PART ONE
WINTER TIDINGS
January
“So came the day when the winds of change became a Tempest,
When the call to arms became a call to Death.
From this storm emerged men who rode the lightning;
The Lords of Thunder tamed the howl of the savage Winds.”
~ 13th Century Chronicles
CHAPTER ONE
Year of our Lord 1258 A.D.
Reign of Henry III
Bigod was a bully of a man.
Gallus de Shera, Earl of Coventry and Lord Sheriff of Worcester, was well aware of the man with the tactics of a crocodile. He looked like one, too, at least from what Gallus had remembered of the beasts. He’d seen them in The Levant, strange and sorrowful lands filled with strange and sorrowful creatures, so it was an educated observation he turned towards one of the major barons in the political maelstrom between the King of England and Simon de Montfort. Bigod was, in his opinion, a barbaric, powerful, and dangerous fool.
Gallus wasn’t afraid of crocodiles in particular but he had a healthy respect, and sometimes aversion, towards Bigod, mostly because the man had been trying, for six months, to force him into a betrothal with his eldest daughter. If the father looked like a crocodile, then the daughter wasn’t much better.
Lady Matilda Bigod was a round, spoiled woman with the mind of a gnat and a massive dowry, the size of which was usually only reserved for royalty. But all of that money couldn’t entice Gallus because, in the end, he’d still have to look at the woman. Moreover, she would expect him to touch her and he wasn’t sure he could. Crocodile hide gave him a rash.
For six months, he’d been avoiding Bigod’s overtures. But two weeks ago, the overture turned into a full-blown symphony. Knowing that Gallus and his brothers, Maximus and Tiberius, were due in London at the end of the month for a series of meetings with other powerful barons, Hugh had made the calculated move of sending word to Gallus that the entire Bigod clan was planning on being in London, too. Gallus knew the female beasts, Lady Bigod and her relatives, would be set upon him, coercing him into accepting the betrothal. He was in a tight spot because Hugh was one of the more powerful barons opposing Henry III, and Gallus genuinely didn’t want to offend the man and his family. But he didn’t want to risk offending them more than he didn’t want to marry the Bigod female creature. Therefore, he faced this trip with great resignation and resistance.
It was very early on the morning he planned to depart, below freezing on this January day, with a layer of ice on the ground and the sky the color of pewter. Inside the dim bowels of Isenhall Castle, Gallus had risen well before dawn to pack his saddlebags. Maximus and Tiberius, the last two brothers that rounded out the three de Shera siblings, were already up. Gallus could hear them moving around in the chamber next to his.
Maximus always coughed when the weather grew cold and he would spend the mornings hacking up whatever settled in his chest overnight, whereas Tiberius would sing. The man had a booming, baritone voice and, as he dressed, he would sing. It usually annoyed the hell out of Maximus and fights had been known to start that way. Gallus kept an ear out for just such an event, but this morning, everything seemed thankfully calm enough. Maybe they were somber and focused on their trip to London and what await them there, just as Gallus was. As he finished pulling on his boots, his chamber door creaked open and two little girls ran into the room.
They were beautiful children, fair-haired and green-eyed, and they squealed in delight as they went to jump on the big, messy bed that was the centerpiece of the chamber. Gallus grinned as he watched the girls leap about, pulling the covers over their heads and then giggling louder as they tickled and teased one another. The lure of fun was too much to resist. Gallus set aside the heavy, leather saddlebag he had been packing and moved over to the bed. Swooping down on the girls, he growled like an old bear, nibbling little hands when he could catch them. The girls screamed with delight.
“What are you two doing up so early?” he demanded softly, pulling the covers back to reveal the two sweetest faces he had ever known. Violet and Lily de Shera grinned happily at their father and Gallus kissed Violet on the nose. “Good morning to you both, ladies. Have you risen early so that you may have some porridge with your Papa before he leaves?”
Violet sat up, nearly smacking him in the nose. Gallus had to sit back quickly to avoid being struck by both of the girls as they leapt out from underneath the coverlet.
“We are going with you,” Violet, who had just turned five years of age, announced. “Leelee and I are going to ride with you all the way to London.”
Violet was unable to say “Lily” properly – therefore, it came out as “Leelee”. Gallus had started calling his younger daughter that, too, as had everyone else. He grinned at his determined children.
