CHAPTER ONE
Sir Braxton de Russe …
Toutes les choses doivent se passer. Votre fils a pris la Lumière de la France. Notre espoir est faible mais il n’a pas disparu.
Nous sommes l’air, les oiseaux. Nous sommes la nuit.
Nous craindre parce que nous allons venir pour vous.
(Undated and unsigned missive received by Sir Braxton de Russe, West Court Manor, London on July 23, Year of Our Lord 1431. Translated as:
Sir Braxton de Russe…
All things must come to pass. Your son has taken the Light from France.
Our hope is dim, but it is not gone.
We are the air, the birds. We are the night.
Fear us because we will come for you.)
London, England
Early August 1431 A.D.
The evening at sunset was sultry and cloudy as de Russe disembarked the barge he’d taken from Calais. The ports of London were busy any time of night, and this eve was no exception. Amidst the smell of the dirty river and equally sewage-ridden docks, de Russe was disembarking with eight hundred of his men and four hundred of Bedford’s men, men who had been in France for two long years and who were now returning home for a much-needed rest. De Russe was returning home, too, but his reasons were different. It wasn’t a rest he had coming. He had a mission to fulfill.
London hadn’t changed much since the last time de Russe had been here. There were boats lined up along the Thames at the docks to the east of the Tower of London, boats that were bringing forth men and riches, bound for all points within the city itself. The Tower hadn’t changed. It was still a tall, gray-stoned building with turrets like fingers as they reached, claw-like, for the sky. The smell was the same, too, that stench that rose above the city like a fog, the odor of human habitation and failure. De Russe thought France had much the same smell. It didn’t change from country to country.
It was just after sunset as the men filtered off Bedford’s three boats, men gathering on the shoreline so de Russe could move them to Etonbury Castle in Bedfordshire, one of Bedford’s former holdings that now belonged to de Russe. On the evening following the death of the Maid, Bedford had granted the castle to de Russe as well as the title Baron Henlow and a large section of Bedfordshire lands that went with it. He’d given de Russe another title as well, but one de Russe wasn’t yet willing to acknowledge, at least not until he was forced to. He didn’t even like to think about that particular title. As he stood on the shore, watching the big warhorses being brought off of the ship nearest him, he heard a familiar voice behind him.
“King’s Protector, is it?” the man said. “Are you now a nursemaid?”
De Russe knew who it was before he even turned around. Massive arms folded across his broad and armored chest, he slowly turned around to see two men grinning at him from a few feet away. One was older, big and broad, while the younger one was tall and well-built, grinning like a fool.
De Russe shook his head at his uncle, Aramis de Russe, former Duke of Exeter, and Aramis’ eldest son, Sir Worthington de Russe. He pretended to be disgusted at the sight of them when the truth was that he was pleased to see them.
“Sweet Bleeding Christ,” he hissed. “How did you two find me?”
Aramis laughed softly and moved forward, slapping de Russe on the shoulder. It was like slapping a tree. De Russe was so big, and so solid, that the older man ended up hurting his hand.
“How do you think?” Aramis said, wincing as he rubbed at his injured palm. “It is all anyone can speak of in London – the Beast is returning from France, now to guard the young king. The mere thought has thrown the entire court into a frenzy. Already, they are scared to death of this great warmongering legend that you represent.”
Aramis wriggled his eyebrows in dramatic emphasis as Worthington, known as Worth, who two years younger than de Russe’s thirty years, grasped de Russe by a big shoulder affectionately. Worthington had the de Russe size and dark hair but he didn’t possess the de Russe stoic and rather grumbling demeanor. Both he and Aramis were quite jovial and amiable in direct contrast to their brooding, unfriendly relation.
“We have missed you, old man,” Worthington said sincerely. “We have been hearing great rumblings from France.”
De Russe suspected what he meant right away; the Maid. It was in Worthington’s expression more than his words. There wasn’t anyone of political awareness in France or England that didn’t know about the young woman from Domremy.
