Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Now, sit still and be quiet,” he told her as she seated herself comfortably behind him. “I do not want to hear another word from you.”

  Allaston complied, mostly because she didn’t want another spanking should she disobey. Her bum was already quite sore. But she had planted the seed within him and she hoped it would take root. She hoped that her offer was something he would consider for it was all she had to give. Her life, her servitude, in exchange for her father’s life. She’d tried before, begging the man not to kill her father, but this was different. She was offering him the rest of her life. But she kept quiet as he directed the horse back down the road, south, on a direct course for Newtown twenty miles away.

  There would be time enough to discuss such things later.

  *

  The Falcon and Flower Inn was an older establishment in Newtown, having been only The Falcon Inn about a hundred years ago, adding the “Flower” by the current owner’s wife. Eleven years ago when she had married her husband, she had set about making the place a little more “lady friendly”. She cleaned up the rooms, kept whores away from the place, and she even had a small room where one could take a bath and freshen up. The inn was more expensive than most, but it catered to a finer clientele.

  Rod sat at a table in the inn’s main room. He’d arrived yesterday and slept on a mattress that had been stuffed with feathers, dried lavender, and dried rose petals, and he’d never slept so well in his life. He’d even taken a bath in the inn’s special bath tub, a large copper trough that was about the size of a coffin. A big male servant had helped him bathe and had even shaved him, so he was clean and shaved and prepared to meet whatever came. And something was indeed coming. He could feel it.

  The missive Rod had sent to Bretton de Llion had asked the man to meet him on the first day of the new month, which was tomorrow. Rod had come alone, that was true, but he was meeting the man in a public place so he doubted there would be any trouble. There were too many witnesses. He had also told him that he would be wearing a tunic bearing the de Llion colors of yellow and black, which he was, so he could be easily identified.

  So here he sat, cleaned and shaved and bearing colors, waiting for a killer to enter the room. He was fairly certain that de Llion was coming, whether or not he was truly his cousin. If it was indeed his cousin, then perhaps he would come, eager to be reunited with his kin. Or if he wasn’t his cousin but simply a man using the de Llion name, then… perhaps Rod would discover why. Either way, he was fairly certain the man was coming.

  The morning came and went, as did the nooning hour. The innkeeper’s wife brought him a delicious meal of a thick chicken stew with big dumplings in it, stewed plums with cinnamon, a big loaf of hot cream-colored bread, and plenty of tart red wine. Rod stuffed himself silly because they didn’t eat this well at Bronllys. His grandfather only liked lamb and beef, and too much bread gave him gas, so he was enjoying the change in diet and ate to his heart’s content.

  But mealtime soon passed and the afternoon set in. Rod continued to sit at the table he had been sitting at since early that morning, his back to the wall, watching as people came and went from the inn. There were some interesting characters, too. A very old man and a very young girl who was his daughter, at least, that’s what he’d told the innkeeper’s wife. But Rod doubted it from the look of fear on the girl’s face. There had also been a pair of swarthy men with strange accents, a very wealthy older woman and her two homely daughters, and finally three knights bearing the colors of Lancaster. The knights had fortunately ignored him, eaten their meal, and then left.

  At some point he could hear thunder and the rain began to fall, gently at first but then with increasing power. Soon, there was a full-blown storm overhead that was lashing the walls of the tavern. More people were streaming in to get out the rain and as the sun began to set, the innkeeper’s wife stoked the hearth into a roaring blaze to dry off those who had been caught in the rain. People began to crowd around the spitting hearth, drying wet heads and hands, as Rod sat back and sipped at his watered wine.

  Time passed and he found himself watching a man who had come in off the street with his young son. He wasn’t sure if the man was a merchant, or a lord, just passing through town, but he was rather well dressed and the boy was, too. They were both soaked through and the man was undressing the lad in front of the fire so the child would warm up. As Rod watched, it made him think of his own father, Renard.

