The Dark Spawn (Battle Lords of de Velt Book 5)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She never wanted to get over it.

  “I understand,” she said. “You are an important man. And I will be thinking of you, too.”

  He winked at her and gave her one last kiss. “I yearn for the day when the threat of war is over and we can get on with our lives,” he said. “Normal things, like traveling to Paris so I can purchase my wife some finery. That reminds me – I saw a post for a tournament in Morpeth that is taking place this month. I yearn for the day when you can watch me from the lists as I destroy the competition in a tournament. Everyday things like that have never meant so much to me as they do now.”

  She smiled faintly. “I would very much like to see you,” she said. “You must be very good.”

  He snorted. “Good?” he said, incredulous. “I am the best you have ever seen. Those whelps Addax and Essien think they are the best because it was their profession for a couple of years, but they’ve never gone up against me. I will show them who is the best on the field. And off.”

  Corisande laughed softly. “My brothers think that they are the best,” she said. “They have competed in local tournaments, but it has been a while. I am looking forward to the day when you can unseat them all.”

  He scratched his head. “It may take some doing, in truth,” he said. “That lot is rather skilled but, in the end, I shall not fail. Not with my queen’s favor feeding my courage.”

  “And you shall always have it.”

  He gazed at her warmly, his mind wandering to a year or two or three in the future, when he had her by his side permanently. With Corisande’s support, nothing could stand in his way.

  “Thank you,” he said softly. Then, he drew in a heavy breath. “As much as I do not want to leave you, I must go about my business and so must you. But I will see you tonight.”

  “You most certainly will.”

  He turned for the buttery door, but she remained where she was. He stuck his head out, making sure no one was around to see them, before turning to her one last time.

  “We are clear,” he said quietly. “And, Cori?”

  “Aye?”

  “If you are wondering if I love you, wonder no more. It is safe to say that I do.”

  With that, he was through the door, heading out into the kitchen yard, as Corisande stood there with her mouth open and her eyes wide. But her shock was momentary; it was followed by a smile so bright that tears came to her eyes.

  It was safe to say that she loved him, too.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Cole found Alastor in his solar.

  That dusty, cold room that still smelled of seared human flesh. He was burning something in a pewter bowl, incense to cover up the fact that a man had burned to death in that chamber and the stench still hadn’t left. The incense was an earthy scent, something he could smell far back in his nose, like cold dirt. It almost smelled like a grave. He stood at the door, seeing Alastor as the man sat with his back to him, gazing out over the bailey in a rare quiet moment.

  Quietly, he rapped on the panel.

  “Who is it?” Alastor asked without turning around.

  “Cole, my lord,” Cole replied. “May I enter?”

  Alastor turned his chair around, facing him. “How may I be of service, Cole?”

  He sounded weary and Cole thought that it was a rather direct question, one that he didn’t want to answer right away. He thought that he might need to gently ease Alastor into the true purpose for his visit, so he started out with something unrelated to his real reason. As he’d told Corisande, he wasn’t a liar by nature, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t dance around the subject a little.

  Besides… he had to build up his courage.

  “I was curious if you’ve heard from my father,” he said. “Addax and Essien have been in Berwick for at least a month. We have no word?”

  Alastor shook his head. “None,” he said. “It takes time to produce results sometimes, but I do not have to tell you that. You know it all too well.”

  Cole nodded. “That is true,” he said. When the conversation threatened to die, he pointed to the smoking bowl. “What is that? I have smelled it before, I think.”

  Alastor’s attention moved to the bowl and its ribbons of blue smoke. “It is called olibanum,” he said. “It is harvested in lands as far away as The Levant from a thorny tree that grows in the deserts. My wife loved the smell and it reminds me of her, so I burn it.”

  Cole understood. “I see,” he said. “It must be precious and rare.”

  “It is. Like my wife – precious and rare.”

  He said it like a prayer, reverent and wistful. Cole thought it might be a good time to lead into the real reason for his visit.

  “What was her name?” he asked.

  Alastor fanned the smoke a little, inhaling it when it blew in his direction. “Thalassa,” he said. “Thalassa de Ryes. Very old family, south in Hampshire. It has been a few years since I last saw my wife and this resin reminds me so much of her. My children hate it, but I do not care. I suppose we all have our own ways of remembering. But I digress; forgive me. Is there anything else you need from me, Cole?”

  Cole didn’t give him a straight answer. “It is true we all have our own ways of remembering,” he said, sticking to the subject of dead wives. “Whenever I see a thistle, I remember my wife. She loved them.”

  Alastor’s brow furrowed. “You were married?” he said, surprised. “I did not know that, Cole. When were you married?”

  Cole smiled weakly. “Years ago,” he said. “I was very young, newly knighted. Her name was Mary and she was from a fine family also. As my father’s heir, my parents were most anxious to find me a good wife. Truthfully, I’m not sure I had a choice. They chose her for me.”

  Alastor was warming to something they had in common. “As did mine,” he said. “As the descendent of the Bloodaxe, I had no choice in the matter. What was an arranged marriage turned out to be a love match, however. I was fortunate. Yours was not a love match?”

