Read Swords and Shields (Reign of the House of de Winter) Online
Authors: Kathryn Le Veque
Swords and Shields (Reign of the House of de Winter)
SWORDS AND SHIELDS
A Medieval Romance
By Kathryn Le Veque
Reign of the House of de Winter
©Copyright 2015 by Kathryn Le Veque Novels
ISBN ebook
Text by Kathryn Le Veque
Cover by Kathryn Le Veque
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
Welcome to Drake and Elizaveta’s story. What a story it is!
Thetford Castle features prominently in the first part of this story. Historically speaking, by this time in history, it was in ruins and there was only the motte and the iron age ringworks surrounding it, but I have taken artistic license to make it a functioning castle for the de Winter family at this time. If you will recall from
Lespada
, the de Winters
are
Norfolk for the most part and Davyss de Winter’s mother, Lady Katharine, is the sister of the Earl of Surrey, a de Warenne by birth, and the de Warennes owned a great deal of property in Norfolk. Since Davyss is the Earl of Thetford, I have created a living world in the ruinous Thetford Castle for the sake of the story.
In the research I did for Thetford Castle, both with ancient maps and modern day maps, a large part of the city is literally built up in the south portion of the bailey. Car parks for businesses backup to the motte itself, which towers over the town. It’s truly sad that this site, much like many sites in England, could not have been better preserved over the years. Instead of horses and men in the bailey, there are now roads and a diner. That’s progress, I suppose.
You may be wondering if Thunderbey Castle exists. It featured in another novel, WHILE ANGELS SLEPT, as the seat of the Earl of East Anglia. The hero and heroine in that novel are Elizaveta’s ancestors. As for the castle, it does not exist. Like many of my castles, this one is fictional.
In this novel, the heroine has been educated in many things, not the least of which is writing. At this point in England’s history, the population was beginning to speak English more than French, so there is a separation of languages during this time and the heroine has been educated in both. It was still unusual for a woman to know how to read and write, but she can do both.
Most of all, this is a complex story. Lots going on in here. You may have to read it more than once to pick up all of the nuances, but I think it’s a lovely story and I’m very proud of the growth in the main characters. I sincerely hope you love it.
Hugs,
Kathryn
Contents
“I will not do this! You cannot make me!”
The cry was met by silence. In the bowels of Chateau Moréde, the family home of the House of l’Arressengale for nearly five hundred years, the mood was crackling with tension.
Three well-dressed women were in various positions around what had once been the
c
hambre de maître
, or the lord’s chamber, but now it belonged to his widow. It had been hers for thirty years, since the lord had died at a fairly young age of an intestinal malady. After his death, the room had gradually taken on the feel of a woman, with expensive carpets on the floor and quality-woven oilcloths covering the windows.
Various sizes and shapes of plate lined the mantel – plate of pewter and silver, of elaborate bronze, of ancient metals found in the countryside from ancient civilizations whose names no longer survived. There was even a golden plate with precious stones in it, given to the widow by her wealthy father who had forged trade routes to the mysterious lands eastward. All of these things filled the chamber, soothed by the scents of rushes and crushed herbs. But the opulence, the expensive scents, did nothing to ease the enmity that had suddenly taken over the ambiance.
“Elizaveta,
doucement,
” an older woman said quietly but sternly. “
Grandedame
has her reasons; you know this. You are being tasked with something very important. Do you not understand?”
Lady Elizaveta du Reims gazed at her mother with a mixture of defiance and fear. “I understand perfectly,” she said. Now, she was also eyeing the elderly woman who was seated against the blazing hearth, so close that she was in danger of setting her clothes afire. “I understand all too well, Mother.
Grandedame’s
involvement in the Scottish rebellion is now something she intends to curse me with. It is not my fight. I will not do it, I say!”
Elizaveta’s mother, Lady Agnes Maxwell du Reims, hissed at her rebellious daughter. “Silence,” she said, her accent a strange mixture of French and Celt. “You will do as you are told.
Grandedame
has invested too much money and effort in this situation for you to refuse. This is all we have hoped for and you will not destroy it.”
Elizaveta struggled not to explode at her mother and grandmother, but the core of this conversation had been weeks in the making. Ever since she had come to France from her home in England, the place where she had been born, mysterious and treacherous things had been afoot. Although not privy to them, Elizaveta could tell that her mother and grandmother were up to something. Whispered conversations, late night conferences, missives going in and out of Chateau Moréde… aye, they were up to something. It was obvious. And Elizaveta was evidently at the heart of whatever the pair had cooked up.
