The Tempest: A Medieval Romance

Book : Part of: The Blackchurch Guild: The Shadow Knights (4 books)

by Kathryn Le Veque

Genres: Ancient World Romance; Historical Romance; Enemies to Lovers

Synopsis

You haven't seen an enemies to lovers story until you've read THE TEMPEST!

Medieval mayhem and rollicking adventure has arrived for the Blackchurch Guild knights as a legendary pirate tries to storm their fortress... only to discover the legendary pirate is the most legendary buccaneer of all.

And no one knows the buccaneer better than Payne Matheson!

Payne is the Highlander of Blackchurch. Big, tough, and with a mouth he can't control, he's an excellent warrior with a supernatural gift for fighting. There is no better combatant at the Blackchurch Guild, but there's a reason for that. Both of his parents were warriors.

But he's about to step onto the fighting platform of a much-larger world stage.

Astria Julia is the daughter of Sancho I of Portugal, a royal princess by blood. She also happens to be a rebel, a lass with a mysterious past, and when she ends up at Blackchurch as a spoil of war, it's Payne who is assigned to guard her.
But he gets much more than he bargains for with the fiery Portuguese princess.

When an immovable force meets with a permanent object, it's a battle of wills to see which one breaks first. Head to head combat between Payne and Astria soon turns to something else, something soft and warm that neither one of them recognize. When Astria finally reveals the truth behind her mysterious persona, Payne is in too deep to do anything about it.

He is now part of her, she of him.

And the results could be deadly.

Join Payne and Astria on a truly epic adventure of pirates, legends, Scotsmen, and the curse of royal blood. At the Blackchurch Guild, the premier training ground of the best warriors in the world, anything can happen... and usually does!

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Release date: June 27, 2025

Publisher: Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

Print pages: 286

Sample

The Tempest by Kathryn Le Veque 
PROLOGUE 

Year of Our Lord 1223 

The Blackchurch Guild 

The rain was merciless. 

Standing at the edge of Lake Cocytus, the enormous lake that ran through the heart of the Blackchurch property, those on the shore were convinced that, at some point, a man named Noah and his giant ark would soon be appearing because the rain was truly that heavy and it had been for about a week. But this was the day scheduled for this particular exercise, so the men of Blackchurch were ready. 

Rain or no rain. 

The Viking was on the move. 

Not a true Northman in the literal sense, although he had been one at one point in his past, but the Blackchurch trainer known as The Viking had come to the conclusion that his class of recruits was ready for their final test in the landing and conquest module, something they’d been working on for the better part of six months, so it was the job of the other Blackchurch trainers to try to prevent Kristian Heldane’s class from making it not only to the shore, but to the top of the rise where a small rock shed stood. 

That was the goal. 

To reach that crumbling little shed. 

“Kristian has some enthusiastic recruits, you know,” one man said. He was enormous, with black hair and dark eyes, taller than the rest of the men around him. Tay Munro, a trainer known as The Leviathan, was the de facto leader of the Blackchurch instructors. “By the time they hit his class, they’re almost finished with their training here. You know they’re going to do everything they can in order to get to the old cottage.” 

Lightning lit up the sky, dancing across the dark clouds before disappearing to the west. Thunder rolled, following it. Everyone looked up, watching the sky, feeling the tension. Though this was only a test, that didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous. 

It meant that it was real. 

“We’re allowed to disable,” another man rumbled as water ran down his face. He had a big club in one hand, one that usually held a sword. Sinclair de Reyne was known as The Swordsman and was deadly no matter what weapon he armed himself with. “We can disable and we can break bones. We just can’t kill them.” 

“More’s the pity.” A thick Scots brogue entered the conversation, causing the others to grin. More lightning lit up the sky as Payne Matheson, a trainer known as The Tempest, tightened the fist-shaped leather wrappings on both hands that were covered with iron studs. When he saw the men around him smiling, he held up those studded leather gloves made specifically for fistfights. “I’m going for throats and heads with these, lads. Let me be the first line. Anyone who gets past me belongs tae ye.” 

