by Ruth Kaufman
When she stepped into his arms at the end of the ceremony, when his lips met hers for the first time as his wife, his heart overflowed with love.
During the feast, Nicholas ignored ribald jokes and suggestions shouted by guests succumbing to drink. He told his wife how beautiful she and her gown were.
“Remember the day we argued when I was dying wool? I’d wanted to match the color of your eyes, but the finest cloth I could buy or weave couldn’t replicate the shade. I happened upon this fabric at a market. The way it catches the light was exactly what I’d been hoping for.
“I planned to wear this gown for my wedding to another. Where only I would know it was a symbol of my love for you,” Amice said. “But now I can proclaim it to all.”
She leaned forward and kissed him.
“Yes,” he agreed. “We can proclaim our love to all.”
Belinda strolled up to their table. “I came to offer my good wishes to the happy couple.” Her tone was bitter, not friendly.
Nicholas decided Belinda should be found out. She didn’t deserve the praise and recognition she’d garnered for Amice’s work. Though the poems were scandalous and against Henry, though Nicholas couldn’t approve of them, York deserved the truth. For one thing, it would strengthen his and York’s reluctant alliance. For another, the protector needed to know who his true supporters were.
“My beauteous bride, I must speak briefly to York. I shall return shortly.” He bestowed a loving kiss on her, lest Belinda had any lingering hopes that he wasn’t a happy groom.
A few moments later, York stood and offered a toast to the newlywed couple. He turned to Belinda, seated nearby. “Lady Belinda, mayhap you could honor us with a verse in tribute to our friends?”
Belinda blushed and bit her lip. “Your Grace, I’d be happy to prepare a ballad, to be sung later. Composing cleverly takes thought.”
“Surely you can come up with a verse that captures the spirit of this moment. Can you not think of one? Any little rhyme will do,” York replied.
All the guests waited and watched.
“What, no humorous and witty words for us?” York pressed.
The silence lengthened. He turned to Amice. “Perchance you could come up with something?”
Amice stood, ready to acknowledge her contributions. Typical of the protector to take charge of the situation and make the outcome clear to all. She glowed with pride that Nicholas had discussed her poems with York.
Creating verse on the spot, and one in honor of one’s self was a bit awkward, but she’d give her best effort.
“When two once far apart in love unite
The heart shall sing its joy throughout the night.
Entwined as one the couple greets the day
For decades full of happiness they pray.”
Amice couldn’t help but enjoy the looks on the nobles’ faces as they realized what was happening. She felt a twinge of guilt at Belinda’s suffering, but decided she’d earned it.
A round of applause began slowly, then gathered in volume. Belinda rose and swiftly walked out of the hall.
Relief soared through Amice. It was over.
She couldn’t wait to begin her life with Nicholas as husband and wife. To sleep in his arms every night. The security and contentment of snuggling against him would be the perfect completion to a productive day. She hadn’t comprehended the depth love could add to every moment.
They’d spend as much time as possible at Castle Rising, but would return to court as his duties demanded. She vowed that unlike many couples, they’d live together. She wouldn’t spend months alone, even at her beloved Castle Rising, while Nicholas served at court. And when he was ready to go on his pilgrimage, she’d go with him.
Amice wanted to shout from the battlements so all would know of her happiness.
Nicholas crossed the crowded hall, astounded by his sense of fulfillment. How much time he’d wasted believing marriage was akin to being taken prisoner by the enemy. His desire for Amice grew each day. He still reacted like an infatuated youth. Whenever they were separated, he longed to be in her company again.
He reached his bride, who sat with her hands folded and her eyes closed.
“What are you doing?” he asked softly, not wanting to startle her.
She opened her eyes and smiled. “Being grateful. For you. And because dreams I barely dared to dream came true.”
Epilogue
December 1454
Two days after Christmas, Amice and Nicholas continued the twelve-day celebration with the court, still clouded by Henry’s continuing illness. But this year, the clouds were thinner due to York’s successful protectorate. And because of the thriving heir to the throne, Prince Edward, now over a year old, who represented England’s future.
Amice knew Nicholas, too, wished the festivities would end so they could return to Castle Rising. Yet they enjoyed the musicians entertaining the court with merry tunes. Sharing a bench, they held hands, happy to be able to openly acknowledge their love.
A page ran into the room.
All recognized the youth as one of the pages who constantly attended King Henry. The musicians abruptly ended their song on a discordant note as the page tried to speak. His haste to deliver his message was so great only squeaky whines emanated from his mouth.
Bishop William Waynflete patted him on the shoulder. “Out with it boy, what is it?”
Puffing out his chest, he announced, “The king is recovered!”
The well-dressed crowd stared at him as if his clothes had fallen off. Amice wasn’t sure she’d heard the boy aright.
