Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Nay,” he said softly. “I suppose I did not particularly want to. I simply packed everything away.”

  Diamantha understood. “Then we should probably take a look now just to see what we will be giving her.”

  Cortez took her hand and escorted her to his solar, which was in a wing of the complex of Sherborne that was separated from the keep. The great stone buildings that made up the complex of Sherborne were cool on this day, a bright day in spring that had dawned quite cold. In fact, the entire spring had been unseasonably chilly. By the time they reached the well-appointed solar that smelled of rushes, Diamantha was rubbing her arms against the chill.

  Cortez went over to a great wardrobe that was situated behind his well-used desk, a cabinet that held his writing implements, law books, and other things. It was quite cluttered. On the bottom shelf was a rather large chest, and Cortez pulled it out, setting it upon his desk. As he bent over to pull out the broadsword that had once belonged to Edlington, still in its scabbard, Diamantha opened the top of the trunk.

  The first thing she saw was Robert’s tunic, the one he had been wearing when he had been wounded. So many memories tumbled upon her, memories she hadn’t thought of in years. Some were sad, some were not. With a sigh, she carefully pulled out the tunic and held it up, inspecting it. It was dirty and yellowed with age, but the impact of the sight of it was not any less powerful.

  “Do you suppose she is going to want this?” she asked.

  Cortez set the broadsword down on the table, looking at the tunic. “Has she ever seen it?”

  Diamantha shook her head. “I never showed it to her. I never saw the need.”

  Cortez put his arm around her shoulders, his gaze on the tunic that held very heady memories for him. Once again, he could feel the sorrow of that day, a day that had changed his life forever. It was a struggle not to linger on the reflections.

  “We can bring it,” he said softly. “She is old enough now that she may want to see it. It will be her choice whether or not she wants to keep it.”

  Diamantha nodded and carefully folded it, setting it aside. The chest contained a saddlebag, one of two that Robert had owned, but the second bag had never been located. She pulled the bag out and set it on the desk next to the chest as Cortez untied the top and opened it up.

  He pulled out knitted gloves, a knitted cap, and two tunics that had belonged to Robert. Diamantha took the tunics, inspecting them.

  “I remember when I made these,” she said, almost wistfully. “Robert had put on weight and they were too tight, but he insisted on wearing them. I told him he looked as if he were wearing a sausage casing.”

  She chuckled at the memory, as did Cortez. But when the laughter died, Cortez watched her expression, wondering if the humor was giving way to sorrow.

  “How do you feel seeing all of this again?” he questioned.

  Diamantha shrugged as she carefully refolded the tunics. “I suppose I feel sad that he never got to see Sophie marry,” she said honestly. “I am sad that he will never know his grandson, his namesake. But beyond that, I do not miss him if that is what you mean. I know it sounds terrible to say this, but had he not died, I would have never married you, and you and I have had a perfect life together. I have a beautiful family and a wonderful husband… I am very thankful for my life.”

  Cortez smiled faintly at her, warmed by her words. He reached deeper into the saddlebag and pulled out a small dirk, a pair of hose, and a small sewing kit. He set them all upon the table as Diamantha carefully examined everything. The last few items in the saddlebags belonged to a writing kit. He pulled out an inkwell and quill, tightly wrapped in a leather pouch, a sanding phial that still had sand in the bottom of it, and a pouch containing sheets of vellum.

  “Robert was keen on writing,” Diamantha said, scrutinizing the sanding phial before opening up the vellum pouch. “In fact, he used to… God’s Bones… Cortez, I think some of this vellum has writing on it.”

  Carefully, she pulled it out. There were several sheets of uneven size and width, and three of them had writing on them. As Cortez lit the taper on the desk so they could see more clearly, Diamantha held up the first sheet with dark, somewhat smeared lettering on it.

  “Can you read this?” she asked Cortez.

  He took the vellum, peering at it in the dim light. His eyesight had never been the greatest and over the years, it had grown steadily worse, so it took him a moment to see what had been written. After reading a few sentences, he grinned.

  “It’s a story,” he said. “He has written about a family of rabbits. He must have written it for Sophie.”

  Diamantha nodded eagerly. “He loved to write little stories for her,” she said happily. “What a blessing this is – now Sophie can have it for her son.”

  Cortez set the vellum down and picked up the next one. He read a couple of sentences. “This seems to be a letter to George,” he said. “I am sorry we did not know it was here. I am sure George would have liked to have seen it.”

  Diamantha looked at the letters. Since she did not know how to read, it all looked like scribble to her. “How sad,” she said with regret. “He never did recover from Robert’s death. It was one of the last things he said before he passed away last year, do you recall? He said he was glad to die because he would see his son and wife again. What a terrible thing to be so lonely.”

  Cortez nodded in agreement, thinking on George Edlington and how he spent a great deal of time at Sherborne since Robert’s passing. He did it to be close to Sophie, but he eventually became a grandfather to all of their children. The end of his life had been very full. As he thought on George, he took a look at the third piece of vellum. After reading the first few words, he looked at Diamantha.

  “This is addressed to Sophie,” he said.

  Diamantha eyed the letters on the vellum, some of them smeared and dulled with age. “What does it say?” she asked.