But de Russe did not elaborate or comment on that particular fact, certainly not this early in the conversation. Perhaps he was being paranoid that the incident with the Maid was all they would have heard of his exploits in France. He had done some other noteworthy things, too, such as being the Earl of Salisbury’s muscle during the Siege of Orleans. He had very nearly been the mastermind behind that battle. He had, in fact, been fighting in France dating back to squiring during the Siege of Rouen.
Aye, he’d spent more of his adult life in France than he had in England, but still, he wondered if people would have heard about his other heroics, the great feats of the mighty Beast, the man who was the culmination of seven great families, the bloodlines of which pulsed through his veins. De Shera, de Wolfe, de Russe, de Nerra, de Lohr, de Velt, and de Lara all culminated in the most powerful knight England had yet to see. But at this point in time, the Maid seemed to take precedence over everything, including the respectability of his breeding.
“Is that so?” de Russe finally said. “Well, I suppose I should have known. You two are always at the cusp of any gossip. By the way, what are your titles now, Uncle? Since you were stripped of Exeter last year, I’ve not heard if you’ve regained what you lost.”
Aramis shrugged. “It is an easy thing to fall out of favor,” he said, almost callously. “I refused Bedford more troops for France, when he had already taken a thousand men from me, and he stripped me of my title and gave it to Lord Holland. Fortunately for me, I have the sympathy of his brother, Gloucester, who is also the king’s uncle and regent, and he has given me the Warminster dukedom for my loyalty to the crown. Small compensation for losing Exeter, but I am fairly certain I will regain it again someday. Holland’s father rebelled against the young king’s father so it is well known the Hollands have a tenuous hold on any titles they have, including mine. I shall have it again someday. But I take comfort in that Warminster comes with Deverill Castle as well as a title for Worth.”
De Russe looked at his younger cousin. “Now you are titled?” He shook his head. “God and saints preserve us. The country is going to the dogs.”
Worthington grinned broadly. “I am now Viscount Westbury,” he said proudly. Then, he thumped de Russe on the chest. “But you, Bastian… you have come home with something quite substantial. We heard rumor of what you have been granted for your service in France. Do tell us all of it, man, and hold nothing back.”
Sir Bastian de Russe gazed at his uncle and cousin, a faint smile playing on his lips. With his fine breeding, Bastian held the best traits from all of his ancestors – at six and a half feet tall, he had the height of his great warrior forefathers and he also had their big, powerful bodies, something that set him apart from almost anyone else. He had the dark complexion from the de Sheras, the sky-blue eyes of the de Lohrs, the de Wolfe square jaw, the de Velt shoulder-length black hair, the de Nerra gift of speech, and the de Lara razor-sharp intellect. It was a devastating combination for not only was he the premier warrior for the House of de Russe, he was also the biggest of the male line and the most beauteous. Many a female had thrown themselves at de Russe’s feet, only to be kicked aside. To Bastian, women were a necessity and nothing more. He had little use for them.
That was why he thought carefully before replying to his nosy uncle and nosy cousin. Aye, he’d been granted rewards for his service in France, riches and titles, but he’d also been granted a marital contract, something he wasn’t willing to acknowledge yet. He was still hoping to talk Bedford out of it but, in hindsight, it would be of no use. Bedford’s decision was final and the marital match was a strategic one. Even so, Bastian couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the fact that he was soon to become a husband. The axe of matrimony hanging over his head was almost enough to send him running back to France.
And it was something his uncle and cousin didn’t need to know, at least not yet. As he mulled over his response, he stepped aside as more men and horses disembarked the cog behind him. He delayed purposely, making his meddlesome uncle and cousin wait for the information they would undoubtedly shout all over London. The pair could never keep quiet for long.
“King’s Protector is more of a command from Bedford than it is a title that I am pleased to accept,” he finally said. “The nine-year-old king needs a protector, or at least Bedford and Gloucester believe so. Therefore, I have been appointed the task of being a bodyguard for their nephew, young King Henry. But Bedford knew this would be a distasteful assignment for a field commander, so he has granted me Etonbury Castle in Bedfordshire along with the title Baron Henlow and Arlesey in compensation. I now have a big chunk of Bedfordshire that belongs to me. You may address me as Lord Henlow from now on.”
