Fathers and Sons

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  He studied her carefully for a moment. “Very fine, Bose,” turning away, he seemed distracted and fatigued by the circumstance and was eager to move forward. “All pleasantries aside, tell me who is presiding over your trial?”

  Bose gestured toward Lord Bruce. “The Marquis of Cerne, Your Grace, the Lord Bruce Eggardon. He has been impartial so far.”

  Henry moved purposefully to Lord Bruce who, caught completely off-guard by the king’s unexpected appearance, folded himself in a proper bow. When the marquis met the king’s intense gaze, the older man’s upper lip was slick with perspiration.

  “Your Grace, we are… honored by your presence,” he stammered.

  Henry regarded him silently, once again turning to Bose. “And who is this man that would accuse you of stealing his bride?”

  Bose tilted his head in Breck’s direction. “That man. Sir Breck Kerry.”

  Summer had never seen anything but arrogance and determination on Breck’s ugly features. At this moment, however, he looked terrified as the King of England brought him to focus. Pale and agitated, he bowed swiftly for the monarch’s benefit.

  Henry’s expression was hard on the red-haired knight. “Approach me.”

  Like an obedient dog, Breck did as he was told. Standing before the king, he could feel the angry stares of the silent household knights surrounding them. He kept his gaze lowered as the king spoke.

  “You have brought charges against the former captain of my Household Guard,” Henry’s voice was controlled. “By what right do you make these slanderous claims?”

  Breck swallowed, his usually cocky demeanor vanished. “His wife is betrothed to me, Your Grace,” he said hoarsely. “She was to be mine before….”

  “She was pledged to Bose before you convinced her father to break his word and betroth her to you,” Henry motioned to a group of men standing off to his right. A few of the royal advisors shifted, moved aside, to reveal a tall young man with golden red hair within their midst.

  Breck’s eyes widened at the sight of his brother. “Duncan!”

  The youngest Kerry brother nodded coolly. “I have told him everything, Breck,” he said quietly. “He knows of your evil plans. He knows the only reason you solicited a betrothal for the lady was to seek vengeance on Sir Bose, and he further knows that the only reason you are going forward with this foolish trial is to see de Moray completely destroyed.”

  Breck’s jaw went slack with astonishment, his composure completely destroyed with the realization of his brother’s apparent treachery. “You… you are my brother, for God’s sake. How could you turn against me like this?”

  “Because you are wrong,” Duncan said, no longer fearing his brother’s retribution. “The Kerry name used to stand for strength and respect years ago, before you received your spurs and began to destroy the family reputation. Father and grandfather spent their lives establishing a powerful honor which you have endeavored to shatter. I am ashamed of you and I’ll not tolerate your corruption any longer. For the sake of our heritage, I cannot.”

  Breck stared at him. “So you would betray me simply because you do not agree with my ideals?”

  “I do not agree with your morals or your ideals,” Duncan was growing increasingly passionate. “I have stood by as you’ve disabled honorable knights with your sly tournament tactics, or spread rumors that have shattered the reputation or marriages of those we’ve come to know through the circuit. But no longer; this will end now, brother. It will end now before any further damage is done.”

  Breck could scarcely believe what he was hearing; the concept of his brother’s betrayal was nearly too much to comprehend and as he opened his mouth to refute the treacherous man, the very servant he had sent to claim the critical betrothal contract abruptly returned to the hall. Holding the scroll high above his head, the green and yellow garbed attendant made his way through the sea of knights and vassals in an attempt to reach his liege.

  “Here it is,” Breck’s sharp mannerisms were bordering on madness as he seized the vellum from the servant’s clammy palm. “This will vindicate me and prove that my charges are not false. Bose stole my bride and this piece of parchment shall prove it!”

  Henry reached out and snatched the contract from the agitated knight, examining the rolled parchment carefully.

  “The betrothal contract between my wife and Sir Breck,” Bose explained quietly.

