Mercenaries and Maidens: A Medieval Romance bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  He winked at her, kissing her fingers again before letting her hands go. “Not to worry. You’ll enjoy this, I promise.”

  She looked so dubious that he grinned, kissing her lips once, then twice. She tasted so good that he held her face in his hands and kissed her so deeply that his head swam. She was so warm and soft and delicious and with every kiss, he seemed to crave her more and more. She ignited a tingle in his hands and a flame in his heart that only seemed to grow with every touch, every look. He’d never known anything like it. He could only pray she felt the same but he was far too fearful to ask, fearful of the answer. He almost laughed at himself at the thought that he would actually experience fear. Since the moment he met her, he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

  “You know,” he said after a moment, “you never have given me an answer to my question.”

  She was still attempting to catch her breath from his ardent kiss. “What question is that?”

  “I asked you if I may have your permission to court you. You never have answered me.”

  A gradual smile spread across her lips. “Isn’t that what you have been doing?”

  “Aye; but only because I have boldly moved forward in the hope that you would not stop me.”

  She shook her head slowly. “I will not stop you.”

  His blue-green eyes glimmered. “Is that an affirmative answer?”

  “It is.”

  He smiled broadly, taking her hand and leading her towards the tent flap. “Then come along, lady,” he took her hand, leading towards the tent flap. “Your Intended promises to give you an exciting gift as celebration of your gracious consent.”

  Gray’s smile faded. She doubted it would be exciting. Terrifying was more like it.

  *

  “Unfortunately, you have arrived at an inopportune time,” Constance told the two men standing before her. “My daughter, and Lady Brooke, have gone into Milnthorpe. They shan’t return until this evening.”

  It was a warm day and the dust from the rebuilding of Erith swirled about the bailey. Constance was fearful it would damage the new wine-colored surcoat she wore and she certainly did not want to make a bad impression on the visitors. She had been both surprised and pleased by their arrival not a half hour before.

  With Gray and Brooke gone, there had been no one to greet the guests. Constance naturally took the duty, not only because she was the only family member left, but because the visitors most recently arrived at Erith were of such substantial significance that she dare not leave this task to anyone other than herself. She was frankly surprised they had heeded the invitation.

  Sir Roger de Clare, cousin to Gilbert of Clare, sixth Earl of Gloucester, stood in the center of Erith’s bailey with an expression of dubious curiosity. The depth of the man’s significance and relationship to Erith could not be escaped; as the cousin of the man who betrayed Simon de Montfort at Evesham, Roger was an old man who had married late in life. He was propertied but not titled as his cousin had been; he was a glorified, and very wealthy, baron whose seat was Elswick Castle near Blackpool. He had three sons, the eldest of which was almost sixteen years of age. It was this son who had interest in Brooke Serroux and the legacy that was Erith Castle. Being that the lad’s cousin had once been Simon de Montfort’s best friend and then greatest enemy, the implication of a betrothal to Simon’s great-granddaughter could not be overlooked.

  Constance knew this. She, more than anyone, understood the importance of lineage and marital ties. When she had sent the original marriage solicitation to Roger, she had not expected an answer. There was too much bitter blood between the de Montforts and the de Clares. But Roger’s appearance told her that perhaps it was not so bitter as she had thought. She was tremendously glad that her daughter and the mercenary were away this day. Now, she would be free to do as she must for the survival of the family. To the Devil with this mercenary that was trying to usurp everything she had worked for.

  “I know you, Lady Constance,” Roger said, his voice quiet and deep. “You and I were acquainted as children, though you were older than I. We would play together at Thirlwall Castle. Do you not recall this?”

  Constance nodded. “I do, my lord. It has been many years since we last met.”

  “Too many,” Roger looked her over. Next to him stood a tall, red-haired youth with very bad skin. Roger glanced at his gangly son. “My lady, meet my son, William. He has come today to meet the Lady Brooke.”

  Constance eyed the young man, awkward and unattractive at sixteen. She nodded to him graciously. “I assure you that Brooke will be most pleasing. Will you not come inside and enjoy some refreshment?”

