The Age of Knights and Highlanders
A Series Starter Collection
By
Kathryn Le Veque, Alexa Aston, Maeve Greyson, Paula Quinn, Hildie McQueen, Anna Markland, Violetta Rand
Copyright © 2010, 2014, 2016, 2017, 2019, 2020
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
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Produced in the United States of America
First Edition August 2020
Kindle Edition
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All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Collection Contents
Dragonblade
Kathryn Le Veque
Word of Honor
Alexa Aston
The Guardian
Maeve Greyson
Heart of Ashes
Paula Quinn
A Heartless Laird
Hildie McQueen
Kilty Secrets
Anna Markland
Unbreakable
Violetta Rand
Dragonblade
Book One in the Dragonblade Trilogy
By
Kathryn Le Veque
Chapter One
The Month of January
Year of our Lord 1326
Cartingdon Parrish; Northumbria, England
The time of year dictated that the landscape would be an eternal shade of twilight, no matter what the time of day. Gray colored the sky, the earth and the mood of the people.
The town of Cartingdon was no exception. The people were pale with the limited nutrition of winter, their woolen clothes barely adequate for the freezing temperatures that the north winds brought. More than the grayness of the air and people, there was something else this day that darkened the land. Everyone could feel it and they were edgy.
There were whispers floating about like the many snow crystals in the air. Word had spread through the markets that morning after Matins, moving to the avenue of the Smiths and finally to the street of the Jews, telling everyone of the meeting that would be held at Vespers. The purpose was to discuss the most recent rumor regarding England’s king. These were turbulent times in a turbulent land.
The sun hovered on the horizon and the church-bells chimed the onset of Vespers, calling the masses to the meeting. The townsfolk flocked to the stone church that they had built with their own hands. Fanged gargoyles imported from France hung on the eaves, lending ambience to the disquiet. Once the people filled the church, they stood in angry, hissing clusters.
The priests had lit a few large tapers, giving the sanctuary a haunting glow as they prepared for the meeting and subsequent mass. Several aldermen were having an intense discussion near the great altar; their deliberation raged for some time until the tall man in the center of the discussion silenced the group and called forth the crowds that had gathered. What they had to say would affect them all.
The mayor of the town was Balin Cartingdon. He was a farmer of noble descent who had flourished, turning a small sharecropping plot into a vast agricultural plantation. He had been a very young man when he sank his first barley seed into the ground, when the settlement of Cartingdon had been an assembly of huts called Snitter Crag. Twenty-two years later, his barley production was the largest in Northumbria and he had added wool and sheep to his empire. The tiny town had exploded due to his farming and was renamed Cartingdon in his honor.
“Good people,” Balin’s voice rang above the fickle buzz. “Thank you for coming. We have called this meeting to discuss the needs of our king and country.”
“You mean the needs of Mortimer!” someone from the crowd shouted.
As the others agreed angrily, Balin shook his head. “Roger Mortimer is not our king. I speak of young Edward.”
The grumbling grew louder. At the rear of the church, a small figure suddenly entered. It was apparent that the form was a woman from the drape of the cloak she wore, a soft green-blue garment that clung to her shapely body. A few of the village folk recognized her, moving out of her way as she pushed through the crowd. By the time she reached the front of the church, she had removed her hood, revealing cascades of golden-brown hair and almond-shaped eyes that were a brilliant shade of hazel. She had the face of an angel, but beneath the sweet façade lay an iron will. In the township of Cartingdon, the first daughter of Mayor Balin was more feared and respected than her father.
“Mortimer rules the country with Queen Isabella.” The woman spoke loudly, addressing both her father and the assembly. “If rebellion is in the air and we support it, his hammer will fall on all of us. Everything we have built, and all that we have, will be confiscated. I personally do not want to see everything that my father has worked so hard for taken away in the blink of an eye.”
“It is doubtful it will be taken away,” Balin said patiently, displeased that his daughter had chosen not to remain silent. He had gone so far as to ask Toby not to attend the meeting, but alas, that was too much to hope for. If there was an opinion to be had, she was usually in the middle of it. “Our liege, Tate Crewys de Lara, also supports the rightful king. We have no choice but to support the crown if those who hold our fate have such loyalties.”
“But what of the Queen?” the crowd spoke again. “She has the support of the King of France. He is her brother. What if she calls on him to quell the rebellion? What if the French overrun Northumbria and destroy our town?”