Aramis and Worthington were grinning at him. “And?” Aramis prompted. “What else did he grant you?”
Bastian sighed softly. He knew what the man was driving at. So they had undoubtedly heard about the marriage contract, too, the intrusive magpies that they were, and it was an effort not to show his displeasure. Great Bleeding Christ, he thought to himself. He was going to have to face the marital contract sooner than he’d hoped. There was no way to avoid it.
“Am I to understand that you have heard that part of it, too?” he asked unhappily.
Aramis nodded. “It, too, is all over London,” he replied. “You have been awarded a bride from the very powerful le Bec family. Richmond le Bec himself will be your father-in-law. Surely you are grateful for this match.”
Bastian scratched absently at his jaw. “I suppose I should be,” he said. “But I am not ready for a wife yet.”
Worthington couldn’t resist picking at him. “We hear she is vastly talented and vastly beautiful,” he said. “She’s part of the Duchess of Gloucester’s court and I have heard she can speak five languages, paint, recite, and sing. Rumor has it she is the best singer in all of England. The young king is evidently very fond of her. I also heard that the Duke of Gloucester has his eye on the girl, so mayhap you are doing her a favor by taking her out of Eleanor’s court. If Richmond le Bec hears that Gloucester has eyes for his eighteen-year-old daughter, Gloucester’s days are numbered.”
Bastian nodded his head patiently. “I have heard all of this,” he said. “You forget that the lady’s brother is sworn to me. Gannon le Bec is my friend as well as my knight and he has told me everything I need to know about his youngest sister.”
That statement interested the pair. “Does le Bec seem agreeable to you marrying his sister?” Worthington asked.
Bastian nodded his head. “He does,” he said. “But, much like me, he has little choice but to accept the situation.”
As if on cue, a big knight in a full complement of plate armor suddenly appeared at the top of the ramp that led down from the cog. Leading a blond and equally armored charger, the tall, dark-haired knight came to the bottom of the ramp, catching the attention of Bastian has he moved.
“My lord,” he greeted Bastian, politely acknowledging the other two de Russe males. “All of your men have disembarked. De Lara and I are the last.”
Bastian looked up to the dark deck of the ship, seeing another knight appearing at the top of the ramp. These were big, battle-hardened warriors, sworn to him personally, and he relied on them heavily. In the darkness, their silhouettes were big and wraith-like, as if they were angels of doom. The grating of the armor as they moved sounded like death itself. These were the Beast’s minions, men who were feared nearly as much as de Russe himself.
“Ah, I see de Lara,” Aramis said as the second enormous knight headed down the ramp leading his heavily-burdened charger. “So your cousin on your mother’s side is still sworn you, eh? The de Laras usually keep close to their own families along the Marches. I am surprised to see that Lucas is still with you.”
The second knight came off the ramp, steering his charger clear of le Bec’s because the horses didn’t like one another. Tall, fair, and leanly muscular at the young age of twenty years and three, Sir Lucas de Lara recognized his cousin’s uncle. Bastian had three uncles on his father’s side and Lucas knew all of them; Aramis, Trenton, and Hugh. He liked Aramis the least and Worthington even less in spite of the fact they had fostered together. Aramis was ruthless and politically ambitious and Worthington was the same. They wouldn’t have pissed on their own mother to put out a fire if, in leaving her burning, it would have furthered their own agendas. Therefore, Lucas flipped up his visor and acknowledged the men coolly.
“My lords,” he said crisply, his focus immediately turning to Bastian. “The men are gathered, my lord. Where would you have us move them?”
Bastian pointed north. “Take them out of the city to Holborn and then head east on the old Oxford Road. When you reach the Tottenham Road, which will lead north in to Bedfordshire, camp at the crossroads for the night and then continue north to Etonbury Castle. I shall catch up with you in a day or two.”
De Lara nodded smartly, although there was curiosity in his expression. “Where will you go, Bastian?” he asked quietly. He had permission to address his cousin informally. “Your father sent word that he is in London. Will you go see Uncle Braxton?”