  Cortez returned his gaze to the yellowed vellum with the faded writing on it. Quietly, he began to read.

  My dearest Sophie;

  My days are long and my nights longer. I miss you and your mother fiercely. I know you are too young to understand why I have gone away, but please know it was not because I wanted to. It was because my king, and my country, had need of me. I pray for a swift end to this conflict so that I can return home to you and your mother. In my dreams, I can see your smile and hear your laughter. Sometimes, I see rabbits or butterflies all around, and I can imagine that in their beauty, I see a glimpse of you. You are a breath of wind, the song of a bird, or a flower petal that blows away on a breeze. You are all these things of beauty to me and if the fates are unkind and I never see your face again, then know that throughout this journey, I have been comforted by the life I see around me. It reminds me of you. I pray for the day when we will be together again, my little flower, in this life or in the next. But know that if my life ends today, I will be with you, always. I will be in the song of a sparrow or in the patter of a gentle rain. As you are with me now, so will I be with you until the end.

  Your loving Papa

  Cortez had tears in his eyes as he finished. He couldn’t even see the vellum anymore. He looked up at Diamantha to see tears streaming down her face. Stifling a sob, she wrapped her arms around Cortez’s waist, her head upon his shoulder.

  “He loved her so much,” she whispered, wiping at her face. “Although I am sorry we did not find this letter sooner, just as we did not find George’s letter sooner, I cannot help but be grateful that we found it now. This will have so much more meaning to her as an adult than it would have as a child. But I wonder why he never sent it to her? Why did he keep it with him?”

  Cortez hugged her tightly, thinking on that day so long ago when Robert Edlington had ended his life on his own terms. He’d never faulted the man his decision. In fact, he had always understood his motives. Let them remember me as I was. Now, they had.

  “I do not know,” he said softly. “Mayhap
it was something he wrote right before his death and never had time to send it. Or maybe it was a sentiment he wanted to keep with him, something to remind him of his daughter. Whatever the reason, it does not matter, for Sophie will soon have it and she will know how much her father loved her. In fact, he has described how I feel about her, also. It is how I feel about all of my children, but it is particularly how I feel about you. As you are with me now, so will I be with you until the end because my quest, always, has been you.”

  He quoted the last of Robert’s letter with his own sentiment on the end of it, a phrase that had been the core of their marriage. Diamantha hugged him tightly.

  “It is beautiful,” she whispered. “Truly beautiful.”

  They remained in a tight embrace for a few moments longer, lingering on Robert’s adoring letter, until they were forced to pack up the chest, remembering the children waiting for them. Their children, born from a love that had been forged in sorrow and fire, a love that was stronger than the bonds of earth, and held together by a little Posey ring that Diamantha had never taken off her finger.

  It summed up everything they had ever meant to one another, the heart of their very existence, in this life or in any other.

  My quest is you.

  * THE END *

  Author’s Notes

  I hope you enjoyed THE QUESTING. Truly, I don’t think any other novel I’ve written encompasses such a journey – this entire book was more about the journey than the actual destination, although the destination surely played a big part in this. The term “quest” had many different meanings for many different people in this tale. So let me highlight some things:

  The execution method for the mother and her children in Gloucester was actually from Medieval law. It was very specific. Horrific, but specific. And Sophie’s illness? Dysentery. She survived it because her physic was smart enough to know that the alcohol kills whatever germs caused it, so she was lucky. Alcohol was actually the only remedy they had for it in Medieval times. Finally, the names that the knights read off at the church: All of the names they recognized in that room that were stacked with English regalia were actual names from men who fought at Falkirk.

  Also, lots of Le Veque novels converge in this book – every one of Cortez’s knights was a son or grandson of another Le Veque hero – Christopher de Lohr (RISE OF THE DEFENDER), Davyss de Winter (LESPADA), and Christian St. John (THE WARRIOR POET). Plus, Diamantha had the same condition of the eye that Jax de Velt (The Dark Lord), her ancestor, had – two-tone eyes, otherwise known as heterochromia, although her case was less severe than his. Plus, her father, Michael de Bocage, was one of William de Wolfe’s knights from THE WOLFE. Lots and lots of tie-ins!

  I really hope you enjoyed this touching journey. Thank you for reading!

  And now, a sneak-peek of the coming 2019 release “The Promise”, an epic Medieval Romance only from Kathryn Le Veque.

  PROLOGUE

  England, 1192 A.D.

  Rodstone House, London

  “I cannot think of anything more unsavory,” the man grumbled. “Is there no other way to accomplish this?”

  A disembodied voice from the shadows answered. “There is not, my lord. You have no choice.”

  The smoky solar was dark but for the small fire in the hearth. The atmosphere of the room was tense, still but for a man pacing about like a caged animal. The flames crackled softly as his feet shuffled across the floor in rhythm.

  “But a marriage?” The man came to a sudden halt, shaking his head in disgust. “Christ, she was to be my nephew’s bride, not mine. What in the hell am I going to do with a wife?”

