Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “But… it is the truth,” Rosalind insisted to his statement. She looked at her sister for support. “Margarethe, tell him.”

  Margarethe was much like her mother with a quick temper and rash mouth. But at the moment, she was quite apprehensive of her massive father as he stood by the door of the small and crowded chamber.

  “Several years ago, Mother met a man by the name of Louis of Ghistelles,” she said, her voice quivering. “She fell in love with him. She wanted to be with him but because she was married to you, it was impossible to marry him. So she told him her husband was dead and that she was a widow. He married her but before she left with him, she told us to tell you that she had died. She wanted you to believe that she was dead and gone, which is why we told you she had perished of a fever. It is God’s honest truth, my lord.”

  Brandt hadn’t truly believed their story until that moment. Now, he felt the fingers of doubt clutching at him and he didn’t like it. The girls seemed sincere.

  “I remember when you sent me the missive informing me of her death,” he said, jaw ticking. “I came to Gael to see you, if you recall. You were young.”

  “I was ten and Rosalind was eleven.”

  “I asked you if you wanted to live with me and you told me that you did not. In fact, I seem to remember you were rather adamant about it.”

  Margarethe nodded, glancing at her sister. “We had three governesses already,” she said. “We did not need parents. I suppose we hoped that Mother would return some day, but she never did.”

  He was coming to feel just the slightest bit sorry for them but he fought it. He reverted back to his historical feelings for them, his children who had been taught to hate them. He didn’t trust them in the least and even though the story sounded genuine, he chose not to believe them. He couldn’t. It would turn his world upside down if what they said was true, and that would destroy him. He couldn’t let that happen.

  “You told me she was dead and that is what I still choose to believe,” he finally said. “It makes no difference that you have come to me with this ridiculous story now. I have remarried and my wife and I are expecting a child. If you repeat that story again about your mother running off with another man and possibly still living, I will purge you from Chateau Gael and you will live in the streets. I will take no notice of you and officially disown you. Is that clear?”

  The girls looked terrified. Rosalind nodded emphatically. “It is, Father.”

  “Do not call me that,” Brandt said coldly. “You will address me as ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord de Russe’. Now, why did you come here?”

  Both young women looked beaten and scared. Brandt refused to feel pity as Rosalind, a very well-spoken young lady, struggled to explain.

  “We do not remember you from childhood, my lord,” she said quietly, fumbling through her words. “Mother took us from England when we were quite young. All we knew was what she told us or what we had heard from others. We had heard that you were a lord of war and advisor to the king. Mother said you were a brutal man.”

  “That still does not tell me why you have come.”

  Rosalind looked at Margarethe for support. The younger sister, looking at the floor, spoke.

  “Bearing the name de Russe has been a curse,” she said unhappily. “Everyone in France hates us. Our lives are Hell because everyone is suspicious of us, made worse now that you and the Prince of Wales are waging such terrible warfare on the land. We are spat upon at church, hissed at in the street… we have come to you because we cannot live here any longer. We have come to ask you to send us back to England where we will at least have a chance of living normal lives and mayhap securing a decent marriage prospect, because no one in France other than dishonorable men will consider us.”

  Brandt saw a good deal of himself in his younger daughter. She was unafraid and strong, but very sad. For the first time, he was starting to feel like their father. He had never felt that way before and he struggled to shake it off. He didn’t want to feel anything for the pair but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

  “It was not I who brought you to France,” he said. “It was your mother. If you must blame someone, blame her. I have dutifully provided you with a roof over your head and a comfortable living arrangement but beyond that, I will not do anything more. I am sorry you wasted your time coming to see me.”

  Margarethe looked at him, stricken. “How can you be so cold?” she blurted “We had no choice when Mother took us away. We were children! She only told us what she wanted us to know about you. We never got to know you personally to make our own judgments about you, but from what I see right now, everything Mother told us about you is true. You are a mean and cruel man!”

  Rosalind hissed at her sister, quieting her, as she tried to salvage the conversation. “It is true that our mother hated you,” she said. “She wanted us to hate you, too. She told us you never wanted us and that you hated us. Now we see that it is true and if we have wasted your time, then we apologize.”

  Brandt looked at her, his harsh stance wavering. He knew he shouldn’t engage them in this level of emotional conversation but he couldn’t help it. His relationship with Ellowyn had allowed him to realize and understand his feelings, so he was perhaps more emotional than he should have been. He still wasn’t very good at controlling his emotions once his guard was down. Rosalind and Margarethe were trying very hard to pull it down.

  “I never hated you,” he told them. “No matter what your mother told you, I never hated you. You are my offspring and to hate something I have created is not within me. I realize that you were children and she fed you lies about me, so hear me now: I never hated you. I never sent you away to France. That was her decision. She did her best to keep you from me and turn you against me, and I know that she has succeeded. You have come here asking me to send you to England because my reputation in France has made you outcasts. Mayhap that is true and in that respect, I will reconsider your request to send you back to England. Given our historical relationship, you will understand that consideration is the best I can do right now.”