Bastian shook his head, trying to turn away so that Aramis and Worthington wouldn’t hear what he had to say. He didn’t want them repeating anything.
“Not right away,” he grunted quietly. “I am sure that is why Uncle Aramis and Worth are here, to take me to my father, but I have been instructed to see Gloucester first before I do anything else, so I will be heading to Greenwich to see Humphrey before I do anything else.”
De Lara kept a straight face because he knew Aramis and Worthington were watching him. “To the new Bella Court?” he asked, muffled. “I hear that God himself is jealous of the place.”
Bastian lifted his eyebrows in acknowledgement. “An icon of prideful luxury for his wife, I am sure,” he muttered. “She has always had a massive entourage. He had to have somewhere to contain it. I am sure a greater lair of depravity and corruption has never existed.”
De Lara struggled not to grin. “And you are about to head into the belly of the beast,” he said. “I am quite curious to see it myself. Shall le Bec and I ride escort?”
Bastian shook his head. “Nay,” he said flatly. “You two are in charge of the men. I will catch up to you once I’ve seen Gloucester.”
De Lara wouldn’t be so easily put off. “Isn’t le Bec’s sister at Bella Court?” he asked. “She’s part of the Duchess of Gloucester’s court, you know, and Gannon has mentioned his desire to visit his sister. He hasn’t seen her in two years. Why not let us come with you? Besides, I want to wallow in wickedness and decadence, too. Why should you have all the fun?”
Bastian looked at his cousin, displeasure on his features. “There is no reason for you to go.”
“But I want to meet your new wife.”
Bastian couldn’t help the expression of extreme distaste now rampant on his features. “I am going to see Gloucester so that he can introduce me to my betrothed,” he said impatiently. “I do not plan to marry her this night, so why must you come to witness my displeasure as I am introduced to the woman? It is not her fault I am not happy with this marriage and if, on the off-chance I manage to offend her, I do not want le Bec there for obvious reasons. If I say something wrong, I do not want her running to her brother so that he comes to punish me for upsetting his sister. This is a very delicate situation, Luc. You will not treat it so casually.”
De Lara did grin, then. “You know Gannon would not challenge you in any case,” he said. “He knows you well enough to know that you would not consciously insult the woman, but he has made mention of wanting to see her. We can have the senior sergeants take the men north. Let Gan and I ride with you to Bella Court. You may have need of us.”
Bastian sighed with frustration, mostly because he didn’t want to argue with Lucas any longer. He was too exhausted to particularly care, to be truthful, so he would let his knights come along simply to shut the man up. He also suspected that Lucas wanted to see the women of the duchess’ court, as he had a discerning eye for women in general. Whatever the case, he was not entirely opposed to letting his knights come along. He waved Lucas off as he turned back towards Aramis and Worthington.
“Then secure my horse and my possessions while I finish speaking with my uncle,” he said. “And make sure the men understand what is expected of them. Provide the sergeants with enough coinage to procure enough meat for tonight. I would see the men well fed after such a long journey.”
Lucas was off to carry out his orders as Bastian returned his focus to Aramis and Worthington, who were watching him most curiously. He struggled not to come across as impatient with them.
“Although I am very grateful that you both have come to welcome me home,” he said, “you will understand when I say I have much to attend to. Mayhap you will come visit me at Etonbury soon.”
Aramis would not easily be put off. “Surely you will rest tonight, Bastian,” he said. “Your father is expecting you. It is he who has sent us to bring you home.”
He confirmed what Bastian already knew. “I cannot tonight,” he said. “Gloucester has summoned me and he will have my head if I do not see him before I see anyone else. You know this. Return to my father and tell him that I will try and see him tomorrow morning before I head up to Etonbury. Is he at West Court Manor?”
Aramis nodded. “He is,” he replied. “We are all there. Come and see Braxton before you go, Bastian. You know that your father has not been well.”
That seemed to slow Bastian down somewhat. He nodded, with some regret. “I do,” he replied. “My sisters have sent me missives detailing his health as of late. His heart, isn’t it?”
