess what his former spymaster wanted him to do. Happily, it was also what Quentin wanted to do.

  “My lord,” Quentin said to the king, “from what you have just told us, it is clear to me that Achard must marry Lady Eleanor.”

  “I knew I could depend on you,” Henry said. All of the previous unease and guilt in his manner vanished. “You shall have another reward, Quentin. Just ask for what you want.”

  “My lord, I will be honest,” Quentin said, aware that kings, and this king in particular, did not like to feel beholden to their nobles. Kings thought it ought to be the other way around. “Your wise decision in regard to Lady Eleanor has relieved me of a duty I never wanted to assume.”

  “But, you really ought to consider remarrying,” Henry persisted. “Ev
ery baron needs an heir.”

  “Sire,” Quentin said, “you have kindly given me permission to ask for what I want....”

  “I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you looking and sounding like your old self again,” King Henry said to Royce an hour later, after Quentin had left them. “You have secluded yourself at Wortham for far too long.”

  “I will never cease to grieve for Avisa,” Royce said. “She died too young.”

  “You ought to remarry,” Henry said.

  “I think not.” Royce put as much chill into those three words as he could without being rude to his king. Henry seemed to understand, for he changed the subject.

  “You said earlier that you have had an idea of some kind. It must be interesting if it rousted you from your hideaway at Wortham. Now, while I am still in a good mood, reveal this remarkable idea to me.”

  As soon as they were alone Henry had called for two folding chairs, a brazier, and a pitcher of wine. The cleric waited quietly at his desk in the corner, in case the king decided to issue an order. On the opposite side of the room the two old friends sat close to the warmth of the glowing charcoal in the brazier. They had known each other since they were children and whenever he spoke with Henry, Royce made a point of always saying exactly what he thought. He did so now, knowing that not many people dared to speak honestly to a king.

  “As you are well aware, especially after hearing Quentin’s report, Louis of France is rather desperately trying to stir up trouble against you. If he doesn’t succeed in Scotland, he will try even harder in Normandy. By this time, Sir Desmond must be in his hands.”

  “Alexander’s men will rescue Sir Desmond,” Henry said, sipping his wine.

  “Yes, I am sure they will. But in the future there will be other captured men. There will also be other rebels like Murdoch and his friends, both in Scotland and on the continent, who long to cause trouble to serve their own purposes. On the opposite side, there are certain men in Normandy, in Anjou, and in the Low Countries, even men in high positions in France itself, who are not happy with King Louis’ recent actions.”

  “Everything you say is true.” Henry eyed his friend expectantly, a faint smile curving his lips. “What do you propose to do about it?”

  “Every king employs spies,” Royce said, stating the obvious.

  “Of course. Gathering secret information is vitally necessary, as you know very well, having been a spy, yourself,” Henry said. He laughed softly. “As I recall, you once pretended to be a fishmonger, and Quentin drove your fish cart. You were the strangest pair I ever saw. The worst smelling pair, too.”

  “We’d have been better advised to use a real fishmonger, and a real driver,” Royce said. “Quentin and I were caught and nearly died for our trouble. Which is precisely my point. Spies are most successful when the disguises they assume are closer to reality.”

  “Go on.” Henry was still smiling, his eyes bright with interest.

  “My lord, you and I know it is the nobles who hatch the schemes,” Royce said, “and we know how difficult it can be for the usual kind of spy to penetrate noble society. Too often you must depend on clerics and servants for information. I propose to gather a secret band of noblemen who will act as your agents. To be more specific, I will choose the younger sons of noblemen, knights and squires possessed of clever wits and good fighting skills, but with few prospects in life because their older brothers will inherit the family lands and titles. I’m certain I can find men who are willing to disregard the danger involved, if you will offer them hope of attaining the kind of prize you just granted to Cadwallon.”

  “Name three such men,” Henry challenged him, “and I will seriously consider your idea.”

  “In fact, I have several men in mind.”

  “Somehow, I knew you would.”

  The king and the great nobleman smiled at each other in understanding born of long friendship. Then they lifted their wine cups and drank deeply before Royce continued.

  Chapter 19

  Sir William and the men-at-arms he led returned to Wortham Castle just ahead of a heavy snowstorm. Catherine invited him to sit at the high table that night, so he could inform the ladies as to what the fate of the Scottish prisoners was to be.

  “Before we departed from Carlisle, Lord Walter sent a pair of riders to the highlands with an urgent message for King Alexander,” Sir William revealed. “We never did see the king, but by the time we reached Edinburgh, Alexander’s orders were there, waiting for us. Murdoch, Gillemore, and Colum have been cast into the most secure dungeon in that fortess on the rock. They are being held there, separate from each other and in chains, until the highland rebellion is put down. After that, King Alexander will have time to judge them and to decide what their punishment should be.

