The Agents of William Marshal Volume I: A Medieval Romance Bundle, page 137
“My lord, we sincerely must remove you from this battle,” Dashiell said, trying to push the old man along without making it seem like he was manhandling his liege. “I promise I will bring the wounded to you for a blessing if you will simply stay to your tent. Will you agree to this, my lord?”
Edward held on to Dashiell as the man gently moved him away from the fighting and back towards the cluster of tents that signified the army’s encampment. A blue haze of smoke hovered over the tents, the fires heating food and water blazing fiercely in the cold, wet weather.
“My tent will not hold all of the men requiring my blessing,” Edward said. “They have much to atone for. God wishes me to be in battle, at their sides.”
Dashiell had a tight hold of him. “God wishes for you to live to see another day,” he countered. “You cannot walk onto a battlefield without protection or a weapon. There would be men to kill you, my lord.”
“But those men must have absolution!”
“What would your daughters say if I allowed you to be killed?”
That usually brought the duke around, the mention of his three beloved daughters. Lily, Acacia, and Belladonna were the light of his life, three women who were very devoted to their father.
It was those three, known as the Trinity by those serving the duke, who kept the situation with the duke from getting well out of hand. And Dashiell wielded their names like a weapon to control Savernake’s behavior. He hated to do it, but the truth was that he had little choice.
He was dealing with a madman.
“Lily,” the duke murmured. “Where is she, Dash?”
“She is back at Ramsbury Castle, my lord,” he replied. “She is safe.”
“And Acacia. Is she near?”
“She is also at Ramsbury, my lord.”
“And my baby, Belladonna?”
“Ramsbury, my lord.”
He was repeatedly referring to the duke’s seat, the massive structure of Ramsbury Castle. It was the power seat of Wiltshire, as the de Vaston family’s roots could be traced back to the Conquest of England.
“Then I must go home to Ramsbury,” Edward said as he realized his three lovely daughters had not come with him to bless the troops. “Come, Dash. We must return.”
Dealing with the duke was often like dealing with a child. He made quick decisions and expected them to be immediately obeyed. If Dashiell wasn’t careful in responding to his wishes, the duke was fully capable of throwing a tantrum in the form of begging God to smite those who opposed his will. Dashiell had been on the receiving end of a few of those tantrums. Therefore, Dashiell had to be careful in his reply.
“Right away, my lord,” he said. “If you will go to your tent and remain there, I shall prepare the men to depart. Will you do this?”
The duke nodded, already picking up the pace as he headed towards the encampment. “Right away,” he repeated what Dashiell had said. “Be quick, now. I must return home.”
Dashiell was about to reply but he happened to see one of the duke’s minders heading in his direction. The man looked as if he were in an utter panic. Upon his heels was the second minder, a large servant whom Dashiell trusted implicitly. His name was Drusus. Though Dashiell trusted Drusus, he didn’t trust the other minder, a man named Simon. As Simon came upon his wandering charge, he spoke loudly.
“My lord,” he cried. “Where did you go? You were supposed to rest!”
Dashiell wasn’t sure the man sounded genuine. “He was on the field of battle again,” he said as both Simon and Drusus took hold of the duke. “If I find him there again, I shall take it out on your hides. Is that clear enough?”
Simon nodded nervously, shepherding the duke back to the tent in the muddy field. Drusus was on the other side, looking after the duke with concern, but Dashiell called him back. Quickly, the enormous servant rushed to Dashiell’s side.
“Drusus,” he said quietly. “Did you see Sir Clayton near Simon? Have you seen them engage in conversation?”
Drusus understood. He shook his head and Dashiell was satisfied. He wasn’t sure he believed that Clayton hadn’t had any contact with Simon, but at least he hadn’t been obvious about it. He sighed heavily.
“Very well,” he said, waving a hand in the direction of Simon and the duke. “Go with them. And do not let the man out of your sight. Is that clear?”