“Do you jest?” Bishop Waynflete demanded.
“No, my lord, I swear ’tis true! The king spoke, I heard him,” the boy said.
“Then what are we standing here for? Take us to the king.”
The page and Waynflete led the hasty procession to the king’s chambers. Everyone wanted to witness this auspicious moment.
Amice overheard speculation that began even before the last courtiers left the hall.
“What will happen now? York won’t be able to remain protector if the king is well….”
“You can be certain he’ll not step down willingly.”
“If York has to resign, we’ll all be in the same place we were before Henry took ill, with Margaret and the council disagreeing. What are we to do?”
The page had spoken true. Henry gazed about, appearing a bit dazed, but clearly lucid.
“Why do all of you stare so?” he asked of the awed group in a voice weak and thin.
No one knew what to say. How to tell your king he’d been senseless for seventeen months? That events had progressed without him? That he had a son? Gossip and theories would flow later, but for the moment all absorbed the impact of Henry’s recovery.
Bishop Waynflete looked behind him to see if anyone was willing to step forward and inform the king of his illness. But everyone, even the council members, looked at the pointed toes of their shoes rather than take on the awesome responsibility of passing on such news.
Waynflete squared his shoulders. “Your Grace, I lack the words to tell you what has transpired. You have been gravely ill…for a long time.”
Henry sat up straighter. “Have I? How long?”
“Nigh on eighteen months, Your Grace,” Waynflete offered.
Had Henry been healthy, he might have jumped to his feet in surprise. As it was, he would have fallen to the ground had two attentive pages not caught him and eased him back into the cushioned chair.
“That’s impossible,” Henry began. “But the expressions on your faces convince me what Waynflete says is true. What day is it?”
Waynflete licked his dry lips. “This is St. John’s Day, in the year of our Lord 1454.”
“Eighteen months…. Margaret?”
“You have a fine son, Your Grace,” the queen said with a proud smile.
Henry leaned his head against the back of the chair. “Thank the Lord, the Merciful Almight
y. I’ll make offerings in honor of my son and my recovery to Canterbury and Westminster. And at the shrine of St. Edward’s. See it done, Waynflete.”
He bowed. “Aye, Your Grace. I shall return to pray with you soon, if you will.”
A servant rushed into the chamber, Prince Edward in her arms. As Margaret displayed their son to her husband, tears filled their eyes. Even the most jaded of courtiers was moved by the sight of the newly recovered king viewing his son for the first time.
Amice knew Margaret couldn’t believe the miracle before her eyes. Henry was well at last and had publicly acknowledged his son. Now they’d endeavor to regain power. There was no need for York to remain protector.
Margaret breathed a sigh of obvious relief, perhaps thinking her troubles were ending. She feared they’d begin anew.
Amice realized her joy at the king’s recovery was tinged with selfish dismay. In all likelihood, she and Nicholas would need to spend more time at court than they’d planned, for Henry would want to keep his friends close.
As the rest of the court rejoiced in Henry’s return to awareness, she took Nicholas’s hand.
“Whatever our future brings,” she said, “we’ll welcome it together. But when it comes to the king, we’re still at his command.”
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading At His Command-Historical Romance Version. I hope you enjoyed the book as much as I enjoyed writing it. I couldn’t have done it without the support of writer and non-writer friends and Romance Writers of America®.
I’d appreciate feedback on what you liked and even what you didn’t. You can contact me at [email protected] and learn more about me and my writing at www.ruthkaufman.com. I’m on Facebook at Ruth Kaufman Author & Actress and Twitter: @RuthKaufman.
If you’re so inclined and have the time, I’d appreciate a review of At His Command.
Thank you again for reading At His Command and spending time with Amice and Nicholas in 15th century England.
What really happened to Henry VI in late summer 1453? Much scholarly debate surrounds the illness that suddenly affected the king and its impact on the civil wars sparked by a feud between the houses of York and Lancaster, later known as The Wars of the Roses.
Was his condition a mental illness such as catatonic schizophrenia or a depressive stupor? Insanity? Did it stem from shock upon learning of the defeat at Castillon? Some sources maintain it was madness inherited it from his grandfather, King Charles VI of France. Henry was in such a state he didn’t even acknowledge his own long-awaited son, Prince Edward.
Whatever the ailment, Henry was incapacitated and couldn’t reign. No remedy essayed by his team of physicians worked. Queen Margaret and the council kept the king’s illness from the public for months. In 1454, Richard, Duke of York was named Protector of the Realm instead of the queen…until Henry regained his senses more than a year and a half after onset, just as suddenly as he lost them.
About the Author
Ruth Kaufman is a Chicago on-camera and voiceover talent, and freelance writer, editor and speaker with a J.D. and a Master’s in Radio/TV.
