Return to Honor (Knights of Honor Book 10)
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Synopsis
1395 A.D. – Adopted as a newborn by one of England's most powerful families, Jessimond de Montfort is now grown—and curious about her roots. She sets out to learn who she is away from her family and joins a mummers' troupe, where she serves as a seamstress and troubadour, hoping she'll discover love along the way, as all her married siblings have.
Returning from two years of battle in the king's service, Sir Marcus de Harte discovers his beloved mother has died and his father has remarried and fathered a pair of daughters. His anger drives Marcus from Hartefield, from his home, and he finds a new home among a group of actors.
Drawn to one another, Jessimond and Marcus become friends—and then lovers—until they are driven apart by unforeseen circumstances.
Join Jessimond and Marcus as they move heaven and earth in order to unite once more and share in a powerful and unforgettable love.
Each book in the Knights of Honor series is a standalone story that can be enjoyed out of order.
Series Order:
Book #1 Word of Honor
Book #2 Marked by Honor
Book #3 Code of Honor
Book #4 Journey to Honor
Book #5 Heart of Honor
Book #6 Bold in Honor
Book #7 Love and Honor
Book #8 Gift of Honor
Book #9 Path to Honor
Book #10 Return to Honor
Release date: November 8, 2018
Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.
Print pages: 252
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Return to Honor (Knights of Honor Book 10)
Alexa Aston
PROLOGUE
London—July, 1376
Gregory de Challon felt the waves of disapproval coming off Sir Rodric Shelley as the two men traipsed silently through the empty streets of London. Today had proven hot and the heat seemed to linger into the night as the midnight hour approached. The streets stank of waste that had been dumped from windows, reminding Gregory why so many of the nobility left London during the summer months. At least it wouldn’t take long to reach the cottage he’d leased for Celia since the teeming crowds were now tucked into their beds for the night. He needed it that way because he didn’t want to be seen visiting the girl, heavy with child.
His child.
It was her fault for being so damned beautiful. Gregory had been tempted beyond measure when he first spied Celia Achard at court. Only ten and six, she was small in height when compared to most women but her full breasts and tiny waist had caught his attention, as did her glorious mane of golden hair. But it was her eye color that truly whetted his appetite. The sprite’s eyes were amethyst in color, like two jewels set in a perfect face.
He’d had his share of women—and then some. Growing up, he’d bedded anyone in a skirt, be it a servant or local village wench. When his father brought him to the royal court in London, Gregory had plowed through a bevy of pretty widows before working his way through a dozen or more married lovers, both at court and in the city of London.
That was before Celia arrived. Why a naïve virgin had turned his very experienced head was something Gregory didn’t understand, only that she made his blood sing. He had thought to steal only a kiss from her in a darkened alcove. Mayhap two. Then kisses had turned to touch and touch crashed out of control until she found herself with child. She hid it for as long as she could and then told her father she’d been asked to visit a friend at her family’s country estate. Lord Americ Achard rarely saw his daughter and had only given her a cursory glance when she told him of her travel plans for the summer. Celia said her father seemed relieved that she had somewhere to go so that he wouldn’t be responsible for her.
That had allowed Gregory to rent the tiny cottage in the heart of London while Celia’s time to deliver drew near. He’d stolen away from the palace to visit her a few times, not nearly as much as either of them would have liked, but that had to end. Today.
When he broke her heart.
Oh, she wouldn’t know right away. He would make gallant promises tonight and cover her in sweet kisses. She would deliver the child and Sir Rodric would take her back to Nesterfield. She had no mother and her two younger brothers had come to court for their summer break to spend time with their father, a man heavily involved in court politics and the royal treasury. Once he’d taken a few days to show his sons London, Achard and the boys left to join the court’s summer progress. Because of that, Celia could recover from childbirth alone at home, with no one the wiser.
Except for the babe.
As they drew near their destination, Gregory paused. His companion halted and looked at him with wary eyes.
“Today is the last day I will see her,” he promised the knight, who’d gotten Gregory out of more scrapes that anyone could imagine.
“And I’m to take her to Nesterfield after she gives birth. To your babe,” Sir Rodric said, his tone even but accusing Gregory all the same.
“Aye. Offer to pay the midwife to take the child away.”
“If she refuses?” the knight asked boldly.
Gregory swallowed. “Then get rid of it on the way.”
Sir Rodric’s brows rose. “You want me to kill it. A babe. Your babe.”
He steeled himself. “Do whatever you have to do, Rodric. But Celia is not to arrive home with a child in her arms.”
“What should I tell the lady happened to her babe?”
“Whatever you wish.”
Gregory turned away and strode off, knowing the loyal knight would follow. He’d been in service to the de Challons his entire life and would do his duty, no matter how much he despised the outcome.
They reached the cottage and Gregory opened the door, leaving his soldier outside to make sure no one else entered behind him. A single candle glowed in the one room. Celia lay atop a pallet on the floor, fast asleep. He went and knelt beside her.
