Dragonblade Trilogy - 01 - Dragonblade

Copyright 2010 by Kathryn Le Veque
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Printed by Dragonblade Publishing in the United States of America

Text copyright 2010 by Kathryn Le Veque
Cover copyright 2010 by Kathryn Le Veque

To my father, William

True and wise

Other Kathryn Le Veque titles include

Resurrection

Lady of Heaven

The Crusader

Kingdom Come

The Legend

The Titan

Steps of Glory

The Dark Lord

The Falls of Erith

Lespada

Guardian of Darkness

The White Lord of Wellesbourne

The Dark Knight

Spectre of the Sword

The Whispering Night

The Dragonblade Series

Dragonblade

Island of Glass

The Savage Curtain

Kathlyn Trent/Marcus Burton Adventure Series

Valley of the Shadow

The Eden Factor

Canyon of the Sphinx

On Amazon.com

Lord of the Shadows

Lady of Heaven

CHAPTER ONE

Year of our Lord 1326

Cartingdon Parrish; Northumbria, England

The time of year
dictated that the landscape would be an eternal shade of twilight, no matter
what the time of day. Gray colored the sky, the earth and the mood of the
people.

The town of Cartingdon
was no exception. The people were pale with the limited nutrition of winter,
their woolen clothes barely adequate for the freezing temperatures that the
north winds brought. More than the grayness of the air and people, there was
something else this day that darkened the land. Everyone could feel it and they
were edgy.

There were whispers
floating about like the many snow crystals in the air. Word had spread through
the markets that morning after Matins, moving to the avenue of the Smiths and
finally to the street of the Jews, telling everyone of the meeting that would
be held at Vespers. The purpose was to discuss the most recent rumor regarding
England’s king. These were turbulent times in a turbulent land.

The sun hovered on the
horizon and the church-bells chimed the onset of Vespers, calling the masses to
the meeting. The townsfolk flocked to the stone church that they had built with
their own hands. Fanged gargoyles imported from France hung on the eaves,
lending ambience to the disquiet. Once the people filled the church, they stood
in angry, hissing clusters.

The priests had lit a
few large tapers, giving the sanctuary a haunting glow as they prepared for the
meeting and subsequent mass. Several aldermen were having an intense discussion
near the great altar; their deliberation raged for some time until the tall man
in the center of the discussion silenced the group and called forth the crowds
that had gathered.  What they had to say would affect them all.

The mayor of the town
was Balin Cartingdon. He was a farmer of noble descent who had flourished, turning
a small sharecropping plot into a vast agricultural plantation. He had been a
very young man when he sank his first barley seed into the ground, when the
settlement of Cartingdon had been an assembly of huts called Snitter Crag. 
Twenty-two years later, his barley production was the largest in Northumbria
and he had added wool and sheep to his empire. The tiny town had exploded due
to his farming and was renamed Cartingdon in his honor.

 “Good people,”
Balin’s voice rang above the fickle buzz. “Thank you for coming. We have called
this meeting to discuss the needs of our king and country.”

“You mean the needs of
Mortimer!” someone from the crowd shouted.

As the others agreed
angrily, Balin shook his head. “Roger Mortimer is not our king. I speak of young
Edward.”

The grumbling grew
louder. At the rear of the church, a small figure suddenly entered. It was
apparent that the form was a woman from the drape of the cloak she wore, a soft
green-blue garment that clung to her shapely body.  A few of the village folk
recognized her, moving out of her way as she pushed through the crowd. By the
time she reached the front of the church, she had removed her hood, revealing
cascades of golden-brown hair and almond-shaped eyes that were a brilliant
shade of hazel. She had the face of an angel, but beneath the sweet façade lay
an iron will. In the township of Cartingdon, the first daughter of Mayor Balin
was more feared and respected than her father.

“Mortimer rules the
country with Queen Isabella.” The woman spoke loudly, addressing both her
father and the assembly. “If rebellion is in the air and we support it, his
hammer will fall on all of us. Everything we have built, and all that we have,
will be confiscated.  I personally do not want to see everything that my father
has worked so hard for taken away in the blink of an eye.”

“It is doubtful it
will be taken away,” Balin said patiently, displeased that his daughter had
chosen not to remain silent. He had gone so far as to ask Toby not to attend
the meeting, but alas, that was too much to hope for. If there was an opinion
to be had, she was usually in the middle of it. “Our liege, Tate Crewys de
Lara, also supports the rightful king. We have no choice but to support the
crown if those who hold our fate have such loyalties.”

“But what of the
Queen?” the crowd spoke again. “She has the support of the King of France. He
is her brother. What if she calls on him to quell the rebellion? What if the
French overrun Northumbria and destroy our town?”