As he grinned and nodded enthusiastically, a shorter, well-built man came to stand next to him, his dark gaze fixed on the turbulent lake. 

“You only want to disable them, Payne, not permanently cripple them,” he said in accented speech. “These men are not our enemy. They are men striving for perfection.” 

Payne glanced at Ming Tang. He had not been born in England, but far to the east, where he’d been raised in the Shaolin religion. It was a strict religion of great philosophy, making Ming Tang a man of many talents with a mind constantly seeking knowledge, and that curiosity was what had brought him to Blackchurch. He brought a great deal of wisdom to teach others and was wise counsel in any situation. 

Even at the onset of a fistfight with an overzealous Scotsman. 

“Of course they are striving for perfection,” Payne said. “And they shall meet it in the trainers who have worked hard tae get them tae this point. If they are not perfect, they willna get past us.” 

“Are you truly going to use those iron-studded gloves on them?” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” 

Ming Tang didn’t have an immediate answer for him, but he did smile. Sort of a “you are incorrigible” smile that Payne took as a compliment. 

“I would suggest you take a defensive stance rather than an offensive one,” Ming Tang finally said. But he sighed heavily almost as soon as the words left his mouth. “Or am I expecting too much?” 

Payne shrugged. “If they come at me, I’m ready,” he said. “Stay here with me and we shall face them together.” 

“I think I’d better so you will not kill someone.” 

Payne laughed. He clapped Ming Tang on the shoulder, meant to be a gesture of camaraderie, but he nearly threw Ming Tang off balance with the force of it. As they stood there in the driving rain, a shadow of a ship began to appear through the clouds and water. 

The Viking and his trainees were approaching. 

“I’m with you, Payne.” Creston de Royans, a trainer known as The Avenger, came up beside him. The man had a club in his hand and he held it menacingly. “I’ll help you with the onslaught. Remember that I had these recruits last year, so I am well acquainted with their tactics.” 

Payne looked at the big, blond knight. “I had them two years ago,” he said. “I spent an entire year teaching them what I know best.” 

“And what’s that?” Creston said drolly. “How to offend women? Or how to be obnoxious?” 

Payne sneered at him. “Ye’re jealous I took that dark-eyed lass from yet at the Black Cock,” he said, referring to the local tavern they used as their relaxation haven. “She dinna want a blond beast, Cres. I told ye that. She told ye that.” 

Creston waved him off. “You got her drunk and told her I had already outlived six wives,” he said. “No wonder she ran from me. But do not worry. I do not hold a grudge. Not much, anyway.” 

Payne started to laugh. “Do ye mean I have tae watch my back even now, at this moment?” 

“You’ll never known until it’s too late.” 

That brought a roar of laughter from Payne. But the continued repartee was cut short when the enormous cog drew nearer to the shore. The boat was one that the Lords of Exmoor, the men who owned and operated the Blackchurch Guild, had purchased from a ship builder in London and brought out to the wilds of Devon, in pieces, and then reconstructed in the lake. It was quite large, easily holding a hundred men, but the class of recruits on it was about twenty men and one trainer. The vessel moved by rowing but also by sail, and out of Blackchurch’s thousand-man army, about a hundred of them were in the hold, rowing it toward the shore where the Blackchurch trainers, all nine of them plus three assistant trainers, were waiting. Perhaps twenty men against twelve didn’t seem like fair odds, but when one was dealing with the men who trained the most elite warriors in the world, the odds were fairly even. 

“Spread out,” Payne boomed to the men around him. “They’ll come from the bow, so watch both sides of the ship.” 

The trainers moved into position, spreading out in layers. Payne and Ming Tang and Creston were closest to the ship while the others were strategically positioned up the hill, all the way back to the cottage where one of the assistant trainers was stationed to protect the banner that the trainees were supposed to capture. Once they had it, the exercise was up, but unfortunately, any trainees knocked to the ground and failing to get to their feet unaided would be drummed out of Blackchurch. The rules were harsh, but not without hope. Anyone who failed would have the opportunity to try again in another year. But all trainees feared that rule—if one failed at any point during the five-year training course, they were finished until the next recruit class was formed. 

