England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Avalyn felt a strange sense of disappointment, though she did not let it show. She simply nodded. “Of course, Auntie.”

  Anne smiled thinly at her niece, presuming and hoping the matter was behind them. “Now, with that business aside, we thought you should be aware that your suggestion for our agents is working beautifully.”

  Avalyn lifted her eyebrows. “What suggestion was that?”

  Richard stepped in from her other side. “Rumors of illegitimacy, lady,” he said. “With Edward riding to the north to quell the small uprisings there, your suggestion to spread rumors of the king being bastard-born have taken flight and caused much uproar. It was a brilliant suggestion.”

  Avalyn shrugged modestly. “It was one suggestion of many. As I said before, if you want Edward off the throne, attacking his legitimacy will do far more damage than attacking him physically. He is a strong king with a large army. But the nobility of England is easily swayed once a question of authenticity comes into question. They consider pure blood more important than God. Even a hint of the king being a bastard, no matter how untrue, will tilt their favor.”

  Richard nodded. “And you were right. But we added something more.”

  “What is that?”

  The Kingmaker’s eyes glittered. “That Clarence is York’s true heir. We do not seek anarchy. If the king is to be supplanted, it will be with another royal.”

  “And you suggest the Duke of Clarence?”

  “As Edward’s younger brother, he is the logical choice.”

  Avalyn cocked her head. “And did you not suggest a betrothal between Clarence and Isobel?”

  “Indeed. A de Neville upon the throne would put the entire family in favor.”

  Avalyn was not surprised or shocked by the statement. There was always some manner of intrigue in the House of de Neville, including the secret betrothal of her cousin Isobel to the king’s younger brother. Now, with her suggestion of spreading rumors of a bastard-born Edward, the bad blood between the king and Uncle Richard was deepening. The marriage of Clarence to Isobel de Neville would widen the gap. At some point soon, it was going to explode. She knew it would happen, but she wondered where and when.

  As she pondered the discontent that she had helped create against the king, Aunt Anne broke into her thoughts. “Go to bed now, my angel. It has been an eventful night.”

  Obediently, Avalyn rose and passed through a small corridor that led into a dark, warm chamber. She was glad to be free of her aunt and uncle’s disapproving presence. A small fire burned in the hearth and a massive bed was lodged against one wall. She tried not to think of d’Aurilliac as she pulled off the borrowed woolen shift, yet her mind was inevitably drawn to him. Aye, she recalled his name and, with prompting from her uncle, what she had heard about him. Rumor said that he was all brawn, no brains. More cruel gossip had called him a simpleton, a war machine that simply did as he was told because he could not think for himself. It was a sad reputation, really. He had seemed kind to her, but she could also understand why the man had the reputation he did. He didn’t say much, and he was positively terrifying.

  “Avie?” came a soft voice from the bed. “Is that you?”

  Snapped from her train of thought, Avalyn pulled her sleeping shift from a large trunk and went to the huge, over-stuffed bed. “’Tis me, sweetheart,” she said as she donned her night gown. “Go back to sleep.”

  Isobel de Neville sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes groggily. Across the room in a smaller bed slept her thirteen-year-old sister, Anne. Isobel was a whole five years older. She focused her sleepy brown eyes on her cousin.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  Avalyn climbed into the mounds of covers and snuggled beneath them, pushing her cousin down in the process so the woman would go back to sleep. “I shall tell you tomorrow,” she kissed her cousin’s temple. “Sleep now.”

  Isabel promptly obeyed. Avalyn lay there in the darkness, warm under the covers, and gazed into the soft warm glow of the distant hearth. Visions of Brogan d’Aurilliac drifted through her mind like snowflakes falling from the sky; every time she rid herself of one, another would take its place. She had no idea why the man had left an imprint on her, other than the fact he had saved her life. That was reason enough.

  And in spite of what her aunt and uncle said, she intended to pay her debt to him.