Drusus nodded firmly and lumbered off, quickly moving after the duke and Simon. Dashiell watched them go, making sure that Drusus at least moved the duke into his tent, before returning his focus to the battle at hand. Just as he swung around, he came face to face with Christopher de Lohr.
The great Earl of Hereford and Worcester looked as if he’d just seen the wrong end of a fight. The man was battered, his tunic torn, and even his gloves were ripped. Dashiell looked at him curiously.
“What happened to you?” he asked. “Did you go hand-to-hand with a group of unruly barbarians?”
Christopher cocked an eyebrow, pulling off his helm to reveal sticky blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
“My horse fell,” he muttered. “Some bastard cut the tendons on the fetlocks of both front legs and the horse went down. After I destroyed the man with my bare hands, I had to destroy the horse. Pity; I was attached to him.”
Dashiell shook his head in disbelief. “Bloody hell,” he said. “I am sorry, Chris. And your sons?”
“Curtis and Richard have fared well.”
“That is a relief. But I am still sorry about the horse.”
Christopher waved him off, tugging at his ripped gloves. “As I am, but it is done,” he said, sounding like a man who was used to too much death and destruction. “How is Savernake? I saw Bent take him from the field.”
Dashiell turned around, looking at the tent in the distance where he’d last seen the duke. “Paul the Apostle is being corralled, for now,” he said as he turned around to face Christopher again. “Your brother thinks Clayton is responsible.”
“Clayton is out for Savernake’s seat.”
Dashiell eyed his cousin; Christopher was the eldest son of his great-aunt, the sister of his grandfather, Tevin du Reims. He was also several years older than Dashiell, who, at forty years and four, was fairly old himself. David, too, was several years older than Dashiell, both of the de Lohr brothers being older knights who commanded great respect from the rank and file of England’s fighting men.
They were legends.
But there was no one who respected them more than Dashiell, meaning he also greatly respected their opinions. They’d been warning Dashiell about Clayton le Cairon since he had married Lady Lily three years ago, and they continued to warn him now. Clayton was the son of a lesser land baron who was extremely wealthy wanted what that wealth couldn’t buy him – a dukedom.
Unfortunately, when Savernake passed, the dukedom would revert to his eldest daughter, as the heiress, and Clayton would become the new Duke of Savernake. But Clayton was trying to hasten that day and Dashiell was trying to stop him, because the day Clayton assumed the dukedom was the day Dashiell would leave Ramsbury Castle forever.
At least, he would if it wasn’t for one small thing –
A woman.
“Clayton is out for himself,” Dashiell said after a moment. “You know the story – the man’s father took advantage of Savernake’s slipping mind and snatched a marital contract for his son. You even tried to warn the duke, Chris. I know because I was there. But he will not listen. His mind cannot comprehend anything these days but the delusion that he’s Paul the Apostle, and the fact that his daughter’s husband is out to hasten his demise has no impact on him. You’ve known for three years the trouble I’ve gone through to keep Savernake alive.”
Christopher was, indeed, aware. Scratching his dirty scalp, he put his helm on his head once more.
“I know,” he said. “You have been admirable and noble in that madhouse of Ramsbury. God help you, Dash, truly. I’ve told you time and time again to leave Savernake and come to Lioncross Abbey with me. You would have such a place of honor in my household; you know that. But you will not come.”
Now, they were veering onto a subject that Dashiell didn’t like to discuss. He could feel it coming on because whenever they brought up this subject, it always came about.
“Nay,” he said, averting his gaze. “I will not come.”
Christopher sighed faintly, looking at his cousin with some pity. “Have you ever told her how you feel, Dash?” he asked quietly. “Does the woman even know what you deal with on a daily basis simply to be near her?”
Dashiell shrugged. “It is not her fault that her sister’s husband is a scheming bastard.”
“Nay, it is not. But it is her fault that you remain because of her. And you’ve never even told her your feelings?”
Dashiell cleared his throat softly. “There is no point,” he said. “I have told you this before, Chris. I am far too old for her. She deserves a young, fine husband. Not an old man past his prime.”