In sleep, she looked even younger but she still resembled an earthly angel. Her face had grown slightly fuller. He placed a palm against her rounded belly. A moment later, he felt a strong kick against it. He jerked his hand away, not wanting to think about the child they’d made together. Lowering his mouth to hers, he pressed a kiss against her soft lips.
She awakened and opened her mouth to him. He accepted the invitation, kissing her deeply, knowing it would be the last time their lips met. Breaking the kiss, he helped her sit up, her back supported against the wall behind her. Gregory pulled a small, velvet pouch from his pocket and handed it to her.
“A gift?” Celia’s face lit up.
“A little something to remember me by,” he said lightly.
She loosened the strings and reached inside, withdrawing an amethyst brooch. It had taken going to three jewelers until he found what he wanted but the smile that lit her face made his troubles worthwhile.
“’Tis the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” she swore.
“I thought the gems matched the color of your eyes. Here, let me pin it on you.”
Gregory opened the clasp and slid the pin through the material of her nightdress. Celia fingered the brooch lovingly.
Cupping her face, he said, “I have to go away for a little while, love.”
“To Egelina?” she asked, her mouth turning down.
“Aye. She is my betrothed and we are to wed in three days’ time.”
“But you will stop it, won’t you, Gregory?” Her large eyes pleaded with him.
“I will do what I can, Celia,” he said, knowing he would never dream of halting the marriage between him and the homely cow whose bridal price was large enough to ensure she would be taken off her parents’ hands for good. “To do so, I must convince both her and her parents—as well as my father—that we should not marry.”
“But you are so good with words, Gregory. You are intelligent. You will be able to reason with them. Make them see why you cannot marry Egelina.” Her mouth set in determination.
He shrugged. “I cannot predict what will happen, love. A betrothal is as good as being wed. Persuading all parties involved will be difficult.”
“But not impossible.” She gave him a tender smile. “I believe you can do anything, Gregory. Even guarantee that we will always be together.”
“Not for a while,” he reminded her. “If they knew of you and the babe, that would not be reason enough to break our arrangement. I must find a way that appeals to all sides. Try not to worry. You and the child will be safe at Netherfield. Your father and brothers will be gone for a few months and then most likely, Lord Achard will return them to where they foster before he arrives back at court. By then, I hope I will have worked out a solution to our problem.”
Celia’s eyes misted with tears. “You think of me—and the babe—as a problem?” Her lips trembled and he knew she was on the verge of breaking down.
“Nay, love. You misconstrued my meaning.”
Tears leaked from her eyes. “I’m sorry. ‘Tis being with child. I find myself so emotional.” She paused. “I think my time draws near.”
“Rodric has been tasked to take care of everything. He will bring a midwife for the delivery. Then he will wait a few days until you are strong enough to travel before he escorts you home.”
“I wish I could go to your home. Our home,” she said stubbornly.
Gregory knew he needed to leave before her demands became unreasonable. Brushing his lips against hers a last time, he then said, “I must go. Take care.”
Celia threw her arms about his neck. “I love you, Gregory.”
He felt the hot tears against his skin. Wrapping his arms around her, he inhaled one final time the sweet scent of her innocence. An innocence he’d ruined. Guilt flushed through him, knowing he would marry his betrothed and live a hundred leagues away from a woman who just might have captured his hard heart. Gregory told himself it was all for the best. There would be no child. Hopefully, it wouldn’t live but if it did, Rodric would see that Celia Achard arrived home with only herself. Her body would heal. Eventually, her heart would, too.
Or so he told himself.
“Let me help you.”
Gregory eased her back onto the pallet. On her back, her belly rose like a majestic mountain. A belly filled with his child. He shrugged off the thought and brushed back a lock of hair from her face.
“Go to sleep, Celia.”
“I hope my dreams are of you,” she said. Her eyes closed and within seconds, she appeared asleep.
Rising, he drank in one long, last look and left the cottage. Nodding at Rodric, who would remain behind, Gregory slipped back through the quiet, dark streets, regret rending his heart in two.
***
Rodric’s anger at his liege lord’s oldest son rippled through him. The boy had played with fire his entire life, never being burned, thanks to always having someone to clean up his messes after him. Rodric could understand a boy seeking adventure but Gregory de Challon’s attraction to danger would cost him dearly someday. The boy had become a man who knew no boundaries. He’d dallied with every eligible woman at the royal court without consequence and now he had walked away from any sense of duty to Lady Celia Achard. By now, the fool was wed to that ugly Egelina and either counting the money she’d brought or seducing some serving wench in the nearby village. Rodric knew Sir Gregory would never look back at the trouble he’d caused.
Fortunately, Lady Celia had lived through the delivery, though he thought her blood loss great. Rodric had worried at her small size, as had the midwife, but the young noblewoman had managed to give birth to a healthy girl after a day and half in agonizing labor. The child thrived—but her mother grew weaker by the minute. He wasn’t certain the lady would live through the journey to her home. He’d bought a cart and had thought she would ride next to him in it on the way to Netherfield but now determined she would need to lie in the back with the babe and conserve what little strength she had left.