  *

  “She’s Warwick, man,” St. Alban said sternly. “She is as powerful as they come. God’s Bones, Brogan, when you make a mistake, it’s a big one.”

  Brogan sat on a plain stool before the blaze roaring in his chamber. St. Alban was often cold-blooded and would work the hearth into a forest fire of embers, which usually left Brogan uncomfortable and sweating. But in respect to his old friend and mentor, he would suffer in silence. Even now, he continued to sit in silence as St. Alban tried to explain to him just how out of reach their wet visitor had been. St. Alban only knew this because the usually silent and mostly-sullen Brogan had mentioned only two words; Beauchamp Tower. It had been enough. There was only one family that resided on the second floor of the Beauchamp Tower and the attached apartments.

  “Do you hear me, Brogan?” the old man asked. “You must never go near her again. For your own sake, stay away from her.”

  Brogan tore his gaze away from the blaze then, fixing St. Alban with his deep blue eyes. “I do not intend going near her again. And it was not a mistake to save her life.”

  “Nay, it was not, but it was a mistake to involve yourself with anything to do with Warwick.”

  “I do not regret it.”

  “I know you don’t. But stay clear of her, my friend, or risk your life.”

  “I said that I would stay clear of her.”

  St. Alban eyed his young friend. Brogan was not a liar, but deep down, he did not believe him. He had seen the way the man had looked at the young lady. It was something between attraction, and curiosity and desire. He’d never before seen that expression before on his handsome face and it was cause for concern; the Brogan he knew had not been himself lately and this show of interest was not only unexpected, it was unhealthy. He pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

  “Brogan,” he began patiently; one had to be patient when dealing with him, sometimes, for he did not always understand things clearly. “Do you know who Warwick is?”

  Brogan’s head snapped to him. “Of course I do. I may not be an educated man such as you, but I know who people are.”

  As St. Alban feared, Brogan’s temper was sparked. He tended to fire up quickly and strike before he’d had a chance to think. St. Alban put a big, gnarled hand on his forearm to calm him.

  “That’s not what I meant,” the old man said evenly. “I suppose what I meant to ask is how much you know about Warwick?”

  Brogan’s deep blue eyes flashed again but he seemed to calm somewhat. He looked back at the fire. “I know that the House is more wealthy than the Royal family,” he lifted his big shoulders. “I know that Richard de Neville puts kings upon the throne as easily as some men trade horses. What more do I need to know?”

  St. Alban wriggled his eyebrows. “That is a start, lad,” he said. “Do you also know that Richard has been orchestrating the throne between the Lancastrians and the Yorkists for the past fifteen years? They do not call him ‘The Kingmaker’ without good reason. That entire family is full of powerful people and you would be well served to steer clear of them. They shall quash you like a bug in spite of your strength and skill. And I do not want to lose you.”

  “I already told you that I would stay away from her.”

  “Good.” St. Alban clapped him on the shoulder. The clap turned into support as the old man stood up. “Now, I intend to retire for the night. You should, too. It seems as if you have had an eventful night.”

  Brogan merely nodded, still staring into the flames. He could not seem to shake the vision of the beautiful woman with the chestnut-colored hair and golden eyes. She had spoken kindly to him, not
knowing who he was, not having the disadvantage of having heard of his reputation. It had been such a long time since he had met someone who had treated him with kindness.

  Over against the wall, St. Alban grunted as he settled himself in his straw-stuffed bed. The blankets were old and woolen, rubbing up against his weather-worn skin. When he finally finished tossing and turning, he sighed heavily.

  “Brogan?

  Brogan turned from the fire to the old man. “What is it?”

  “What were you doing at the Thames tonight?”

  Brogan felt as if he had been struck. He should have known that the question would eventually come, but he was unprepared when it finally did. He turned back to the fire.

  “I was thinking,” he muttered.

