PROLOGUE
Early December, Year of Our Lord 1215 A.D.
Driffield, south of Scarborough
“By the power of God given me this day, I absolve you of your sins, all of you, poor wretched creatures given whim to earthy sins!”
It was a loud and booming voice that could be heard over the rumble of battle. An elderly man stood amid the fighting, garbed in robes and finery, seemingly having no idea that he was in mortal danger.
On the contrary – he was blessing the men in battle with all of the pomp that the pope would bless his congregation on Easter Sunday. The only problem was that this congregation wasn’t receptive to the blessing and was prepared to demonstrate that unhappy position with the swords, maces, and flails they happened to be holding.
The man giving the blessing had no protection at all.
“Oh… God.” A knight in heavy armor stood over the man he’d just killed. He could see the elderly man trying to bless the combatants, only to be pushed aside or ignored altogether. He began to run towards him. “Christ, who let him run onto the field of battle?”
It was a question to no one in particular, but a question of great angst. Sir Dashiell du Reims began stumbling over the dead, trying to make haste across a rain-soaked field that was slick with blood and body parts. It was the conclusion of a skirmish between the King of England, John, and the barons who very much wanted the man off the throne.
John had been campaigning through England, laying siege to rebel barons and simultaneously trying to raise support for his cause. But he was playing a cat-and-mouse game with the rebels; the mighty Savernake army along with several other allied factions had caught the king’s men just as they left Scarborough, and tore through them in devastation. The king’s army wasn’t nearly ready to face another battle after their siege of Scarborough and the north, and they certainly weren’t ready for Savernake supported by the House of de Lohr, the Lords of the Marches.
It had been a great victory for the rebel barons, but Dashiell wasn’t feeling the victory at the moment.
Only panic.
His liege, the Duke of Savernake and kin to the House of Plantagenet, was running amok on the battlefield. Normally, it would be the man’s right to shout his victory, but not in this case. The man, unfortunately, was quite mad, and he cared not for his victory. He had men who minded him, but the minders were nowhere to be found as Dashiell raced towards his liege as fast as he could go.
The bloody fool is going to get himself killed!
Suddenly, Dashiell could see another knight approach Savernake, being gentle with the man and clearly suggesting that his safety was in danger. But Savernake lifted his hand to the knight and, as Dashiell watched, the knight crossed himself as one does when in church, after prayer. But after the sign of the cross given by the knight, Savernake seemed to be more than willing to do as he was asked, which was remove himself from the dwindling battle.
Dashiell slowed his frantic pace, propping his helm up to wipe is sweaty forehead. It was a gesture of relief, of frustration. He was going to have to take a stand against taking a senile duke on a battle march. The men liked to see their liege leading the army and draw strength from it, but the truth was that Savernake was a danger to himself and to others. Any man who believed he was Paul the Apostle, and therefore invincible, was clearly a danger to everyone around him.
“So he wandered into the battle again, did he?”
The question came from behind and Dashiell turned to see his cousin, David de Lohr, approach. David was the Earl of Canterbury, dressed in well-used and bloodied armor, as he’d been in the heart of the fighting for most of the day. To his cousin’s question, Dashiell nodded his head wearily.
“Again,” he said. “He was blessing the men.”
David grunted with annoyance. “Jesus,” he muttered. “He still believes he is immortal?”
“Still.” Dashiell shook his head, frustrated. “He cannot come on anymore battle marches with us, David. The man is going to get himself killed. Bent had to intercept him on the field as it was, and that puts Bent at great risk. I do not like it when my knights are put at risk like that. I want to know how in the hell Savernake wandered away from his minders and they did not see him.”
David cocked a blond eyebrow; handsome and muscular, he was the younger brother of Christopher de Lohr, a man deeply entrenched in the politics of England for many years. As the powerful Earl of Hereford and Worcester, Christopher commanded half of the Marches while his brother commanded a good portion of Kent. With the de Lohr brothers united, victory was assured, and the winds of politics often hinged on their support.
But the de Lohrs had a long-standing hatred for John. The family had always been avid supporters of the crown, but seventeen years of John’s rule had been their limit. They could only take so much of his foolery and debauchery. Within the past year, they had removed their support from the crown. John had been devastated by their loss, making battles like this one most important.
“The duke is sly, even in his madness,” David muttered. “If he wants to escape, he will. Besides… you know as well as I do that Clayton wants him dead. You know that is why he insists on bringing him and he probably paid the minders to turn their backs for a moment, allowing the duke to slip by. The husband to the heiress of Savernake would be very happy if the duke got himself killed.”
Dashiell scratched his chin unhappily. “That is not going to happen so long as there is breath in my body.”
“Ever the old duke’s protector, Dash.”
“I have been from the beginning.”
“Then Clayton le Cairon is in for a very long wait. Nothing but God himself could tear you down, Dash, or cause you to falter in your duties. You are the strongest man I know.”
With that, David slapped him on the shoulder, a gesture of support, and headed off into the dying skirmish. Dashiell’s focus, however, was on the duke, as the knight who had removed him from the battlefield continued to move him away from any fighting.
But it was much like herding a duck. The knight motioned the duke to go one way, but the duke went the other. Moving quickly to catch up to the pair, Dashiell came up behind the knight and put his hand on the man’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. It was also one meant to release the man from his burden. The young knight turned to see Dashiell with welcome relief.
“Dash,” Bentley of Ashbourne, a young and powerful knight, spoke with gladness. “Our Lord was… well, he was blessing the battlefield.”
Dashiell nodded. “I know,” he said quietly. “I saw.” Then, he raised his voice to speak to the elderly man in Bentley’s grip. “My lord, you must not venture into the heat of battle as you did. We have discussed this before. It could be very dangerous.”
Lord Edward de Vaston, the hereditary Duke of Savernake, turned to see his most treasured and powerful knight, the man who was in command of his armies. Though elderly, Edward was still strong and active, tall and lanky with a full head of graying red hair. But his mind had left him years ago, an unfortunate circumstance for a man who had always been sharp and vital.
Dashiell remembered the days when he had been a young knight and serving the duke had been a pleasure. He’d learned much from the kind and patient man.
Now, it was his turn to be patient.
“Ah!” Edward said, smiling broadly. “My greatest follower. Be at peace, my son.”
He lifted his hand in a gesture of blessing, something he did with everyone, and Dashiell was obliged to cross himself. No one greeted or otherwise had interaction with Edward without crossing themselves. It was simply what the duke expected now that he believed himself to be Paul the Apostle. Dashiell had even seen the Archbishop of Canterbury, Stephen Langton, cross himself and kiss Edward’s hand. It’s simply what one did when meeting the man who believed he was a messenger of God and, as Langton put it, perhaps he really was.
“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.