Christopher rolled his eyes. “Christ,” he hissed. “You are in your prime. You have been in your prime for twenty years. You are Dashiell du Reims, Viscount Winterton, heir to the earldom of East Anglia. You will be a great and powerful man when your father passes on and you will need a wife to carry on your legacy. Why not Savernake’s youngest daughter?”
He looked at his cousin, then. “Because she is destined for greater men than I.”
“There is no one greater than you, you dolt.”
Dashiell’s gaze lingered on him a moment before breaking down into a modest grin; beneath his heavy auburn mustache, it was difficult to see the straight, white teeth and big dimples carving into each cheek.
“She deserves better,” he said.
Christopher shook his head in irritation. “Then I am finished with you,” he declared. “To hell with you and your ridiculous restraint. I am going to go to Ramsbury myself and tell this woman – what is her name again?”
“Belladonna.”
“I am going to tell the woman named after a flowering plant that poisons men that you are in love with her and she must marry you. Who would name their daughter after a deadly flower, anyway?”
Dashiell was trying not to laugh at Christopher’s dramatics. “As she told me once, her mother simply liked the way it sounded,” he said. “All of her sisters are named after deadly or unpleasant plants – Acacia, Lily, and Belladonna. I think it was her mother’s ignorance and nothing else.”
Christopher grunted. “Ignorance, indeed,” he said. “And utterly disgraceful. If you do not tell Lady Belladonna that you wish to marry her, then I swear to you, I am going to do it. Heed my threat, Dash. You’ve been in love with this woman for the past few years and it has gone on long enough. It is not fair to the rest of us who crave a wedding to attend.”
Dashiell grinned, alleviating the tension. But deep down, he knew his cousin was right. Belladonna Isobel Evangeline de Vaston was twenty years and two, a woman grown, and he first started having feelings for her when she’d turned ten years and six. He’d watched a charming, sweet child grow into a woman of magnificence. That was six years of harboring a secret love for a woman he knew he could never have.
But he had his reasons for not telling her.
“Do you really want to discuss this now?” he finally said, trying to steer Christopher off of the subject. “We’ve got a battlefield to assess. We’ve slowed the king’s march south considerably and that is something to be proud of. Other allies must know of this great victory, so let us stop talking about me and put the focus where it belongs – on our victory today.”
As he’d hoped, Christopher turned to the battlefield where men were now starting to disband. The wounded were limping away, or being carried away, while the dead were being picked over. Overhead, swollen rain clouds had rolled in again and a light sprinkling began.
“It was costly,” Christopher said, his manner sobering. “De Winter lost one of his best knights, I lost my horse, and God only knows how many men we lost in total. I suppose we should get on with it so that I can return to my wife. I have not seen her in several months.”
Dashiell knew that Christopher was very attached to his lovely wife. “Indeed,” he said. “Then let us move on with this quickly so you can go home.”
They began to walk towards the field, which was on a slight incline, and the rain began to fall in earnest, creating rivers of red as the blood was washed down the slope. Just as they reached the crest of the hill, surveying the gruesome scene beyond, Christopher spoke quietly.
“I will ask you one question about your lady, Dash, and then I will say no more.”
Dashiell was looking at the macabre sight before him. He didn’t relish plunging into that mess, but it had to be done. Christopher’s statement distracted him for the moment.
“What is it?” he asked.
Christopher turned to look at him, his sky-blue eyes intense. “Take it from a man who was able to marry the woman he loves,” he said. “I cannot imagine my life without her. If you do not marry your Belladonna, she will become someone else’s wife. Can you really stand the thought of that?”
He didn’t even wait for an answer. Without another word, he headed out into the muddy, bloody field, leaving his last question ringing in Dashiell’s ears.
Can you really stand the thought of that?
He couldn’t.
CHAPTER ONE
March, Year of Our Lord 1216 A.D.
Ramsbury Castle, Wiltshire
It was an explosion of puppies.