  St. Alban gazed at the back of Brogan’s brown head for a moment, not voicing what he was thinking. He knew how depressed the man had been. The accidental death of his young son a few months prior had very nearly destroyed him, and he’d not been the same since. St. Alban reminded himself to pay more attention to Brogan and not the let man wander alone anymore. Not that he didn’t trust him not to do anything foolish, but grief could do strange things to a man’s thinking. The next time, there might not be a lady there to distract him from self-damage.

  He was beginning to wonder who really saved whom.

  *

  Avalyn was up early the next morning and prepared to go about her business. It was a brilliant day, the sky pale blue with puffy clouds blustering across it. A steady wind poured in from the Thames, stirring up leaves and dust upon it. Clad in a soft blue linen shift and a heavier, darker blue brocade surcoat, Avalyn smoothed her chestnut curls as they were lifted by the breeze. Crossing the courtyard from the Beauchamp Tower to the barracks, she hoped her aunt hadn’t put a spy on her tail. Aunt Anne was not beyond checking up on those around her, especially after the conversation they’d had last night. But Avalyn reasoned that even if her aunt had put someone up to following her, she had a very logical reason for doing what she was doing; she had to return the borrowed gown. There was nothing treacherous about it.

  Aye, it sounded reasonable enough. Truth be told, she wanted to catch a glimpse of d’Aurilliac again. But that was her secret and no one else’s.

  Reaching the long row of stark and unadorned barracks, she paused a moment, trying to remember which door she had come from the previous night. The last thing she wanted to do was wander around in a building full of men. As she stared at the structure, she thought that she might have come out from the door in the middle of the building, so she walked in that direction. Coming upon the door, she lifted the heavy iron latch and went inside.

  It was dark and smelt of must and body odor. Wrinkling her nose, she thought she recognized the stairs off to the right. Mounting the steps, she made her way cautiously to the second floor. It was strangely empty. The corridor on the second level was dark and foreboding, and she frankly didn’t recognize anything at first. But a door at the far end looked oddly familiar in the way it was offset along the axis of the hallway. It was crooked. Hesitantly, she moved towards it.

  Avalyn paused at the door, studying it closely, attempting to discern if this was indeed the chamber she remembered from the night before. She was slightly fearful to knock. Leaning forward, she put her ear near it; she could not hear anything inside. With a deep breath for courage, she knocked softly.

  There was no reply. She knocked again, more loudly this time. The door suddenly flew open and a great booming voice came from within.

  “Why are you knocking, you blasted fool?” came the shout. “The door is op…”

  The old man who had been so kind to her the evening before shut his mouth when he saw who it was. His old, yellowed eyes widened at the sight and he nearly stumbled back in surprise. But he caught himself.

  “My lady,” he gasped. “Forgive me, I thought you were… well, it does not matter who I thought you were. Please, come in.”

  Avalyn hadn’t been given the opportunity to say a word; her momentary fright at his shouting quickly faded. The old man was blustery, gruff, and kind all in the same moment. He ushered her into the room and she stood there a moment, awkwardly, clutching the borrowed dress she had sought to return.

  “I am sorry for the intrusion, my lord,” she said. Then she held out the dress like a smashed offering. “But I wanted to return this and to thank you again for your kindness.”

  The old man smiled and took the garment. “You are most welcome,” he, too, held the dress awkwardly, as if he didn’t know what to do with it. “I am afraid we did not have the chance to meet formally last eve, my lady. I am St. Alban de Sotheby, at your service.”

  She nodded politely. “’Tis a pleasure, my lord.” Her eyes darted around the room, briefly. “Brogan is not here? I wished to thank him again also.”

  St. Alban shook his head. “Not at the moment.” He didn’t want her lingering. Brogan was sure to be back at any time and he did not want the man to run into her. He was positive Brogan hadn’t slept all night and he suspected the reason was standing in front of him. It was not healthy for a variety of reasons. “I will tell him that you returned with the dress and your thanks.”

  Somewhat disappointed, Avalyn nodded her thanks. “Where is the woman who loaned me the gown?”

  St. Alban nodded. “Her name is Thel. I will tell her that you were most grateful for her generosity.”