  She led the pair up the newly repaired steps. Roger’s keen gaze roved the fortress. “What happened to this place?” he asked. “I can remember when it was a powerful fortress. It looks as if it has seen a great deal of damage.”

  Constance was afraid he would pick up on the extent of the rebuilding going on; it was truthfully difficult to miss it. But she was thankful that the fortress appeared far better than it had mere days ago. “Erith has seen better days,” she agreed “But, if you will notice, we are rebuilding most of the walls with better stone. Some of the materials used to originally build the fortress were not holding up to the test of time. We thought it best to rebuild what was not holding fast. Moreover, we want the young man who inherits this place to have a fine, solid fortress. Would you not agree?”

  It sounded like a good explanation, even to her. Roger bought it. “I do,” he said as they entered the dark keep. “What of your granddaughter’s dowry? Your invitation failed to mention coinage and property.”

  Constance had to think quickly. She knew this question would come, though she had not expected it so soon. “All in good time, my lord,” was the best she could come up with at the moment. “Let us sit and discuss the days of our childhood first. I am eager to learn of your wife; I had heard you had married Anne of Hereford. Is your lady wife well these days?”

  “She is dead,” Roger evidently did not wish to discuss her. “As I had heard tale that your only girl child was quite a beauty. Is her daughter also?”

  An idea suddenly occurred to Constance. A seedling, growing by the second, took root in her fertile and vicious mind. Her amber eyes glittered at the baron as they took a seat opposite one another at the long table in the hall.

  “Both women are quite beautiful, I assure you,” she tried to appear casual. “Your wife is dead, did you say? Have you considered remarrying?”

  Roger had. Constance was delighted to hear that.

  *

  The de Nerra knights discovered that there were indeed a couple of noteworthy knights at the small Milnthorpe tournament. When they drew matches, Geoff had drawn Sir Niclas de Aughton, a powerful knight from Northumbria, while Graehm drew Sir Rickard Burton of Somerhill. Burton was a big man with a mean temperament and was known for his violent competitiveness. De Aughton was only slightly less violent, but had the reputation of being extraordinarily cunning and enormously strong. Truth be told, Braxton was mildly disappointed that he hadn’t drawn either man in the first round. As good as his knights were, he suspected that if he won his first round, he might be facing one or both opposing knights eventually. It was just a hunch he had.

  Braxton had the first match in the new rounds after the afternoon break. He had drawn a knight from Navarre, one Sir Fulk, who looked as if he had eaten far too many pastries in his time. The man was so round that he was barely able to mount his equally fat charger. Braxton took one run against the man, hit him squarely in the chest, and knocked him right off his horse. In less than a few seconds he had won his match and a new roan charger, and the crowd in the lists went mad for his victory.

  Gray’s relief was palpable. If every match was as easy as this one, perhaps it would not be such a bad day after all. Once Braxton had unseated the knight, he made a sweeping turn along the lists and thundered past the cheering throng, listening to them scream madly for h
im. Even Brooke was screaming at the top of her lungs as he cantered in front of their group astride his big black charger. Gray could only sit there and smile, watching him casually acknowledge the crowd as if it meant absolutely nothing at all. When he reached the gate that led from the field, however, he flipped up his visor and his gaze sought out Gray. He lifted a big gloved hand to her.

  She waved back, her heart swelling with a feeling she’d never before known. It made her limbs weak and a strange quivering filled her. She couldn’t stop smiling. She watched as Norman led Braxton off the field, still astride his beast, and then there was another knight to take his place at the post start. Sir Geoff, astride his big bay stallion, looked every inch as imposing as Braxton had.

  The field marshals officiating the event took their places as both competitors signaled their readiness. The crowd hushed to an expectant buzz. As she watched Geoff make a thundering run against the big black knight from Northumbria, she felt Brooke poke her in the arm.

  “Mama?” she poked her again. “May Edgar and I have some custard?”