  Cole shrugged. “I would not say that it wasn’t,” he said. “Mary was sweet and obedient, but I simply did not want a wife. I was young and there were things I wanted to do with my life. But the situation improved when she bore my daughter, Lucy. I think that was when I realized what it means to be a husband and father. I was just coming to like it when she and my daughter passed away suddenly from a fever.”

  “Oh, Cole,” Alastor said, grieved. “I am so sorry, lad. What a tragedy.”

  “It was.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Two years now.”

  Alastor reached out and grasped Cole around the wrist, giving him a supportive squeeze before releasing him. “You have my sympathy,” he said. “But you are young still. Any lady would be lucky to have you as a husband, I am sure.”

  Cole was hoping the conversation might reach this point. Now, he had a perfect opportunity to bring up Corisande.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Would you consider me for your daughter, then?” he said. “Corisande, I mean. I would make her an excellent husband and I swear upon my oath that I would love her for the rest of my life. My lord… I would like to ask your permission to marry her.”

  Alastor looked at Cole in shock. In fact, his mouth even popped open. “Cori?” he asked, incredulous. “My Cori?”

  Cole nodded. “Aye,” he said, unsure if Alastor was appalled or pleased with the request. “As I said, I learned a great deal about being a husband in those years that I was married. I would be devoted and true, I swear it. Cori would never want for anything. I realize the de Velt name is either feared or hated in England, and mayhap not the most prestigious, but I promise you that I would make a worthy husband. She would have a good life.”

  He sounded like he was begging and Alastor put up a hand to ease him. “Cole, I do not doubt your character,” he said. “But…”

  He was cut off when Ares suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Papa,” he said, interrupting. “The army from the sout
h is growing closer. You must come.”

  Alastor was on his feet, but he wasn’t so preoccupied that he didn’t realize that Cole was expecting an answer. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder as he walked past him.

  “I am sorry, Cole,” he said. “We shall continue this conversation later.”

  “Cole, you come as well,” Ares said. “If it is The Marshal, I am sure he will want to see you.”

  So much for a most opportune discussion. Cole could have throttled Ares for coming when he did. With a heavy sigh, he stood up, slowly dying on the inside because Alastor had been cut off mid-thought. Was the man opposed to a marriage and simply wanted to let him down easy? If he had been agreeable, surely he would have said so right away.

  But he hadn’t.

  Or he hadn’t been able to.

  Feeling frustrated and disappointed, Cole followed Alastor and Ares from the keep.

  “There was a battle here,” Bric said in his heavy Irish brogue. “Look at how half of the village as been burned. They’re only now rebuilding. I wonder what happened?”

  No one had an answer, least of all Christopher de Lohr.

  Riding at the head of a contingent of six thousand men, he was focused on Castle Keld in the distance, rising like a jewel above the darkening landscape as the sun sank low in the west. In fact, the pale-stoned castle was bathed in pink, giving it an ethereal appearance.

  They’d arrive at their destination.

  Unfortunately, the village surrounding their destination had clearly seen some destructive activity. The village hugged the hill that the castle sat upon, with cottages stacked about a quarter of the way up the rise and then again dotting the surrounding countryside. There was a business district in the village that surrounded the communal well, and those cottages as well as some on the north side of the village had been damaged or burned.

  “Something has happened, indeed,” Christopher said, looking around. “Had it been a fire that had spread from one house to the next, there would have been continuity in the damage, but there’s none at all. It’s in clusters, which tells me someone took a torch to the village.”

  “Does de Bourne have enemies we did not know about?” Dashiell asked.

  “None that I am aware of.”

  The reply came from William Marshal.

  Riding behind Christopher, his the three-point shield was slung over his left knee, perhaps the most recognizable standard in England – the Scarlet Lion.

  The Marshal was fairly old to be going on a battle march, but he was determined. If there was a war to be managed, he intended to do the managing first-hand, and in a case like this with the Scots threatening to invade Northumberland, he wasn’t going to stay home and leave the heavy fighting to men like Christopher and David de Lohr, Alexander de Sherrington, Bric MacRohan, Dashiell du Reims, Maxton of Loxbeare, Kress de Rhydian, or even Achilles de Dere.

  He was going to come personally.

  These were the men whose armies had been gathered the fastest, armies ready to move on short order. Christopher and Maxton had moved their armies from the Welsh Marches with the help of Alexander, Peter, Kress, and Achilles, while Bric brought the de Winter war machine from Norfolk and Dashiell came up from Wiltshire.

  David was riding with his brother and he was still expecting his army from Canterbury to catch up with them at some point, but that was at least a week away, as were the de Nerra and Forbes armies. They were far to the west and in Gart Forbes’ case, nearly to Cornwall, so there were still pieces of the mighty army moving to rendezvous at The Keld, including The Marshal’s own army from Pembroke Castle in Wales. Pembroke’s army was to join with the de Lara army at Welshpool and then they would make their way north.

  Lastly, they were still expecting troops from Richmond Castle, led by Caius d’Avignon, and those troops should be arriving in a day or two. Caius was under orders to go straight to The Keld, so it was only a matter of time before they appeared on the horizon. The six thousand men that were arriving today wasn’t nearly the end of all of the men that would eventually join.

