Kathryn Le Veque (44 page)

Izlyn peered at the object. It looked like a dried weed, flattened by time and age, but when he turned it more in her direction, she realized that she was looking at the thistle she had given him the day before Gryffyn had been killed. She gasped as realization swept her.

“You gave this to me years ago,” he said softly, watching her astonished expression. “Do you recall?”

She nodded vigorously. “I do,” she replied. “I gave it to you back during the time when Gryffyn was killed. And Gart.... do you remember Gart Forbes? He was very upset that I had given you a flower and had not meant one for him.”

George grinned as he pressed the flower into her open palm, watching her inspect it. “I remember Gart,” he said. “I have not seen him in years, though. He was in France fighting for de Lohr for a while but I have heard he is back in England. If he comes to visit you, I will have to kill him.”

Izlyn laughed softly. “Gart moved on from me long ago,” she said. Then, she sobered, holding up the flower. “But I am very glad you did not.”

George met her gaze, his eyes glimmering warmly at her. Then, he did what Keller told him he could not do. He took the flower from her, took her hand, and kissed it gently.

“Never,” he whispered. “Now, let us retreat inside before Keller has a tantrum. Your brother-in-law and I must discuss your dowry.”

Izlyn held his arm tightly as they disappeared into the cool innards of Nether’s keep, heading for the small hall where Keller was in the process of brooding. He and George spent two days negotiating Izlyn’s dowry which, in the end, had been quite generous of Keller and even included a plot of land from the Carnedd Barony to provide them with income. When all was said and done, the only matter left was the wedding itself, and on a warm August day in the year of our Lord twelve hundred and four, Lady Izlyn d’Einen because Lady Ashby-Kidd. Three out of Keller and Chrystobel’s five children cried through the entire ceremony, and the naughty twins had brought hollowed straw from the stable and tiny little pebbles, using them like blow guns and shooting the groom through most of the ceremony until their mother realized what they were doing and took them both outside to a sound spanking. Then, Keller and Chrystobel had five children who cried through the ceremony.

But it didn’t matter, for the mass was beautiful and the couple, very much in love. It couldn’t have been a more perfect day in spite of the commotion.  The bride had violets woven into her hair while the groom wore the faded thistle his bride had given him so long ago pinned to the collar of his tunic. When it came time for the final vows, Izlyn had remembered something Keller had said to her once, something the girl had written to her sister on behalf of her new husband.

Somehow, the words had always stayed with her so when it came time to repeat their vows, Izlyn had added a line that meant as much to her as it had to her sister. Back in those days, those terrible dark days, they discovered that men by the name of Keller de Poyer, Gart Forbes, Rhys du Bois, William Wellesbourne, and George and Aimery Ashby-Kidd could heal what Gryffyn had damaged. Angels in the form of English knights had changed their lives forever.

I see the magic of a new beginning with you.

Now, it was Izlyn’s turn for a new beginning.

THE END

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Author’s Note:

This novel, at times, dealt a lot with different languages – Welsh and English, mostly. Now, English is generalized in novels from the High Middle Ages so that the readers can relate to what’s being said, because around this time in history, England was transitioning from Old English to Middle English, which are complex languages and not at all like the English language you and I know. Example:

Old English from Beowulf:

Translation:

Lo, praise of the prowess of people-kings

See why authors such as myself don’t write in Old English, which would have been true to the period? Because you wouldn’t have a clue what we were saying – and neither would we! Therefore, we use colloquial English so you can understand what’s being said, but we try to keep the proper syntax of the period. Of course, the Norman’s spoke Anglo-Norman when they arrived and that was the preferred language at court until the 1400’s, but again, when I write of kings and queens, they speak English for the most part so the reader is at ease. England in the High Middle Ages was a true mix of French speakers and English speakers.

As for Wales, they have an extremely difficult language that they still speak today, and it is still taught in schools much like the Irish teach Celtic in their schools. I’ve written about Wales – a lot – and even I’m still confused by their language at times. As my husband calls it, the language with no vowels!

Thank you so much for reading. I truly hoped you enjoyed Keller and Chrystobel’s story. You can find all of my novels on Amazon for Kindle, in paperback, and in audiobook format. I also have several novels on Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and Smashwords.

www.kathrynleveque.com

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Now, please enjoy a bonus chapter from ARCHANGEL, Gart Forbes’ novel.  ARCHANGEL is available on Amazon for Kindle, in paperback, or in audiobook format.

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Chapter One

Year of Our Lord 1204 A.D.

The Month of May

Dunster Castle, Somerset

He was seeing ghosts.