  Gray turned to the two faces sitting next to her; lovely Brooke and handsome Edgar. Edgar’s ankle was up on the bench in front of them to keep it elevated. Gray was about to reply in the affirmative when she realized that she had no money on her. Braxton had paid for everything. Somewhat embarrassed as to what to say to the children, she was about to give them the generic ‘later’ answer when she caught sight of a man in armor at the base of the lists. Her amber eyes immediately focused in on Braxton as he made his way towards them from the dusty staging grounds with Norman trailing after him.

  His forehead was creased where the helm had rested upon his head and his face was tinged red from having been contained in the sweaty confines of the three-point helmet, but his expression was pleasant. He smiled at Gray when their eyes met, even at a distance.

  “Look,” Gray distracted Brooke and Edgar by pointing. “Here comes Sir Braxton. Perhaps he would like some custard, too?”

  Brooke shot to her feet and began waving madly. “Sir Braxton!” she shouted. “Here we are!”

  He lifted his hand in response. As he reached the lists, he stood next to the platform, his eyes only for Gray.

  “I thought I’d better come and feed this famished crowd,” he said. “Watching a tournament can give one a ravenous appetite.”

  Gray lifted an eyebrow. “How did you guess?”

  He winked at her. “I was a child once myself, believe it or not.” He waved a big hand at Brooke. “Come along, young woman. Let us go and find you some custard.”

  Brooke almost tripped in her haste to leave her seat. “What about Mother? Can she come, too?”

  Braxton held out a hand to steady Brooke as she fumbled for the stairs, but his eyes returned to Gray. “I was rather hoping she would.”

  Gray smiled, a faint pink flush to her cheeks. “I would love to come, but we simply cannot leave Edgar here alone.”

  The lad looked surprised at the mention of his name. “I can wait by myself, my lady,” he stammered.

  While Gray looked doubtful, Braxton spoke. “Edgar is indeed quite capable of taking care of himself until we return. Come along, sweet.”

  Gray stood up and left her seat, descending the steps from the lists right into Braxton’s waiting hands. He took her on one elbow and Brooke on the other, feeling prouder than he ever had in his life. It was one thing to be prideful of one’s skills and reputation; it was entirely another to be proud of the company one kept. He knew, without a doubt, that he was in the presence of the most beautiful woman in Cumbria and her equally lovely daughter.

  “Now that I am the envy of every man here,” he said, his blue-green eyes scanning the street and crowds beyond, “let us locate this vendor with custards and fattening tarts.”

  Brooke giggled girlishly, pulling Braxton along more than she was actually following him. Her pretty new surcoat of soft blue linen looked sweet and elegant. She swished the skirt around with her free hand as they walked, never happier or more carefree in her young life.

  “There is a vendor over there with something on his cart,” she jabbed her finger over to the left. “There are several people around him. Whatever he has must be good.”

  Braxton turned in that direction, allowing Brooke to half-pull, half-drag him along. “Then it is as good a place to start as any,” he glanced at Gray, looking so lovely with her hair off her slender neck. “And you, my lady? Do you have any preference on sweets and other gluttonous items?”

  She met his gaze, feeling the warmth that now sprouted so easily between them. She did so enjoy looking at him. “Whatever my daughter wishes is fine with me,” she said, tightening her grip on his arm. “You are most generous to allow her such treats, my lord.”

  He lifted an eyebrow at her and mouthed Braxton. She grinned and nodded her head. “Lady Brooke has behaved herself admirably today in the wake of Edgar’s injury,” he said. “She deserves a reward.”

  Brooke’s guilt at Edgar’s injury returned. She didn’t want to incriminate herself and risk not getting custard, so she ignored the comment and continued to pull Braxton and her mother along. Norman was following behind them, a silent reminder to Brooke’s bad behavior. She hoped that he would not tell on her, but she could feel his stare against her back. Norman was a big lad; she suspected he could be intimidating if he wanted to be. But she would not let him frighten her. Had Edgar not been so awful, she would not have chased him. It was Edgar’s own fault… wasn’t it?