  Henry nodded in understanding, removing the bindings and unrolling the fine yellow hide. The room seemed to quiet abruptly, Breck included, as Henry slowly read the contents of the missive. As the tension mounted, the deafening silence was nearly overwhelming, and Bose could feel Summer trembling within his grasp. His hold on her tightened and he waited, with bated breath, for Henry to absorb the contents.

  After a small eternity, Henry finally raised his eyes, glancing to the serious expressions around him.

  “Where is her father?”

  Before Bose could reply, Edward was on his feet with Margot directly behind him.

  “I am the lady’s father, Your Grace,” his voice sounded feeble.

  Henry caught sight of the frail, thin woman lingering behind the pallid-faced earl, recognizing her to be Bose’s former mother-in-law. He remembered the vicious, screeching woman who had marred her daughter’s funeral with her hysterics. Puzzled but not particularly surprised to discover she was at Chaldon, aligned with the opposition against her deceased daughter’s husband, he simply shook his head. The situation involving Bose’s trial was growing in unexpected ways and he was frankly too exhausted to pursue the woman’s presence.

  Shifting his focus to the baron, he met the man’s polite reply. “Am I to understand that this written contract came after you broke your orated pledge of marriage with Sir Bose?”

  Edward visibly paled. “I…I am told, Your Grace, that I verbally consented to a betrothal between my daughter and Sir Bose. But I had imbibed a good deal of wine that night and it is difficult for me to remember what, precisely, happened.”

  Henry gazed headily at the man, obviously displeased. “Then you are denying any such promise?”

  “I cannot deny or confirm what I do not remember, Your Grace.”

  After a continued moment of scrutiny, Henry once again looked to the parchment in his hands. “But there was a witness to this pledge. Your own son, I am told.”

  “My sons have turned against me, Your Grace. As much as I am ashamed to admit the fact, they would most likely say or do anything to support Sir Bose’s cause.”

  “Then you are saying, in essence, that your own son has conspired with Sir Bose in an attempt to convince you that in your drunken state, you pledged your daughter in marriage to de Moray?”

  Edward shrugged uncomfortably, torn between Margot’s silent insistence and his sons’ angry expressions. “I am suggesting nothing, Your Grace. But the possibilities are obvious.”

  Henry sighed with disgust, knowing the laws of ethics and standards would demand the baron’s word be considered over the views of two lesser-stationed knights. If Bose said the man had verbally sanctioned a betrothal contract between the mighty knight and his only daughter then, in fact, Henry believed his former captain without question. But the truth remained that Edward, by station, would expect to have the consensus of belief over a mere knight.

  A slow burn of irritation began to take flight, fed by the king’s exhaustion. Looking to Edward, he could hardly keep the contempt from his voice.

  “Are you lying to me?”

  Edward swallowed hard, feeling Margot’s hand on his arm in a supportive, demanding gesture. “Nay, Your Grace. It was never… but I simply cannot remember giving the knight my verbal approval.”

  Henry’s thin jaw ticked. “And you fully realize that the court is obligated to believe you over the testimony of two lesser knights.”

  Edward nodded unsteadily, his jowls quivering like great loaves of fat. “Indeed… it is expected, Your Grace.”

  The king stared at
the rotund man a moment longer before emitting a heavy sigh. “You realize what you are endeavoring to create, do you not? You are preparing to sentence an innocent man to his doom with your less than truthful reply.”

  Edward averted his gaze, lacking the words to form a proper response. As he stammered for a reply, Henry’s irritation seemed to cool. Regardless of the baron’s fabrication, he was cognizant of what needed to be done. Even if Lord du Bonne was intent to play him for a simpleton with his evasive replies, Henry refused to concede the game. He knew how to win. Extending the unrolled missive to Olav, he cast the man a single directive.

  “Burn it.”

  Edward’s expression slackened as Breck’s eyes threatened to spring from their very sockets.

  “You cannot!” Breck’s face was red with emotion. “The missive is my property and I’ll not…!”

  The crowd was distended, rumbling with tension as Henry moved toward the irate knight, surrounded by his household protectors. They were seasoned men who had little tolerance for those who would defame their king. Henry openly studied the challenger of his royal honor.