The midwife refused to entertain the idea of accepting the child after its birth. The woman told Rodric no one wanted a newborn, least of all a nobleman’s cast-off, and she’d be hard put to find the girl a home in London. Though no names had ever been exchanged, he knew there’d been no way to hide the fact that Lady Celia was nobility. Her speech, her dress, her very manner gave that way.
Now, Rodric was to take his two charges out of the city. The rent on the cottage had run out so they would be leaving for Netherfield in minutes. He’d already put a small trunk of Lady Celia’s in the wagon bed and laid blankets out for her to rest upon. The midwife had left a basket behind for the child to sleep in. He’d bought a small blanket at a vendor’s stall and placed the brown wool inside the basket for the child to sleep upon.
Returning inside, he saw a pale Lady Celia standing, wobbly on her feet.
“Come, my lady. Let me help you to the cart.”
“But the—”
“I’ll return for the babe. She’s fast asleep in her basket. You needn’t worry about her.”
He led her to the wagon and gingerly lifted her into it.
“Lie down and settle yourself. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Rodric returned and glanced around the cottage one last time, making sure they left nothing behind, especially anything that might give a clue as to who had stayed here and what had occurred. He’d already paid the midwife enough to keep her lips from flapping. Turning to the basket, he lifted it by its handle, the sleeping child not stirring at the subtle movement.
Gazing down, he couldn’t see anything of Sir Gregory in the babe. She had blond fuzz atop her head, which would grow out one day to be the same shade as her mother’s. She also had the delicate nose and mouth of Lady Celia. He fought the bile rising in him.
How could he kill a babe?
Rodric didn’t have it in him. He’d killed on the battlefield. Done things he wasn’t particularly proud of—especially when cleaning up the multitude of troubles Sir Gregory left behind. But he had to draw the line at murdering an innocent child. His code as a knight prevented it. He’d vowed to protect the weak, including women and children.
Yet, he knew he couldn’t go against Sir Gregory’s wishes. Somehow, he would have to find a place for the babe along the way before they reached Netherfield.
And lie to her mother about what happened to her child.
Returning outside, he climbed into the back of the cart. Lady Celia lay there, looking even more ashen than before. So far, she’d been able to nurse the babe but he worried that time might run out.
“Let me have her,” the noblewoman begged.
“You are too weak, my lady,” he warned. “I will place the basket next to you. She will be fine.”
Rodric knew how ill Lady Celia must be for she didn’t argue with him. He nestled the basket by her side and then covered both the babe with a portion of the blanket and then her mother with another one.
“Call out if you need anything and I’ll stop the cart right away,” he said cheerfully, trying to placate her.
“All right.” She gave him a sad smile. “Thank you, Sir Rodric. For everything. I know how much Gregory counts upon you.”
“That he does, my lady. Don’t you worry. I’ll get you to Netherfield, safe and sound,” he promised.
“And my child.”
He gave her a tight smile and a nod—but couldn’t force himself to say those words.
Rodric climbed into the driver’s seat and steered the horse through the busy London streets. It would take almost a week to reach Netherfield. That gave him time to decide what to do.
As the days passed, he realized Lady Celia would not reach her childhood home alive. She grew punier by the day and the babe had trouble nursing at her breast. He’d thought to tell the mother that her child had died and he’d stopped to bury it while she slept but realized he might not have to lie to her—for she would be the one who passed on.
He stopped in a village and bought some bread and cheese and a jug of ale at a tavern. While waiting for the maid to gather up what he’d purchased, Rodric listened to a conversation occurring next to him because he heard the name de Montfort mentioned. He had met a couple of the same name at court, Lord Geoffrey and Lady Merryn. He’d been impressed by the pair’s intelligence and kindness and obvious affection toward one another. Others at court had nothing but good to say about the two and how devoted they were to each other and their children.
As he listened, he learned the very same couple’s estate lay not far from this village, in the direction he now headed. A plan began to form in his mind.
Rodric thanked the maid and gave her a coin and returned to the wagon. He drove it through the village and down the road two leagues until he spied the castle on a hill up ahead. He stopped the cart and climbed in the back. Lady Celia had begged to hold her child when they’d stopped at the village. He’d taken the girl from her basket and handed her to the mother to nurse and allowed her to remain with her mother.
Glancing down, the babe was wide awake, a small dribble of her mother’s milk on her chin. Rodric wiped it away with his finger. The babe cooed at him. He lifted her and placed the girl in her basket. Turning to Lady Celia, his jaw dropped.
The lady looked at peace though her eyes stared up at the sky above. He touched his fingers to her throat and found no pulse beating within. Brushing his hand over her eyes, he closed the lids. Lady Celia seemed to wear a small smile of thanks.
Rodric jumped from the wagon and reached for the basket. He lifted it and walked to the edge of the woods near the road. His fervent prayer to the Virgin implored Her to intercede and have someone from these lands find the babe and take her in. Setting the basket on the ground, he saw the babe look up at him with her large eyes, as if she questioned his actions.
