Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

The commanders listened to the plan that had been drilled into their heads ever since they had known Bretton. Much like the rest of them, Bretton had a background as a mercenary but, unlike them, he had lived the life of a mercenary with an end goal in mind. The man had plans. Mercenaries didn’t come any meaner or deadlier than Bretton de Llion. Since having lost his parents at a young age, his younger years were rather blurred but it was rumored that he had been sold to a merchant who had taken him to Ireland and subsequently abused him until he had been old enough to fight back.

  After that, it had been established that Bretton had become a squire for an Irish mercenary who had taught the lad his trade. Powerful and skilled at only seventeen years of age, Bretton left his Irish master and began to sell his sword to anyone who would pay a high price, earning himself a great deal of money in the process. Then, it was his turn to hire men on, and with his army for hire, he had made even more money because Ireland was full of lords willing to pay to destroy their neighbor. But there came a point where de Llion had his own plans for his army, and that was to take six castles along the Welsh border, castles that belonged to the feared English warlord, Jax de Velt. Bretton’s men came to understand that there was a vendetta in these plans, a vengeance that sang of bitterness and sorrow, something de Llion wouldn’t easily discuss.

  But he did discuss it, every so often when he was drunk, and the reasons behind his vendetta would make brief appearances, enough so that his commanders understood that de Velt had murdered his family and stolen his father’s castle. Men with vendettas were often the fiercest and the most isolated of men. Fierce because there was emotion in their cause and isolated because their pain was their own. Bretton de Llion was one of these men. He kept his emotions bottled up, yet wore his pain on his sleeve in the guise of blood-letting brutality, an odd combination. He was lonely, as he had been his entire life, and that was the way he wanted it.

  “It is difficult to believe that we are finally here,” the commander with the heavy Irish accent spoke in response to Bretton’s statement. Sir Dallan de Birmingham was from a fine Irish family and had indeed been knighted, but he discovered early in his career that he liked being paid for his services. His loyalty could be bought and de Llion paid handsomely for the privilege. “All of the years we have been planning this – how long has it been? At least six years that we have been planning to take de Velt’s castles in Wales. The plan has become a part of my very foundation and I am eager to establish myself along the Marches.”

  Bretton eyed Dallan. The man was in it for the money and power, purely. He was greedy and he could be shifty, so Dallan was a commander that bore watching. As long as things were going his way, he was loyal to the core, but the moment he was displeased, he could very easily show that displeasure in dangerous ways.

  “Your time will come,” Bretton said steadily. “I promised you a castle and you shall have it, but it will be a castle of my choosing. Rhayder is rumored to be a large castle with two villages paying tribute, so mayhap that will be the one I grant you. Mayhap not. Either way, you will never forget that your loyalty is to me above all else.”

  Dallan’s easy manner hardened somewhat as he gazed at Bretton. “You need not remind me,” he said. “My loyalty is yours for always. I swore fealty to you and that is not in question.”

  Bretton’s gaze was deadly. “See that it is not,” he said, lingering on Dallan a moment just to make sure the man understood his message clearly. After a long pause, he turned his attention to the fourth commander at the table, sitting silently as the others conversed. “Teague, you have mentioned that Rhayder sits on an outcropping of jagged rocks and incorporates those into its defenses. When was the last time you visited Rhayder?”

  Sir Teague de Lara was the last of the four commanders, the youngest at twenty years and four, and also the biggest. He was a big, silent, brooding man, long-limbed, with light brown hair and a granite-square jaw. Another knight from a fine family, the House of de Lara was one of the most powerful families on the Welsh Marches. Teague had fostered at Godric’s Castle on the Marches and had an intimate knowledge of the area, which is why Bretton had recruited him. He knew the families and the locations of much along the border, if not much in England, and had proven himself a valuable resource. Because of it, Bretton paid the man better than the others and treated him with more respect than most.

