De Wolfe Pack Series:
Warwolfe
The Wolfe
Nighthawk
ShadowWolfe
DarkWolfe
A Joyous de Wolfe Christmas
Serpent
A Wolfe Among Dragons
Scorpion
Dark Destroyer
The Lion of the North
Walls of Babylon
BY THE UNHOLY HAND
A Medieval Romance
Book One in the Unholy Trinity Series
By Kathryn Le Veque
Author’s Note
It’s been a long time since I’ve had so much fun writing a story.
I came up with the Unholy Trinity when I wrote the novel Lord of Winter in 2015. Maxton, Kress, and Achilles were three loners who essentially liked to work as a team and who hated the de Lohr brothers, as well as Marcus Burton, so Lord of Winter was fun to write in that sense – pious, righteous Christopher and his antithesis, Maxton of Loxbeare. They weren’t exactly enemies, but they didn’t approve of each other, and Maxton felt Christopher was a goody-goody. No other way to put it than that. Maxton did hard work, underhanded and dirty work, while Christopher knew the right people, made the right moves, and received all the glory.
In this novel, we’re at least ten years after Lord of Winter, when everyone has gone on the Crusades with Richard the Lionheart, although the path home after the Crusades ended has been different for all of them. Maxton and his companions didn’t come home directly, but rather spent time (how can I say this…?) goofing off, being mercenaries and killers, whoring, and being basically directionless.
It got them into trouble.
There are quite a few secondary characters in this novel, so you may have to read passages over twice to pick up on all of the nuances. Not only do the de Lohr brothers make a brief appearance, but so does a very young Sean de Lara just as he assumes his spying duties against King John (you’ll read his full story in Lord of the Shadows), and we also briefly meet Dashiell du Reims and Bric MacRohan – again – both when they were very young. Their stories happen a good fifteen or more years after this novel, so think of them as young, handsome, and hungry for glory.
Another prominent secondary character is William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke. William has made appearance in a few of my novels, including The Whispering Night, and he has often been described as England’s Greatest Knight. Considering I’m writing about some of England’s greatest (fictional) knights, I put them in good company by working with, and serving, the man who was referred to as The Marshal.
One of the fun things about this book was researching Medieval poisons. There are many plants that were known in Medieval times for their deadly quality, a few that are mentioned in this book. One of those is called dwale – what we now know as belladonna, or deadly nightshade. Historically speaking, it makes an interesting read to see how the poison was used. Deadly nightshade has been around for thousands of years and was even used by the Greeks who wanted to do away with their enemies. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts (or inviting you to their feasts!).
Another fun bit of research I did was about Medieval banking – and yes, there was such a thing, really emerging strongly in the 12th century. They had “deposit bankers” (which were just what they sounded like), and “merchant bankers”, etc. Italy, specifically Genoa, was the center of the early banking world around this time. Makes for some fascinating reading.
There’s quite a bit that goes on in this book – there are some very bottom-of-the-barrel moments. There is angst and real fear in some parts. But there is also a lot of soul-searching and growth on the part of our hero, as well as our heroine, so I believe this story is mostly about hope and redemption. Can a man change his stars? Can he right the wrongs of the past? And can he find within himself compassion and understanding that he always believed he lacked? All valid questions, and he works them out for himself with a little help from our heroine.
A short pronunciation guide and things that are real/fictional:
Blitha – Pronounced with a short “I” sound, as in bliss. (Blitha is not actually a saint; this is a fictitious figure)
Achilles – uh-KILL-eez
Ceri – Like Sarah, only with an “ee” on the end – like Sar-EE
Bishop of Essex – fictitious
William Marshal – Real. Literally, the greatest (real) knight England has ever seen.
Farringdon House – Fictitious, though there is a very large Medieval district called Farringdon, basically where Trafalgar Square is in present day.
Bishopsgate (part of the London Medieval wall system) – Real.
Landmarks outside of the wall at Bishopsgate – Except for St. Blitha Abbey, real.
I don’t normally include drawings or charts, things I use when I work on my stories, but in this case, I am. I’m a very visual thinker, so I often draw floor plans and such when I write to help me figure things out (like chambers and character movement), so I’m including the floor plan of St. Blitha (drawn by our heroine towards the end of the tale), and also of Farringdon House’s lower level. Hopefully, it gives you a good visual like it did me. But I’ll make the disclaimer here that I’m not an artist. Still, I thought it would be fun for the reader to see my original drawings.
Now, with no further ado, enjoy the story!
Love,
Love is all truth;
Lust, full of forged lies
~ William Shakespeare
~ MIHI CREDE (TRUST ME) ~
Year of Our Lord 1199 A.D., The Month of August
Near the convent dedicated to St. Blitha of the Order of St. Dominica
North of the city walls, Bishopsgate
He loved her.
He said he loved her and that made this happening a right and true thing, consecrated by God. If God was love, then Rhyne de Leybourne was possessed by the Holy Spirit, and all things fine and good in the world.