“’Tis the best I can do for you, my little lady,” he said softly. “I hope you will find a home near here and happiness, as well. I will take your sweet mother to her own home to be laid to rest.”
A thought occurred to him. Quickly, he strode to the cart and with trembling fingers, removed the brooch that Sir Gregory had gifted to Lady Celia. She had worn it each day next to her heart, telling Rodric how that kept her love close to her.
Returning to the basket, he opened the blanket. Not trusting his fingers in fear of pricking the babe, he slipped the piece inside the blanket, pushing it to the bottom, then folded the blanket again so that it wrapped snuggly around the child. He pressed his lips to the babe’s head.
“Godspeed, Child. May the Good Christ watch over you and bring you peace.”
With a heavy heart, he returned to the cart and brought the blanket over Lady Celia’s face, tucking it underneath her to secure it in place. Rodric climbed into the driver’s seat and lifted the reins. He would see Lady Celia home.
And pray every day he lived for her daughter.
CHAPTER 1
Suffolk—May, 1395
Marcus de Harte tried to ignore the uneasy feeling rumbling inside him. He looked across at Sir Rand Trammel, his closest friend, who stood surveying the late spring evening. They had spent many nights on sentry duty together, from their days of fostering through the past two years as members of King Richard’s army. The two men had been part of the force which had swept away rebellion in the north and then traveled across the sea to Ireland to appease the Irish chieftains, who had many grievances against their absentee English landlords. The king had treated these so-called “High Kings” of Ireland with kindness and shown them respect, which awed the Irish leaders who’d trekked to Dublin for the series of meetings.
It hadn’t hurt that Richard had brought along an army over eight thousand strong in a show of force. Marcus thought that had helped speed along the concessions made by the Irish as much as anything the monarch had discussed with them. Thankfully, the king had accomplished all of his objectives and the borders of English rule were firmly established.
Because of it, Marcus now led his men home to Hartefield. They had parted ways with what was left of the king’s army, as various groups pulled away and headed toward their homes as the mass of soldiers journeyed across England. Only a core group would return to the Palace of Westminster with the king.
Marcus thought of the ten men who had accompanied him two years ago when they’d left Suffolk. Eight of them now returned and seven of those had bedded down for the night. He and Rand usually took the first watch, liking to see everything settled before they caught a few hours of sleep.
A restlessness came over Marcus. He looked to his companion, whose eyes swept across the area. Night had settled, though the full moon shone brightly.
“What have you missed most about home?” he asked his friend.
The corners of Rand’s mouth turned up. “It’s a toss-up,” he declared. “Part of me says ‘tis Cook’s roasted boar that I’ve missed most for it always makes my mouth water. No one can prepare a boar like Cook.”
“I agree,” Marcus said. “And the rest of you?”
Rand now grinned mischievously. “I am eager to see if your sainted mother has hired any new serving girls for the great hall. I will give them my famous tour of every nook and cranny found within Harte Castle and continue onto places along the way throughout the estate.”
Marcus shook his head. Rand could charm the skirts off of any woman—and frequently had from the time the two had been strapping young lads on the cusp of manhood. While Marcus indulged his own appetite now and then with various women in the nearby village of Little Morrholm, Rand plowed his way through every female at Hartefield and beyond. Never one to commit to a single woman, Rand would die a happy, old man someday—one who’d never acquired a wife.
On the other hand, Marcus would need to wed to provide at heir. As an only son, he knew once he returned home that it would be expected. He’d been betrothed years before but the girl had died and his father hadn’t found a suitable replacement before Marcus left to join the king’s army. He already dreaded listening to his father discuss betrothal terms, much less the physical characteristics of women for Marcus to wed. While Lord Charles de Harte had never raised a hand against his wife, Lady Margaret—and those surrounding her—had listened to an earful of complaints made by her husband since she hadn’t produced any more children after her son’s birth.
At least any who lived.
Marcus knew of five miscarriages his mother had suffered although he suspected there might have been more. Of those Lady Margaret managed to bring to term, none survived. Three children, all females, had been stillborn. Two other girls had each lived less than a day, mewling softer than kittens before they succumbed to death.
That had led Lord Charles to rage against his wife, sometimes for hours at a time. The baron complained about how delicate his wife was. How her narrow hips failed her when it came time to give birth. How even the children she did produce were dreaded girls. Lady Margaret always kept calm during these tirades and would finally point out that their firstborn was a magnificent male—tall, broad of shoulders, healthy, and strong.
With each birth, his mother had grown weaker and less animated, which concerned Marcus. Fortunately, his father turned his attentions elsewhere, deciding his wife would never produce another child—much less a son. Consequently, Marcus now had a smattering of half-siblings throughout the surrounding area.
All female.
He wondered if the fault lay in his father but would never be bold enough to point that out to Lord Charles.
“And what have you missed most about home?” Rand asked him in return.
“My mother,” Marcus said without hesitation. “I long to see her. Next to you, she is my best friend. She has taught me much about managing an estate. In truth, I believe she knows more about it than my father does.”
“We all missed Lady Margaret’s sweet smile and even disposition,” Rand confirmed.