As the only child of the Earl of East Anglia, Elizaveta’s very birth had been a great orchestration of proper bloodlines. The earl had contracted to marry her mother, whose own mother was French and her father Scottish. Maxwell was the family name, a family the House of l’Arressengale was closely allied with, but Elizaveta had been born English. She was the heiress of a great English earldom and her grandmother, who had been supporting the Clan Maxwell in their rebellion against Edward I, wanted to use the power of the East Anglia name. Elizaveta had come to realize that the older she became and it was never more apparent than at this moment. Now, Elizaveta knew how her grandmother intended to wield the power.
A marriage.
“I am not destroying anything,” Elizaveta replied, fixed on her mother. “
Grandedame
arranged for your marriage, Mother, and now she intends to arrange mine. But I do not want an arranged marriage; nay, I will
not
have it. Papa said that I can choose my own husband and I shall.”
Agnes shook her head. “It is not to be,
mon petite
,” she said. “Your father has agreed that the English king will select your husband. It is true that he once told you that he would allow you to select your own husband, but as the heiress to East Anglia, that is no longer a consideration. You are too valuable to wed off to the nearest stable boy simply because you fancy him. Your husband must be a man of status and power, as he will inherit the earldom when your father passes on. Edward has therefore been given your offer of marriage. It is only a matter of time until he selects a great warlord for you to wed.”
Elizaveta’s cheeks began to turn red. “I do not believe it,” she hissed. “Papa would not go back on his word.”
Agnes reached over to the nearest fine table, a piece of furniture carved from rare and precious wood. There were several parchments on the surface. She collected one and held it up as if to present it to her daughter.
“Your papa was a fool to ever tell you such a thing,” Agnes said. “He now understands your value and is willing to allow Edward to select your husband. You may read his directive in his own writing if you wish.”
Elizaveta stared at the parchment. She could see her father’s signet on the bottom but that was all she could see. The flush in her cheeks deepened.
“So that is what you have been up to,” she claimed. “You and
Grandedam
e were sending missives to Papa to turn him against me.”
Agnes shook her head, made difficult by the tight wimple she was wearing. “We were not turning him against you,” she said. “We forced him to see reason. Do you not understand your worth, Elizaveta? You are of great value to all of us.”
Elizaveta wasn’t stupid. In fact, she was an extremely bright woman. In her nineteenth year, she was a glorious beauty with pale skin, long dark hair, and nearly black eyes. The color of her eyes was a du Reims family trait, inherited from an ancestor long ago. Her beauty was so astounding, in fact, that rumors of her exquisite looks had spread all around East Anglia and even into other parts of England. Elizaveta knew this because men would come from all over England to Thunderbey Castle, her home, simply to beg a glimpse of her beauty. Men her father would quickly turn away. His soldiers had even taken to throwing rocks at such men, not wanting to kill or maim them but surely wanting to send them a strong message – the beauty of Lady Elizaveta Josephine du Reims was not meant for the masses.
Which was partially why her father had sent her to France to be with her mother, a woman who could not stand what she considered the terrible climate of England. Elizaveta’s parents had lived apart for many years while Elizaveta had remained in England, fostering as the daughter of the earl in two great houses. But her fostering had come to a conclusion and she had returned home to men vying for a glimpse of her. The constant parade of suitors had left her father, Christian, somewhat bewildered because his quiet and peaceful life had been uprooted with the return of his beauteous daughter. He loved her dearly, and there was affection between them, but Christian was a bit of a hermit and frustrated by the constant callers. Therefore, he had gladly sent his daughter to be with her mother when Agnes asked it of him.
But Agnes’ motives had not been altruistic. A woman loyal to the Scots and to the French, she wanted her daughter away from English soil because in her daughter, both she and her mother, the
grandedame
Mme. Mabelle l’Arressengale, saw an opportunity to aid in the Scottish rebellion in ways that Christian du Reims would never be aware of. They intended to use the East Anglia heiress to further their cause and it was a cause Elizaveta had been increasingly indoctrinated in to since her arrival in France. She was sympathetic to the Scots in their resistance to the English king, which was why marrying someone of Edward’s choice, at the moment, made absolutely no sense to her.
But it soon would.
“I am valuable as the heiress to East Anglia,” Elizaveta finally said, some defeat in her tone. “But I am not valued as myself, as a woman of thought and of feeling. I am only valued for the lands I bring, the six castles, the coffers of coin, and the six thousand men under my father’s command. That is my only value.”
Before Agnes could reply, the old woman huddled against the fire hissed at them both, causing the women to look over at her. Lady Mabelle, a tiny woman with bird-like hands, fingers like claws, collected her cane against the mantel and stood up with some stiffness. Dressed in fine robes and a wimple with golden thread, it was almost as if her clothing was too heavy for her to bear. She groaned beneath the weight of it. Agnes rose and quickly went to her mother’s aid.