He said he loved her.
She had believed him.
It had been soft and dark and quiet in the sod barn where he’d taken her, just to the east of St. Blitha where she served as a pledge. Dumped there was more like it, deposited by a greedy aunt who wanted nothing to do with her wealthy niece. She wanted the girl’s money, though.
That made it okay, in her mind.
But there were those who had cared for the niece. Rhyne did, in fact. Or, at least he told himself that. The truth was that he loved her money, too, and he wasn’t so willing to let it go. It had taken him so very long to discover where her aunt had sent her. When he finally located her, all he could speak of was his longing for her, and she in turn declared her longing for him. He’d come for her now and would make everything right between them, as he’d promised.
But first, he would demonstrate his love for her so there would be no doubt in her mind that he was sincere.
She’d been by the gently bubbling stream just outside the abbey walls, drawing water for the wash, when he’d come up on his shiny brown stallion. It wasn’t unusual for her to be outside of the abbey walls because that’s where the main water source was, so when he pulled her to the sod barn, no one noticed.
No one even looked for her.
At first, he had been gentle, and their hugs of joy had been innocent. But that innocence was short-lived when he pinned her against the stable wall and his mouth began to wander, his tongue invading nearly every orifice on her head. She’d resisted at first, fearful of this very intimate attention, but he had ignored her resistance as he continued to speak of his love for her. His passion rose to frenzied proportions and his tenderness soon turned rough.
Now that he had her, he wasn’t going to waste any time.
He continued to tell her how much he loved her, which made her uncertainty fade. If he loved her so much, then surely what he was doing was his right. He was demonstrating that love. When he was finished pawing her, he grabbed her by both arms and pushed her down onto the cold, dirty floor.
The straw
beneath them was dry but dirty as he pushed her onto her back and began fumbling with the bottom of her long woolen robe, the same woolens that all pledges of St. Blitha wore. His body was heavy atop her, squirming on her, and her uncertainty returned. We should not be doing this, she said, but he assured her that this was what people who loved each other did.
She believed him.
The woolens were shoved up, past her knees, to her hips, as he tugged and pulled, trying to expose her white body beneath him. When she tried to protest, he captured her mouth with his lips, his tongue pushing into her pink recesses. With his mouth keeping her occupied, his hands continued to yank up the woolens, exposing her belly. He couldn’t pull it any further, so his hand snaked underneath, fondling her round breasts and feeling her nipples harden against his palm.
This is what people do who love one another, Andressa. Trust me.
But she couldn’t relax, not when he was pinching her nipple, running his hands all over her breasts. His mouth continued to feast on her face, all over her face, distracting her from what he was doing with his hands as he continued to tell her how much he loved her. She tried to push him away one last time, but she didn’t do a very good job of it. It was true that she loved him, and she’d missed him as much as he missed her.
This is what people do who love each other.
She wanted him to know she loved him, too.
She stopped resisting.
Then, he was fumbling at his own clothing, lowering his hose and rubbing his stiff erection against her thigh. She felt his hardness, greatly apprehensive. His mouth moved across her face again and he shifted his body, pushing himself between her thighs. Without hesitation, he slid his manhood into her virginal body.
She gasped with surprise as he thrust into her. It stung and was uncomfortable. But he ignored her gasps of pain and thrust into her one more time to completely seat himself. In that action, her virginity became a memory, but he didn’t care. His mouth was on her ear now, groaning of his love for her once more, telling her how slick and warm she was, and how his love for her was now complete.
But she wasn’t at all at ease with what he was doing to her, love or not. He was heavy on her, and her woolen garment was around her neck and mostly covering her face now as he repeatedly thrust into her, lifting her legs up to allow him more room to move. She lay there, motionless and overwhelmed, but she kept telling herself over and over that he loved her. He was doing this because he wanted to show her how much he loved her.
And she was letting him.
She loved him, too.
… didn’t she?
His pace quickened and the thrusts became harder, more forceful. She could feel him grinding his pelvis against hers, their bodies joined as closely as a man and woman could be joined. Every contact brought a shock of sensation that bolted up her body and she wondered if this was what love really felt like. It was painful and uncomfortable, and the more he thrust into her, the more she questioned his love.
Is this really what love feels like?
She was coming to wish it would soon be over.
He gave one last, hard thrust, and his entire body shuddered. He was panting, breathing heavily, his body weight squeezing the breath from her. She couldn’t see with her woolens up over her face and everything below her waist felt cold and exposed. When he finally withdrew from her body, he pulled the woolens off her head and she found herself looking into his smiling face.
You did well, he said.
I did? she asked.
He nodded, pulling her woolens all the way down, helping her cover up.
I’ll return for you, he promised. I swear I’ll return.
When? she asked.
Very soon, he said. By the next full moon, I shall return and I shall take you away.