  And The Marshal was counting on it.

  “Bric, Dash,” The Marshal said as he turned to the men closest to him. “We must set up an encampment for the night, so send out men to find the best ground before it gets too dark. Somewhere near the castle. Be quick about it.”

  Bric and Dashiell reined their horses around, breaking off men to go on the hunt for a suitable piece of land to park a massive army on, as The Marshal spurred his horse forward until he was riding next to Christopher.

  “I am very curious to know what has been happening here,” he muttered, looking around the damaged village. “Who has de Bourne been fighting?”

  Christopher shook his head in reply even though he knew it was a rhetorical question.

  But it was a very good one.

  Coming to the north end of the village, The Marshal called a halt to the army. Leaving Kress in charge, he took Dashiell, Maxton, Alexander, and Achilles with him and along with Christopher and David and Peter, they made their way towards the gatehouse of Castle Keld.

  It was a great collection of knights that approached.

  “It has been a long time since I have been here,” The Marshal said. “I had forgotten what an imposing place it is.”

  “Impressive,” Christopher said. “I have never been here.”

  “William,” David said, gesturing to the gatehouse. “We are being met.”

  They looked to the gatehouse to see a couple of men heading out in the darkness on foot, holding torches. The first man that came into view was older, with a crown of silver hair, and William came to within ten feet of him before reining his steed to a halt.

  “Lord Bernicia?” he said hesitantly. “Alastor de Bourne?”

  The man looked him over before replying. “And you are?”

  “William Marshal.”

  That brought tremendous relief and the man visibly relaxed. “My lord,” he said. “Welcome to Castle Keld. Cole told me that it was you, but I wanted to make sure. I wanted to see your face.”

  “And so you have,” William said, looking over Alastor’s head to features he recognized. A smile tugged at his lips. “Cole, you are to be commended. Your work on behalf of England has been flawless.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Cole said as he stepped forward, smiling as he held the torch up to get a look at the men accompanying The Marshal.

  He recognized them in an instant.

  For some reason, everyone accompanying William began to chuckle. Looking at a smiling Cole had them laughing. The man never smiled and even when he did, there was something sinister about it, like the cat who was about to swallow the canary. Or already had. In fact, it was Peter who dismounted his steed first to go and greet Cole as one would a long-lost brother. Since their father’s were great friends, the men knew each other well.

  He embraced Cole fondly.

  “Cole,” Peter said, squeezing him. “You ugly fool. How long has it been?”

  Cole snorted. “Not long enough, Peter,” he said. “I would insult you in return, but your father is within earshot and he might not take kindly to it. Suffice it to say you are no uglier than usual.”

  Peter grinned, patting him on the cheek, as Cole turned his attention to the rest of the knights. “Max,” he greeted Maxton, looking to the man behind him. “Achilles. I thought I smelled you the moment the army entered the village.”

  Maxton laughed. He had a sense of humor. Achilles, however, did not. He frowned. “You nasty cuss,” he said. “Come and say that to my face. I dare you.”

  That made Maxton laugh harder, slapping an arm across Achilles’ chest to prevent him from dismounting. “You would never survive,” he said. “He is a de Velt, remember?”

  As Achilles conceded the point, Alexander dismounted his steed and headed in Cole’s direction. Alexander was known as Sherry to his friends and he turned his black eyes on Cole, studying him for a moment.

  There was w
armth there.

  “I’ve not seen you in four years,” he said, smiling and extending his hand. “I heard you had infiltrated the Scots. Quite a task, de Velt. A lesser man would not have handled it so well.”

  Alexander was more sedate than the others, perhaps more introspective, a man who preferred working alone than in a group, but he was a deeply loyal friend to those he loved and admired. Cole was one; they’d met several years ago when Alexander had first returned from The Levant and The Marshal was recruiting more knights for his stable of spies. Since Cole had the de Velt legacy, he’d made a perfect candidate and it had been Alexander’s task to seek him out, at Norwich Castle during that time, and essentially interview him. He liked what he had seen.

  He still did.

  Cole, too, considered Alexander a loyal and true friend. He took his extended hand and held fast.

  “It is good to see you, Sherry,” he said. “I’ve missed that face, always looking at me as if expecting more from me than my own father does.”

  Alexander laughed softly. “Because I do,” he said. “You are greatness, Cole, as proven by your most recent task.”

  “Speaking of tasks,” The Marshal said as he dismounted his horse stiffly. “What has happened to this village? Have you suffered a recent attack, Bernicia?”

  He was addressing Alastor by his formal title and Alastor sighed heavily. “Aye,” he said. “In fact, there is a great deal to tell and little time to act, so come inside and let us discuss the situation. Much has changed since you received de Velt’s missive.”

  The Marshal nodded, handing over his reins to Dashiell, but his focus moved to Cole. “Did your father raze Fountainhall as I commanded?” he asked.

  All eyes were on Cole has he nodded. “Aye, my lord,” he said. “Fountainhall is no more.”

  “And her army?”

  “Still on poles, as far as I know,” he said. “It was my father’s habit to leave them up until they were nothing left but leather and bone.”