“Max?” she whispered, clutching his hand. “Will you at least sit down? Please sit, my love. Sit down a moment.”
Maximus was in shock. His mind was a black, roiling void with only thoughts of his mother filling it. He saw her when he was young, a beautiful woman with a brilliant smile, and he saw her as she took a willow switch after him and Gallus when they had stolen their father’s coins. He saw her holding Tiberius as an infant and then comforting Maximus when he’d been ill with an infection in his chest. So many memories were rolling through his mind and not one of them bad. Everything was joyous. But upon those joyful memories came darker thoughts, those of Kellen de Lara and the man’s attempts to kill him. The man who had given Courtly life had tried to take his, and Maximus began speaking before he even truly thought about what he said.
“Your father tried to kill me,” he said to Courtly, looking down at her with a rather perplexed expression on his face. “I had been trying to avoid your father since we arrived at Wallingford but the man sought me out in battle and tried to put in arrow in my back. Bose de Moray killed your father as your father was making an attempt to kill me. De Moray saved my life.”
Courtly gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in shock and grief, and the tears began to flow with a vengeance. It was then, and only then, that Maximus snapped out of his trance and realized what he had done. He’d spoken before he really thought about what he was going to say. It just all came tumbling out, his common sense overwhelmed by the news of his mother’s passing. So much death. As a warrior, he was conditioned to accept death but not when it struck this close to home. He was simply having difficulty processing it.
“I am sorry, love,” he said, reaching out and grasping Courtly, his manner deeply apologetic. “I should not have been so blunt. I wanted to tell you in a much more gentle fashion… forgive me, please. I fear that news of my mother’s death has upset my balance. I did not even realize what I was saying until it was too late.”
Courtly was sobbing deeply as Maximus tried to comfort her. “Auntie said he was going to do it,” she wept. “Damn the man for trying. Damn him for his foolishness. What did he think would happen if he failed? He tried to kill you but he was killed instead.”
Maximus didn’t know what to say to her. He was feeling particularly horrible at the moment, comforting his wife over the death of her father which, somehow, helped his own sense of grief. It distracted him by having someone else to worry about. Looking around the room, he could see Tiberius sitting by himself, weeping, and Gallus seated on a chair with Jeniver holding him tightly to her bosom. They were all stricken with sorrow, weeping for mothers and fathers, weeping for those they loved.
With a heavy heart, and struggling to remain strong for his wife, Maximus pulled her over to the table where Gallus was sitting. Setting her down carefully, he then went over to Tiberius and pulled the man up from the stairs and led him over to the table as well. Everyone was so terribly shattered, but in that crisis of grief and strife, Maximus was strangely level-headed, if only to be strong for Courtly.
Maximus stood between his wife and Tiberius, his hand on his brother’s shoulder and his other arm around his wife. He caught Jeniver’s eye as she looked up from Gallus, and he smiled weakly at the woman. All the while, words his mother had once spoken to him, words he had once relayed to Courtly, kept rolling through his mind. Now, more than ever, they seemed particularly appropriate.
“Do you remember what Mother would say when we expressed the fears for our father’s safety when he would ride off to battle?” he asked quietly. “Gal? Ty? Honey would say that we cannot know what will come at the day’s end but that whatever it is, it will indeed come, and then the end will be known. If we saw Father again at the end of that day, then we would smile and embrace him, but if not, then we would not dwell on his ending but on his parting well-made. What did we say to Honey the last time we spoke her? Do you recall?”
Gallus was wiping at his eyes, struggling to focus on Maximus’ question. It had been weeks since they’d last spoken to their mother, weeks since she had been coherent, so it was difficult to remember. As they struggled through the cobwebs of memories, Jeniver spoke.
“I recall one that of the last times we spoke, she spoke of Antoninus,” she said, her hands on her husband’s shoulders. “She told me that she had dreamed of him and that he looked the same as he did when he was young and strong, before age and his health caused him to deteriorate. She said that he stood at the gates of Isenhall but he would not come in. He simply stood there and smiled at her. She was rather perplexed at that but do you know what I think? I think he was waiting for her to come to him and she finally did. Certainly, her passing is a sorrowful thing, but we must not be sad for her. She is with Antoninus now and she is happy, so very happy. Should that thought not comfort us?”
Maximus was smiling knowingly by the time she was finished. He looked at Gallus and at Tiberius, seeing that their tears were mostly gone. They, too, were deeply comforted by Jeniver’s words because their parents, who had been quite devoted to one another, were now together for eternity.
“It comforts me a great deal to know that,” Maximus finally said. “She has missed my father every day since his death. Mayhap… mayhap instead of lamenting her death, we should be happy that they are finally together. At least, that is how I intend to view it. She is with him now and that is all that matters.”
Seated next to him, Courtly sniffled. “As my father is finally with my mother as well,” she said, wiping at her eyes. She looked up at Maximus. “That is how I will look at it as well. The man towards the end of his life was not the father I loved. He had changed somehow. But he, too, missed my mother very much. He never remarried, even after all of these years. They are together again and it is what he would want.”