“That would be very kind of you, of course, but if you go with me, who will stay with Honey?” he asked. “If you go with me, she will be very lonely.”
“Honey” was Gallus’ mother, the Lady Charlotte, dowager countess of Coventry. Gallus’ father, Antoninus de Shera, had given her the nickname “Honey” when they first met because, as he declared, she was “as sweet and as fair as honey”. Therefore, everyone in the family had called the woman Honey, including her sons and grandchildren. The Lady Honey was in her fifty-fourth year and had been experiencing poor health as of late. A cancer, the doctor had told them, but Gallus and his brothers refused to accept it. They couldn’t quite imagine the death of Honey, especially after the death of Gallus’ wife the year before. The mere thought of another female death scared them to pieces.
Gallus especially. He had loved his wife and her accidental death was something he still wasn’t over. He probably never would be. As he gazed at his two daughters, girls in Catheryn’s image, he fought off the familiar melancholy those little faces provoked. His thoughts inevitably drifted towards Catheryn, visions of the woman fluid and warm in his mind.
Can you see them, Catie? Can you see how big and beautiful they have become? Violet has your lisp. When I hear her speak, I hear you. God… Catie, why did you have to leave me so soon? Sometimes I feel as if this pain in my heart will crush me. Already, it has crushed me.
“Honey will come with us,” Violet told him, distracting him. “She can ride in her wagon. She will want to go.”
Gallus tore his thoughts away from misty images of Catheryn’s lovely face and stood up from the bed. “Is that so?” he asked, turning back to his saddlebags. “Why would she want to go? She is much more comfortable here with her cats.”
Violet opened her mouth to tell her father that the cats could come, too, when his chamber door opened and Maximus and Tiberius came in.
Dressed in armor and mail, the brothers were both an imposing and terrifying sight. Given their height – Maximus at five inches over six feet and Tiberius at seven inches over six feet – they were quite a sight to behold to a fearful enemy. But the imposing beast that was Tiberius took one look at the girls on the bed and, as the one most likely to make mischief, roared and jumped onto the mattress, causing the girls to scream in delight.
The room was in an uproar as Tiberius lay his big body across the bed and let the girls jump all over him. He pretended to cry in defeat, which only fed their bloodlust. Violet sat on his head while Lily lay on his back to crush him, and through it all, Tiberius pretended to weep like a woman.
Gallus and Maximus stood a moment, watching the defeat of their youngest brother, and shook their heads, mostly in resignation of Tiberius’ antics. He was the lively one out of the group.
“Mayhap we should take Violet and Leelee into London with us,” Maximus grunted. A big, bear-like man with enormous shoulders, he could be the most disgruntled of the three. “We could set them loose onto the Bigod clan and chase them all the way back to Norfolk.”
All three brothers knew the situation with Hugh and his belligerent proposal, but Gallus simply shook his head. “If the Bigod women see them, it will only show them that I am capable of producing beautiful and intelligent children,” he said, sighing heavily. “I do not want to feed their imagination. They already have too many ideas about me.”
On the bed, Tiberius rolled onto his back, grabbing Violet when she tried to jump onto his face. “You are a delicious and desirable beast,” he teased his brother, knowing the man wouldn’t clobber him as long as the girls were orbiting around him. “Think of it, Gal, all of that lumpy, Bigod lady-flesh at your fingertips.”
Gallus winced. “You are making me ill.”
Tiberius grinned, that gleeful and mischievous grin that could be so infectious. “I hear that fat women are quite uninhibited in bed,” he said. “They will do anything you ask them to do because they are so starved for sex.”
Maximus replied gruffly. “And you must know this for a fact,” he said. “God only knows you’ll take into your bed whatever you can get your hands on.”
Tiberius snorted. “I like my women with some meat on their body, but not an entire side of beef,” he said. “Leave the fat women for Gallus. He can have an entire harem of them and whenever he calls for one, instead of walking to his chamber, she can roll like a barrel through his door.”
Gallus eyed his daughters as Tiberius and Maximus snorted. Lily would have no idea what her uncle meant, but Violet was becoming more astute about the world in general. He put a finger to his lips, silently shushing his brother as he pointed to the girls.
