Genevieve understood, somewhat. She was just glad it was all over. As Kelly begged his leave and Remy followed, the room was suddenly empty. Rhoan went to the door and shut it, returning to Genevieve to pull her into his arms once more. He sighed heavily with satisfaction as he did so, saying a silent prayer of thanks for her safe return. He was still reeling from it, but so very happy.
“Are you sure you are unharmed?” he asked quietly. “Shall I have the physic take a look at you?”
Genevieve gripped him tightly. “I am fine,” she assured him. “A bath and clean clothing, and I shall be as good as new. But… but I must tell you something, Lucifer. This entire event has caused me to think on so many things. When Curtiz was taking me out to the Spanish ship, all I could think about was you and how I did not want to leave you. I… I know I asked to buy my freedom, but I have decided that I do not want my freedom. I want to stay with you.”
Those were, perhaps, the sweetest words he’d ever heard. Cupping her sweet face, he gazed seriously into her eyes.
“And I must tell you something also,” he murmured. “Firstly, you will call me Rhoan. That is my name. Lucifer no longer exists. Secondly, I must apologize for my behavior last night. Genevieve, I am not a man accustomed to speaking his feelings, and I was afraid to voice them to you. I will not make that mistake again. The truth is that I do not want you to have your freedom, either. I want you to stay with me, as my wife. I cannot explain what I am feeling for you, so I will not try. All I know is that you are my sun, and you have brightened my life as I never thought it could be brightened. When I thought you were lost, it was the darkest moment I have ever experienced. But now, my sun is back again and I will never let her go. You will be with me, until the end of the world and beyond, and I will cherish no other but you.”
A smile spread across Genevieve’s dry lips and her tears returned, but they were tears of joy. She never believed her heart could be so full.
“And I shall cherish no other but you,” she whispered. “I will be by your side, Rhoan, for always.”
Rhoan dipped his head forward, brushing his lips sweetly against hers, tasting the salt from the sea upon her. It reminded him of how close he came to losing her, and the strength of his feelings for her filled him more strongly than anything else ever had.
“Then let us go forth into this brave, new world together,” he whispered. “With you by my side, I can face anything.”
This time, Genevieve stood on her toes and captured his lips in hers, kissing him with all of the power and passion she was feeling. It was a brave, new world, indeed, one she was more than willing to face with him. He belonged to her, and she to him, and nothing would ever separate them again.
The man named for a fallen angel was lost no more.
The End
Lady of the Moon
A Medieval Romance Novella
Kathryn Le Veque
Author’s Notes
Welcome to extended version of Lady of the Moon!
This was originally released as part of the Mists and Moonrise collection in June 2017, based loosely on an ancient Celtic legend of doomed lovers, which you’ll see in the foreword. Kael and Aelwen – the lovers in the legend – are simply a concoction of my imagination and not the actual Celtic legend, but it was fun to create the legend and base a story on it. That’s what great story-telling is all about!
Now, a few things to note:
Plays, as a form of theater, are discussed in this book. There actually was quite a bit of Medieval theatre back in the day – makes for very interesting reading. There were portable stages with wheels that were drawn around town so performances could be given almost anywhere. Even the play mentioned in this book – The Summoning of Everyman – is an actual Medieval play. I have taken artistic license with the publication date, but it just fits with the story!
Our heroine, Samarra le Brecque, is the sister of Constantine le Brecque from the coming series I’m doing with Eliza Knight, Pirates of Britannia: Lords of the Seas. In the original novella, Constantine didn’t appear but in this extended version, he does indeed make an appearance at the end and I think you’re really going to like having a glimpse of him. He’s a little glib, a lot sexy, and the perfect Medieval pirate.
So – happy readers, enjoy the tale – it’s quite a ride!
Hugs,
Kathryn
The Legend of Kael and Aelwen
Cornwall legend tells of an ancient King of Cornwall, named Cador, who ruled Cornwall before the time of King Arthur. Cador’s wife became pregnant and an oracle foretold of a daughter so beautiful that men would go to war over her.
Cador, fearful of this daughter with the legendary beauty, had the infant whisked away the moment of her birth by a young page in the castle. The young page was instructed to take her far, far away and never let her return, so the boy took her to the caves of St. Agnes where he stayed with the girl until she grew into womanhood. Her name was Aelwen and the boy who raised her grew to love her. His name was Kael.
Kael and Aelwen lived on the remote Cornwall coast, in the cave of St. Agnes, until one day Cador came for Aelwen. He wanted to marry her to an enemy to cement an alliance but Kael refused to let her go. In his anger, Cador murdered Kael and stole Aelwen away to be married to his enemy, but Aelwen refused to be married to him and ran away, back to the caves where Kael’s body still lay.
Men were chasing after her, men who would take her back to the enemy to be married, so she did the only thing she could do – she slipped an iron blade between her ribs and into her heart, killing herself. She fell upon Kael, united in death with him. High tide washed into the cave, carrying the bodies of the lovers out to sea, lost forever to the waves. But a great stain of red upon the wall of the cave lingered, said to be the mingled blood of Kael and Aelwen.