  Crusty, sometimes tactless, but an excellent knight and a man of honor, Renard de Titouan was a wonderful father. He was thankfully still alive, living at Whitebrook, the family home in the Wye Valley, along with the rest of Rod’s family – his mother, Orlaith, his mother’s older brother, Rhett, who had also once been a fine knight but had suffered a painful affliction of the joints that left him no longer able to bear a sword, Rod’s younger brother Dylan, and finally his nephew, Maddoc, son of his eldest brother, Rhys. Aye, Rod knew he was very lucky to still have both parents alive and a big family to love. It was something he cherished. He wondered if he was about to meet yet another member of his family to add to the happy group.

  As he sat and watched the man deal with his young son, the front door to the tavern opened and two people blew in with the wind and the rain. It was fairly dark over by the entry but Rod happened to glance over to see a very large man in armor and a small woman in a wet cloak. The moment the man looked around the room in search of someone in charge, Rod’s breath caught in his throat. The man had black hair, a growth of beard on his square-jawed face, and brilliant blue eyes that were the same color as Rod’s. In fact, the entire de Llion family had them – him, his mother, Uncle Rhett, his brother Rhys, Rhys’ son Maddoc, and even Berwyn. It was a family trait. Rod stood up from the table, his eyes riveted to the man who was now dragging his companion away from the door and towards the fire. He’d know that de Llion face anywhere.

  “Bretton?” he asked, rather loudly.

  Bretton came to a halt, his hand still clutching Allaston’s arm, as he came face to face with a man that looked very familiar to him. He noted the yellow and black tunic and knew instantly who it was. Rather than be standoffish or guarded, as he had planned, all he felt was relief. And perhaps some shock.

  “Rod?” he responded quietly. “Is it you?”

  Rod nodded, staring at him, before reaching out to grab him. Before he could stop himself, he was throwing his arms around Bretton and squeezing him within an inch of his life. There were tears in his eyes, too, as he pulled away to look at the astonished man.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed. “It is you. I can hardly believe my eyes. It is you!”

  Bretton wasn’t quite sure how to react. His cousin was hugging him and kissing his cheeks, so very excited to see him. He was also tearing up, wiping at his eyes because he was so emotional. Before Bretton could say a word, Rod was dragging him over to his table.

  “Please, sit,” he insisted. “And your lady? Greetings, Lady de Llion. I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to see you and my cousin. This is like… like a dream. Never did I imagine I would ever see my cousin again. I cannot adequately express my joy.”

  Allaston looked at the big knight as he gushed out his happiness. He did indeed look a good deal like Bretton, although he was a bit taller and not quite as bulky. Still, the family resemblance was uncanny. She let the knight remove her cloak and put it on a peg next to the hearth so that it would dry out.

  “Sit, please,” Rod said, practically shoving her into a chair. He pulled up another for Bretton, hugging the man again before he pushed the chair at him. “Bretton, you have no idea how happy this makes me. After losing Rhys last year, I feel as if… as if God has given me back another brother.”

  Bretton was still rather stumped by Rod’s enthusiasm but he managed to take the chair. He also managed to understand something about his cousin, Rhys, passing.

  “Rhys is dead?” he asked. “I barely remember the man but I remember he was sort of a big, quiet
lad. What happened?”

  Rod’s jaw ticked. “The king,” he said quietly, perpetuating the fabrication that everyone knew about Rhys. “John executed him.”

  Bretton wasn’t upset by it. He didn’t even really know his cousin. But it was clear that Rod was upset. Still, this entire meeting had his head spinning and he struggled to gain control of his thoughts and emotions. Rod was bowling him over with his enthusiasm and Bretton wasn’t sure he wanted such eagerness. He wasn’t sure he wanted anything at all, except perhaps a few questions answered.

  “Then I am sorry for you,” he said evenly.

  Rod nodded, his gaze riveted to his cousin. He simply couldn’t look at anything else. “It really is you,” he exclaimed again. “I still cannot believe it. I do not even know where to start except at the beginning. How is it that you escaped de Velt? We thought you were dead!”