“Elizaveta,” Mabelle said in her raspy voice. “You will sit and hear me. Sit now.”
Elizaveta didn’t sit right away. She resented her grandmother greatly at this moment so, when she finally planted herself in the nearest chair, it with mannerisms that suggested she was sitting under protest. Meanwhile, Agnes had assisted Mabelle over to an elaborately cushioned chair with a big “A” embroidered into the seatback. Mabelle sat heavily, holding up her bony hands as her daughter tucked a blanket about her. When the old woman finally focused on her granddaughter, her dark eyes were intense, like great black pools of evil set within a wrinkled, sallow face.
“You will cease with your resistance, Elizaveta, for it is ineffectual,” the old woman said. “You will do as you are told, as we all must do what is necessary to ensure our survival. Must I explain what you already know? Must I explain how King Edward killed my husband and how our family in Scotland is being suppressed and overrun by the English? My husband’s lands, Maxwell lands, are fighting for their very survival. I employ spies that feed me information on the movement of the English and it is very expensive, this information I pay for. But if we had someone close to the English, someone like you, then we would receive much better information and I would not drain my coffers paying for it. You have said before that you understand the rights of your Scottish kin. If that is true, then you must help them. I am providing you with an opportunity to do so.”
Suddenly, a good deal was becoming clear to Elizaveta. In that somewhat raspy speech, it was becoming obvious why her grandmother had insisted on brokering her to the English king and it was not simply to exercise control over her life. There was another reason, a more sinister one, and Elizaveta was coming to feel like a fool for not realizing it before because she should have. God’s Bones, she should have! Her defiance at the entire proposal gave way to utter shock at the true reasons behind it.
“Then you want me to marry an English lord to
spy
on him?” she asked, aghast. “Is that what this is about? You want me to spy on my husband and send you information?”
Mabelle nodded, unmoved by her granddaughter’s dismay. “You are the key to our survival, Elizaveta,” she said. “You must help us retain our lands and our way of life. The lands that Edward lusts after are lands that belonged to your grandfather, a man that he murdered. If I do not do all that I can to prevent the English from taking them, then I am a worthless wife. A worthless woman. It is my duty to prevent the English from taking what is rightfully ours.”
Elizaveta was still caught in an unbalanced maelstrom of astonishment. “But those lands no longer belong to Grandfather,” she insisted. “They belong to his brother’s children.”
Mabelle slapped her hand against the arm of the chair, a sharp and cracking sound filling the air. “Only because I could not bear a living male child,” she insisted. “Our only son died at birth and your mother was the only child to survive. Then your mother was incapable of bearing a male child, so all of our hopes rest upon you whether or not you like it. You have a duty to your family, Elizaveta, and you will fulfill that duty or I swear I will send assassins after you. Do you hear me? If you do not do as you are told, you will pay the price and our family will die out because of your failure.”
Elizaveta’s shock turned to fear. She knew her grandmother was ruthless; she had seen it before. The woman had a black, nasty hole where her heart should have been. She cared for wealth and family honor and little else. The threat of assassins was probably an empty one but there was always the chance it wasn’t. With Mabelle, it was difficult to know. Struggling not to show that her grandmother had succeeded in frightening her, Elizaveta looked to her mother.
“And you will let her do this to me?” she asked. There was hurt in her voice. “I am your child, your flesh and blood, and you would let her use me as a pawn?”
Agnes, a weak woman when it came to her mother, averted her gaze. “You will do what you are told,” she said. “We must all do as we are told. We are women, Elizaveta. Our duty in life is to obey the wishes of others and little more.”
Mabelle grunted. “Little more than obey and spread your legs when your husband demands it,” she said, eyeing her rebellious granddaughter. “You will do that as well when it comes to your husband. Let him fill you full of his seed and pray that you can bear a son for him, a son that can be used against his father. That is what you must pray for, girl. Pray you can breed a rebellion of your own.”
Elizaveta was genuinely horrified by what she was hearing. In fact, the entire conversation was horrifying. It was also confusing, and unsettling, leaving her without a clear feeling of security or safety. When she’d entered this chamber, it had been to argue against a planned marriage her grandmother had informed her of, but now that marriage was something greater than anything she could have imagined.
You will breed a rebellion.
By marrying an English warlord of Edward’s choosing, she would be closer to the English military might than anyone in her family had ever been. Even as the daughter of the Earl of East Anglia, she had never been privy to his plans or even the plans of the king. She had never cared about any of that until she’d come to France. Now, she was to be put in the middle of the chaos, the rebellion of the Scots against the English, the rebellion that was fueled, in part, by the French. By her grandmother. God’s Bones, she felt ill.