“They will kill us all!” another shouted.
The crowd surged unsteadily and Balin held up his hands. “You forget that young Edward has the Scottish king’s support,” he replied calmly, hoping to soothe t
he mob. “He will protect us. But we must help our king and that is why we are here today. It is our duty. Every man must decide for himself if he is willing to sacrifice for a greater cause.”
“The king is a child,” Toby pointed out. “His mother and Roger Mortimer rule on his behalf. Never forget that they did England a tremendous service by deposing young Edward’s father, King Edward the Second. He was a vile infection that drained this country of all that was good and righteous. They subsequently rid England of the Despencers, the father and son who vied for the throne, thereby eliminating the last links of Edward’s contemptible reign. For the past three years under Isabella and Mortimer, England has known a measure of peace. Do we truly want to feed the beast of rebellion again and perhaps create a tempest that will destroy us all?”
It was a brilliant summation of the recent past of England’s monarchy, given by a woman who should have, respectably, known nothing of the matter. The crowd roared as she finished; some in approval, some in disapproval. Toby looked at her father, sorry she had not completely supported his stance, but in the same breath, hoping it would cause him to deliberate the potential consequences. She didn’t want to see her people die for a futile cause. There had been too many of them over the past several years.
“Toby,” her father had to raise his voice over the commotion of the crowd. “Please go home. You do not help this situation.”
Toby was genuinely contrite. “I am sorry to appear as if I oppose you, but I do not believe you have clearly considered this subject. It is greater than you think.”
“I am well aware of how critical it is. But these are simple folk; I cannot outline the detailed politics of England’s situation. I should not have even outlined them to you, but I did for reasons that no longer seem valid. I should have known you would find a way to contradict me.”
“I did not mean to. I simply meant to give you my opinion.”
“I know well enough your opinion. I know it, I think, even before you do.”
“I am simply asking that you think about what you are saying.”
Balin rolled his eyes. “With you around, I can do nothing but think. Now be still before the crowd turns against us.”
As Toby and her father exchanged opinions, back against the wall something was stirring. Several men stood in a unit, draped in dark cloaks as they listened to the spirited debate. The first man tossed back his hood; he had a face of classic male beauty, a granite jaw and full lips. His hair was dark like a raven’s wing, shorn up the back yet long enough in the front so that it swept across eyes the color of storm clouds. He was a striking example of perfection, completely out of place among the worn, colorless peasants. He watched everything around him like a hawk, not missing a movement or a word. It was apparent that he was absorbing everything in his element until he had enough information to make a reasonable judgment.
The man moved forward through the crowd, taking his entourage of five with him. People moved out his way instinctively, not wanting to be trampled by the man who was a head taller than even the tallest man in the church. He approached Balin and Toby and softly cleared his throat.
“Forgive me, my lord,” the man’s voice was deep and rich. “I realize this is a town meeting exclusively for the residents of Cartingdon but I wonder if I may speak to the throng.”
Balin and Toby looked at the man. Balin’s reaction was far less than Toby’s; the moment their eyes met, she felt a strange buzzing sensation in her head. It was enough to cause her to pull her gaze away, looking to her father to see if he was having the same odd reaction. He seemed unaffected.
“Who would you be, my lord?” Balin asked.
“I am Tate Crewys de Lara.”
As if on cue, the group escorting Tate threw back their hoods and cloaks, exposing enough armor and weapons to handle a small battle quite efficiently. Two of the men were enormous; they were knights of the highest order, clad in expensive metal protection. Two shorter, stockier men-at-arms supported them, dressed in leather protection and sporting fine Welsh crossbows. The last member of the entourage was the squire, a lad of fourteen or fifteen years. He was tall, thin, and fair-haired.
“My… my lord de Lara,” Balin was clearly shocked. “Although we have corresponded on the occasion of taxation and audits for your lands, this is the first we have met. I am indeed honored, my lord.”
Tate heard his words, but his focus was on Toby. Now that he was closer and could see her more clearly, she was indeed worth a second look. “I have spent the majority of my life in London or in France, with the wars, and have hardly spent time in this land for which I hold title,” his gaze lingered on Toby. “Harbottle Castle is a garrison I have seen three times in my life.”
Balin could see where Tate’s focus was and indicated his child. “May I present my eldest daughter, Mistress Elizabetha Aleanora de Tobins Cartingdon. She is the one who has seen to your requests with regard to revenue from the parish.”