“I still worry because I haven’t heard from her in so long,” he shared.
“’Tis hard to get a missive through to an army on the march, Marcus. You know that.”
“Still, I did receive one from her soon after we left. If Father cared enough, he would have sent a determined messenger who could have found me and delivered any missives Mother had written.”
“Your father?” Rand snorted. “Don’t get me wrong. You know I would do anything for you or your mother. I would defend the people of Hartefield with my life.” He paused. “But though I am loyal to Lord Charles, I think little of him.”
When Marcus felt his eyes go wide, Rand held up a hand.
“I know. ‘Tis treasonous to speak in such a manner but if I cannot speak plainly to you, my closest friend, then when can I say it? No one likes your father, Marcus, least of all you. We all know our place, though, and would never speak our thoughts aloud. I only share them with you and I hope you will forget what I’ve said. Only know this—everyone awaits the day when you are their new baron.”
Marcus knew his father would never be one to have the love of his people. Charles de Harte was too harsh and unyielding. But despite his feelings, he would never wish for his father’s demise. Still, the inklings within him had grown stronger. He wanted to be home.
“I am leaving at once,” he told his friend. “For Hartefield.”
“What? Now?” Rand looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “Marcus, we’re within eight hours or so of reaching Hartefield. Wait till dawn breaks so that we may all ride together.”
“Nay. I will ride ahead.” He grinned. “And let Cook know that you and the other men are on their way.”
Rand frowned in displeasure and merely said, “If you insist.”
“Don’t worry, old friend,” Marcus said. He gripped Rand’s forearms. “Just think. This time tomorrow we will be home in front of the fire in the great hall. Our bellies full. Our beds awaiting us.” He grinned. “Mayhap you will have a woman—or two—ready to share yours.”
He went to where they’d hobbled the horses and found Storm. Freeing him, Marcus swung into the saddle. With a wave, he trotted away from the camp of sleeping men and hit the open road. Though he longed to gallop, he would not risk Storm in such a manner. At least the bright moon helped him keep a steady pace. As Marcus rode, he cherished this time alone. He’d always been someone who treasured privacy, which came rarely to a soldier. He couldn’t think of a single time in the past couple of years when he’d truly been alone, with only himself for company. Everywhere he turned, other men had formed about him. He couldn’t even relieve himself in solitude.
That’s what made these last few hours before he reached Hartefield special. Tension had built in him for days after they’d parted from the king’s troops and made their way toward Suffolk. Marcus fought the rising panic that seemed to ooze from every pore. Something seemed very wrong the closer he came toward home. He only prayed that these pricklings proved foolish. That he would arrive at Harte Castle and find nothing amiss.
The first pale streaks of pink tinged the sky as he rode up to the gates. The gatekeeper called out a cheery greeting, which Marcus returned. He informed the retainer that his men would follow later that day and to be on the lookout for them. Riding to the stables, he awakened a slumbering stable boy and asked him to give a double measure of food to Storm and rub the beast down thoroughly.
At last, he headed toward the keep. No one stirred yet but soon the castle and its inhabitants would spring to life. Marcus pushed open the door and climbed the stairs two at a time, hurrying along the dimly lit corridor toward the solar. Without bothering to knock, he slipped through the door. No candle burned in the outer room. That surprised him. His mother had a fear of the dark and always left a candle burning in the bedchamber and out in this room, as well.
He left the door open so he could see to reach the inner chamber. Opening the door, only darkness greeted him. His senses went on high alert.
Something was definitely wrong.
He slipped carefully into the room, pushing the door wide. Making out the large shape of the bed, he inched toward it, his father’s loud snores reverberating throughout the chamber. He neared the bed and reached out his hand, only to find it touched the bed curtain. Now, Marcus knew something was amiss. His mother never drew the curtains on her side of the bed, not as long as he could remember. She feared being trapped and always wanted a way to escape quickly should disaster strike in the middle of the night.
Easing his hand forward, he located a warm lump. He ran his hand up it and found a shoulder, which he gently shook.
“Mother?” he asked in a whisper, as he caught the smell of milk.
A piercing scream sounded in the darkness. It was quickly joined by the wail of a babe.
Had his mother finally given birth to a child who had survived? At her age?
Movement rippled in the bed as another child somewhere in the room began to cry.
Two children?
The snores finally ceased and his father began bellowing. Stunned, Marcus stumbled from the room into the solar’s family room, his heart beating fast.
Then a tiny female toddled from the bedchamber, her dark hair askew. She came toward him and reached her hands out. Instinct took over and Marcus lifted the child in his arms.
“What’s your name?” he asked gently.
“Livia,” the girl said, promptly jamming her thumb in her mouth and sucking loudly on it.
Movement caught his eye and Marcus turned to the bedchamber door. A young woman barely a score old appeared, a squalling babe in her arms as she balanced a lit candle. She pushed it toward Marcus and he took it.
“Hush,” she said, guiding the child’s mouth to her bare breast. Greedily, the babe latched onto it and drank, immediately calming.
