Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “I must roll you onto your back, Rob,” he said hurriedly. “Help me. Roll with me if you can.”

  Grunting as he tried to pull the man over from his right side, he realized that he couldn’t because the arrow had gone all the way through. It had sliced directly through Edlington’s spine and at least two inches of arrow protruded out of his back. His horror must have reflected in his eyes because Edlington suddenly grabbed his hands, squeezing tightly.

  “Cortez, listen to me,” Rob gasped as it became increasingly difficult to breathe. “You must promise me something.”

  Cortez de Bretagne stared at Rob, grief etching his features. “Let me help you,” he pleaded softly. “If I can get this arrow out, I can….”

  Edlington cut him off. “Nay, my friend,” he whispered. “It is over. I cannot feel my legs. This is the last of me now and I must say what is in my heart before I die. Will you listen? Will you please?”

  Over to the west, they could hear the sounds of fighting again as more Scots and more English came together. It was too close for comfort and Cortez stood up, grabbing Rob under the arms and dragging him away from the fighting, through a cluster of trees, slugging through knee-deep mud in places to reach what appeared to be a safe spot. There was a big oak tree to protect them from the rain even though the tree itself was surrounded by a sea of dark, clinging mud.

  Grunting with effort, Cortez propped Edlington up against the tree trunk, falling to his knees beside the man. He grasped the spine of the arrow, preparing to remove it, but Edlington stopped him.

  “Nay,” he gasped. “Leave it. There is nothing you can do.”

  “But…!”

  “Leave it,” Edlington begged, grasping for Cortez’s hands again. He found them and held them tightly, gazing into the face of his friend. “Please, Cortez… you must promise me something.”

  Cortez was verging on tears of sorrow, of rage. He knew this was the end for his friend and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  “Anything at all,” he said hoarsely, squeezing Robert’s hands tightly. “Whatever it is, I shall do it.”

  “Diamantha,” Robert breathed. “My wife. This will be very hard on her, Cortez. She must be comforted. I ask that you tell her my last thoughts were of her and of Sophie, my daughter. You will tell her, won’t you? You will tell her that I was very proud to be her husband.”

  Cortez nodded vigorously. “You know I will,” he said, feeling tears sting his eyes. “But let me try to remove this arrow. Mayhap there is….”

  “Cortez, listen to me,” Robert interrupted him; he was having great difficulty breathing. “Diamantha… I want you to take care of her. Swear to me that you will. Since your own Helene is gone these past three years, you are free to marry Diamantha. I want you to, Cortez. Swear to me you will marry her and that you will be very good to her.”

  Cortez looked at the man in shock. “Marry her?” he repeated, stunned. “But… Rob, she may not want to….”

  “Please!” Robert gasped with anguish.

  Cortez couldn’t refuse the man. He couldn’t stand to see his pain, to see his life draining away. The anguish he felt was staggering.

  “Of course,” he assured the man quickly, to ease his mind. “I will do what you ask. Rest assured, my friend. I will take care of her. She will want for nothing.”

  Robert still had a grip on him. “Seek out her father,” he muttered. “He is a great knight, living at Norham Castle. Seek him out and tell him what has happened. He will give you his blessing, I am sure.”

  “If that is your wish, I will do it.”

  Robert seemed to relax a great deal after that, slouching back against the tree trunk as the rain poured down around them. Off to the west, they could hear a horn sound, a call to arms. Cortez knew that it was Edward, summoning all of his available fighting men to deliver the death blow to the Scots. The day was growing late and he wanted to tie up his business. Cortez looked at Robert, collapsed against the tree, and squeezed the man’s hands tightly.

  “I will be back,” he said determinedly. “Edward has need of his knights but I will return as soon as I can. Do you hear me? I will be back.”

  Robert nodded faintly. “I am at peace, Cortez,” he muttered. “Whatever happens now, I am at peace knowing my wife and daughter are in your hands. Pray be good to them. Love them as I do.”

