by Jo Beverley
The Shattered Rose
by
Jo Beverley
New York Times & USA Today
Bestselling Author
THE SHATTERED ROSE
Reviews & Accolades
"Jo Beverley moves from the Regency period to the turbulence of the middle ages for this powerful, thought-provoking romance that is sure to win her new devotees."
~Romantic Times
"The Shattered Rose delivers the goods... an entertaining, original read."
~The Romance Reader
"The story held my interest from the beginning. Readers who enjoy stories that have The Crusades as a backdrop will appreciate Ms. Beverley's fine romance."
~A Romance Review
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Chapter 1
Northumbria, England, July 1100
The troop of armed men rode steadily along the rough, wooded road, each heavy hoof-fall spraying mud over already muddy beasts. Travel-worn and weary, they pressed on as inexorably as a river heading for the sea.
Motley patches scattered blowing cloaks, and wind whipped through ragged holes that had not been patched at all. Under dirt and mud, little could distinguish man from master, but three things set two men apart.
They rode better horses.
They wore chain mail beneath the cloaks.
And while their men carried bow or spear, each of these two bore a well-used sword at his side and a shield on his saddle.
The lighter-built of the two men raised a hand and reined in. Without further word, the other eight swung down toward the nearby river to rest and water the horses.
As they dismounted, it could be seen that some limped, and one man had only a stump where his right hand used to be. The leader's haggard face bore a puckered burn mark on the forehead and a blade scar along the jaw, made obvious because the stubble did not grow well around it.
These were men just back from war, and the darkness of their skin suggested they had fought in lands far hotter than this northern corner of England. In fact, faded and obscured by dirt, a red cross remained on some of the cloaks.
These men had been upon the Enterprise of God. They were crusaders.
Perhaps they had seen the Jordan, where Christ was baptized, and Jerusalem, where he suffered and died. They had likely waded through the rivers of blood that flowed through the streets of the Holy City when the Christian forces finally claimed it.
The leader dismounted, stretched, then pushed back his chain mail coif to shake loose damp, shaggy brown hair. It was clear nature had never intended him to be a big man, but now he was fined down to muscle and sinew, his dark eyes sunk deep beneath dark brows.
Galeran of Heywood shivered under the chill of the North Sea breeze on his sweaty nape, but it was a pleasant chill—an English chill. He was in England, and before sunset he would be home.
After more than two long years, he would be home.
The previous day they'd landed at Stockton in a mizzling rain that had set Galeran's companion, Raoul de Jouray, shuddering and wondering that anyone could call such weather summer. Galeran, however, had welcomed it. There'd been many times these past two years when he'd feared he would never feel damp again, never ride through an English morning mist, never touch ice or see the vibrant green growth fostered by the rainy English climate.
He had thought he would die in the searing heat of Outremer.
They could have spent the night in Stockton. In fact, they could have lingered there a twelvemonth, and never paid for board or lodging except with stories of their holy adventures. For Galeran's haste to be home meant they were the first crusaders to be seen in the area.
Galeran, however, had stopped in the port just long enough to buy horses, then had pushed on, heading, like a hart to water, home.
To Jehanne, his beloved wife.
And to his son—a son he had never seen, born nine months after he left for Jerusalem. A son who was both reason for taking the cross, and reason to regret it. And reason to stay even when the bloodshed sickened him. For Galeran had gone on crusade to beg God for a child, and God in His love had been kind.
Jehanne had called the child Galeran, but said in her first letter after the birth that he would be called Gallot, at least while he was little. Gallot had surely been conceived on their last night together, after Galeran had taken the cross and made his vow to free Jerusalem from the heathen or to die in the attempt.
Gallot, his firstborn son, now eighteen months old and doubtless walking, but without any knowledge of his father. That was a bitter sacrifice, but necessary. Christ had never said that his yoke would be easy....
It was only when John Redbeard, his sergeant, took Galeran's restive mount to walk it that he realized he'd been daydreaming instead of taking proper care of the beast. It was part tiredness, for they'd ridden through most of the last night, but it was also the grip of his need to be home with his wife and child.
He'd joined the crusade for one reason only, to break the curse of their childlessness, but he'd never dreamed that Christ's reward would be so prompt. That generosity, however, had bound Galeran as if with iron chains. How could he flinch from the task of liberating the Holy City when God had granted his boon so quickly and so perfectly?
Through all the hardship and disillusion, sickened by what he saw around him and longing to be home, Galeran had held to his vow. Because of that miracle—a child for Jehanne—he had fought on till the bitter, triumphant end, till the forces of Christendom had entered Jerusalem.
As always, that memory seized him, froze him with a vision of blood, rivers of blood, and the screaming mouths of men, women, and children....