  The girls nodded demurely before glancing at each other, passing expressions of uncertainty and hope. Rosalind sighed with some relief.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “My lord, I am not sure how my sister feels, but in speaking for myself, mayhap you will accept my apology for my behavior towards you all of these years.”

  Brandt eyed her. She looked so much like her mother that he was having difficulty overcoming the innate aversion to her.

  “What do you hope to gain by telling me that?” he asked an honest question. “You are a woman grown. Do you expect to establish a relationship with me?”

  Rosalind shrugged. “If not a relationship, at least a rapport,” she replied with equal honesty. “The older I have grown, the more I have become more curious about you. Mother does not care for us, and although you were my father in name only, at least you have done right all of these years to provide for us. That says something for your character no matter what my mother has said. I simply want you to know my thoughts.”

  Brandt’s guard went down another notch, at least where Rosalind was concerned. Margarethe was still standing against the wall, staring at the floor. He wasn’t sure about his youngest, but if she was truly like him, then she would be very stubborn about things.

  “And so I do,” he finally said. He cleared his throat softly, forcing himself to show a measure of compassion. “You may stay here tonight and be on your way in the morning. Remain here and I will send someone to tend to you.”

  He exited the room and quietly closed the door behind him. Still inside the cold and dark solar with items cluttering the floor, Rosalind turned to her sister, who was still silently staring at the floorboards. The older she and Margarethe grew, the more they seemed to grow apart in thought. Margarethe still very much hated their father, but that was purely based on their mother’s teachings. Margarethe wasn’t so sure she wanted anything to do wit
h their father, but Rosalind was different. She thought perhaps he might be worth knowing. Age and inherent common sense told her that.

  Rolling her eyes at her stubborn sister, she moved to the other side of the chamber to wait for one of her father’s servants to come for them.

  *

  “You certainly carry your own storm with you wherever you go,” Ellowyn said after hearing Brandt’s report on his meeting with his daughters. “Nothing about you is peaceful for very long, is it?”

  Brandt smiled wryly. “Apparently not. Except for moments like this with you, most everything around me is at some level of upheaval.”

  “Including daughters you have not seen in years showing up on your door step.”

  “Exactly.”

  Ellowyn grinned at him. “Well,” she said, easing up on teasing him. “Mayhap this particular storm will quickly pass. Did either girl mention wanting money or a dowry during the course of the conversation?”

  He shook his head. “Never,” he replied. “They mostly spoke of the fact that they are outcasts here in France because of the de Russe name. Odd how I never considered how my association with the prince would affect them. Even now as I consider it, I do not care.”

  Ellowyn merely wriggled her eyebrows, perhaps with some regret. “I would think it would be rather sad to be an enemy in the land I grew up in,” she ventured, perhaps to force him to think about the young women’s position. “I do not find it unreasonable to send them back to England. You have other properties other than Guildford you could send them to, do you not? It would not be any trouble.”

  He looked at her. “Why would you take their side in this?”

  She hastened to reassure him. “I am not taking their side in anything,” she said firmly. “I am always on your side, Brandt. I do not have to tell you that.”

  He eased somewhat, looking away and collecting a cup that was on a sideboard near one of the lancet windows in their bedchamber. He poured himself a measure of tart, red wine.

  “I am sorry,” he said softly. “I know you are my strongest supporter. I suppose their appearance has me off-guard somewhat.”

  Ellowyn was sitting on their bed with her enormous knitting project strewn across her legs. She could feel his confusion. In fact, she had some of her own.

  “Why did they say their mother wasn’t dead?” she finally brought up the subject she had wanted to discuss since the moment he had entered. “Did you ask them?”

  Brandt didn’t look at her. He poured himself more wine. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he still believed it might not be the truth. He didn’t know his girls. He didn’t know if they were liars or not. He didn’t want to upset Ellowyn with something that could very well be a vindictive lie. Until something could be proven, it wasn’t worth mentioning.

  “I did,” he finally said. “They were simply being spiteful. They hate me, which means they hate you as well.”

  Ellowyn accepted his explanation. There was no reason not to. Brandt said a silent prayer that she did not ask more, instead focusing on her knitting. He sipped his wine, watching her from the corner of his eye.

  “They will stay here tonight and be gone in the morning,” he told her. “I hope that does not distress you.”

  Ellowyn shook her head, focused on her project. “It does not,” she said. Then, she paused somewhat wistfully. “It seems so sad to me that there are girls who have fathers they do not like and then girls who love fathers they no longer have. It is unfair, really.”

  He looked at her, waiting to see which way her mood would swing. She was volatile these days, as easy to cry or anger as she was to laugh. She seemed to reflect on her father’s passing those months back without bursting into tears for which he was thankful. She still grew teary-eyed when she thought on Deston. Wine in hand, he made his way over to her and sat on the bed next to her.

  “How is my son today?” he asked softly, changing the subject.