Therefore, this was an important moment. 

As the ship went aground on the edge of the lake and men began leaping from the bow and into knee-deep water, approaching the shore with clubs in hand, the trainers of the Blackchurch Guild braced themselves. As the wind howled and the storm surged, the moment of truth was upon them. 

Chaos ensued. 

 

“It’s loose, but it should tighten up.” 

Payne had just had Ming Tang look at one of his teeth. He’d been hit so hard in the face because of the rain and the darkness that he hadn’t seen the club flying at him until it was too late. Fortunately, he didn’t go down, but his fury in being struck landed the man who’d hit him on his backside, knocked unconscious by the raging Scotsman. It had been enough to fail the man out of Blackchurch, a man that everyone had thought was a sure bet to finish the training, so the night of battle and cottage capturing had had some unexpected moments. 

And some glorious ones. 

Even now, the Blackchurch trainers were sitting in their usual alcove at the Black Cock Tavern, a rather large and well-used establishment in the village that wasn’t even a mile south of the Blackchurch Guild. Some, like Payne and Creston and an assistant trainer named Axton Summerlin, were sporting some physical evidence of what had been a surprisingly brutal fight, but others were unscathed on the surface. At least, they weren’t admitting the injuries that could be covered by a tunic or breeches. Everyone was gathered around the table, ale and food between them, speaking of their experience against The Viking’s trainees. 

Eleven had survived and captured the banner. 

No one was prouder of that than The Viking himself. 

“It was a difficult task, my friends,” Kristian said, lifting his cup to the group. “Well done, all of you.” 

Cups were lifted in Kristian’s direction. “Well done you,” Tay said. “You helped get them this far, Kristian. Your teachings are not exactly simple. It is one of the more complex segments that we put our recruits through.” 

Kristian smiled, pleased with the acknowledgment. Very tall and very blond, as one might expect of a Northman, he was a prince of his people, something he’d left behind long ago. In that respect, however, he was actually the only royal member of the Blackchurch trainers. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he had a strong magnetism about him, an authority and charm that drew people to him in a way other men lacked. 

“I would not have a class at all were it not for most of you training them to reach this point,” he said, lifting his cup to his comrades. “That is why we are the best in the world, pojkar. That is why we are legendary.” 

Pojkar. It was an affectionate term in Kristian’s language, something meaning boys or lads. Soft chants of agreement to his statement could be heard around the table, a table that did, indeed, contain the most legendary and impressive trainers of warriors that the world had seen. 

That was Blackchurch—legendary and impressive. 

In addition to Payne, Tay, Kristian, Sinclair, Creston, and Ming Tang, there were others—Fox de Merest, a former royal knight who was known as The Protector, Cruz Mediana de Aragon, a knight from Zaragoza who trained men in covert thinking and tactics, and a glorious warrior named Aamir ibn Rashid. Known as The North Star, Aamir was from Egypt, his father was a great Egyptian warlord, and it was his task to teach men about different armies, cultures, and fighting techniques. 

There was no one better at it. 

The last four members of the group were the newest. They were either assistant trainers or newer full-fledged trainers, good men with a good purpose, but they hadn’t quite yet earned the camaraderie that the veteran trainers had built up over the years. Bowen de Bermingham was the first, a new trainer who taught warrior etiquette and responsibilities. Assistant trainers were Axton Summerlin, Anteaus de Bourne, and Rhodes St. James, men who rotated around, working with different trainers at different times. They sat and drank, and ate, and listened because there was most definitely a hierarchy with the Blackchurch trainers and they’d not yet reached the privileged level. For them, at this time, it was listen and learn. Even from men who were relaxing and blowing off steam. 

This was when they received the best insight into the legendary Blackchurch trainers. 

“Now those eleven men go to Aamir,” Tay said, indicating the Egyptian down the table. “How many recruits do you have now, Aamir?” 