He shook his head. That was long past and over, and soon he would have his reward—his son in his arms and his wife content at last.
He wished he'd had more news, so he would have a better picture in his mind of the child. The last letter to reach him had been written when the babe was three months old. Jehanne had recounted a screed of description and clever doings, but that chubby babe was gone now, and presumably smiling was no longer a matter of pride. The bald head Jehanne had lamented would be covered with hair. Dark like his own? Or pale, silky blond like his mother's?
Which?
It seemed a father should know.
That letter had arrived just as Galeran was riding off to help lib
erate Bethlehem, and when he had knelt on the ground of Christ's birthplace he had been guiltily aware that his joy at being there was largely because they were close to Jerusalem. Within days they would see the walls of the Holy City. With God's help they would quickly take it, and Galeran's vow would be satisfied.
He could return home.
From the moment of taking sail, all he had wanted was to be home.
Gallot had Galeran's brown eyes. That had been fixed at three months. With luck, he'd inherited his father's darker skin as well or he'd never be able to take the cross. Jehanne's delicate pallor would have blistered to a crisp in Outremer, as many northern complexions had.
Gallot wouldn't be big unless he threw back to the grandparents. Jehanne's father had been a tall man, and Galeran's father was a great bear of a man, a fearsome warrior in his day. All his sons had taken after him except Galeran.
A light build was a disadvantage in a fighting man, but training could compensate, as Galeran had proved. Anyway, smaller men were often more agile, and big, fleshy men had perished more quickly in the heat and privation of the crusade than the sinewy ones....
"You can't live on dreams, you know."
Galeran turned to see Raoul offering a mutton pie. "Eat. Your lovely wife won't welcome a scarecrow." Raoul was one of the big men, but hard with muscle and seemingly able to survive anything, appetites and good humor intact.
"She'll welcome me in any form," Galeran said, but when he bit into the cold pie he realized he was hungry. And he might need his strength.
He hoped he would need his strength.
Tonight.
At the thought of the night and a bed and Jehanne, a ripple of painful desire shot through him to land predictably in his cock and harden it.
"How close are we?" Raoul shot a long stream of wine into his mouth from a wineskin, then passed it over.
Galeran tilted the skin and drank, subduing his lust, as he had done a thousand times before. "Less than ten leagues. With God's blessing we should arrive before dark."
Raoul grinned. "With your impatience, we'll push on even if darkness falls. Not that I blame you. If I'd taken a vow of fidelity and was within sniffing distance of my wife, nothing would stop me either."
"The very thought of you taking a vow of fidelity makes my head ache, my friend. Perhaps interest in carnal matters fades after time."
"Does it?"
Galeran laughed. "No."
"Didn't think so. So, let's press on. We don't want you to explode." He bellowed to the men to prepare the horses.
Still smiling, Galeran took time to finish the pie, grateful to have Raoul by his side. His friend was by no means stupid, but he had an uncomplicated view of life. He fought fiercely when he had to, but then put it out of his head. Galeran fought fiercely when he had to, but he agonized over each death, particularly over the deaths of innocents.
In Jerusalem, even the children had fought. And died.
Again he pushed such thoughts out of his head. They did no good, no good at all.
Raoul ate when he was hungry, drank when he was thirsty, and used women when he felt the need. He reminded Galeran to eat and drink, and teased him about his celibacy. "Everyone knows it's harmful for a man to store his seed," he had argued.
"Monks survive."
"God gives them a special blessing."
"Then I'd think God would give the same blessing to crusaders."
"But we're not pledged to celibacy. God knows it would weaken us."
"Are you saying I'm weak?"
Raoul had laughed, for, shorter and lighter, Galeran could often beat him in armed combat. At wrestling Raoul had the edge, but Galeran could still hold his own.
Raoul was another of God's blessings. They'd met in the service of Duke Robert and, despite their different natures, instantly taken to each other. The unlikely friendship had saved Galeran's sanity, and probably his life.
Born and raised in the balmy lands of southern France, Raoul had taken the cross for adventure, not blessings. As far as Galeran could tell, he'd found no spiritual meaning in visiting the land where Christ once walked. When they'd liberated Bethlehem, Raoul had not knelt on the ground, but looked around at the small houses cluttered with poultry, goats, and grubby children and remarked that he'd expected the Lord's birthplace to be somewhat grander.
Having seen that Jerusalem, too, was just a city, Raoul had been happy enough to return to Europe. It was clear, however, that his main purpose in returning so quickly was to take care of his friend.
Perhaps out of guilt.