  Cortez stared at him a moment as the man took a deep, ragged breath and closed his eyes. Filled with sorrow, Cortez leaned over Robert and kissed his exposed forehead.

  “You are my brother,” he whispered. “You are one of the finest knights I have ever known. Godspeed, Robert, wherever your path may take you.”

  Robert’s eyes flickered, giving Cortez a sign that he had heard him, and with that, Cortez staggered wearily to his feet and chased down his charger as the animal grazed several feet away.

  With a lingering glance at Edlington, propped up against the ancient oak with the split trunk, Cortez spurred his charger to action, avoiding the great swamps of mud as he headed towards the death throes of the battle of Falkirk, as the Scots fell beneath the English hammer. The end, at that point, was not long in coming and soon enough, it was finished. The English had triumphed.

  Before the sun set, Cortez made it back to Robert but when he arrived at the split tree, all that met him was a sea of mud, so deep in places that it could have easily swallowed a man. Edlington was gone, returned to the earth as all men did when it was their time to meet God. A search for him the next day turned up no sign of the big, strapping knight who had been gored through the chest. Just like that, he was gone, and the battle of Falkirk faded into the annals of history.

  But the quest to find Robert Edlington’s body did not end that day. In fact, it had only begun.

  For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart.

  It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul.

  ~ 13th Century Poet

  CHAPTER ONE

  Corfe Castle, Dorset

  October 1298 A.D.

  “For the love of God, he has only been dead these three months. Why must you force my husband from my memory so quickly?”

  A lone woman faced off against a man clad in pieces of mail and leather, her words of anguish filling the air between them. The question was infused with sorrow and curiosity. Yet, it was a legitimate query. In the lavish solar that was the heart of Corfe Castle’s mighty stone keep, the emotions filling the room were as heady as the black smoke from the snapping fire.

  The man with the silver hair tried to be stern with his reply but found he could not when he gazed into her agonized face. Her dual-toned eyes, a mesmerizing shade of bright green with a splash of brown around the iris of the right orb, slashed into him until he could no longer hold his gaze. He ended up rising from his chair and turning his back to her. It was the only way he could breathe.

  “I am not attempting to erase his memory, Diamantha,” he said quietly. “Robert was my son and my grief exceeds your own. However, the fact remains that he is no longer with us and it is your father’s wish that you remarry as soon as possible. You are young and wealthy, and your father wants you to find a suitable husband.”

  The Lady Diamantha de Bocage Edlington changed moods as swiftly as a flash of lightning; she charged to her father-in-law, forcing the man to look her in the eye. When she spoke, it was through clenched teeth.

  “My father,” she seethed. “By all that is holy and right, I knew he was behind this. I knew it!”

  Sir George Edlington was old; too old for what he was about to face. A dead son, a grieving daughter-in-law, and pain in his heart that was deeper than an ocean. No parent should ever have to bury a child. With a deep breath for courage, he grasped Diamantha by the arms as if to shake some sense into her.

  “Your father wants his daughter to be taken care of,” he said firmly. “Robert, God rest him, would want this also. He would not want you to spend your life reliving memories that are of no use to anyone. And
he would want Sophie to know a father again.”

  Diamantha yanked away from him, her small body showing more strength than George had imagined it held.

  “Sophie’s father is dead,” she half-hissed, half-wept. “She will never know another. And I do not want another husband.”

  “So you would let your daughter live her life without the guidance of a father?” George was growing agitated. “And you would rather live your life alone and bitter? That makes little sense.”

  She lost some of her fire. “It is my life. How I live it is none of your concern.”

  He cocked a dark, bushy eyebrow. “I wonder what Robert would say to that?”

  She opened her mouth in preparation for a scathing retort but found herself unable to muster the energy. After a moment, she shook her head and turned away.