“It is not open for discussion,” he said quietly. “You will kindly stifle the diarrhea pouring from your mouth.”
Tiberius wasn’t finished with his brother, not in the least. He put Violet down on the bed and stood up, making his way over to his brothers. Handsome, young, and blindingly brilliant, Tiberius was much pursued by the women at court and he had quite taken advantage of that admiration. Rumor had it that there was at least one de Shera bastard in London, though none of the brothers had seen evidence of it. Still, given Tiberius’ reputation, they would not have been surprised if the rumors turned out to be true.
“Admit it,” Tiberius said, his voice low and seductive. “The thought of all of that fat flesh slapping against your body excites you beyond tolerance.”
Gallus sighed heavily and looked at Maximus. “I do not like our youngest brother much,” he said. “If someone would give me a stick, I will gladly take him outside and beat him to death.”
Tiberius laughed, putting a big arm around Gallus’ neck and kissing his brother loudly on the cheek. “I would haunt you to the grave and beyond,” he said as Gallus put a hand on his face and pushed him away. Tiberius looked wounded. “Why would you do that when all I was attempting to do was cheer you up?”
Gallus shook his head, annoyed with Tiberius’ behavior. “The best thing you can do for me is to leave me alone,” he said, turning back to his bags. “Are the men prepared to depart?”
He was changing the subject and Tiberius didn’t push. Gallus had been known to throw a punch when particularly irritated and, out of the three of them, had the most devastating blow. No one provoked Gallus de Shera and lived to tell the tale. Therefore, Tiberius backed off and patted his brother on the shoulder.
“They should be prepared,” he said, turning for the chamber door and already pondering what the day may hold in store for them. “The knights had orders to be ready to depart before dawn with an assemblage of fifty men to escort us to London.”
Maximus frowned. “Only fifty?”
Tiberius nodded. “We already have three hundred men waiting for us at Westbourne in London,” he reminded his middle brother as he spoke of the de Shera London townhome. “We left the bulk of our army behind to await us because it was less expensive than trying to house and feed them on the road home. Remember? Therefore, I did not see the need to take any more men back with us to London. Even if we only take fifty with us, we still leave behind over three hundred.”
Maximus lifted a disapproving eyebrow. He didn’t like to travel with so light an escort but he refrained from arguing. They still had four big knights to take with them, knights from the finest families in England. De Wolfe, de Moray, and du Bois. Aye, the House of de Shera had a hell of an arsenal in those knights. But Maximus was anxious to get to London and the mess that awaits them there. He turned to Gallus.
“Any further orders?” he asked him.
Gallus shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “Be prepared to leave within the hour. I plan to break the night’s fast with my children before we depart. If you would like to join us, I will not stop you.”
Maximus merely grunted, turning for the chamber door as Tiberius became swept up in the girls again. The children had climbed off the bed and run to the door, hungry for the porridge they knew to be waiting for them in the hall below. Their Uncle Tiberius picked them up, both of them, and was heading out of the door with the rest of the family when a house servant suddenly appeared, blocking their path.
The old man, the majordomo of Isenhall who had served their father, was solid and strong for his elderly age. In the darkened landing just outside the door, his expression as he faced the brothers was grim.
“My lords,” he said. “We have just received word of a battle near the river crossing. Your assistance has been requested.”
From doting uncles and doting fathers one second to serious warriors the next, there was something in all three expressions that suggested deadly focus and intense curiosity. Gallus spoke first.
“Who has requested it?” he demanded.
The majordomo pointed to the stairs, indicating someone in the hall on the floor below. “I am not sure, my lord,” he replied. “A man came, begging for assistance. I think… I believe… that he is Welsh.”
“Is he armed?” Gallus asked.
The majordomo shook his head. “Nay, my lord,” he replied. “He is a servant, it would appear. He does not have a weapon that I can see.”
Gallus gazed at the man a moment, digesting his statement, before pushing between his brothers and heading for the darkened steps at the end of the corridor. Unlike most keeps, Isenhall didn’t have spiral stairs built into the walls. It had a big staircase that folded back on itself several times, leading from the ground floor to the second. The wide, stone steps were easy to maneuver, if not somewhat worn in the center, and Gallus took them quickly to the ground floor below.