She believed him. He said he loved her, didn’t he? They had known each other for years and, although he was a little flighty and saw inappropriate humor in situations where there was no humor to be had, she’d never known him to be a liar.
He’d return for her, he’d said. She clung to that belief until she received a missive from him two months later announcing his marriage to a French heiress and a relocation to his wife’s estate in France. It was a blow beyond belief.
She would never see or hear from him, again.
This is all my life is ever going to be, she thought dismally. Light and love had left her, and all she had left was a former shell of herself. The woman before Rhyne had promised her the world didn’t exist any longer. All she would ever have and all she would ever know were the stone walls of the dreary abbey and a life of piety she surely deserved, for on top of being blindingly foolish about Rhyne’s declaration of love, she had sinned as well.
She deserved everything the hell of St. Blitha brought her.
It was a hell that even the Devil would run from, but little did she know that God had taken pity upon her. He was about to send her help in the form of a man known as an Executioner Knight. A man who had sinned far worse than she could ever imagine.
It would be a chance meeting that would change her life forever.
PROLOGUE
Five months later
Year of our Lord 1200 A.D.
Caversham Manor, Berkshire
A demesne of William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke
It had been a very bad winter.
The sky was the color of pewter, creating casts of dark and shadowed doom upon the winter-dead landscape and bringing to bear all of the unsettled moods that were so prevalent across the country. A new king had taken the throne less than a year before and now, in this dead and colorless winter, the land reflected the soul of the people.
Dead and colorless since John ascended after Richard’s unfortunate death.
But death was a part of life and those left behind were forced to deal with the aftermath. As William Marshal sat in the small but cozy solar of Caversham Manor, he could see the fire snapping and crackling before him but he swore he could not feel the heat.
All he felt was the cold of an uncertain future.
The Marshal’s world was one of trouble these days. As his mind wandered through the vines and thorns of the complex news he had received earlier in the day, it made less sense now than the moment he had first heard it. In fact, the bearer of the news was seated beside him with a cup of watered wine in his hand and the air, though stagnant with the smell of smoke and stale rushes, was filled with tension.
Doom surrounded them.
William knew the deliverer of the information, a strong and true knight William had known for several years. There were few finer men in the world than Sir Gart Forbes. Forbes had spent the past several years traversing through France and the Teutonic princedoms, fighting for the very rich lords who could pay for his sword. He’d gone on Crusade with Richard, and he’d remained after the fall of Acre, trying not to get caught up in the battle between the western church and the eastern church. There was Rome, there was Constantinople, and then there was the ominous suggestion that the Holy Father, the Pope, was no longer satisfied with waging conflict against his brothers in the eastern empire. Now, he was turning his suspicious and shrewd eyes westward to England.
It was a horrifying thought. According to Forbes, rumors of pure madness were flying fast and furious along the Pilgrim Trail, along the roads that led from the east to the civilized west. Forbes, a man who knew many but called few friend, had come back to England after eight long years away bearing tales of such insanity that William was still having difficulty believing them. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have enough trouble these days, with the French king raising an army in an attempt to regain Normandy. In fact, William had been in the process of planning a return to Normandy when Forbes had appeared with his news. It had taken William all afternoon to swallow the information, digest it, and understand the validity of it. Now, the information was consuming him from the inside-out.
“I had forgotten how bitter the winters are in England,” Forbes sai
d quietly, breaking the stillness of the room. “I had become accustomed to warmth all year ’round.”
William turned to him, smiling weakly. “You prefer the heat of the savage kingdom, do you?”
Forbes laughed softly. “It has its advantages.”
William’s yellowed eyes moved over Forbes; he was a big man with a shaved head, young and handsome. He was also darkened by the sun from his years away from England, his skin tan as a cow’s hide.
“Mayhap,” William finally said, sighing heavily and sitting forward in his chair, hoping to catch some of the heat from the crackling fire. “Gart, we must speak again on the information you delivered to me this afternoon.”
“Aye, my lord?”
“You are certain that you heard this correctly?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Explain it to me again. I want to make sure I did not misunderstand you.”
Forbes cleared his throat softly, almost nervously. He wouldn’t look at William as he spoke, mostly because the news he had delivered to William Marshal had been received from a whore and Forbes was ashamed of the fact. Whores were not the most reliable of sources and for a knight of his status to have not only listened to the woman, but to have repeated her words, was somewhat shameful. But on the chance she was telling the truth, Forbes didn’t want to be left with guilt for not having relayed her information.
“You did not misunderstand me, my lord,” he said, lowering his voice. “I told you the truth of what I have heard. In fact, I have a witness to what I was told – Alexander de Sherrington was with me at the time. I am sure you know Sherry; he is one of the most elite and powerful knights I have ever known, and he became a good friend while we were in The Levant. We even traveled together for a while.”
William nodded faintly. “I know Sherry,” he said. “A frightening man, in fact. He is also something of a loner.”
“He works alone for the most part.”
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