  “Do you disagree with my actions, Sir Breck?” he asked, a red eyebrow cocked questioningly. “Pray, are they as unjust and unscrupulous as your own?”

  Breck’s lips worked, spittle forming on the edges. “The… the church has endorsed the betrothal, Your Grace,” he hissed, struggling to recover his last vanishing remnants of control. “You cannot simply burn it as if it never existed. There are those who have….”

  “Witnessed it?” Henry’s tone was patronizing. “As Sir Ian witnessed Lord Edward’s verbal sanction? As we have all seen, Lord Edward has denied making any such commitment. And because he is of ranking nobility, it is expressly understood that his word be believed above the testimony of two honorable knights. And I say that if I burn this ill-gotten betrothal, it has never existed. And, being king, I retain the right to be believed above the testimony of all.”

  No one dared say a word. Olav and several other household knights watched the betrothal missive burn to ash as Henry maintained a steady gaze on the three individuals who had been driven to destroy his former captain. His rage and vengeance was ripe.

  “These charges against de Moray were foolish from the onset,” his soft-pitched voice was a growl. “I was forced to set aside my royal duties and travel two days in the saddle to vindicate my former captain from a trio of vipers I would just as soon quash. My patience is severely stretched by your conniving scheme and I will hear no more of these plots. If I ever again catch word of betrayal or spite against de Moray, my wrath shall be swift and painful. Do I make myself clear?”

  Edward, as pasty as tallow, managed to nod faintly. “I… I was merely attempting to protect my daughter, Your Grace. Sir Bose is known to have killed his wife and….”

  “Did you take this woman’s clouded word over the truth of the circumstance?” Henry would not allow him to finish his sentence, gesturing toward Margot; although visibly demurred, Margot met the king’s gaze with her usual haughty resolve and Henry smiled, a thin and hateful gesture. “Bose de Moray’s wife died in childbirth, pure and simple. And as a result, he left my service in order to flee the memories associated with his position. Is that clear enough?”

  Edward had heard that explanation before, many a time, but he had allowed Margot’s venom to cloud his mind until her truth was the only reality he was able to comprehend. Hearing the recount of facts from the king’s own mouth, however, brought the subject to bear and he sighed heavily, turning unsteadily from the young monarch. The verity of the truthful circumstance somehow drained his strength until he could scarcely support himself.

  Settling heavily in the nearest chair, Edward du Bonne, Baron Lulworth, was left to ponder what course his feeble mind and weak will had brought about. He had ruined the honor and trust of his own family. He had destroyed his life. The du Bonne honor he had been so zealous in protecting was now in ruins.

  Henry’s attention was drawn from the dejected baron as Breck loomed before him, his lanky body twitching with fury. The smoke from the cindered betrothal contract was strong upon the stale air, reminding the occupants of the room with every breath of the swift justice served. And none more so than Breck as he endeavored, one last time, to summon his confidence.

  “The Church will have something to say about this, your grace,” he said in a low, hazardous tone. “You are attempting to play God by interfering in the church’s business. And it must not be tolerated.”

  Henry cocked an eyebrow. “God’s Blood, you truly are a fool. Your statement sounds very much like a threat.”

  “It was indeed a threat, My King,” Olav was suddenly between the two men, his massive hands gripping Breck by the arms. “All who threatened the king are immediately imprisoned and sentenced for treason. Is this not so, Bose?”

  Until this moment, Bose had refrained from direct involvement in the dialogue as much as he was able; in truth, he was still reeling from the swiftness of the king’s decisive deed and could do nothing more than hold Summer against him, struggling to absorb the truth of his monarch’s actions. But gazing to Breck Kerry within Olav’s mighty grasp, he knew well the advantage of ridding himself of a man who had been a mere hair’s breadth away from destroying him. If only to protect Summer from the man’s evil once and for all, Bose knew he had to be rid of him.

  “Indeed,” his baritone voice was commanding. “All who threaten our good King Henry must meet with the unavoidable consequences.”

  Roughly grasped by several Household Guards, Breck struggled furiously. “I never… I did not threaten him! I am innocent!”