“Who are you?” Marcus asked as he set the candle down on the nearby table.
Before she could reply, his father appeared in the doorway, his hair much sparser than it had been only two years ago and now totally gray.
“What is one of your whores doing in your bed? Where is Mother?” Marcus demanded.
“Your mother is dead,” Lord Charles said, his voice flat. “She died a month after you left for the rebellion in the north.”
Numbness shot through Marcus, followed by a searing anger. “Why didn’t you get word to me?”
His father’s eyes narrowed. “And why should I? You accompanied the king. You represented Hartefield. You and the men in your command had a mission to accomplish. Believe me, I agreed with most of those rebels in the north. The king should not be suing for peace with those French bastards. Not after all the time and effort and money that has been involved in this bloody war. But you answered the king’s call. Even if you had known of her death, you wouldn’t have been free to race home. Your mother would have already been in the ground, so what good could have come by you knowing she had died?”
Rage boiled within him. “And how long has this whore warmed your bed?”
His father’s glare matched Marcus’ own. “This is your step-mother. Lady Ailith. You will treat her with respect.” Lord Charles shook his head. “I am tired and wish to sleep.” He looked to his wife. “I don’t wish to be disturbed. You can handle my son.”
With that, the baron returned to his bedchamber and slammed the door.
“I am sorry about Lady Margaret, my lord,” the young woman said. “I met her briefly when my father and I came to Harte Castle on business.” Her lips trembled. “I was supposed to be . . . your bride. When your mother passed away suddenly, Lord Charles . . . well, he arranged with my father for me to remain here.”
“As his wife,” Marcus said dully.
The child in his arms nestled closer to him. She seemed so fragile as he held her.
“And do you hold a daughter or a son, my lady?” he asked.
Lady Ailith looked down at the babe who’d fallen asleep. She covered her breast. “This is Mary. You are holding Livia.”
“Two girls.”
“Aye. Other than you, it seems your father can only get girls.”
His anger began to subside but hurt and emptiness filled Marcus.
“I must go.” He handed Livia to her mother, her hands now full with both daughters.
“But you only returned, my lord,” Lady Ailith protested.
“I only came back to see my mother.”
“Will you be gone long?” she asked softly.
He thought how adrift he seemed in this moment and replied, “I don’t know.”
Marcus left the solar and returned downstairs to where servants had risen and started their day’s work. He left the keep and collected his horse, riding out to where all Hartes were buried. It was easy to find his Mother. Marcus silently knelt beside her grave and stayed for several minutes before rising and returning to his horse.
As he rode away from Harte Castle, he came across Rand and his men. Rand must have awakened them soon after he’d left and urged them to mount their horses and ride home.
Marcus slowed his horse and the group joined him.
“Your mother?” Rand asked, picking up on Marcus mood instantly.
“Dead. For most of the time we have been gone. Father has another wife—and two new daughters.”
“Where will you go?” his friend asked.
“Anywhere except here.” Marcus nudged Storm and galloped away.
CHAPTER 2
Kinwick Castle—mid-June
Jessimond de Montfort awoke after a restless night of sleep. She no longer had to contain her excitement, which had grown over the past month. The faire would arrive at Kinwick today, full of peddlers erecting stalls of goods. More importantly, they would be accompanied by the mummers’ troupe which had come to Kinwick grounds for the past five years and stayed two weeks. In that time, she had come to know the proprietors, two brothers who had never married, as well as many of the actors.
She’d made a special friend in Bartholomew, the troupe’s troubadour, who had a wonderful, rich baritone and told the most marvelous stories through song as did Beatrice, Cousin Raynor’s wife. Some of Jessimond’s happiest times in childhood had been spent at Ashcroft in Beatrice Le Roux’s company, learning new songs as Beatrice taught Jessimond the words to sing and the music to play on her lute.
This time when the group left to continue to their next stop on their tour, Jessimond was determined to go with them. At least for this season.
All she had left to do was break the news to her unsuspecting parents.
Geoffrey and Merryn de Montfort had been the best parents in the world. Everyone thought highly of the pair, who had raised six children and were beloved by their tenants and servants and the knights who served them. To Jessimond, not only were they wonderful parents but shining examples of love. Outsiders thought the couple newly wedded, due to their tremendous affection toward one another. And that was what she wanted for herself.
Love.
If she were being honest, she would admit that love rarely played a role within the noble class. Arranged marriages brought strangers together. Most wedded couples hoped for respect—or possibly even friendship—to grow between them, though often neither of those occurred. Jessimond didn’t have to worry about marrying a stranger for in a bold decision, her parents had not betrothed any of their children. Geoffrey and Merryn had been a love match and seeing how their love grew more deeply over the years, they wanted their children to have the same opportunity and wed only for love.
As the youngest child, Jessimond watched for years as, one by one, her brothers and sisters had found their soul mates. Wed them. Begun their own families, binding their children to them in a rich tapestry of love. She’d seen firsthand how love enriched the lives of not only her parents but her siblings. Alys and Kit. Ancel and Margery. Hal and Elinor. Edward and Rosalyne. Nan and Tristan. Each de Montfort child had found love and captured it, never letting it go.