  “He would say nothing to me,” she said weakly, her brilliant gaze finding the lancet window and the lush green hills of Dorset beyond. The scent of early summer was warm upon the air and she inhaled deeply. “He would do what he always did. He would bow to my wishes and let me do as I please. Your son was far too much of a gentleman to contradict his wife, even when she was wrong.”

  George watched the slender curve of her back beneath the blue damask surcoat and the way her reddish-brown hair fell in a heavy, shimmering sheet past her buttocks. It was long and straight and silky and she always pulled it off her face in a pleasing style that Robert had liked. Though it was the custom for married women to cover their head, Robert could not bear to see his wife’s luscious hair covered.

  As George gazed at the woman his son had outright adored, the familiar pangs of grief began to claw at him again. With her, he saw the last memories of his son and he was loath to send her away as her father wished.

  But what he wanted was of little consequence. Diamantha’s father was a powerful warlord serving the Earl of Teviot in the north and George, as a servant of the king, would do as he was ordered. It was out of his hands. With a blustery sigh, he turned back to the chair that had once held his weary body.

  “At least you will not go far,” he said softly. “You can take comfort in that.”

  Diamantha looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  George picked up the parchment that lay upon the table next to the chair. “You will go to Sherborne Castle,” he replied, not looking at her. “Cortez de Bretagne is to be your new husband.”

  Diamantha looked at him as if she did not understand his words. Then, her eyes widened. “De Bretagne?” she repeated incredulously. “Is that the man my father has chosen?”

  George nodded faintly, re-reading the missive had had received several hours earlier. It had taken him that long to summon the courage to tell Diamantha of its contents. He still did not have the nerve to tell her that her proposed fiancé was waiting in the outer bailey, far removed from the view of the main keep, for an introduction. It was, in fact, de Bretagne who had delivered the missive written by the lady’s father.

  “Sir Cortez de Bretagne, garrison commander for King Edward’s holding of Sherborne Castle,” he said as he read the words again. “You have known Cortez for years so it is not as if you will be marrying someone you have never met.”

  Diamantha could not keep the shocked look off her face. “Of course I know him,” she muttered, looking away as she struggled to digest the news. “His wife was my friend until she died three years ago, around the time Sophie was born. Helene died in childbirth and I remember Robert telling me how grief-stricken Cortez was. The man could hardly function.”

  George dared to look at her to see if he could register any manner of acceptance with the arrangement. “Then this does not displease you?” he asked softly.

  Diamantha was still caught up in the memories of Helene de Bretagne and her dark, handsome husband. She ignored her father-in-law’s question. “I wonder how my father came to this agreement,” she pondered, wandering back towards the window. “How would he know of Cortez? How would he have…?”

  “Perhaps Cortez went to him,” George interrupted with a shrug. “He was there when Robert was killed. He knew that you were widowed. Perhaps he went to your father with a proposal.”

  Her head snapped to George. “Do you think that is true?” she suddenly sounded angry again. “Why would he have done this? I have barely spoken ten words to the man the entire time I have known him. Why would he go to my father and demand my hand?”

  George put up a hand to stop any building rage. “I do not know if that is the case,” he insisted. “It was merely a suggestion. Your father is a great warlord for Edward and so is Cortez. It would not have been difficult for him to arrange an audience with your father, as they are of the same social standing.”

  She thought on that a moment before refocusing on George. There was resignation in her manner when she spoke.

  “Being the youngest of three daughters, I am sure my father was most receptive to Cortez’s offer,” she said ironically. “My father was always so protective of me and my sisters. He was probably thrilled with the thought of marrying off a widowed daughter purely for the security it would provide.”

  “Your father loves you a great deal.”

  “He means well.”

  George wasn’t sure how to respond. He wasn’t any good at gauging her mood; he never had been and neither had his son. So he set the parchment back to the table and faced her.

  “Cortez delivered the missive,” he said, hoping she would not explode at him. “He is waiting to take you back to Sherborne.”