  “Just as Bose was innocent of thievery?” Henry pressed. “How terrible it is to be wrongly accused. I suspect you do not appreciate it, either.”

  Kicking and fighting furiously, Breck was wrestled across the floor by several armed men as the audience in the hall gasped and whispered. “I did not threaten the king!” he shouted. “I swear to you… de Moray, do you hear me? You will stop this or I swear I will…!”

  His words were cleaved when someone slapped an armored gauntlet over his mouth; clearly, Henry and Bose weren’t the only men weary of the pimpled knight’s blather. Bose continued to watch as Breck was carried from the hall by a host of warriors intent on doing their former captain a favor. Bose could hardly bring himself to comprehend the extraordinary turn of events.

  The room went sharply silent as the sounds of struggle faded. Bose remained frozen to the spot, in awe of the events and endeavoring to bring forth the words of thanks. In the midst of his shock, he caught sight of Duncan from the corner of his eye, appearing somewhat morose in spite of the justifiable circumstances. When Duncan noticed de Moray staring at him, he labored to mask his remorse. Weakly, he shrugged.

  “He deserves the king’s judgment and more,” he offered, his voice faint with sentiment. “Still, he is my brother and for the sake of our family relations, I am nonetheless saddened to see him meet with an unpleasant ending.”

  Bose’s expression was steady. “I understand your dilemma, Duncan. But your actions on my behalf were brave and commendable, and I thank you deeply. I owe you a great deal.”

  Again, Duncan shrugged, his cheeks mottling a faint pink when he met Summer’s golden gaze. “’Twas the least I could do, considering my brother was the cause of your misery,” glancing to the three appreciative du Bonne brothers, it was obvious his purpose had been served and the time had come to take his leave. Bowing a brisk farewell to the collective group, his charming smile made a weak return. “I shall return to Crestwood with a clear conscience, good lords and ladies. And with somewhat astonishing memories of Lance du Bonne’s tournament.”

  “Do not be a stranger, Duncan,” Stephan said. “You will always be welcome at Chaldon.”

  “And at Ravendark,” Bose said firmly. “We shall see you at the next tournament, I hope.”

  Duncan’s smiled broadened. “In Banbury, I believe, come O
ctober,” he suddenly cast Bose a long glance. “Does your appreciation encompass allowing me the opportunity to win the joust for a change?”

  Bose cocked an eyebrow. “I fear my days as tournament champion are at an end. You must take your place in line of all the men I plan to allow victory in display of my thanks.”

  Relieved laughter followed Duncan as he quit the hall, lighter of spirit than the young knight had been in many years. Summer watched the warrior fade into the foyer beyond the grand hall, emitting a sigh of relief for the timely appearance of her husband’s angel of grace.

  “B-Breck can never hurt us again,” she murmured. “How wonderful of Henry to do this for you.”

  Bose touched her cheek, exhilaration taking hold where there had once been astonishment. Then he turned to the king.

  “Your Grace,” his tone was strained with emotion. “I cannot adequately express my gratitude for what you have done this day. To simply declare my thanks seems terribly deficient.”

  Henry’s pale eyes were warm. “There is no need, Bose. Consider this small intervention my own payment of gratitude for years of devoted service on your behalf.”

  Bose smiled faintly, his gaze locked onto the young king he had known very well, once. In fact, his attention was so diverted that he failed to notice Margot’s movements on the outskirts of the crowd; pale-faced and maddened with the turn of events, Bose’s former mother-in-law began fumbling in her skirts as if searching for something. For her, the situation was not over. She had one final trick up her sleeve.

  Bose was speaking quietly with the king as Margot skulked through the crowd of advisors and knights just outside of his peripheral vision, her focus lingering on the beautiful woman by his side. Bose’s own knights were speaking between themselves or listening to the conversation between Bose and Henry. Even Stephan’s wife, the silly whore, was listening politely to Morgan’s conversation. But all sounds, all commotion, seemed to fade as Margot drew close, the rustling of her skirts coming to a disarrayed halt as she drew forth the object of her quest.