“They will kill us
all!” another shouted.

The crowd surged
unsteadily and Balin held up his hands. “You forget that young Edward has the
Scottish king’s support,” he replied calmly, hoping to soothe the mob. “He will
protect us. But we must help our king and that is why we are here today. It is
our duty. Every man must decide for himself if he is willing to sacrifice for a
greater cause.”

“The king is a child,”
Toby pointed out. “His mother and Roger Mortimer rule on his behalf. Never
forget that they did England a tremendous service by deposing young Edward’s
father, King Edward the Second. He was a vile infection that drained this
country of all that was good and righteous. They subsequently rid England of
the Despencers, the father and son who vied for the throne, thereby eliminating
the last links of Edward’s contemptible reign. For the past three years under
Isabella and Mortimer, England has known a measure of peace. Do we truly want
to feed the beast of rebellion again and perhaps create a tempest that will
destroy us all?”

It was a brilliant
summation of the recent past of England’s monarchy, given by a woman who should
have, respectably, known nothing of the matter. The crowd roared as she
finished; some in approval, some in disapproval. Toby looked at her father,
sorry she had not completely supported his stance, but in the same breath,
hoping it would cause him to deliberate the potential consequences. She didn’t
want to see her people die for a futile cause. There had been too many of them
over the past several years.

“Toby,” her father had
to raise his voice over the commotion of the crowd. “Please go home. You do not
help this situation.”

Toby was genuinely
contrite. “I am sorry to appear as if I oppose you, but I do not believe you
have clearly considered this subject. It is greater than you think.”

“I am well aware of
how critical it is. But these are simple folk; I cannot outline the detailed
politics of England’s situation. I should not have even outlined them to you,
but I did for reasons that no longer seem valid. I should have known you would
find a way to contradict me.”

“I did not mean to. I
simply meant to give you my opinion.”

“I know well enough
your opinion. I know it, I think, even before you do.”

“I am simply asking
that you think about what you are saying.”

Balin rolled his eyes.
“With you around, I can do nothing
but
think. Now be still before the
crowd turns against us.”

As Toby and her father
exchanged opinions, back against the wall something was stirring. Several men
stood in a unit, draped in dark cloaks as they listened to the spirited debate.
The first man tossed back his hood; he had a face of classic male beauty, a
granite jaw and full lips. His hair was dark like a raven’s wing, shorn up the
back yet long enough in the front so that it swept across eyes the color of
storm clouds. He was a striking example of perfection, completely out of place
among the worn, colorless peasants. He watched everything around him like a
hawk, not missing a movement or a word. It was apparent that he was absorbing everything
in his element until he had enough information to make a reasonable judgment.

The man moved forward
through the crowd, taking his entourage of five with him. People moved out his
way instinctively, not wanting to be trampled by the man who was a head taller
than even the tallest man in the church. He approached Balin and Toby and
softly cleared his throat.

“Forgive me, my lord,”
the man’s voice was deep and rich. “I realize this is a town meeting
exclusively for the residents of Cartingdon but I wonder if I may speak to the
throng.”

Balin and Toby looked
at the man. Balin’s reaction was far less than Toby’s; the moment their eyes
met, she felt a strange buzzing sensation in her head. It was enough to cause
her to pull her gaze away, looking to her father to see if he was having the
same odd reaction. He seemed unaffected. 

“Who would you be, my
lord?” Balin asked.

“I am Tate Crewys de
Lara.”

As if on cue, the
group escorting Tate threw back their hoods and cloaks, exposing enough armor
and weapons to handle a small battle quite efficiently. Two of the men were
enormous; they were knights of the highest order, clad in expensive metal
protection. Two shorter, stockier men-at-arms supported them, dressed in
leather protection and sporting fine Welsh crossbows. The last member of the
entourage was the squire, of lad of fourteen or fifteen years. He was tall,
thin, and fair-haired.

“My… my lord de Lara,”
Balin was clearly shocked. “Although we have corresponded on the occasion of
taxation and audits for your lands, this is the first we have met. I am indeed
honored, my lord.”

Tate heard his words,
but his focus was on Toby. Now that he was closer and could see her more
clearly, she was indeed worth a second look. “I have spent the majority of my
life in London or in France, with the wars, and have hardly spent time in this
land for which I hold title,” his gaze lingered on Toby. “Harbottle Castle is a
garrison I have seen three times in my life.”

Balin could see where
Tate’s focus was and indicated his child. “May I present my eldest daughter,
Mistress Elizabetha Aleanora de Tobins Cartingdon. She is the one who has seen
to your requests with regard to revenue from the parish.”