  Her only reaction was to stare, rather dazed, at him. “Is this true?”

  “Indeed it is.”

  The reply came from the door. Both George and Diamantha whirled in the direction of the entry. Standing in the archway was a tall man with enormous shoulders, partially shrouded by the shadows. They could see his silhouette in the darkness. When he saw that their attention was upon him, he stepped forward into the light.

  Cortez de Bretagne was a big, muscular man with cropped black hair and onyx-colored eyes. He was Spaniard on mother’s side, Welsh on his father’s, giving him a dark and sultry countenance. There was something about the man that oozed strength and seductiveness, far more charisma than most pale and fair Englishmen.

  More than that, there was something about him that was unsettling in a giddy sort of way; Diamantha remembered that from the first time she had met him. Every woman in Dorset knew of the gorgeously handsome Cortez and Helene had quietly weathered the female attention to her husband. She remained composed and gracious even as flighty women would challenge her for her husband’s affection. It was a quality that Diamantha had appreciated in the woman, her friend gone these three years. Now, the handsome husband was to become hers. She could hardly believe it.

  Cortez glanced at George but his focus returned to Diamantha. His attractive, chiseled face smiled timidly as he bowed in her general direction.

  “Lady Edlington,” he greeted in a soft baritone voice.

  “I thought I told you to stay in the bailey until I sent for you,” George was the least bit perturbed.

  “I was in the bailey,” Cortez cast him a long glance, his tone no longer soft. “Now I am here. I think a six-hour wait was sufficient.”

  Diamantha stood there gaping at him, shocked by his appearance and not at all certain she was able to grasp what was going on. Not a moment before she was a young widow with a young daughter, looking forward to a lonely future. Now she was betrothed and heading for Sherborne Castle. Rather than become confrontational about it, she turned away and sank into the nearest chair.

  “God’s Blood,” she breathed. “This has all happened so quickly.”

  George opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a stern look from Cortez. The younger, more powerful man was not one to be trifled with. George knew that; he had seen the man in battle and he was absolutely ferocious. And he had the reputation of having quite a temper when aroused, something attributed to his mother’s Spanish blood
. Therefore, when Cortez jerked his head in the direction of the door, George took the hint and left. It was out of his hands, anyway.

  Diamantha didn’t see George quit the solar. She was turned in the direction of the fire, watching the flames as they licked against the stone. And she didn’t see Cortez kneel beside her chair until it was too late. By the time she caught a glimpse of him, he was nearly upon her and she started at his nearness.

  “Forgive me,” he said, his voice soft once more as he addressed her. “I did not mean to alarm you. But I must speak with you.”

  Diamantha was leaning against the opposite arm of the chair, as far as she could get from Cortez without actually leaving the chair. She studied his face, reacquainting herself with the man she remembered from distant memories.

  At Robert’s funeral mass, she had seen him at the church of Corfe’s village but she hadn’t given him any thought. There had been many knights there to pay homage to the memory of Robert Edlington and Cortez had been one of the many. It had been a memorial service and nothing more. They did not have a body to bury. Robert had been left, like so many others, at Falkirk where he had fallen.

  As she studied Cortez’s square jaw and dimpled chin, she noticed that he was studying her in return. He was smiling faintly while she was clearly not returning the gesture. It didn’t seem to deter him, however. His smile grew the longer she stared at him.

  “I realize this is something of a shock to you, my lady,” he said in his deep, almost gentle voice. “I wanted to be present when the missive was delivered to you but George thought it best that I wait. But I could not and I do apologize if that seems rash.”

  Diamantha’s brow furrowed slightly as she watched his full lips form words, spewing forth information that was puzzling and slightly urgent-sounding.

  “Rash?” she repeated. “Rash that you wanted to be present? Or rash that you burst into the solar in the midst of a private conversation?”

  He seemed somewhat chagrined. “Both,” he admitted. His black eyes lingered on her. “May I speak plainly, my lady?”