“Seven,” Aamir said, his dark eyes glimmering with mirth. “I am the last trainer they will have. When I am finished with them, they will have completed the Blackchurch training process and can finally call themselves graduates. One of them has already had an offer from a French duc for the Albigensian Crusade. He is prepared to pay the man handsomely and it should be a prestigious post.” 

He was speaking of a vicious war in Southern France that had been going on for years. “It will come tae no good end,” Payne said, shaking his head. “That is a feud fought by the church. No one wants tae be involved in a holy war, Amir.” 

“You would not go if someone offered you a good deal of money?” Aamir asked. 

Payn continued to shake his head. “I would not,” he said. “No one wins in a holy war. It goes on and on until there are no more men left tae fight it. Look at King Richard’s crusade thirty years ago. Who won? It was not the English, lads.” 

“The Christian armies won several battles,” Aamir reminded him. 

“But they failed tae capture Jerusalem,” Payne pointed out. “That is why the Christian armies went in the first place, tae take Jerusalem from Saladin. Aye, I remember my history, Aamir. I know that Richard and the Christians shouldna have gone. They should have left the Levant tae the people who live in the land. There was too much death and destruction and too many fine Christian men lost.” 

“You speak as though it was personal, Payne,” Tay spoke up, a faint smile on his lips. “War should never be taken personally.” 

Payne looked at him. “My da fought with Richard’s army,” he said. “My mother said that when he returned, he wasna the same man. It did something tae him. So, nay, I wouldna fight in a holy war, no matter how much money I was offered.” 

“But you would fight if Henry wanted to fight the Welsh?” Tay said. 

Payne nodded firmly. “I dunna like the Welsh,” he said, listening to the snorts of laughter from his friends. He looked down the table, finding one of the newer trainers. “And I dunna like the Irish, either, de Bermingham. If ye have something tae say tae me about that, do it now. Fight me if ye must.” 

Bowen de Bermingham knew Payne well enough to know that the man didn’t mean it. Not much, anyway. Payne was vocal about disliking everyone from nearly every country and even some Scotsmen, but that was part of his brash personality. He never meant it until someone threw a punch, and then he’d grin, back down, and buy the man he insulted more drink. He was a loveable scoundrel, as Tay’s wife, Athdara, so kindly put it. 

A loveable scoundrel with fists of iron. 

And Bowen knew it. 

“I will not fight you,” he said, waving his hands in surrender. “My father’s father was from Ireland, but my father was born here. So was my mother. And if you must know, I find my Irish relations intolerable, too.” 

Payne burst out laughing. A serving wench passed him with a full pitcher and he gently grasped the girl, pulling the pitcher from her hand and pouring himself a full cup before giving it back to her so she could take it down the table. After a hard night, everyone was relaxed and jovial, and more conversations, accusations, good-natured insults, and even boasts were passed around the table. It was a regular night after a regular day of training. Everyone was looking forward to a good night’s sleep. 

Until St. Sebastian de Bottreaux appeared. 

The heir to the Blackchurch empire was well liked by those who served him and his father. He was highly trained, just like the Blackchurch trainers were, but he tended to think more with his heart than his head. His older brother, St. Gerard, had been accidentally killed a few years earlier, so the man had stepped into an unexpected position he hadn’t necessarily been trained for. 

His appearance at the tavern was an unusual one. Payne saw him first and he elbowed Tay, who elbowed Fox, seated next to him. The three of them stood up to catch St. Sebastian’s attention, and when they did, the entire table caught sight of what had their focus and they, too, stood up. When St. Sebastian saw them, he quickly moved through the smoky common room of the tavern and into the semiprivate alcove. 

“I am very sorry to disrupt your evening of celebration,” he said, looking mostly at Payne and Tay and the men around them. “Unfortunately, we’ve received some concerning news and my father wants all of you returned to Blackchurch. We will be sealing up the gatehouses.” 

Tay still had his cup of wine in his hand. “God’s Bones,” he muttered, puzzled. “What is so concerning that we are sealing the gatehouses?” 

