Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
EPILOGUE
MEDIEVAL NOVELS BY CATHERINE COULTER
Warrior’s Song
Fire Song
Earth Song
Secret Song
Rosehaven
The Penwyth Curse
For a complete listing of all Catherine Coulter novels, visit www.catherinecoulter.com.
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Copyright © 2010 by Catherine Coulter
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Coulter, Catherine.
The Valcourt heiress / Catherine Coulter.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-44414-6
1. Knights and knighthood—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History—13th century—Fiction. 3. Crusades—Eighth, 1270—Fiction. I. Title. PS3553.O843V’.54—dc22
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
TO TOM POTWIN,
who has been my Webmaster since almost before the Web was born. Many thanks to you and Diane.
C.C.
1
VALCOURT CASTLE
MAY 1278
She knew she had to do something. If she did nothing, her mother would force her to wed Jason of Brennan.
Her mother, Abbess Helen of Meizerling Abbey, had swooped in before nightfall, surrounded by her own contingent of soldiers, imperious and arrogant, recent widow of the Earl of Valcourt, and taken charge. Men stared at her beautiful face, at her white skin and golden hair untouched by gray, heard her velvety voice carry to every corner in the great hall, and quickly obeyed every command that flowed from her lovely mouth. As for her grief-stricken daughter, Helen informed her that she would wed in two days.
She’d stared at the woman who was her mother, a woman she didn’t know, but knew what she was—a witch with unimagined powers, people said. They spoke of her behind their hands, their voices low, their fear pulsing in the air.
She’d never seen her mother do anything magick the three times she’d been in her presence. Ah, but the stories—the neighbor’s wife choking to death because Lady Helen had wanted to buy her mare and had been refused; the plague striking down a village where Lady Helen had been insulted by the local monk; and now her own father, lying dead, no reason for it that their healer could see, hale and hearty but two days before. Now he lay stretched out on his bed, his hands folded over his chest, dressed in his finest tunic and hose, his beautiful sword strapped to his waist, his men below in the great hall drinking themselves insensible. What would happen now? There was no heir, only a daughter who had no power, and her newly arrived mother, a witch who could smite them all with but a wave of her hand, and the soldiers who surrounded her.
She had to do something or she would be sold to Jason of Brennan, a man she’d seen only once, just an hour before, well-made and young, but something deep inside her had recoiled when he’d turned his dark eyes on her. There were black secrets in those eyes of his. Her mother’s eyes were the light gray of storm clouds, and she feared her more than the Devil.
She slipped out of Valcourt’s great hall, pulling her cloak about her, for rain-bloated clouds hung low in the sky, obscuring the few stars, and the chill night wind howled. It occurred to her only after she’d crept across the inner bailey to the stables that she had no idea where she’d go. It didn’t matter, she would think of something. She usually did. When she heard a man’s voice, she nearly screamed. It was coming closer. What to do?
2
EAST ANGLIA, ENGLAND
MAY 1278
They rode single file on the narrow rutted path through the Clandor Forest, a place of ancient magick, it was said, and wicked magick. Thick pines, oaks, and maples crowded in on them, canopying overhead. The leaves would tangle together in another month. Warm afternoon sunlight speared through the rustling leaves.
Garron lifted his face to the sunlight, felt the soft breeze against his skin. It was a day a man was pleased to be alive, a day that gave optimism to the days to come. And God had also wrought a miracle—no rain for three straight days. Aye, a holy miracle, Aleric said to all the men, and told them how his grandsire had once bragged about a two-day trek with no rain. But three days with
out the heavens pouring buckets of rain down your neck? It was unheard of. They were blessed, surely it was a good omen. Everyone was quiet, thinking his own thoughts. Garron thought of his brother Arthur, and wondered how he’d died; he’d been a young man, only thirty years of age. The king hadn’t known. As for his men, Garron imagined most were probably wondering what their lives would become now that he was Lord Garron, Earl of Wareham, a nobleman with land and a castle, and income from farms, two small towns, and two keeps. And mayhap they were thinking of their visit to Lord Severin and Lady Hastings, wondering if Wareham would be as impressive as Oxborough.