Maximus bent down and kissed her on the top of the head, giving her a gentle squeeze to comfort her. “As I would want to be with you, too,” he murmured. Then, he glanced at the group around him, the table of people he loved best in the world. “But we are still here and we are still intact, and it is up to us to ensure that future generations of the House of de Shera have a country to inherit. Honey would have wanted it that way. That is why she told us to attend de Montfort, to be by the man’s side as he fights for a better England. I will honor what my mother wanted. With the last breath in my body, I will honor her wishes.”
Gallus and Tiberius would, too. As the brothers gathered to speak of returning to Isenhall, Courtly went to tell her aunt, still over in the shadows of the tavern, about Kellen’s demise. Ellice wasn’t particularly surprised to hear about it nor was she particularly grieved. The man who had caused her life’s misery was finally gone and, for the first time in her life, Ellice felt free. Free to live the life she always wanted to live without being under her brother’s controlling thumb. More than anything, news of Kellen’s death gave her relief.
Courtly watched as Ellice left the tavern, heading back to Kennington House with a lightness to her step that Courtly had never seen before. They were the steps of a woman who had been freed from resentment and anger. Courtly’s thoughts lingered on the woman, hoping that she would indeed find happiness. She wished her aunt, the woman who had made all things possible for her and Maximus, nothing less than the best. The old spinster, that bitter, old shrew, had turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
But the real blessing in Courtly’s life was Maximus. As she turned towards the de Shera table, she caught sight of her enormous, proud husband as he stood next to Tiberius, his arm around the man’s shoulders, comforting his younger brother now that the news of their mother’s death had settled deep. Tiberius actually had a weak smile on his lips and even Maximus was smiling, listening to Gallus as the man spoke of things Courtly couldn’t quite hear. She observed the men a moment and she knew that, wherever Honey and Antoninus were, they were very proud of the mighty sons they had raised.
Glancing upward, to the heavens above, Courtly hoped tha
t Honey and Antoninus de Shera were watching. Somehow, she knew they were, and perhaps somewhere close by, her own mother and father were looking down upon her. It was odd how she could feel their presence very strongly and with that presence came peace. Most definitely, she felt at peace, because standing before her were the Lords of Thunder, men who would help make England a fine place for future generations.
And her beloved Thunder Warrior who would pass into all things legend.
* THE END *
THE GORGON
A Medieval Romance
By Kathryn Le Veque
CHAPTER ONE
The Month of May, Year of Our Lord 1235
Chaldon Castle
Dorset, England
The sultry August heat was manageable this day. As the sun broke the eastern horizon, the lush English countryside embraced the coming day with open arms. Not only was the advancing day glorious of weather and promise, but the inhabitants of the gentle hills of Dorset were anticipating this day with excitement.
In faith, the day itself could have been wrought with storms and foul weather and still it would have been a grand morn. For on this day, a long-standing celebration was preparing to mount and nothing could dampen the spirits of peasant and noble alike, fine blood and common lines readying the stronghold of Chaldon Castle for the activities of the approaching gala.
The mighty stronghold of Chaldon guarded the road between Dorchester and Weymouth and was being prepared as a new bride for her husband. Proud banners of du Bonne red and white streamed from the mighty battlements, snapping in the steady ocean breeze. The constant hint of salt-air was heavy upon the fortress, licking man and beast alike with dampness as they went about their duties.
Just outside of the open fortress gates lay the field of celebration, a margin of meadow that had been prepared for the events of competition. A large bank of lodges had been constructed to accommodate the noble visitors that would be gracing Chaldon this day, and already a small army of peasants had constructed their vendor’s shacks and stalls to provide refreshment between contests.
In the enormous keep of Chaldon that housed the reigning Constable and his family, all was not as sunny as the day appeared. The object of the pending celebration was not the least bit pleased at the moment as he tripped over the clutter of his bower.
“God’s Blood,” the young man spat. “I cannot find anything in this place.”
A smirking face appeared in an adjoining door, features similar to those of the cursing young man. “Temper, temper, my young lord,” he cautioned. “You’ll chase all of the young women away with your foul temper and nasty disposition.”
The frowning man slugged his fist into his smug companion’s chest, lacking any power to the blow. “Shut your mouth, Ian. Where in the hell is my hauberk? I cannot find the thing anywhere.”
Ian, at least a head taller than his testy younger brother, maintained his smirk as he kicked through a pile of clutter on the floor. “Here it is, lover. Do not fret so.”
The younger man snatched the mail hood from his brother, scowling fiercely. “God’s Blood, I’d rather get dressed by myself. Go and bother someone else.”
Ian snorted humorously, ignoring his brother’s demand for solitude and moving for the suit of armor against the broad stretch of wall. Two young squires sat against the cold stone, polishing the armor furiously.
“There is no one else to tolerate me,” he said, examining a recently-cleaned greave. “Stephan is with Genisa, probably mounting her for the fourth time this morn, and Summer has been in her solar since dawn, demanding to be left alone. She swears this gala to celebrate your knighthood will drive us to the poorhouse.”
The cross young man grunted as he fumbled with his mailed protection. “I did not ask for a party. ’Twas at father’s insistence.”