Legend says that if two lovers touch that stain, together, then they will fall madly in love for eternity, but they must touch of their own free will.
Chapter One
Year of our Lord 1444 A.D.
The Month of August
Cambourne, Cornwall
The Blackbottom Tavern
“Across the ocean of turbulent tide,
A heart that loved and was loved,
Her beauty made of moonbeams and starlight,
But her longing for home was….”
Whack!
The troubadour had come too close.
A hand came up, fist balled, and slugged the hapless man right in the face. Song instantly ended, he staggered backwards but, to his credit, didn’t lose his grip on his citole. The instrument remained clutched against his chest even as he lost his balance and fell on his arse, blood pouring from his injured nose.
A swell of laughter rose in the tavern’s common room, men and woman cheering loudly at the troubadour’s misfortune of having sung his sappy song to the wrong woman. He’d gotten too close to her, singing his song of courtly love and other things she found offensive, so she’d balled her fist and hit him. He’d probably think twice before singing to her again.
Amidst the heat and stench of the room, with smoke from a poorly designed hearth hanging about their heads like a blue fog, the woman who’d hit the troubadour was gazing at her companion across the table. In fact, her attention had never wavered from him, even when the stupid entertainer had hung over her shoulder and sang love songs that couldn’t have possibly been more misplaced. Misplaced because the man seated across from her was not her lover.
He was hiring her for a job.
The man, a richly dressed lord that bespoke of his wealth and rank, leaned sideways so he could see the minstrel on the ground, now being helped to his feet by men who were laughing at him. If he’d had any doubts about the ability of the woman across the table from him, those doubts had been summarily dashed by her swift and brutal movement.
She was a brute, this one.
It was late on this evening and the tavern known as The Blackbottom Tavern, two miles from t
he sea on the deep and mysterious inland of Cornwall. This was a land of legends and beasts, which was why men sought shelter when the sun went down. No one wanted to be exposed in the dark to things that lurked within it. Even with a full moon, the wilds of Cornwall after dark were not a place fit for man.
But along with its danger, it was also a place that bred strong and unusual warriors, as evidenced by the woman sitting across from him. A mercenary, she was, with the looks of an angel. Lady of the Moon she was called because no one really knew her name. All they knew was that when night fell and the moonlight shone over the wilds of Cornwall, the Lady of the Moon moved freely and without fear. Even if Cornwall after dark wasn’t fit for man, it was certainly fit for a woman.
A most remarkable woman.
“So,” the man in silks said as he refocused his attention on her, “you do not like songs. I shall remember that so you do not do to me what you did to that minstrel.”
The woman’s gaze was steady. “Do you sing?”
The man shook his head. “Alas, I do not, and I do not intend to start with you around,” he said, somewhat wryly. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes… as I was saying, you have my gratitude for agreeing to meet with me. I am willing to pay you most handsomely for a very important task regarding my son.”
The bloodied troubadour was forgotten as the woman cocked a dark eyebrow. “Go on.”
The man took a huge drink of the cheap ale he’d purchased. He smacked his lips. “My name is Henry de Leybourne,” he told her. “I’ve not yet introduced myself and, for that, I do apologize. My home of Tyringham Castle is just south of St. Ives and I hold the lordship of Tyringham, St. Ives, and Trevalgan, which means I have the means to pay you a great deal for your services.”
The woman’s gaze moved away from him and to the several heavily-armed men who were dotted around the room, men she’d seen enter with the expensively dressed man. She didn’t doubt for one moment he was who he said he was, but she was naturally leery of such men. She’d been in this business too long to instantly warm to, or trust, any man who wished to engaged her services. She needed to speak with him more to decide whether or not she even wanted to do business with him.
“I believe you,” she said, although it really wasn’t the truth. “You went through a great deal to summon me, Lord Tyringham. I have been receiving missives from you for the past three months, each one of them asking to meet with you. So here I am; what would you have of me?”
Tyringham cocked his head in a curious gesture. “Your name, please? All I know of you is that men call you Lady of the Moon and that your stronghold is Mithian Castle. May I have your name, lady?”
“In time. Tell me of your task first.”
Tyringham suspected he had little choice; mercenaries such as the lady were often suspicious and wraith-like in the way they operated. If he said the wrong word, she would vanish like a ghost. Therefore, when he spoke, it was carefully.
It was time to get down to business.
“My son was betrothed as a young lad to a lass who lives in Penzance,” he said. “Her father, Lord de Sansen, is a great friend and we brokered a marriage between our children to strengthen our alliance in Cornwall. When our children wed, we will control the tip of Cornwall from coast to coast, from St. Ives all the way across to Penzance. You can see that it will be a very lucrative marriage.”
The woman nodded faintly. “I do.”
“Then you are an intelligent woman and my son is daft, for he does not see such an advantage. In fact, he wants nothing to do with her.”
The woman shrugged. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Abduct him.”
Now, he had her interest. “Abduct him?” she repeated, puzzled. “For what purpose?”