“Mistress, I thank you for your service.”
“My pleasure, my lord.”
Tate’s gaze was like an immovable object. He tried not to be obvious about it, but the lady was quite lovely. Such beauty was very rare. He did not, however, like the bold nature he had seen come forth from her since their arrival. Were it not for that flaw, he might have considered speaking further with her.
“Please, my lord,” Balin put his hands up to quiet the crowd. “Speak to our people. Tell them of England’s need.”
When Tate looked away from her, Toby felt as if she had been jolted. He had held her in such an odd trance that his sudden departure startled her. Still, she retained enough of her wits to remain attuned to the subject at hand.
“My lord, if I may,” she said carefully. “These are simple people with simple lives. Things like war frighten them, not inspire them. I am afraid a thunderous address will only further alarm them.”
Tate looked at her. “Mistress… Elizabetha, was it?”
His tone bordered on contempt. Toby struggled to retain her courage. “I have not gone by Elizabetha since my birth. I am known as Toby, my lord.”
“Toby? That is a strange name. A man’s name.”
“It is a nickname, my lord, given to me by my grandsire.”
“Why?”
“His family name was de Tobins. My mother gave it to me as a middle name. Everyone called my grandsire Toby and he called me the same.”
Tate’s reply was to give her one more look, a once-over, and turn back to the crowd. Toby took the opportunity to study the man; the Lord of Harbottle, the title for the Harbottle Commons lordship he held, was an exceptionally tall man with arms the size of tree branches and enormous hands. Though he wore no armor, merely layers of heavy tunics, breeches and massive boots, Toby could tell by the width of his shoulders that he was, quite simply, a very big man. She backed off, unwilling to provoke Cartingdon’s liege, but she didn’t leave completely. To do so, if he was going to war-monger, would have been to do a great injustice to the populace of Cartingdon. She felt as if she had to protect them.
Tate saw that she wasn’t leaving and he tried not to let it affect him as he addressed the uncertain throng. He wasn’t sure why she was so distracting, but she was.
“Good people of Cartingdon, I am Sir Tate Crewys de Lara, Lord of Harbottle. As your liege, it is a privilege to speak with you this day.”
The crowd had simmered, but they were still uneasy. Tate continued in an even voice.
“I have listened to your mayor speak on young Edward’s behalf,” he said. “I am here to tell you that the king is ready, willing and able to assume the mantle left by his father. Those who are not the rightful rulers have assumed his throne. Most of England’s nobles understand this and to them I have made my plea. I have spent many years in the service of the young king and I can personally vouch for his abilities. He is wise, thoughtful, and fair as much as his young age will allow. With the proper advisors, the rest will come with time.” Tate raked his fi
ngers through his short, dark hair as he collected his thoughts. “I sent word to Mayor Cartingdon days ago requesting men and money for the king’s cause. My men and I have been in town for two days, observing the people and countryside. It is by sheer fortune that we are here for the meeting that will decide the aid you will provide Edward the King. I could easily tax you to death or simply take what, by all rights, belongs to me. But I choose not to do so. I would like the support from Cartingdon to be genuine, for the young king and his cause. I believe he will establish a stable monarchy from which we may all benefit. Therefore, I ask you to please decide favorably upon him. England is Edward, and Edward needs your help.”
By the time he finished, the entire church was silent. The townsfolk looked at Balin, Toby, each other, attempting to determine if what their liege said was true. He sounded convincing. Toby, too, was almost convinced of the young king’s cause after his speech; she stood slightly behind Tate and to the right, able to see his strong profile. There was something about him that conveyed truth. She looked at the knights standing well behind him; they, too, seemed strong and virtuous. Even the squire seemed honorable. One of the villagers broke the silence.
“I am a ferrier, m’lord,” the older man said hesitantly. “I canna provide ye with gold or coin, but I can provide ye with meself. If Edward the Younger is in need, then we must help.”
Toby knew the man who spoke. He was kind but not intelligent. She could see most of the other townsmen talking quietly to one another, no doubt discussing their prowess with a sword and crossbow. Some of the men had already seen battle, called into action a few years earlier with the removal of King Edward and the Despencers. There were some men, however, that had left to aid the crown and had not returned.
“What of the opposition, my lord?” Toby could not keep silent; she hated to see men’s lives wasted. “Can you please tell them of the opposition they will face?”
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