Ian returned the greave to one of the young squires and moved to stroke the crafted hilt of his brother’s sword.
“Be glad he insisted on celebrating your knighthood at all, Lance,” his voice was somewhat subdued. “Stephan received a new sheath for his broadsword. I received a handshake.”
Lance glanced to his middle brother, two years older and sixty pounds heavier. Much larger than any of his siblings, he was a mild-mannered lout with a wicked sense of humor. It was a quick wit that Lance had missed terribly when the man had been knighted two years ago, leaving his youngest brother to finish his training alone.
Stephan, Ian and Lance du Bonne had fostered together at Shrewsbury Castle on the Welsh border, far from their coastal fortress of Chaldon. It was an unusual move to keep siblings together to foster, but the three had insisted. The three men had lived together, practiced together, and protected each other from the brutal realities of a careless world. They were a fearsome trio with an unusual reputation of family unity. Some had even wondered if the brothers were able to work one without the other.
But they somewhat disproved that theory when Stephan was inducted into the knighthood at twenty-one years of age; Ian and Lance functioned quite well when Stephan returned to Chaldon. Four years later, Ian received his spurs and also found his way home, leaving young Lance alone at Shrewsbury to finish his training. As the gallery of critics awaited Lance’s failure, the lad proved them wrong and honorably earned his knighthood.
In a sense, the festivities planned for this day were in celebration of the du Bonne brother’s reunion, not merely the recently attained pair of golden spurs. The three were looking forward to a future of tournaments, leisure and exhilarating adventure.
At this moment, however, Lance could not consider the future beyond locating his boots. As Ian lingered against the wall, continuing his inspection of the squires’ handiwork, Lance fumbled about in his cluttered chamber like a huffing bear.
“Damn… I cannot find a damn thing!” he grumbled, managing to locate one boot but not the other. After a moment, he stood tall and shook his fists in frustration. “How is it that everything I need is missing?”
Ian shook his head, moving away from the squires and into the center of the room. “Mayhap if you cleaned the chamber, you could find what you are looking for.”
“Enough from you, swill-brain,” Lance snarled, crowing with triumph when he caught sight of his other boot. Falling to the mussed bed, he pulled on his footwear. “Stephan said that Genisa was finishing my new tunic. He should have brought it to me by now.”
Ian pursed his lips wryly. “I told you that he is most likely with his wife, driving himself into her lovely body until he dies. In fact, I should be so fortunate to warrant such a death.”
Lance eyed his brother a moment, his irritation fading as he gazed into the familiar features. “You are still quite fond of Genisa, are you not?”
The mirth in Ian’s eyes faded as he averted his gaze. “She is my brother’s wife.”
Lance rose from the disheveled mattress to collect his hauberk. “You’ve been in love with her since you met her. Two years ago, I believe.”
Ian refused to look at his brother. “I never told you that.”
Lance put his head through the mail hood, moving for the open door. Holding out his arms, Ian took the silent request and helped his brother don the remainder of the heavy mail.
“You did not have to,” Lance’s voice was quiet as he adjusted the protection about his shoulders. “I can see it in your eyes every time you look at her. I can only imagine that the feeling for her blossomed when you first met her upon returning home from Shrewsbury two years ago. Summer swears that you have never looked at Genisa with anything other than love in your eyes.”
The mood between the brothers du Bonne was reversing; where Lance had been irritable and sullen only moments before, Ian was now taking on brother’s characteristics.
“Our little sister does not know everything.”
“Aye, she does. She has wisdom beyond her years.”
Ian scratched his blond scalp, uncomfortable with the subject of his lovely sister-in-law. If truth be known,
Summer was right. And so was Lance. But he would not admit the truth, not when he loved Stephan far more than his beautiful wife. A sweet fantasy was Genisa and nothing more.
Moving away from his brother, he pretended to busy himself with his Lance’s armor. He was eager to change the subject.
“Speaking of Summer,” he said casually, “What are we going to do about our baby sister today? Has Stephan made any suggestions?”
Lance shrugged, aware of Ian’s bid to shift the subject. “I do not suppose there is anything we can do except be with her constantly. Summer should not be alone for a single moment, Ian.”
Pleased that his brother had taken the hint to change the topic, Ian nodded gravely. “Indeed. I do not suppose we could discourage her from attending the tourney altogether, could we?”
Lance snorted. “Not a chance. She has hardly been out of Chaldon as it is and, as with all young maidens, is eager to attend her first tourney.”
Ian let out a long, harsh breath. “So be it. We cannot discourage her from attending the festivities,” scratching his head again, he seemed to be regaining his good humor. “God help the idiot who is the first to criticize her condition.”
“Which is why one of us must be with her at all times,” Lance said firmly. “Under no circumstances must Summer be allowed to express herself.”
“You mean speak.”
“Aye, that’s exactly what I mean. We will do the speaking for her.”
Ian’s gaze was pensive as he watched his brother mill about the piles of disarrayed clutter.
“God’s Blood, Lance, what did she do before Stephan returned home from Shrewsbury six years ago?” he wondered aloud. “Who protected her from the ignorant rabble?”
England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 29