  Rod had taken the conversation right to the core of the situation and it was difficult for Bretton to collect his thoughts. The entire situation was overwhelming him and he struggled to gain his bearings. It was difficult for him not to lash out right away, too, and he labored with his self-control.

  “I was not dead,” he said steadily. “I escaped with a few servants and we ran for freedom.”

  Rod listened with great interest. “And you are just now returning to Wales?” he asked. “But why have you not contacted us before now? I do not understand. And what is all this about you leading a mercenary army?”

  Bretton could see that Rod was genuinely puzzled and evidently had no idea of the truth behind his questions. That ignorance made him furious and the control he was struggling with shattered.

  “You have the boldness to ask such foolish questions?” he hissed. “Let me ask you a question. Why did no one ever come looking for me? Do you have any idea what happened to me after I escaped Four Crosses? I was kept as a slave and abused in ways I cannot speak of before I escaped and began to learn the life of a mercenary. I had no other choice, Rod, because my loving family, who is evidently so glad to see me now, never made the effort to locate me back then. Stop acting as if you care about me because your actions over the past twenty-five years tell me otherwise. I am here today for one reason and one reason only, and that is to discover why my family left me to the mercy of others. Well? Why did no one ever come looking for me?”

  Rod was taken aback by the passion coming forth from Bretton and he was frankly astonished by the questions. He sat back in his chair, bewildered, as Bretton’s venom poured forth.

  “Because we thought you were dead,” he said simply. “Four Crosses was taken over by de Velt and he killed the occupants. We naturally assumed you were one of the dead.”

  “But you never made the effort to find out for certain?” Bretton said angrily. “How could you do that? How could you just assume I was dead and not find out for certain?”

  Rod could see that the man was more hurt than angry. Given the circumstances as he saw them at this moment, he didn’t blame him.

  “Bretton, please,” he said softly, trying to calm the man down. “I do not know the exact circumstances because I was a child myself, so I suppose this is a question you must ask our grandfather. I know he mourned your family deeply. He still does.”

  Grandfather. The mention of the man took Bretton down a peg or two. His anger cooled a bit, thinking on the man he had loved so very much as a child. But his hurt, that deep despondency of abandonment from long ago, was overtaking him.

  “Grandfather is still alive?” he asked quietly.

  Rod nodded. “He is,” he said. “When I told him you might be alive after all, he went rather mad. He has been in a depression ever since because he does not believe it to be true. He thinks you are still dead.”

  “Is that why he did not come?”

  Rod shook his head. “He did not come because I did not tell him where I was going,” he said. “I wanted to see for myself if it was true first. I did not think the man could take a disappointment like that if the man calling himself Bretton de Llion was, in fact, not his lost grandson.”

  Bretton eyed him. “Will you tell him it is me?”

  “Of course I will.”

  Bretton thought on that a moment. For the first time, he glanced over at Allaston, who was sitting quiet and still, watching the exchange. He couldn’t help but think that this was the same thing she had told him. They assumed you were dead. How were they to know where to look? In hindsight, he supposed she was right, but he still couldn’t get over that little boy who had prayed nightly for his grandfather to come and get him.

  “I am sure he will not care,” Bretton said. Now, he was starting to feel sorry for himself. He reached out and poured himself a measure of Rod’s wine. “Now, I would ask you something, cousin. How is it you knew where to find me? And how did you know it was me?”

  Rod watched Bretton take a long, deep drink of wine. “When you burned Alberbury, you gave a message to an old nun to deliver,” he said quietly. “The nun delivered it to some of Shropshire’s men, who in turn delivered it to my liege, Christopher de Lohr. De Lohr, knowing that I was related to the de Llions, summoned me to ask me if I had ever heard the name Bretton de Llion. You told the nun that you were at Cloryn Castle, so that is where I delivered the missive.”

  It made sense. Bretton poured himself another cup of wine. “Did the nun do as she was told and deliver my message to de Velt?”