Except for her.
Everywhere she went, Jessimond had looked for love. Wondered if this was the place she would find her special someone. She’d spent time at all five of her siblings’ estates, as well as extended visits with various cousins. No matter how hard she’d looked, no one stood out. Not a single man appealed to her the way she had supposed he should.
Fear gripped her heart. Mayhap love would never come her way.
Because she wasn’t a true de Montfort.
Jessimond dressed quickly and braided her thick waves of golden hair, so unlike any of the other seven de Montforts. Each of her siblings had variations of Geoffrey’s dark, thick hair or Merryn’s chestnut locks, though gray strands now wove through both her parents’ hair. Her eyes, too, were unusual in color, a deep violet, which no other de Montfort child possessed. She was short in stature, almost dwarfed by her three brothers and two sisters.
Would not being a blood de Montfort keep her from finding lasting happiness?
She pushed those thoughts aside and hurried from her bedchamber down the stairs and out the doors. Racing across the bailey, she caught up with Elinor, her sister-in-law, and linked arms with her.
Elinor gave her a warm smile and squeezed Jessimond’s arm as they entered the chapel for morning mass. Jessimond admired Elinor because Elinor knew exactly who she was—a falconer. Elinor’s father abandoned her to the care of his estate’s falconer. The man became a father to Elinor and taught his adopted daughter all he knew about raptors.
Now married to Hal de Montfort, Jessimond’s middle brother and captain of the Kinwick guard, Elinor spent much of her days with Joseph, Kinwick’s falconer, as they trained various peregrines for hunting. Besides falconry, she was a mother to three children and spent countless hours with them, as well. Elinor was defined by her devotion to her family—and her raptors. Jessimond admired her greatly and longed to discover who she was, in the same way Elinor had.
Mass ended and both women returned to Kinwick’s Great Hall, allowing Hal to hand them up onto the dais in order to break their fast. He brushed a brotherly kiss against her cheek and a tender one against his wife’s lips.
“You both look most beautiful today,” he said.
Jessimond smiled fondly at her brother. “And you will continue to charm all females until you have one foot in your grave,” she retorted in a friendly manner.
“If genuine compliments toward those I love and adore can be seen as charming, then aye—I will happily charm you till my dying day, Jess.”
A servant brought bread and ale to them. She tore a piece off the small loaf and tried to chew it but her nerves made swallowing hard. Seeing Elinor in conversation with Merryn, Jessimond touched Hal’s arm.
“How did you know Elinor was the one for you?” she asked.
A smile lit her brother’s face. “I just did. I don’t know if I was aware of it when we first met but it crept upon me until it engulfed me. Soon, my every thought was consumed by Elinor’s image. How I could spend more time with her. How I could make her smile. How I could—”
He broke off and flushed.
“Oh, go on, Hal,” she teased. “It isn’t as if I haven’t noticed the heated looks pass between you two for years now. And you do have three children so I know you’ve been up to something in your bed.”
He had the grace to ignore her teasing. “You will simply know, Jess.” He paused. “Wait. Have you already found someone?” he asked eagerly. “When did you—”
“Nay. I have been thinking of it lately, though. Every day, I see your happiness. How Elinor completes you. How after decades together, Mother and Father still give each other that certain look and then disappear for hours.”
Hal took her hand. “And you want that for yourself.”
“I do. More than anything, Hal.”
He squeezed her hand and released it, taking another long draw from his cup. “You are of age. You will be ten and nine in less than a fortnight.” Hal smiled. “Summer to me always means you coming into the de Montfort fold.” He brushed another kiss against her cheek. “You will find the man you are meant to be with, Jess. Have faith. All de Montforts do, especially when we least expect it.”
But I’m not a real de Montfort.
“You haven’t eaten much,” Hal pointed out.
“I find I am not very hungry. Besides, I need to speak to Mother and Father about something.”
A gleam lit his eyes. “This sounds interesting. You have something up your sleeve.”
“I may,” she said cryptically.
He laughed. “If I can’t get it out of you, then Elinor will. People seem to tell my wife any and everything.”
Jessimond’s eyebrows shot up. “And you think she would share a secret I told her with the likes of you?”
Hal shook his head. “Nay. If you confide in her and swear her to secrecy, Elinor would be quiet as a tomb. But if you don’t ask for her silence, then she would talk it over with me.” He studied her. “Should I be concerned?” A worried look crossed his face.
“Nay. I hope I will have your support, though, in what I plan.” Quickly, she told him what she wished to do.
Hal whistled, low, not the shrill whistle he’d taught her and Nan that could bring a room to a halt. “If they give you permission—and that is a big if, Jess—then I think it would be a promising adventure. Why, even I would like to go along with you.”
She shook her head. “I want to be on my own. No protective brothers hovering over me, especially the captain of Kinwick’s guard. You would frighten everyone away and then I would never get to make any new friends.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “I wish you the best of luck when you speak to Mother and Father. You’re going to need it.”