  “Use her to your advantage.” There was a pause as the figure in the shadows moved into the light, slowly, with the grace of a panther stalking prey. “Her father is loyal to John, my lord. You are well aware of this. He has ties to the prince’s inner circle. Your nephew’s death changes none of these facts. Marrying her will be a great opportunity to strike against the opposition, as we have planned all along.”

  The man cocked an eyebrow as if relieved by the words. After a moment, he laughed softly, embarrassed that he had lost sight of the true objective. “Of course,” he murmured. “Instead of cursing Ridley for being stupid enough to die, I should be congratulating him. All is not lost, of course. And I must remember that, no matter how distasteful the matter of this marriage is.”

  The man from the shadows, a knight of enormous proportions, finished the last the fine Spanish wine in his chalice. Quietly, he set the cup down on the table and poured himself a measure more.

  “Our plans for the woman will not be altered though she is to become your wife and not your nephew’s,” he said. “In fact, I believe this is far better than we could have ever hoped for.”

  The first man snorted softly and moved to fill his own cup from the rock crystal decanter. The light from the hearth filtered through the glass, giving the liquid a blood-red cast. He stared at it a moment, contemplating, feeling his dark mood lift.

  “Then nothing has changed, de Nerra.”

  “Nothing at all, my lord.”

  “We shall destroy the enemy.”

  “When all is said and done, ours shall be the victory, my lord.”

  “For England. Semper Fidelis.”

  “Dei gratia.”

  “By the grace of God, indeed.”

  The knight collected his cup and lifted it high, bashing it against his lord’s goblet in a show of support. They drank a toast, one of success to a battle yet to be fought. And also for the war they had already struggled long and hard for.

  Later that night, into the darkness a missive was sent.

  Year of our Lord 1202, 13th of January

  Rodstone House, London

  Lord de Rivington:

  It is my duty to inform you of the death of my nephew, Ridley. Having newly received his spurs, he arrogantly taunted a few of the squires that had yet to be knighted and a group of them retaliated. Ambushing him in the stables, they placed his helm, which had been smeared with tar, upon his head and lowered the visor, holding it fast until he suffocated. I do not find it strange that this has happened, for I am sure you are well aware of my nephew’s foul reputation. It was only a matter of time before someone moved against him.

  As his only living male relative, I find it my duty not only to inform you of Ridley’s death but to make obligation to fulfill the marriage contract instituted by my brother and Ridley’s deceased father, Sir Lloyd de Lacy. By law and rights, it is my duty as the closest unwed de Lacy male to assume my nephew’s stead. Therefore, the marriage between de Rivington and de Lacy will go forth and the alliance shall be forged.

  By terms of the contract, the wedding shall take place upon your daughter’s eighteenth birthday, the 10th day of May. It is my intention to return her to London where she will take her rightful place as my Lady wife.

  Preston de Lacy

  Earl of Barklestone

  “Thanks be to God,” the mother quietly wept. “She will not have to marry Ridley.”

  The father, parchment still clutched in his hand, appeared pale and drawn. “God’s Teeth,” he murmured. “I cannot believe the lad actually got himself killed.”

  The mother wiped her eyes. “As much as I cannot condone murder in any form, I must say that in this case it was a blessing. Ridley de Lacy was a devil. The world has been done a great justice, I think, and I thank God that Teddy will not have to marry him.”

  “Nay,” the father was having a difficult time covering his shock. “She will have to marry the earl instead.”

  The mother looked up. “We know nothing of Barklestone. Can we know that Teddy will be better off to marry him?”

  The father refused to look at her. His eyes, the color of the sea, were distant. “Preston de Lacy is a powerful man, an earl with much wealth and power. And he is one of the most powerful rebels against John.”

  The mother failed to notice the anxiety in her husband’s voice. She was only
concerned with her own emotions, those of relief and fear for the future. “But will he be good to her?”

  He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Ashen and speechless, he turned away from his wife, staring into the flame of the dying hearth and feeling a sense of foreboding sweep him like nothing he had ever known. What he had planned for, schemed for, was coming to bear in an unanticipated direction and he could not decide how to feel about it. He knew he should have been eager.

  But he realized, as the moments ticked away, that he was only afraid. Instead of marrying the cub, his daughter was about to marry the lion himself.

  Now, it begins….

  CHAPTER ONE

  May, 1202 A.D.

  Herefordshire, England

  “You’re lovely, darling. Like an angel.”

  The beautiful face beneath the garland of filigree gold and spider-web fine silk was serious, grim. Eyes the color of the sea studied the reflection in the polished glass mirror.

  “I don’t like it,” she said quietly.

  The older woman standing beside her tried not to look crestfallen. To hide her disappointment, she began to fuss with the blue brocade gown. The neckline and cuffs were lined with white ermine, indicative of the status of the marriage she would soon be entering into. But in the early part of May, the humidity of summer was already swelling and the fur was irritating. Lady Teodora de Rivington scratched her neck in a most un-ladylike manner.

  “Teddy, stop it,” her mother scolded, slapping her hands away. “You’ll mark yourself with welts.”

  After another few swipes, Teodora stopped. Impatiently, she stood as her mother finished the final touches on her wedding gown. Behind her, she could feel a second pair of hands running themselves freely over her backside.