  Teague was aware of his value but never made a show of it. Like the other men, he was in it for the money. The fifth son of a brother to the Lord of Trelystan, he would be inheriting little upon the death of his father. He saw his time with Bretton as a means to make his fortune and, so far, that had proven to be the case. At his young age, he was quite wealthy, and he listened carefully to Bretton’s question.

  “Fifteen years ago, at least,” he replied. “I went there for a tournament when I was fostering at Godric’s. Because of the way Rhayder sits, the tournament was held on a field below while the castle sat up overhead like a great sentinel. I have told you that the rocks would be very difficult to scale and there is but one way in and out of the castle. Taking the gatehouse is the key.”

  Bretton listened again to what he already knew for the most part. “At some point over the next few days, I should like to see Rhayder for myself,” he said. “Mayhap you and I can travel to the area and see the castle. In fact, I must see it in order to plan an effective assault.”

  Teague nodded. “Aye, my lord,” he said, “but know that Rhayder will be one of the more difficult conquests. That castle and Four Crosses Castle are difficult simply because of the way they are built.”

  Bretton nodded faintly. “That is why I am leaving Four Crosses until the end,” he said, his expression taking on a wistful hue before just as quickly vanishing. “I have not seen Four Crosses in twenty-five years but I still remember the manner in which she is perched atop a mountain. I also remember a postern gate and a secret path, which may work to our advantage.”

  Teague, Dallan, and Olivier were watching him, listening to the man’s words reflect on a subject he very rarely spoke of. Teague was the first one to reply.

  “I have never seen Four Crosses although I know where it is located,” he said. “What do you know of her gatehouse and defenses?”

  Bretton thought back to the years of his childhood, inevitably remembering the last day he spent there without worry, remembering his father as the man had put him on a pony and allowed him to ride about in the stable yard. He could still hear the voice of Morgan de Llion telling him to sit up straight and keep his heels down. But he shook himself from further reflection, mostly because it still upset him after all these years. He focused on Teague’s question instead.

  “Four Crosses has no gatehouse,” he told them. “The walls are circular, fifteen feet high in places, so the matter will be destroying the gate to gain access. If de Velt could do it those years ago, then I certainly can. It should not be an issue although the general siege on the castle will be more difficult than some of the others because of its location. Still, I do not anticipate failure. Just the opposite, in fact. We will prevail.”

  Olivier and Dallan appeared confident, passing assured glances between them, but Teague kept his focus on Bretton.

  “Mayhap we should do a reconnaissance of Four Crosses as well,” Teague said. “Things could have changed in twenty-five years.”

  Bretton nodded thoughtfully. “It would mayhap be wise to see it again,” he said. “We still have Comen and Erwood Castle as well. You had better send scouts out to survey them and report back. Now that we are here, and established, it is time to educate ourselves on the future of our undertakings.”

  Teague agreed. Pouring himself and Bretton more wine, they eventually turned the focus of the conversation to other things, things that were well away from the horrors of battle. It was rare when they spoke of anything other than business, but in this case, after three major sieges, they took the liberty to relax, just a little, although each man did not relax completely
. They were due to move to Rhayder Castle in a few days and the conversation inevitably turned in that direction.

  For Teague, Dallan, and Olivier, war was never far from their thoughts and the riches it would bring them. For Bretton, war was his only thought and the vengeance it would provide him.

  It was all he lived for.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Someone was nudging her foot.

  At least, she thought so. She could have very well been dreaming because the fever she had been sporting for the past few hours had given her very odd dreams. She dreamt that she had bird wings at one point, and yet still another dream had her being able to breathe underwater. And then there was the foot-nudging, which she thought was all part of her bizarre dreams until she opened her eyes and realized she was no longer dreaming. She was awake and someone was still nudging her foot.

  Coughing, she turned her head slightly, bringing it off the stale straw to see a big warrior standing at her feet. He was tall, with wavy auburn hair that flowed to his shoulders. When the warrior realized she was lucid and looking at him, he cleared his throat softly.

  “Demoiselle,” he said quietly. “You will come with me.”