  She forced herself from her bleak thoughts, smiling at him. “He is well,” she said, shifting her knitting so he could put a big hand on her belly. “He is very active.”

  He returned her smile, waiting with anticipation to feel the activity she was describing but the baby was largely still. “I have been thinking on names for him.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “I thought we were to name him after my grandfather, Braxton.”

  He shrugged. “It is a fine name,” he agreed, not wanting to offend her, “but I was thinking that I would very much like to name him after my father’s brother. He died some years ago but he was often much kinder to me than my father. I suppose he was more a father to me than my own, although that is not saying much.”

  “You have never mentioned him.”

  “I have not thought of him in years.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Gaston.”

  “Gaston de Russe,” she repeated softly. “I like it very much.”

  “Better than Braxton de Russe?”

  She smiled. “There will be more children and more opportunities to name our children after every male member of my family.” She laughed when he did. “If you wish to name him Gaston, I am agreeable.”

  He grasped her gently by the arms and pulled her to him for a sweet kiss. “Thank you,” he murmured. “That means a good deal to me.”

  Ellowyn put her knitting aside to touch the man, running her hands over his face, watching him kiss her palm sweetly. Her mind was moving on from the birth of the child to the not so distant future. She was also thinking of her husband and his duties to the prince. He had been home a short while and they hadn’t much chance to discuss the way of things, including how long he planned to remain at Melesse.

  “I have not yet had the opportunity to ask you how long you will remain with me this time,” she said softly. “Will you be leaving again soon?”

  He cupped her face with a big hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Too soon for my taste,” he told her. “I must return to Edward by the end of the month.”

  Her face fell a little. “That is only eight days away,” she said. “Where must you go?”

  “Poitiers,” he replied, still stroking her cheek. “I can only spend the next three or four days here before I must return. I brought my army back with me, you know. It takes time to move a body of that size to Poitiers.”

  She fell silent a moment, feeling his hand on her face, relishing his touch. She had missed it so. “Magnus…,” she started to say, stumbling over the words. “Magnus said that Edward has moved north from Aquitaine, burning and pillaging. He said it is as bad as he has ever seen such things. Is this true?”

  Brandt sighed faintly, thinking of the horrors he had caused over the past several weeks. It was his duty and he did not feel guilty for such things, but he couldn’t help but think of Deston’s accusations of his chevauchee warfare. They called it scorched-earth tactics, and it was exactly that. It was devastation on a massive scale, only over the past few months, it had been even worse than that.

  “War is never pleasant,” he said, unwilling to tell her the truth of it because it was too terrible for her to comprehend. “It has been very bad indeed.”

  She gazed into his face, seeing the exhaustion in the dark depths. “To what end?” she asked. “What I mean is that where will it end? Will the prince simply keep raiding and burning without end or is there a purpose to all of this?”

  He shrugged. “Of course there is a purpose,” he said. “The purpose is to reach Paris and capture the city, but the army was halted at Tours. We spent a good deal of time there trying to take the city to no avail. Now we have regrouped at Chavigny. The prince has sent a message to the King of France to discuss a resolution to all of this, which is why I must return to Poitiers. I must be part of those negotiations.”

  She felt some hope in that. “Do you think these wars may finally come to an end?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “Will we return home to England when it is ove
r?”

  “You do not want to stay in France?”

  She shook her head. “I want to go home.”

  He understood. With a kiss to her hand, he rose from the bed and took his cup back over to the wine. He was preparing to pour himself another measure when he glanced out of the window and noticed that there was some activity in the bailey. He could see Dylan and Alex chatting with Stefan, who had just come down off the wall. Having been asleep most of the morning and then lingering with womenfolk for the past hour, he thought perhaps it was time to make his presence known and meet with his men. He set the cup down.

  “I will return in a while,” he told Ellowyn. “I have not seen my castle in several weeks so it is time to make my rounds.”

  Ellowyn grinned as she continued to knit. “It is falling apart at the seams,” she told him saucily. “I have been running it into the ground and taking great delight in ruining your empire.”

  He scowled, though it was without force. “Naughty wench.”

  She giggled. Winking at her, Brandt quit the chamber and headed out to the dusty, windy bailey.

  It would be the calm before the greatest storm of all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Patrols returning from the north have reported a large army heading our way,” Brennan said. “They are moving in the dead of night, my lord. That speaks of determination.”

  Having been woken out of a deep sleep by Brennan, who had the night watch, Brandt stood in the corridor outside of the chamber he shared with Ellowyn. It was close to midnight and the passageway was dim and quiet. Rubbing his eyes, he appeared weary but the mind was sharp. It was already calculating the situation.

  “Standards?”

  “It was difficult to see beneath the moon glow, but he thought he caught the fleur de lis.”

  Brandt stopped rubbing his eyes and looked at him. “Fleur de lis?” he repeated, somewhat incredulous. “Is it Jean?”

  “The army is large enough, my lord. Thousands, at the very least.”

  “Coming here, did you say?”