  “Is she your wife?”

  “Nay, lady.”

  “Is she Brogan’s wife?”

  “Nay.”

  Avalyn realized she felt some relief at that knowledge. “Then where is she that I might thank her myself?”

  St. Alban lifted an eyebrow and cleared his throat. He seemed to grasp for words. “She is… well, that is to say, she lives here. At the barracks. I doubt a lady such as yourself would find her living situation appropriate and I would be honored to relay your thanks to her.”

  For the first time since her arrival, the awkwardness faded and Avalyn seemed to relax. Her gaze lingered on the old man; a sharp, wise gaze that made even a seasoned man like St. Alban uncomfortable. For a moment, he thought she might be reading his thoughts, so piercing was her stare. It was clear that she was studying him like one opponent studies another. As if she was trying to figure everything out.

  “She’s a whore for the knights,” she stated after a moment.

  St. Alban nodded steadily. “Aye, my lady.”

  Avalyn digested that. She looked at the gown in St. Alban’s hand and the old man was waiting for her to explode with the impropriety of loaning her a borrowed dress from a whore. But Avalyn, amazingly, did no such thing; she reached out and took the gown from his gnarled grip.

  “Then perhaps if you would be kind enough to tell me where she does reside, I shall return this personally,” she said quietly.

  St. Alban was surprised. What lady would not have expressed her distress at learning she had been wearing a whore’s garment? Surprise turned to respect. Perhaps the lady was not as shallow as most finely bred women tended to be. Already, he could tell she was shrewd. The forgiving part was unexpected.

  “I would be honored to take you myself,” he moved for the door before she could deny him. “It is only a short way.”

  In truth, Avalyn had no intention of denying his escort. She was rather grateful for it. Silently, she followed the old man from the chamber and back down the dark corridor. He was a big man, gone mostly to fat, and filled up most of the hall. But when they reached the stairs, he suddenly stopped and she smacked into the back of him. She could hear his voice lifted in greeting.

  “Ah,” he said loudly, perhaps too loudly. “Brogan, what a surprise. See who has come to return the garment you borrowed from Thel.”

  St. Alban stepped aside about the same time as Brogan mounted the top of the stairs. Immediately, his deep blue eyes zeroed in on her golden ones and, for a moment, Avalyn’s breath caught in her throat. He would have been less shocking had he
reached out to grab her, for the heat from those eyes was jolting enough.

  “My lady,” Brogan’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of an unexpected smile. “I trust you are well this morning after your difficult night?”

  She nodded, her heart thumping painfully against her ribs at the sudden sight of him. “I am excellent, my lord. I’ve come to return the dress and again extend my thanks to you for saving my life.”

  “We were going to take the dress to Thel,” St. Alban’s interjected, his manner rushed as if he was anxious to leave Brogan’s presence. “We shall be but a moment. I know you must be tired and wish to rest.”

  For the first time, Avalyn looked away from his eyes to notice the state of the rest of him; Brogan was in heavy leather breeches, a rough tunic, and heavy boots that were covered with grime. His hair, dark blond curls that were dark with sweat, was also dirty. It was, in fact, rather intriguing. Most of the men she knew, knights included, were somewhat fine living and not prone to dirty themselves with mundane things like raw training. A few of them would – genuine knights and not those men more inclined to politics than warring – but for the most part, a genuinely dirty and exhausted man was, in her world, an anomaly. Upon further consideration, she thought it was oddly attractive.

  “Of course you do not need to trouble yourself with me, my lord,” she said to Brogan. “I am sure you have many other pressing duties to attend.”

  With the shadow of a grin still lingering on his lips, Brogan shook his head. “I have no other pressing duties.” He turned around and headed back down the stairs, pausing after a few steps to make sure the lady was following him. “Come along, my lady. I will take you to the Sirens’ lair.”

  Avalyn’s brow furrowed as St. Alban, knowing the indelicate subject, closed his eyes and shook his head. “The Sirens’ lair?” she repeated. “What is that?”