Aramis confirmed it. “The physic says he is growing steadily weaker,” he said. “I do not relish outliving my younger brother, Bastian, but your father has not been at all well since losing your mother. It took something out of the man to watch his wife die of a cancer.”
Bastian remembered his mother, Lady Aderyn de Lara de Russe, a fine and intelligent woman with a very funny sense of humor. She had been his source of wisdom, and of strength, just as she had been those things to the rest of the family. Bastian was the eldest child with two younger sisters and another brother who had died in infancy, and the family had been very close knit until Aderyn’s death. Like an explosion, her passing had scattered them to the wind with nothing left to hold them together. Bastian missed those days of familial closeness. Therefore, he reconsidered the priority to visit his father.
“Tell my father I will see him before I head north,” he said after a moment. “It will more than likely be tomorrow sometime and I cannot stay for long, but I will come and see him. You will tell him that.”
Aramis nodded, satisfied. “I will,” he replied. “Are you off to see Gloucester now?”
Bastian nodded, slapping his uncle on the shoulder and nearly sending the man crashing into Worthington. “I am,” he said as he moved for his muzzled warhorse. “I will see you at West Court tomorrow, I swear it.”
As Aramis watched his big nephew move off, satisfied that he would again see the man, Worthington took a few steps after Bastian as if to follow him.
“Do you want company, Bas?” he asked. “I could ride with you. We have not seen each other in two years. Would you truly deny me the pleasure?”
Bastian didn’t want his cousin along but stopped short of insulting the man. “Not tonight,” he said. “I am weary and would make terrible conversation. We shall see each other tomorrow when I visit my father.”
He mounted his horse before Worthington could protest, spurring the charger onto the road that lined the docks, the avenue that led into the walled city of London. His knights mounted swiftly and followed him, all three of them disappearing into the darkness of night that was cloaking the city. The sounds of their horses’ hooves echoed off the streets, the structures, long after they had disappeared from view.
Aramis and Worthington stood there for few moments after Bastian had faded from their sight, their attention turning to the hundreds of men that Bastian’s sergeants were now starting to move. The shouts of men reverberated all around as the weary army, so very weary from years of war, began to move like a great tide of men. Worthington finally turned to his father.
“You did not tell him of the threat Uncle Braxton received,” he said. Then, he shook his head with great regret. “If you had told him, he would have ridden straight to West Court.”
Aramid nodded faintly. “I know,” he said. “But Bastian is exhausted. Could you not see that? Any mention of threats against him, threats that his father has been receiving no less, will not help his state. Let him settle his business with Gloucester first. When he sees Braxton tomorrow, he will know the extent of what has been happening.”
Worthington’s jaw flexed. “Supporters of the Maid have threatened him for his role in her demise,” he said quietly. “The Armagnacs threaten him because he did not save her from the flame.”
“We do not know it was the Armagnacs for certain.”
“It could only be them. Uncle Braxton said so.”
Aramis suddenly looked very old and very weary himself. As the head of the House of de Russe, he assumed all family burdens, even if they weren’t directed at him. The latest threats against the Beast, the greatest knight England had ever seen, were almost too much for him to take. But in that sorrow lingered a more realistic thought.
“I am sure he already knows of the threats against him by the Armagnacs,” he muttered. “What he does not know is that they have threatened Braxton as well. Certainly, Bastian must know. Braxton’s heart is too weak to take such a strain.”
Worthington simply nodded, thinking on his hulking, infamous cousin and the life the man led. Surely, he would not have traded places with him. Not for anything.
Silently, Aramis and Worthington left the dark and smelly shoreline where the boats bobbed gently in the night tide, finding their way back to their steeds and looking forward to a warm bed and a good night’s sleep but wondering all along if they were about to see the Beast unleashed against the threats against him. Aramis wondered, too, if battle and warfare weren’t in his own future. Old as he was, if Bastian called upon him, he knew he would go.
He would fight the threats against the Beast. De Russe family honor would dictate it. Suddenly, the future, to Aramis, wasn’t so clear.
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