Writing accolades include Romance Writers of America® 2011 Golden Heart® winner and runner up in RT Book Reviews’ national American Title II contest. Her true, short story, “The Scrinch” is in the St. Martin’s Press anthology The Spirit of Christmas, foreword by Debbie Macomber.
She’s appeared in indie features, short films, web series and national and local TV commercials, and has voiced hundreds of explainer videos, e-learning courses, commercials and assorted characters.
Learn more at www.ruthkaufman.com and www.ruthtalks.com. Follow her on Twitter: @ruthkaufman or Facebook: Ruth Kaufman Author & Actress.
AT HIS COMMAND
Historical Romance Version
Copyright © 2015 Ruth Kaufman
Digital ISBN 978-0-9908469-2-5
All rights reserved. No part or the whole of this book may be used or reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any manner now known or hereafter invented without the prior written permission of Ruth Kaufman, except for brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
Names, characters, places and incidents are fictional or are used fictitiously and are solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by The Killion Group, Inc.
Contact: www.ruthkaufman.com
Demon Laird
Legacy of the Mist Clans: Book II
By
Kathryn Loch
Special Box Set Edition
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2013-2015 Kathryn Loch
All rights reserved under International and American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Dragonbourne Books, an imprint of Rebel Publishing, LLC, Vidor, Texas, and distributed in the United States and Internationally by Amazon.com.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without explicit permission in writing from the copyright holder.
All of the characters, locations, and events portrayed in this work are fictitious or are used fictitiously.
Cover Image Copyright 2013-2015 Jimmy Thomas, RNC, Exclusive use granted to Kathryn Loch
Cover Design Copyright © 2013-2015 Erin Dameron-Hill, All Rights Reserved where applicable.
Editing Consultation by Jennifer Quinlan
Original Interior Formatting with Adobe InDesign by Kathryn Loch
Electronic Copyright Information
E-book Copyright 2013-15 Kathryn Loch
Dragonbourne Publishing, LLC
All Rights Reserved
This e book, as part of a special box set edition in cooperation with other authors, is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e book may not be re-sold or given away to other people in any electronic or printed format. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, you did not receive it directly from the author, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Acknowledgments
The author would like to thank:
Cover Image
Jimmy Thomas
RNC Exclusive
Cover Design
Erin Dameron-Hill
EDH Graphics
Editorial Consultation
Jenny Quinlan
Historical Editorial
Original E-book/Print Formatting
Kathryn Loch
Dragonbourne Publishing
A Very Special Thank You
I would like to extend a very special thank you to Laurel O’Donnell for inviting me to participate in the Castles, Knights, and Chivalry box set. It has been an absolutely wonderful experience and a delight to work with her. I would also like to thank her husband, Jack, for doing the formatting for this box set. I know first hand that is not an easy task.
I would also like to thank authors Elizabeth Rose and Ruth Kaufman for joining in this medieval mayhem. I have been so very pleased to get to know these ladies and honored to work with them.
I certainly hope we can join forces again in the future. This project has not only been a lot of fun, I have made new friends here and that is what I treasure most.
Prologue
June 1286
Glen Gyle, Clan MacGrigor
Scottish Highlands
Ronan MacGrigor leapt from one crenellation to another as fast as his legs could carry him, hearing his younger brother right behind.
“Take it back, ye sorry cur!” Aidan shouted.
Ronan laughed and kept running, uncaring that he te
etered precariously on the ramparts of the highest tower. “Codswallop!” he shouted and leapt forward.
“Buggering swine!” Aidan shouted back, trying to close the distance.
At eleven, Ronan was tall for his age, but his brother, only a year younger, almost matched him. They tussled and fought constantly, much to their mother’s vexation.
Ronan made another leap to a crenellation, his foot sliding slightly, and he fought to recover his balance. Contorting sideways, he dove for the ramparts and rolled. Instantly on his feet again, he sprinted to the trapdoor and vaulted down the ladder.
Aidan bellowed something but Ronan couldn’t understand his words. He fought to steady his breathing while he looked for a place to hide. Boxes lined the walls and he spied a dark shadow behind the ladder. Ronan had discovered a talent for losing himself in shadow. He settled against the wall and again fought to slow his breathing, his body growing unnaturally still.
Aidan flew down the ladder and looked around. “Ronan, ye bloody codsucker, I’ll find ye!”
Ronan nearly laughed aloud. Aidan’s gaze swept over him—he looked directly at him in fact—but never paused. Growling another curse, Aidan sprinted for the tower door, flung it open, and plowed into a clansman, who had unfortunately decided to walk in at that moment.
Aidan nearly knocked the man down, but somehow the man maintained his feet.
“Hold, young MacGrigor,” the clansman said, gripping Aidan’s shoulder. “Ye ken what yer da says about ye and yer brother’s horseplay atop the walls.”