  By the time they reached the vendor, some of the crowd had cleared away and they could get a good look at the vendor’s table; dried meats, warm wine, and globs of almond milk pudding nestled in hollow gourds. Brooke immediately went for the pudding and Braxton found himself paying for five of them. Norman inhaled his pudding in three bites. Brooke devoured hers shortly thereafter and Braxton bought her another one. Gray held on to her pudding, and on to Edgar’s, fearful that it would vanish if her daughter got a hold of it. Braxton, grinning at the ravenous youngsters, handed his pudding over to Norman. The lad grinned and shoveled it down, although a bit more slowly than the first. Braxton slapped him affectionately on the back of the head.

  They were half way across the avenue when Graehm suddenly appeared. In full armor, he made his way straight to Braxton. His expression was wrought with seriousness.

  “My lord,” he said shortly. “Geoff took a bad hit in his round with de Aughton. The physic is with him now.”

  Braxton didn’t react outwardly, but Gray gasped softly. “What happened?” Braxton asked calmly.

  “The pole broke and the jagged edge went right into his neck,” Graehm explained. “We carried him off the field and back to the staging area.”

  Braxton’s pace picked up as they continued their way back to the tournament field. “Is it a mortal wound?”

  “ ’Tis possible, my lord. He bleeds a great deal.”

  Braxton didn’t say anymore. He escorted Gray and Brooke back to the lists before continuing on with Norman and Graehm.

  As Brooke took Edgar’s pudding from her mother and made haste back to her seat, Gray paused as she mounted the steps, watching Braxton and his men stride away. If Geoff was as bad as Graehm said he was, then perhaps she could help. Lord knows, Braxton had already done enough for her and for Erith. Perhaps this was one time she could attempt to return the favor. Gathering her skirt, she bade Brooke and Edgar to wait in the lists as she followed Braxton’s trail off across the tournament grounds.

  Since she already knew where Braxton’s camp was interred, it took her little time to reach it. Several men were milling about, mostly de Nerra men-at-arms. They hovered outside of the smaller of the two tents, speaking in muted tones. Gray acknowledged them as she walked between them, her focus on the tent opening and the dimness beyond. No one stopped her when she peeled back the flap.

  She could see someone lying on their back just inside the door; there were at least three bodies hovering ov
er the supine form so she could see little more than booted feet. Braxton, who had been peering over the shoulder of a round, hairy-faced man, looked up when she walked into the tent. His eyes widened at the sight of her and he straightened up.

  “Lady Gray,” he greeted. “Is something…?”

  She cut him off politely. “I came to see if I could help, my lord.”

  He went to her, his hand on her elbow. “The physic is tending him. Though I thank you for your kindness, I doubt there is anything you can do.”

  Her amber eyes met his blue-green orbs. There was a spark, a jolt of warmth that passed between them as he touched her. “May I at least see him?” she asked softly.

  Braxton could see she only wished to help. He smiled faintly and led her back over to where he had been standing. At their feet lay Geoff, pale and unconscious, with an ugly cluster of splinters sticking out of his neck. The physic and the man’s assistant were attempting to pull the splinters free, one at a time, holding a soiled rag up against the gushing wound in an attempt to prevent the man from bleeding to death. They weren’t doing a very good job; blood was everywhere.

  Gray could see that the knight was going to bleed to death unless they changed their method. She instinctively opened her mouth to speak but quickly thought better of it. She did not want to seem overbearing, yet she could not stand by and watch this man die. Braxton heard her soft gasp.

  “What is it?” he asked quietly.

  A man’s life was at stake. She could not keep silent about it. “They are going about this all wrong,” she whispered. “The wound must be stitched closed as they remove the wood. All they are managing to do now is pulling out whatever material is holding back the tide of blood. Soon they will remove it all and everything will drain out, like pulling a cork from a bottle.”

  Braxton looked over at Dallas, at Graehm. “Remove the physic,” he snapped softly. “Lady Gray will tend him.”

  As the knights not-so-gently pulled the men up, to much protest, Braxton firmly guided Gray to the seat vacated by the physic. She objected for a split second before realizing he was not about to listen to her. He believed what she had told him, having made perfect sense, and was now trusting her with the life of Geoff. She was terrified, uncertain, and pleased all at the same time. The knights had passed the physic and his helper off to the men at arms, who were now practically throwing them from the tent. As she took the seat, she forced away her hesitation and struggled to collect her thoughts.