The great hall of Isenhall was actually in the keep, a broad room that was perfectly square in shape and had two massive hearths, one at each end. It smelled heavily of smoke and animals, and there were packs of dogs patrolling the room, waiting for their first scraps of the day. Gallus came off the stairs and headed into the cavernous, well-appointed room.
A man in heavy wools was lingering near one of the hearths, trying to warm his flesh from the chill temperatures outside. He was well-fed, young, and when he saw Gallus, he immediately came away from the fire and headed towards the man. His expression had a nervous edge to it.
“My lord,” he said, his Welsh accent obvious and heavy. “My lord has sent me to beg for assistance. Our people are at the crossroads near the river and under attack. I beg you to help us.”
Gallus eyed the man, suspicious because that was his nature. His trust was very difficult to earn in any case.
“Who is your lord?” he asked, unfriendly. “Why did you come here?”
The man began to wring his freezing hands. “My lord is Gaerwen ap Gaerwen,” he said, sounding strained. “We were returning home but were attacked at the river crossing. Please, my lord, time is of the essence. My lord is under attack and he has his daughter, Lady Jeniver, at his side! Please help us!”
Gallus’ brow furrowed. “Gaerwen ap Gaerwen?” he repeated, suspicion turning to surprise. “I have heard that name before. He is a Welsh prince.”
The servant nodded urgently. “Aye, my lord,” he said. “Will you come?”
Gallus’ gaze lingered on the man, debating on just how to react. If it was indeed ap Gaerwen and he refused to help, it could be the wrong move. A Welsh prince who owed him a life debt was something in his favor. Obligations like that were hard to come by, especially with the Welsh. But if this was a trap of some kind….
“How many attacked you?” he finally asked.
The servant shook his head, fearful and frustrated. “I can only say many,” he said. “I do not know for certain.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
The servant was annoyed with the questions, terrified for his liege. “Minutes!” he said, waving his hands. “Minutes, no more than ten or fifteen at the most. My lord directed me straight to you and I have not wavered. Please, my lord, I implore you, save us!”
Gallus was still mulling over his response, but the fact that the alleged victim in this case was an ap Gaerwen made him lean towards the edge of compliance. At the moment, the Welsh were virtually ruling themselves because Henry had more important issues in France that kept him occupied. Incursions and conquest into Wales was at a virtual standstill, which made it seem odd that a Welsh prince was traveling through his lands. The Welsh usually kept to themselves. Still, if what this servant said was true, then Gallus decided he would be willing to act. He was not beyond wanting a Welsh prince to be obliged to him. One never knew when one would have to call in the favor.
With a sigh of resignation, knowing that he was about to expend the effort to save the Welsh prince from the ruffians who tended to roam this land, he turned and motioned to his brothers.
“Mount the men,” he said. “The fifty that are preparing to attend us to London should suffice. We shall head to the river crossing and see what we can do.”
Maximus and Tiberius were always up for a fight, unlike Gallus, who tended to be more cautious about things and less apt to act before thinking. Maximus and Tiberius would fight anywhere, anytime. They needed no provocation. At Gallus’ quietly uttered words, the two younger de Shera brothers were heading for the keep entry, marching with a purpose.
Gallus could hear his brothers as they quit the keep, yelling to the men who were forming ranks out in the pre-dawn bailey. His dark green gaze lingered on the Welshman.
“We will do what we can,” he said. “But tell me why you were on my lands. Where were you going?”
The servant was vastly relieved at the assistance from the big English warlord, but he was wary of the questions.
“Home,” he replied. “Back to Anglesey, my lord.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“My lord took his daughter to London and then to Paris in celebration of her day of birth,” he replied. “She has seen eighteen years now and Lord ap Gaerwen thought to show her something of the world. This attack… it is the first trouble we have seen.”
Gallus eyed the man. “Then this was not some manner of war march?”
The servant appeared shocked and dismayed by the question. “Nay, my lord,” he insisted. “It was a peaceful journey, I assure you.”
“Tell me the truth or I’ll not lift a finger to help you.”
“It is the truth, I swear it!”
Gallus’ gaze, intense and intimidating, lingered on the man to see if such a stare would cause him to break and reveal the truth of their presence, but the servant did not waver. He held Gallus’ gaze steadily. After a moment, Gallus tore his eyes away and headed for the keep entry. He motioned for the servant to follow.