Tyringham folded his hands on the table, looking at her quite seriously. “You will abduct him and take him to the caves of St. Agnes, where I will be waiting with his betrothed,” he told her. “You know the legend of the caves, do you not? If you do not, the legend goes like this – many years ago in the wilds of Cornwall, a beautiful princess was born. She was so beautiful that an oracle foretold of the men who would go to battle to win her heart. Her father, being a wise and reasonable man, did not want men dying for his daughter, so he gave her over to a young page to tend, keeping her hidden from the world. This young boy and young girl grew to love each other over the years, but tragedy struck when the father pledged the princess to the son of his enemy. The page and the princess fled to the caves of St. Agnes where they took their own lives just as the princess’ father was closing in on them. It is said that if a man and woman touch the walls of the cave where the bloodstains of the lovers are, then they will fall in love. I intend that my son and his betrothed should touch those stains so that we may cement our alliance.”
The young woman was listening carefully. “That is not what I have heard of the legend,” she said. “Two people, already in love, must touch the stains of their own free will and, if they do, they will remain in love with one another for all time.”
Tyringham frowned. “It does not matter,” he said, waving his hands about, clearly frustrated with the situation. “I intend that my son and his betrothed should touch the stains. By luck or by magic, I want him to be an agreeable groom. Something will surely happen, from my legend or from yours.”
The woman eyed him, seeing that this was something that meant a great deal to him. His desperation as a father was bleeding out all over the place. “So you want me to abduct this reluctant groom and take him to the caves where you will force him to touch the stains?” she said, disbelief in her tone. “Do you then expect me to hold him at sword point until he touches the cave walls?”
Tyringham shook his head. “I will pay you to bring him to the cave,” he said. “Once he is at the cave, I will handle the situation.”
“It seems to me that you cannot handle the situation even now ’else you would not be trying to hire me.”
She had a point. Tyringham lifted an eyebrow that suggested he was agreeing with her even if he didn’t want to. “That is, mayhap, true, but I do not expect you to force him to touch the cave walls,” he said. “Leave that to me. Now, is this a job you feel you can undertake?”
The woman sat back on her chair, putting her calloused hand on the hilt of the sword that was scabbarded at her side. She was very tall for a woman, with long legs encased in tight leather hose and a series of tunics over her torso that provided both coverage and protection for her strong, sinewy body. Her long, dark hair was mussed, tied at the nape of her neck with a strip of leather, while her hazel eyes gazed at Tyringham with both interest and doubt.
In truth, she appeared every inch the mercenary wench Tyringham had heard tale of, this Lady of the Moon. She looked like something out of a nightmare had it not been for that angelic face that seemed to distort the image of a blood-thirsty killer.
It’s that face that sends men to their graves, Tyringham thought grimly.
“I can undertake any task,” she said confidently. “But just how do you expect me to abduct him? And why can you not take him to St. Agnes yourself?”
Tyringham poured himself more ale. “Because he will run from me,” he said. “My son is wily. If he suspects I am taking him to his betrothed, then he will run. He has done it before. This time, he is going to run straight into you.”
“What do you mean?”
Tyringham downed more of the flat ale. “My plan is simple – I mean to tell him that his betrothed is coming to Tyringham Castle,” he said. “The mere mention of her will make him run. When he does, you will be waiting for him. You will intercept him and take him straight to the caves where I will soon join you with his betrothed. What is your price?”
The young woman sighed faintly as she considered what to tell him. The harder the job, the more the price; would this son of Tyringham fight her? Easily surrender?
“Tell me of your son,” she said. “Is he a knight?”
Tyringham
nodded. “Rhodes de Leybourne is a very fine knight,” he said. “He has served Bristol for many years as one of his most seasoned knights. I need not go in to all of the accomplishments of my son, but suffice it to say that he is a decorated knight of the highest order. His reputation in battle is unmatched.”
The woman stared at him a moment, her eyes narrowing with realization. “De Russe,” she finally muttered. “Your son is a Lancastrian.”
“You speak as if you do not approve. Does money take sides, then? Is coinage either Yorkist or Lancastrian?”
The woman didn’t say anything for a moment, perhaps trying to make that exact determination. Ultimately, it didn’t matter to her who men served these days, whether they followed the House of York or the House of Lancaster. Her business crossed those lines repeatedly and she was happy to do so. Therefore, it really didn’t matter to her who de Leybourne’s son served.
This was business.
“Money from Yorkist or Lancastrian has equal value to me,” she said. “What I want to know is if your son will resist me.”
“More than likely.”
“Will he fight?”
“I believe you can count on it.”
“Then the price doubles.”
Tyringham eyed her a moment before reluctantly digging into the robe he wore, a very expensive garment lined with fur and elaborately embroidered. There must have been hidden pockets inside of it because he pulled forth a small leather pouch and tossed it at her. Deftly, the woman caught the sack, which was jingling. There were pieces of something hard sheathed in the leather. Suspecting what was in it, she untied the top and peered inside.
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