“It will not delay you overmuch, Garron,” King Edward had told him. Then those famous Plantagenet blue eyes had sparkled cajolery and a bit of humor to leaven the effect. “Before you travel to Wareham, you can deliver this request to Severin from his king.” He nodded toward his secretary and the Chancellor of England, Robert Burnell, who handed Garron a tightly rolled parchment tied with a thin black cord. Even at the most inconvenient of times, which this most assuredly was, a man never turned down his king’s request, and so the king’s parchment, carefully wrapped in oilskin, rested safe against Garron’s chest all the way from London to East Anglia, to Oxborough, the seat of the Earl of Oxborough, Lord Severin of Langthorne-Trent.
He didn’t have the slightest wish to read the king’s missive, and only sighed, thinking of the three days added to his journey to his new home. On the other hand, Garron hadn’t seen Severin since the king had sent him to Oxborough nearly a year and a half before, to become the dying Fawke of Trent’s heir and son-in-law. He’d become a husband and the Earl of Oxborough in a span of three hours. And now Severin had an infant son.
Garron smiled to himself as he remembered the look of utter contentment on his friend’s hard face when he’d held his babe, Fawke, named after the former earl, and remarked in the most foolish way that he was surely the handsomest babe in all Christendom. And Lady Hastings watched, smiling, sitting in her countess’s chair, humming as she sewed clothes for the future earl.
Near midnight, when all had retired, Garron and Severin sat alone in Oxborough’s great hall, in front of the massive fireplace, a chess board between them. Severin moved his king’s knight, sat back in his chair, laced his fingers over his hard belly, and sighed. “Do you know I find myself missing de Lucy, the madman who poisoned his own wife so he could have Hastings?” He studied Garron’s pawn move, quickly slid his queen’s bishop to a safe square, and again sat back in his chair. “There are no more unruly neighbors, no French mercenaries to harass my fishing boats, no smugglers of any account at all. Well, there are always malcontents, an occasional villain, but they are nothing, really.”
Garron laughed. “You have your heir, Severin, the handsomest babe in the world, so you yourself told me. You have a comely wife who sees well to your needs, Oxborough prospers. Be content.” Garron paused a moment, his fingers hovering over a pawn. “Did you read the king’s missive? Surely what he wants would relieve your boredom. Does he not want you to execute some daring commission for him?”
Severin moved his queen, and announced, “Checkmate, Garron.”
“Hmmm.” He studied the board, gave Severin a twisted smile, and gently laid his king on his side. “The game is yours. Come, tell me, what does the king wish of you?”
“He wishes to breed one of his favorite stallions, a gift from Philip of France, to Lady Hastings’s mare, Marella. He wishes me to send Marella to London when she is next in season.”
The king had sent him here for this?
“Ah, Trist, come and bid welcome to Lord Garron. You spent all your time watching over Fawke this evening, ignoring me, the one who has fed you and saved your furry head more times than you can count, and I know you can count, since I’ve seen you equally divide acorns among your own babes.”
The marten climbed up Severin’s arm, settled himself on his shoulder, bathed while he watched Garron.
“Hello, Trist. I am not a bad fellow. If I had a bit of pork, I would give it to you. I did not know you ate acorns.”
“He doesn’t. He is, I believe, teaching his own babes how to count, though they’re very nearly grown now and ready to leave us for the forest. Why would they count anything, I wonder?”
Garron laughed.
Trist appeared to consider the laughter and the acorns. After a moment, he extended a paw. Garron lightly ran his fingertips over the marten’s paw, then up his back.
“He spends most of his time guarding Fawke. I have told him it is not necessary, but he doesn’t heed me.”
Trist mewled and wrapped himself around Severin’s neck.
“Ah, Garron, the king made other requests. He does not write it in so many words, but he sent you here to ensure we will support each other against mutual enemies since Oxborough and Wareham are not too far distant from each other. ’Tis true that he encourages some strife between his barons and earls, not wanting to have too much complicity brew up between his vassals, but since we are both known by Lord Graelam de Moreton and approved by him, the king wants us strong, should he need us.”
“Need our soldiers at his back and our money in his coffers, you mean.”
Severin’s mouth twisted in a grin. “Aye, that’s it.” Trist mewled.