“Did you ride?” Gallus asked. “Or did you come on foot?”
The servant scurried after him, his leather-soled shoes making scuffling sounds against the wood. “I rode, my lord.”
Gallus’ thoughts were already on the task ahead. “Then mount your horse and take us to your lord,” he said, ushering the man through the door but pausing himself when he caught sight of one of Isenhall’s many servants. He whistled to the man. “You there, tell my mother we have gone to the river crossing. We shall return shortly.”
The Isenhall servant nodded swiftly and was gone, fleeing up the stairs to the upper floors of the box-shaped keep. Gallus, meanwhile, moved through the entry, down the heavy wooden stairs of Isenhall that could be retracted or burned in time of trouble, virtually sealing off the keep from any encroaching enemy. Below him, in the bailey that was shaped like a rectangle contained within the circular walls that protected Isenhall, were fifty mounted soldiers and six knights, including his brothers.
In the pre-dawn hour, everything was colored purple and gray. Shadows were long, struggling against the clouds and the rising sun. It was very cold and foggy breath hung heavy in the air as Gallus moved to his horse, a heavy-boned rouncey that had been bred in Belgium. The horse was vivid red with a cream-colored mane, a finer beast having never lived. He had more stamina than the chargers as well as more speed. Gallus adored the animal, patting him on his thick neck before mounting heavily. As he adjusted his stirrup, he glanced at the knights around him.
“Did my brothers tell you of our mission before we depart for London?” he asked.
To his left were two very big men. Sir Scott de Wolfe and Sir Troy de Wolfe were twins, sons of the great northern border knight, William de Wolfe. Scott was big, blond and brawny, while Troy took after his father with dark hair and hazel eyes. Yet for their difference physically, they both shared the same de Wolfe wisdom, cunning, and power, even at their young age. Troy was the first to respond.
“Aye, my lord,” he replied, his voice baritone-deep. “Trouble at the river crossing.”
Gallus nodded as he gathered his reins. Then he looked to the knights surrounding them. “Stefan and Garran,” he addressed two of the men. “Ride on ahead and determine the situation. The pack of us will move more slowly than just the two of you, so be well gone with you now. When you arrive, you will locate Gaerwen ap Gaerwen and the Lady Jeniver. Put them under your protection immediately.”
Sir Stefan du Bois, a son of the renowned knight Maddoc du Bois but also descended from the powerful House of de Lohr on his mother’s side, nodded shortly. He was very young, having seen twenty-three years, but he was an old, wisened soul. It was a du Bois trait. He was also built like a bull and his strength was uncanny. His counterpart, Sir Garran de Moray, was the son of the illustrious, tournament knight Sir Bose de Moray, once the captain of King Henry’s guard long ago. Garran had his father’s enormous size and coal-black eyes but his mother’s temperament, which made him rather volatile at times. He was the first one into a fight and the last one to leave, which made him a particular favorite of Gallus.
“Aye, my lord,” Garran said, gathering his reins and holding his horse steady when it twitched excitedly. “We shall see to it.”
Garran spurred his horse forward but Stefan remained, just for a moment. “Ap Gaerwen?” Stefan repeated. “They are the hereditary Kings of Anglesey.”
Now, it was all coming back to Gallus and he nodded with recollection. Stefan’s father was Welsh so it stood to reason that the lad knew the history of his heritage.
“I knew they were of some import but I could not place the family name,” Gallus told Stefan. “Thank you for reminding me. On your way with you, now. We shall be coming up behind you shortly.”
Stefan nodded and spurred his big, bay charger forward, thundering through Isenhall’s two-storied gatehouse and out onto the road beyond. The sky, though still shades of pewter, was starting to lighten and delicate rays of sunshine began to stream out from between the folds in the clouds. Gallus could see Garran in the distance, heading down the road, and Stefan not far behind him. With the two knights well away, he motioned to the rest of the contingent.
“Let us depart,” he roared.
Taking the helm that one of his squires extended to him and plopping it on his head, he spurred his horse in the direction of Isenhall’s gatehouse, passing through the narrow passage, and out onto the rocky road beyond.
Little did he know that the next few moments in time would change the course of his life forever.
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