Rising, he gave her an impish smile as he left the dais and made his way over to the group of soldiers gathered at several tables to their left. Jessimond watched Hal give instructions and the men rose as a group in order to head to the training yard. By now, Elinor also had come to her feet. Giving Jessimond a quick nod, she jumped to the floor. Most likely, she went to nurse her youngest one before meeting up with Joseph.
The time had come. Jessimond glanced to her parents.
“Mother, Father, I would like a word with you.”
Merryn’s brow wrinkled in concern. “You sound serious, Jessimond. Is anything wrong?”
“I would prefer privacy while we speak.”
Geoffrey rose and lifted his wife’s elbow so she stood next to him. “Let’s adjourn to the solar,” he suggested.
As they went upstairs, Jessimond’s heart beat rapidly. Her breath came in short, nervous spurts. She sent a prayer to the Virgin to guide her in the words to use in order to convince her parents to allow her to leave Kinwick.
Her father ushered them into the solar and they all took a seat. Jessimond looked from one to the other, knowing her words would probably hurt them both.
Drawing on the courage that her sister, Nan, always seemed to display, she decided not to ask but inform them of her intentions. “I plan to leave Kinwick for a few months,” she began.
Merryn visibly relaxed. “I thought you were going to tell us something awful by the look on your face. Are you visiting some of your brothers or sisters? Or mayhap spending time with Raynor and Beatrice?”
“Neither.” Jessimond swallowed and then plunged ahead. “I am going to travel with Elias and Moss when they leave Kinwick.”
Geoffrey leaned forward, his forearms braced upon his knees, a puzzled look upon his face. “The men who own the mumming troupe?”
“Aye. They arrive today and will be at Kinwick for a week. When they leave for their next stop, I want to go with them.”
“Do they know this?” asked Merryn pointedly, skepticism in her eyes.
“Nay,” Jessimond admitted. “But I know there are many things I could help them with. I’m an excellent seamstress and they’re forever damaging or needing new costumes. Though I have no talent for painting people like Rosalyne can, I could paint backdrops or even create props. And if Bartholomew, their troubadour, ever fell ill, I know enough songs so that I could take his place.”
“You are talented in many areas,” her mother began. “I’m sure you would prove helpful in numerous ways to this troupe but answer me this, Jessimond? Why?”
Her eyes misted with tears. “Because I need to do something for me. Find out who I am. You and Alys have taught me about the healing arts. Nan has drilled into me how to use a bow and arrow. Hal taught me swordplay and Edward how to ride. Elinor has allowed me to help her with the raptors some. I’ve known how to run a household for years and even set Nan’s up for her when she and Tristan wed.”
She sighed. “But in knowing all these things, I don’t know exactly who I am.”
“You’re a de Montfort,” declared Geoffrey, no doubt in his voice.
“Am I really?” she asked softly.
When she saw his face fall, she quickly added, “I know I’m loved, Father. Mayhap almost too much. You and Mother wrapped me in love, as did all of my siblings, from the moment you and Nan brought me home from the woods. I may not have come from Mother’s womb but I will always be a de Montfort and know I am cherished.
“I think it’s time, though, for me to explore who I am. Who I can be. Who I need to be.”
“And to do that, you wish to be on your own,” her mother said quietly.
Jessimond nodded. “Aye. Joining the mummers will allow me to be on my own for the first time, with no family to rely upon. I will be able to make friends with others I might never have come in contact with. Travel and see places I haven’t been. Learn to depend upon my skills and discover what I enjoy most.”
And find love, she thought—but chose not to voice that.
Her father sighed, looking so downcast that Jessimond almost changed her mind. She had to force herself to stay seated so that she wouldn’t throw her arms around him and swear she wouldn’t go. Then she looked at her mother. Their gazes met and Jessimond saw approval.
“This could be good for you, Jessimond,” Merryn said.
Geoffrey opened his mouth to protest and then glanced from his wife to his daughter and back. “I see I am outvoted in this matter. As usual, ‘tis the women who decide matters of importance in this family,” he said lightly.
He stood and Jessimond did go to him, embracing him tightly. “I love you so much, Father.”
Kissing her hair, Geoffrey said, “Always know that I love you even more.”
Merryn rose. “Once the mummers arrive, we will invite Elias and Moss to dine with us. We can discuss whether they will agree to take you on.”
Jessimond smiled. “I’m a very hard worker. And I’ve decided I’ll work for free. That should entice them.”
“Nay,” her mother said. “You will work many hours but you will earn every pence they pay you. I think it’s important for you to have coin of your own and decide how you wish to spend it.”
She hugged Merryn. “Thank you for understanding, Mother.”
Merryn sighed. “Understand that I will miss you every moment that you are gone. You are irreplaceable, Jessimond de Montfort. And when your grand adventure is over, I hope you will have new songs to write about these travels. I look forward to hearing you sing them.”
Jessimond left the solar, a weight lifted from her. Now, she had to speak to Elias and Moss Vawdry and win the two of them to her side.
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