Garron raised his goblet, fashioned of a beautiful dark green glass from the Rhineland, and saluted Severin. “I am ready for your friendship and I willingly offer you my assistance should you ever need it.”
“I, too,” said Severin, and raised his own goblet.
The men drank. Garron said, “But you know, I am tired of fighting. I am also tired of men’s duplicity, something that abounds at court. I believe I should enjoy boredom, Severin, mayhap a good six months of it.”
The men drank more of Severin’s precious wine, and Garron lost another game of chess.
Garron was jerked back at the loud yell just ahead. He held up his hand to keep his four men in place. He patted his destrier’s neck, calming him, and Damocles immediately quieted. They heard another yell, men cursing, arguing, horses whinnying and thrashing about.
Garron said low to his man Aleric, “Stay. I will see what’s happening ahead.”
He dismounted and drew his sword as he walked quietly through the thick trees and the tangled undergrowth toward the men’s voices, louder now, curses filling the air. Through the branches of an ancient oak tree, he stared into a small clearing. A huge man, surely the size of a sixteen-hand stallion, his face covered with a filthy black beard, was trying to hold a struggling boy who was slamming his fist into the man’s face, his neck, his chest, whatever part he could reach. The man tried to avoid the blows, not retaliating. So, he didn’t want to break the boy’s neck. He tried to grab his hands, but the boy lurched back and slammed him in the belly. Garron was impressed. The boy wasn’t about to go down without a fight. The boy yelled, his voice shrill with fear, “Let me go, or I will kill the lot of you! You fools, this man, your leader, he lies to you! I will bring you no gold, I will bring you nothing but misfortune. Let me go!”
The boy had bravado, Garron would give him that. As for this villainous lot setting the boy free, that didn’t seem likely. There were two other men, both hard looking as the man mountain, ready to jump into the fray, their clenched fists holding thick-bladed knives.
“Don’t kill him! No, the rest of you stay back.”
This was from their leader, who looked like a king surrounded by beggars. He was richly dressed in a red wool tunic, a fine sword strapped at his lean waist, his armor well made. One of the men stepped toward the struggling boy, and their leader raised a gauntleted hand and called for him to stop.
Garron watched the boy suddenly free himself, rear up, and clout the big man in his nose. He heard the bone crack from where he was standing. Blood gushed everywhere. The man bellowed, jerked the boy up by his collar, and flung him three feet away from him, against a pile of rocks. “Ye little cockshead! Damn ye to hell and back for busting
me nose, you puling little sprat!” He charged the boy, flinging out ribbons of blood in all directions.
3
Their leader yelled, “Stop, Berm! You idiot, I told you not to harm the boy! Look what you’ve done. My lord will kill all of us if his head’s broken open. You’ll be without your liver before the night falls if you’ve killed him.”
Berm swiped his hand over his nose, and looked with loathing at the boy, now lying unconscious on his back. “He bain’t be dead, the little bastid.” But his fists smoothed out as he bent down to pull him upright. Fast as a snake, the boy struck up with his legs into Berm’s groin and sent him pedaling backward, yelling as he grabbed himself. “My manhood is dead! The little spittlecock kilt it!”
Good blow, Garron thought, and now was the time to intervene before the others fell on him like a pack of wolves. He shouted, “Aleric, á moi.” He leapt out from the trees into a small clearing, his sword held high.
He yelled, “That will be quite enough, lads!”
Garron felt their surprise, their terrifying joy when they saw him, prey more meaty than this scrawny boy.
Their leader shouted at Garron, “This is none of your affair, sirrah! Get you gone now and we will not kill you!”
Garron glanced at the three villains, then over at the boy, who was scooting away from them as fast as he could move. He came up and pressed against a tree, drew his knees to his chest. Garron saw the wild hope in his eyes. Garron smiled at him.
Berm was bent over, still holding himself and moaning while blood gushed from his nose. Garron couldn’t make out his features what with the filthy woolen cap pulled over his forehead and the huge tangled black beard that covered his face and neck. He looked back at the man in the rich red tunic, and said easily, “I’ve a fancy to save the boy. Would you like to tell me what you’re doing with him?”
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