Someone left the door open to the shelter where two big hunting dogs, bred by knights of Ramsbury, were nursing their young pups, and suddenly there were puppies running all over the kitchen yard in the rain and having a marvelous time.
Belladonna de Vaston suspected it was a planned move, because when she ran outside after hearing the cook’s cries, she saw several children belonging to the servants rushing about with the puppies, all of them getting muddy and wet.
Puppies were wagging and licking, the children were giggling and playing, and it all seemed like great fun except for the fact that the army had been sighted on the horizon not a half-hour earlier and were quickly approaching. The knights wouldn’t like to see their valuable puppies rushing all about in a crazed bit of fun.
“Hurry!” Belladonna was rushing about, trying to corral both the puppies and the children. “Put the pups back with their mothers! The army is approaching and we do not want them to see that we have released the hounds!”
Servant children were picking the puppies up, who were actually quite large, and carrying the licking, squirming beasts back to their home. Belladonna stood at the door to the shelter, preparing to shut it as soon as all of the puppies were returned, hurrying the children along.
All of Ramsbury was in an uproar with the returning army. It was a bright winter’s day, with blue sky and scattered clouds overhead, and mud and filth and a dead-cold earth beneath.
Ramsbury Castle rose in the midst of this dead land, like a beacon of gray stones and grace and honor. It sat in the middle of a plain, with forests all around it in the distance. There was a small village nearby, the small wooden structures of the village seemingly cowering in the shadow of the massive castle walls.
There was an equally enormous bailey within those walls, with an array of outbuildings including the great hall, stables, and troop houses. And then a nasty moat in the center of the bailey with an island in it. A massive keep rose forth on the island.
The keep was unique in every way. Shaped like a four-leafed clover, it had three stories rising out of the island, with an open courtyard in the center of the structure, the heart of the clover. It had several large rooms on all floors, plus a myriad of smaller chambers, alcoves, and hidden stairwells to get from one floor to the next. The first Duke of Savernake had the place designed by Savoy artisans and built from local stone. He’d had a large family and valued his privacy, so his logic was to build more rooms to keep his children away from him.
But his massive keep had lasted into its second century, and now it was filled with the current duke and his family, including Belladonna. It was her home, but it was also a place of routine and traditions. It had the odd feeling of being both a revered family structure and military fortress.
At the moment, Belladonna was focused on the latest tradition, something her father had come to expect since he’d awoken one morning and declared that he was Paul the Apostle. Since then, everything had to be a certain way, especially when he was returning home from battle.
Once, the old duke had read in the bible about palms and Palm Sunday, when Christ was welcomed back to Jerusalem. He’d wanted palms to welcome him home, but there were no trees with palm fronds in England, so he had to settle for rushes.
Now, with the army approaching, every man, woman, and child was turning out to see the return of the army with boughs of leaves in their hands. If Jesus was given a hero’s welcome those centuries ago, then surely Paul the Apostle was deserving of one, too.
But nothing could happen until the puppies were put away. When the last mutt was put into the shelter, Belladonna closed the door and bolted it, breathing a sigh of relief. She could hear the soldiers on the battlements taking up the cry and she knew that the portcullis must be lifting. Everyone seemed to be running in that direction.
“Bella!” A woman in fine clothing suddenly appeared in the kitchen yard, her pale face alight with excitement. “Papa is home! You must hurry!”
Belladonna rushed towards the woman, pulling off the apron she was wearing and smoothing at the expensive dress underneath. She tossed the apron into the open kitchen door, knowing the cook or another servant would pick it up.
“I am ready,” she said, smoothing her reddish-blonde hair off her face, trying to straighten up the heavy braid that hung over one shoulder. “How do I look?”
Acacia de Vaston eyed her younger sister; how did she look? Beautiful, like she always did. But Acacia was so jealous of the woman’s beauty that she would never tell her that. Besides… beauty was pure vanity, and Acacia didn’t indulge vanity. As a woman preparing to enter the cloister, vanity had no place in her life.