  Allaston wasn’t clear on his words. In fact, she didn’t particularly understand him. “Where will I go?” she asked, her voice scratchy.

  The big knight didn’t say anything, he simply held out a hand. Allaston stared at it before eventually realizing that he wanted her to stand up. Feeling as poorly as she did, that was no simple feat, and it was a laborious process before she was able to get to her knees. Coughing had overcome her and she had to pause in order to let a coughing spell run its course. On her knees as the sputtering died down, she was in the process of trying to get to her feet when the knight reached out and grasped her arm.

  It wasn’t a rough grasp, nor was it gentle. He was simply taking hold of her. The next thing Allaston realized, the knight was putting a hand on her forehead to feel for her temperature. As she shivered in his grip, she heard him hiss.

  “God’s Bones, woman,” he exclaimed. “You are on fire.”

  Allaston didn’t respond. She was too sick to care much about anything at the moment. Therefore, she followed like a dumb animal as the knight led her from the cell and up the slippery stone steps that led to the gatehouse. The knight could have been leading her to her doom for all she knew but, with a feverish mind, it never occurred to her to be fearful or suspicious. She was simply doing as she was told.

  It was sunset as he took her out of the gatehouse and into the bailey beyond, but even the weak light from the setting sun hurt her eyes after three weeks in the vault and she squinted, going so far as to put her hand over her eyes. That stopped her forward momentum and she teetered a bit, disoriented and dizzy. The next thing she realized, the big knight had swept her into his arms and was carrying her across the bailey.

  Having no point of reference with any part of the castle other than the vault she had been in, the scenery passed by her in a blur; a big, darkened bailey, some small individual structures she didn’t recognize, and finally great stone steps that led up into a towering keep. She only knew it was tall because she had removed the hand from her eyes briefly. She saw stone towering into the sky and closed her eyes again because it hurt to keep them open.

  From the cold openness of the bailey to the dark, cool innards of the keep, she could feel the dampness of the structure as the knight carried her up some stairs. By this time, her face was on his shoulder because she was too exhausted to lift her head and her eyes were throbbing with the introduction of light after three weeks of darkness. He walked and walked, and then she heard a door slam. Soon, she was being set down.

  “You will remain on this bed until I return,” he said, his tone grim. “If you move off this bed, I will put you back in the vault. Is that clear?”

  Allaston simply nodded, eyes closed. She heard him move across the floor and then a door open and close. She could hear his footfalls fade away.

  Sleep claimed her once more. She had no idea how long she had been asleep because when she awoke, it was to soft voices in the chamber. She could hear people moving around, talking. She heard the splash of water as it was poured. In a dream-like haze, she heard all of these things. Then, someone was shaking her awake.

  “Woman,” came a soft voice. “Get up, now. I’ve had a bath brought for you. Get into it and clean up. You will feel better.”

  A bath. Allaston swore she had never heard more beautiful words in her entire life. She struggled to sit up with the thought of lovely water. God, it had been so long since she’d had a bath. It had been so long since she had been clean or warm. Was it possible such things still existed?

  “A bath?” she repeated weakly. “But… but I have nothing to bathe with.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Allaston could see the big iron tub near the hearth, steam rising out of it, and it was like the lure of food to a starving man. It was calling to her. The hearth, too, had been stoked and a soft blaze was glowing. Warmth! Male servants had filled the tub and were finishing with the hearth, quickly leaving when their task was finished. Water was leaking out on the floor and puddling, but it didn’t matter. She saw the almighty bath as her cure and salvation, all in one.

  “I do not have any soap,” she said, her eyes riveted to the steaming water. “Nor any clean clothing.”

  The knight’s gaze lingered on her. “I will see what is in the other chambers,” he said. “There was a lady here, once. Mayhap she left behind items that are serviceable.”