  “My lady,” Sir William said to Fionna, “we were told that your brothers are considered traitors, and it’s believed their fates will be severe.”

  “When I think of all the wicked deeds they committed, and what they tried to do to Fionna and me,” Janet declared, breaking into the discussion with a touch of her old sharpness, “they deserve whatever punishment King Alexander metes out to them.”

  Fionna’s opinion was more divided, and she thought it better not to voice it. Unlike Janet, she had spent the last ten years at Dungalash. During that time she had heard, over and over again, the arguments of her brothers and their friends against the Norman intrusion into Scotland. She understood how angry Scotsmen were at being displaced to provide land for Norman lords, and she had heard dire predictions of eventual English control of Scotland. She wasn’t sure who was right, and who was wrong. She did believe changes were inevitable; she just wished they could be peaceful. But she feared there would be bloodshed along the border for decades to come.

  Whatever the future of Scotland, the information Sir William brought had put an end to her life there. She could never return to Dungalash, nor could Janet. But where they would go, or how they would live, she didn’t know.

  The snow continued for days, keeping everyone indoors. The inhabitants of Wortham Castle didn’t seem to mind. They were preparing for Christmas. The women began by cleaning the chapel. When it was scrubbed to their satisfaction they cleaned the great hall, the lord’s chamber, and several guest rooms.

  “You cannot expect guests to arrive in this weather,” Fionna said to Catherine.

  “Perhaps not,” Catherine agreed, “but my father will return as soon as he can, and he almost always brings guests with him. In the meantime, we will be well prepared to celebrate the blessed season.”

  No guests appeared. Not even a wandering minstrel or a traveling acrobat showed his face at the castle gate. The snow continued, piling up in windblown drifts. Undeterred by the bitter cold that made it dangerous to venture out of doors for more than a few minutes, Catherine oversaw preparation of a fine Christmas banquet. Members of the household ate heartily, then entertained themselves with songs, dancing, and wrestling matches.

  Janet was enjoying herself. Fionna tried to join the fun, but she was too disheartened to take part. She used her continuing weakness as an excuse to refuse all offers to join the dancing.

  Twelfth Night came and went. The Yule log was reduced to ashes; the holiday greenery was swept out of the great hall.

  Toward sundown one afternoon in late January, Royce and his men-at-arms finally returned. Quentin came with them.

  “I was beginning to worry about you,” Catherine exclaimed, embracing her father. “You’ve been away so long.”

  “King Henry insisted we must spend Christmas at court,” Royce explained. “We were heartily sick of St. Albans before we finally left.”

  “Where is Cadwallon?” Janet asked of Royce.

  That wasn’t a simple question, Fionna thought, hearing her sister’s waspish tone. It was a demand. Janet had expected Cadwallon to return to Wortham with Royce and that expectation explained why she had remained so cheerful for so many weeks. Now, with her hopes bli
ghted, Janet was reverting to her old ways before Fionna’s eyes. Her formerly glowing face suddenly became hard and pinched. Her eyes snapped in fury and her voice was sharp.

  “King Henry had a minor task for Cadwallon to see to,” Royce said. “There is a certain castle that needs to be besieged and taken.”

  “I see.” Janet turned away so quickly that Fionna was sure she was close to tears. A moment later Janet whirled around to confront Quentin.

  “Why have you come to Wortham?” she demanded.

  “I invited him,” Royce said, his eyebrows raised at Janet’s rudeness.

  “I left my horse here,” Quentin said.

  “Of course!” By now Janet was completely her old self again. “You men think of nothing but horses and arms and warfare. You delight in bloodletting.”

  “Janet, stop this instant!” Fionna cried. “Without any cause, you are being extremely rude.”

  “I have cause!” Janet cried. “Cadwallon promised – and now he has broken his promise. I shall never trust another man – not ever!” On that passionate declaration, Janet fled from the great hall.

  “She could have waited to hear the full explanation,” Quentin said.

  “Cadwallon promised to return to her, but he is absent. Is there more to say?” Fionna asked.

  “Indeed, there is.” Quentin’s gaze caught and held hers. “Much more.”

  “So you claim.” Fionna glared at him, trembling as she wondered when he was going to announce his betrothal to Lady Eleanor. She was beginning to understand why Janet greeted any new situation with anger and sharp words. Better by far to be angry than to react to arbitrary masculine decisions with ineffectual tears or with meek acceptance.