  Rod shrugged. “I can only assume that de Boulers did,” he said. “Since the missive involved the capture of de Velt’s daughter, I am sure de Boulers did out of courtesy.”

  Rod’s attention immediately moved to Allaston, sitting next to Bretton, and he was coming to think that she wasn’t so much Lady de Llion as she was his cousin’s prisoner. The knight in him, the protector of all that was good and pure, began to take over.

  “And you, my lady,” he said quietly. “I assumed you were Lady de Llion but I am guessing that was an incorrect assumption. Am I wrong?”

  Allaston, now at the forefront of the conversation, met Rod’s gaze steadily. She didn’t dare look at Bretton because she didn’t want to see his expression. It could have been one of intimidation or one of resignation. Either one was prone to upset her so she answered Rod of her own accord.

  “Nay,” she replied. “I am Lady Allaston de Velt. Jax de Velt is my father.”

  “Then you are his prisoner.”

  “Aye.”

  Rod nodded understandingly, drawing in a long, steadying breath. After a moment, he stood up, kicked the chair back, and withdrew his broadsword.

  “My lady, please back away,” he said evenly. “My horse is around back, a black steed with four white feet. You can make it to my horse as I hold off my cousin. Ride hard south to Bronllys Castle and tell my grandfather who you are. He will help you.”

  Allaston’s eyes widened with shock, looking at Bretton, who remained calmly in his seat. But his eyes were fixed on Rod.

  “Is this truly what you wish to do, Rod?” Bretton asked. “I will not let her go, so you are in for a fight. If you think you can best me, I invite you to try.”

  “Wait!” Allaston stood up, putting her hands out, eventually rounding the table and putting herself between Rod and Bretton. “I am not leaving, Sir Rod, although I appreciate your chivalry. I must remain with Bretton.”

  Rod’s brow furrowed as he looked at her. “Why would you do that?” he asked. “He has abducted you. He burned an entire priory and killed dozens of nuns for the privilege. And you say that you must stay with him? I do not understand.”

  Allaston faced off against Rod, a big man with a big sword. “Because he wants to kill my father,” she said, wondering if he would understand her logic. “As long as I remain with him, mayhap I can convince him otherwise. If I flee now, he will continue with his vengeance against my father and I do not wish to see my father killed.”

  Rod did indeed understand her reasoning. He didn’t like it, but he understood. “So you are voluntarily
remaining with him?”

  Allaston nodded firmly. “I am,” she said. Then, her eyes glimmered with pain. “I must.”

  Rod sighed heavily and, giving the woman a somewhat sorrowful expression, sheathed his broadsword. As if he hadn’t just drawn his sword against his cousin, he collected his seat, took the cup away from Bretton, and drained the contents. He found that he needed it.

  “This is all so damn confusing,” he said, pouring more wine. “Since when do prisoners want to remain with their captors? I was prepared to go head to head against my own flesh and blood for you, my lady.”

  Allaston was still standing up, now closer to Rod than she was to Bretton. “And I appreciate your chivalry, as I said,” she replied. “But I will not leave Sir Bretton. I choose to remain.”

  “I am not ‘Sir’ Bretton,” Bretton muttered. “I am simply Bretton. Slaves and mercenaries are not usually knighted, as it is a noble profession. My profession is not noble and I was never knighted.”

  Both Rod and Allaston looked at him with some surprise. “All de Llion men are knighted,” Rod said frankly. “We have never had a man in our family who has not been knighted. I can knight you right now, as I was knighted personally by King Richard. So was my brother, Rhys. I will knight you, Bretton.”

  Bretton’s first reaction was one of surprise and gratitude. Of course he had always wanted to be a knight. It had been a dream of his since he had been very young. He was certainly skilled enough, but there was more to it than that, enough so that he knew he would never make a true knight. He had committed too much wrongdoing against the church, against mankind in general, for him to be an honor to the knighthood. It was something that was not possible in his world.