  Had Allaston been sharper and not wracked with fever, she might have thought on his words. There was a lady here, once. But she didn’t think on them. She really didn’t know what the knight meant by it. There was no way she could have known that the lady of Cloryn had been rounded up with her husband and killed by the very men who held her prisoner. All Allaston cared about was climbing into that tub and being warm for the first time in weeks.

  As the knight went about hunting down something for her to wear that wasn’t soaked with dirt and filth, Allaston struggled to remove her clothing. Since she was not yet a fully consecrated nun, her clothing was simpler than those who had taken their final vows. She wore undyed woolen undergarments, a shift and rudimentary breeches that tied at the waist, and over that she wore a simple gown of unbleached wool that was a dirty white shade, dark and stained now with weeks of wear upon it. It didn’t fit her very well and was secured around her waist with a rope made from woolen strands.

  Since she wasn’t fully consecrated, her hair was still long and usually worn in a tight braid. That braid had come out long ago and the loose hair had given Bretton the opportunity to grab it and cut it. Pushing her heavy hair out of the way, she struggled to remove her simple leather shoes and proceeded to untie the knotted belt around her waist.

  The belt fell to the floor. She tried to remove her shoes standing up, but her balance was terrible so she ended up sitting down on the bed to do it. When the shoes came off, she struggled to her feet to remove the breeches, untying them and letting them fall to the ground. By the time she stepped out of them, the knight returned with a bundle in his arms.

  Allaston watched with as much curiosity as she could muster as the knight tossed the bundle onto the bed. He began pulling it apart, setting things aside that he had wrapped up in the fabric.

  “Here,” he said, pointing to a few items he had set aside on the mattress. “I found soap and oil and something for your face, I think. It smells like mint. And here are a few shifts and surcoats. The lady that was here before you was bigger than you are so these might not fit properly but at least they are clean. I would suggest you bathe, dress in these clean clothes, and go to bed. I will send a physic in to tend to you.”

  Allaston simply stood there, watching him as he picked up one of the items he brought, a small alabaster pot, and sniff it. “Where is the lady of the house so that I may thank her?” she asked weakly.

 
; The knight turned to look at her, realizing her fever-muddled mind was perhaps not very sharp based on her question. “She is no longer here,” he said. “Hurry, now. Take your bath and get to bed.”

  He turned to leave but Allaston stopped him. “What is this place called?” she asked.

  He paused at the door, hand on the latch. “You are at Cloryn Castle.”

  Allaston thought hard. She believed she had heard the name before. “Cloryn?” she repeated. “And who are you?”

  “I am Grayton.”

  Allaston’s fogged mind emerged for a brief, lucid moment. “Thank you for your kindness, Grayton.”

  He didn’t acknowledge her. He simply left the room and shut the door, leaving Allaston alone in the chamber that was growing progressively warmer with the heat from the fire.

  The lure of the bath proved too great for her to delay any longer. Allaston took the soap off the bed and pulled the coarse gown over her head. Then she proceeded to peel off the rest. She left a trail of clothing to the tub, tossing her garments off as she went. By the time she reached the old iron tub, she was completely nude and she climbed in, slipping and landing heavily on her bottom in the tub and sending water sloshing everywhere. But she hardly cared. She dunked her head beneath the waterline and lingered there for a few seconds before emerging. Already, she felt better.

  The cake of white lumpy soap in her hand smelled of lavender and she proceeded to soap every inch of her body from her head to her toes. The hair was washed, her face washed, and everything else on down the line. She didn’t have a scrub brush so she simply used her fingers, scrubbing until she could scrub no more. Everything was washed, rinsed, scrubbed, and smoothed.

  Not only did the bath clean her body but it seemed to clean her mind as well. She was still fogged with fever but not nearly as bad as she had been. She was thinking much more clearly, so much so that she perked up and began to really look at her surroundings. The chamber was very well appointed with a comfortable bed, a big wardrobe, a small table with two chairs, and a big tapestry near the bed that seemed to depict a knight and lady in a romantic setting. In truth, it was a wealthy room, much like the rooms at her home, Pelinom Castle.