St. Sebastian reached onto the table and picked up Creston’s cup of wine, draining it before speaking because he’d run all the way from Blackchurch. “We have just received word from Abelard,” he said, referring to his father’s cousin, St. Abelard de Bottreaux, the man who was in command of the more violent and scandalous arm of the de Bottreaux empire. “One of his men just arrived on a sweaty horse, having ridden all the way from Minehead.” 

“At night?” Tay said incredulously. 

St. Sebastian nodded. “At night,” he confirmed. “As you know, Abelard and his band of pirates control the coast from Minehead to Ilfracombe,” he said. “Triton’s Hellions are all over Bristol Channel and the southern coast of Wales.” 

The trainers were nodding. “We know,” Tay said. “And Santiago de Fernandez and the Demons of the Sea are on the west coast of Cornwall, among other places.” 

St. Sebastian lifted his hand to beg patience. “They are,” he said. “I am telling you what you already know, but there is a reason for that. It seems that a faction of Scottish pirates entered the Bristol Channel several days ago and tried to dock at Minehead. Abelard chased them away but he’s fairly certain they simply dodged him and came ashore near Highbridge. He heard rumor that they were moving inland, down the River Parrett. Abelard got the impression that they were trying to reach Blackchurch because when they tried to come ashore at Minehead, they kept asking how to reach the Lords of Exmoor.” 

That brought bewilderment to the men at the table, who looked at each other in confusion. 

“Are you telling us that a band of pirates is coming to attack Blackchurch?” Aamir finally said. “Who are they?” 

St. Sebastian shook his head. “All I know is that Abelard’s messenger told us,” he said. “He has said they are Scottish pirates and the only Scottish pirates we know are those we do not speak of. They have terrorized the entire west coast of Scotland, England, and Wales for years, but they’ve never come this far south.” 

“But now they are,” Tay said grimly. 

St. Sebastian nodded, apprehension in his eyes. “Aye,” he said. “It seems so.” 

“Medusa’s Disciples.” 

Those softly uttered words by Tay brought consternation to a group that was already plagued by confusion. Kristian, who was their seagoing trainer, seemed particularly serious in the face of such information. 

“We are safe from Triton’s Hellions and the Demons of the Sea by virtue of the fact that Blackchurch is related to one through blood and to the other through marriage,” he said, brow furrowed. “Because of that relationship, other pirate factions leave us alone, but do Medusa’s Disciples have no such restraint?” 

St. Sebastian shook his head. “It seems not,” he said. “My father is very concerned because of their leader. God, I cannot even say the name.” 

He shuddered, averting his gaze, but they all knew whom he was speaking of. Someone that no sane man liked to acknowledge. Tay, who had been contemplating the situation, finally dared to say it. 

“Bloody Maude,” he muttered. “We all know what she is capable of. We’ve heard the rumors.” 

There was some serious grunting of concern going around the table at that statement. “I met a man once who had a brush with Bloody Maude,” Creston said ominously. “He said that she wears her trophies around her neck. The woman has a necklace of dead and dried male members she’s put on a chain and uses it to frighten her enemies.” 

“It would frighten me right out of my skin,” Tay said with conviction. “She cuts off men’s male organs without thought. She displays them like some grotesque chain of jewels and I, for one, do not intend for my wife’s greatest pleasure to become part of some macabre collection.” 

“And that is why we must return home,” St. Sebastian said, gesturing to the door. “Come, now. We can discuss Bloody Maude as we run back to the safety of Blackchurch.” 

He didn’t need to prod anyone. The mere threat of the brutal Scottish pirate queen and her disregard for what men held precious had them all quite ready and willing to depart, heading out into the darkness. Running out was more like it. No one wanted to stroll home leisurely with that kind of danger looming. Tay lingered behind for just a moment to warn the tavernkeep, who thought it might be a good idea to close early and lock up for the night. 

But why she was coming was anyone’s guess. 

An evening of triumph was ending on a frightening note. ...