At the end of the taking of Jerusalem, finally revolted by the slaughter, Galeran had tried to defend a bunch of boys from a group of German knights. The children had been armed only with sticks and slingshots, but they'd been dangerous nevertheless, fighting with the same ferocity as their fathers. It was sensible to kill them, insane to get involved, but Galeran had been ready to die there by their side.
Raoul had stopped him, knocking him senseless and dragging him away. It had taken days for him to get his wits back, so it wasn't surprising that Raoul had been concerned. Sometimes Galeran thought that he'd not wanted to get his wits back and remember those children....
Any ill effects of the blow had worn off long since, but Raoul was being proved right about the lust. If the horses could go without rest, Galeran would never stop, and he never ate without prompting. He shook his head and instructed himself to be sensible. Getting lost in heated daydreams was more likely to delay his arrival than speed it.
He tightened his horse's girth and checked the dun gelding. He'd not taken time to seek out ideal horses, but this one seemed to be fair enough.
Satisfied, he mounted and pulled up his coif.
Raoul rode over to his side, tawny hair still uncovered. "Do you expect trouble here? There's been no sign of unrest."
Galeran shrugged and pushed the chain hood back again. "I suppose not, though King William does not keep an orderly realm, and we're close to the Scottish lands."
Raoul scanned the area. Here by the river, trees softened the landscape, but to the west and north lay sweeping moorland made sullen by the cloudy day. "It's hard to imagine anyone wanting this place. You warned me, my friend, but I didn't expect something quite so... bleak."
"I gather it was somewhat less bleak before it was fought over in 'sixty-eight."
Raoul grimaced. "I don't think fighting caused the climate."
Galeran laughed. "I suppose not. The sun does shine sometimes, I promise." He urged his horse up the slope to the road. "And you're right. We're safe enough. If the Scots were bold enough to raid hereabouts, my father and brothers would drive them back with their tails between their legs."
Raoul joined him, and they went forward at a walk to ease the horses. "Your father's castle is close by our road?"
"Yes."
"That's good. We can get a proper meal."
"Do you think of nothing but food?"
"Someone has to."
"Well, hungry or not, we ride by."
Raoul stared at him. "After two years abroad?"
"I can hardly stop, gobble a hunk of beef, and leave, can I? And I intend to be home today. I'll do the happy family reunion another time."
After a moment, Raoul said, "Have you thought that it might be a shock, you just showing up at your gate?"
Galeran looked sideways. "Oh, is that it? You want me to stop at Brome and send a polite message to warn Jehanne to air the mattress?"
"It might be a—"
"No."
Raoul shrugged with a rattle of mail. "So be it, but if your wife falls into a dead faint at your feet, don't blame me."
"Jehanne never faints."
"The Lady Jehanne has probably never had a husband turn up from nowhere before. You should have written from Bruges."
"What point, when a letter would travel no faster than I?"
"When did you last write? Will she have any idea to expect you?"
"Before Jer
usalem." And Galeran kicked the dun up to speed before his startled friend could ask more questions.
He'd written regularly on the way out, sending letters from Rome, Cyprus, and Antioch. After the horrors of Jerusalem, however, he'd not been able to write anything to anyone. He'd concentrated blindly on getting home. Without Raoul's help he might not have made it, and in order to keep going he had blocked out all thought except his goal.
Heywood, Jehanne, and his son.
It hadn't occurred to him until now that for Jehanne there would have been a silence of over a year. In a way, he'd expected her to know where he was and what he was doing without being told.
But Jehanne wouldn't faint. She hadn't fainted when told she had to marry him. She hadn't fainted when they'd been attacked by brigands and one of her attendants had died before her eyes. Those were probably the two most shocking events in her life.
Then he remembered the boar.
But she hadn't fainted then, either.
They'd been in the woods making love. Yes, making love—for in those early days it had seemed to him that each joyous coupling had added love to the world.
Jehanne had liked to make love in the open. She found the idea of someone interrupting them exciting rather than embarrassing. A boar, however, was rather more than either of them had counted on, and it came upon them at a miserable time.
Jehanne was on top and Galeran was close to release. Then she was gone, and when Galeran gathered together the scraps of his shattered mind, he found her straddled over him, his heavy sword in her small hands. "Hell's flames, Galeran. Get your brain out of your cock and kill the beast! Or do I have to do it myself?"
There'd been many a time when he'd wished he'd said "Go ahead" and watched her have to beg.
She wouldn't have begged, though.
Jehanne never begged.
She'd have tried. She might even have succeeded. Jehanne was tall for a woman, which had not best pleased him as a youth. Though slender, she was strong. Of course, she wouldn't have been able to kill a boar with a sword—that was a difficult feat for a skillful man—but she would have tried.