It was true that he was weary after having spent the last seven days traveling from Kent to the shadowed edges of the Exmoor Forest.  It was also true that the wilds of Somerset and Cornwall were said to breed wraiths and other netherworld creatures, and Dunster was right in the middle of dark and mysterious lands. But being a man of logic, Sir Gart Forbes wasn’t one to believe in ghosts or phantoms or fairies.  Still, he wasn’t quite sure what he had seen.

He was standing in the darkened bailey of Dunster just after sunset.  The castle was perched on the top of a hill, fortified and old even in Saxon times, and the battlements were lined with men standing guard, sentries with big dogs and big torches to keep away the night. Gazing up the wooden steps that led into the second floor of the enormous square keep, Gart swore he saw something at the top of the stairs that had just as quickly vanished.  

All around him were sounds of the bailey as the men settled in for the night. He had brought one hundred men with him from Denstroude Castle in Kent, seat of Baron Thornden, Sir David de Lohr.  Lord de Lohr was in the keep up in the third floor great hall and these wraiths, these wispy creatures, were between Gart and his liege. With a weary sigh, knowing he must have lost his mind somewhere back on the dusty road, Gart slowly mounted the steps.

The stairs were dark and old.  Gart’s enormous boots tested the weight of each plank as he made his way up and could hear the wood groan.  Normally, he would have been focused on the meal awaiting him but at this moment, he had to admit he was curious to see if the wraiths would make another appearance.

He didn’t have long to wait.  The moment he stepped inside the great Norman arch that embraced the entry, something small and white jumped into his path.

“Boo!”

Before Gart could open his mouth to speak, the phantom darted off and hid. It wasn’t so much a phantom now that he had a closer look - it was a child, completely white from head to toe.  Gart watched the child disappear into a darkened room, a solar that was directly off the entry to the right. His brow furrowed and he shook his head, undecided as to whether he was irritated or amused. He settled for amused until two more wraiths jumped out at him with sticks.

Gart was in armor so he didn’t feel the blows, but his amusement quickly turned to irritation when one of the sticks landed a blow a little too close to his groin.  He reached down to grab one of the children but his hand came away completely white.  They were covered in something white and powdery. 

Gart grabbed a stick that came flying at his groin again, yanking it out of the child’s hand and tossing it out the door.  He locked gazes with a boy no more than seven years of age and he would never forget the look of fury on the boy’s face.

With a yell, the child charged him and tried to bite him, but all he came away with was mail to the mouth. Gart grabbed the child by the hair and the boy screamed.

“Let me go!” he howled. “I will have you arrested if you do not let me go!”

Gart’s hand was bigger than the child’s head as he gazed down at him. “Is that so?”

“It is!” the lad tried to kick him, struggling to dislodge the iron grip. “If you do not let me go, I… I will have you boiled! I will have you flogged! I will have you…!”

Gart put up a hand, cutting him off. “I understand your meaning,” he said, noticing that the two other white-covered children were beating at his armored legs.  He shoved one away by the head and kneed the other one across the floor.  It wasn’t a kick as much as it was a good push with his kneecap. Then he let go of the child in his grip.

“Let me pass and you can assault the next fool who walks in the door,” he told him.

The three boys were not so easily dissuaded. They rushed back at him with their fists and sticks and Gart shoved them all away again, only to have them rush him once more as he tried to mount the stairs to the third level. 

Irritation growing, he managed to grab all three of them, carry them over to the dark and empty solar, and shove them inside.  Slamming the door closed, he noticed there was no exterior bolt as the boys beat at the door and yelled from the other side. Gart stood there as long as he could, holding the door shut as delicious smells taunted him from the hall above. He didn’t have time for this foolishness. Daring to let go of the latch, he made a break for the stairs.

The solar door flew open and the three boys charged out, catching Gart as he was half-way up the spiral stone stairs. They grabbed at his feet and he kicked back, attempting to dislodge them. He didn’t want to outright hurt them but they were annoying and beastly, so he finally kicked out and sent one boy crashing into the other two. 

The whole lot of them slid down the stairs, leaving a trail of white powder as they went. They hit hard in a group, the older ones falling on the smaller one.  The little lad at the bottom of the pile began to wail loudly and rub his head where he had smacked it. 

Gart smirked at the screams, thinking now they would finally leave him alone. He hadn’t taken two steps before he started to feel some remorse. They were just children, after all.  He had been a child once, thirty years ago during times he could hardly remember. These children were just playing games. At least, he hoped so. Maybe they were really murderers in disguise. Taking another step, the cries prevented him from continuing.

With a heavy sigh he turned on the stairwell, peering down at the pile of boys at the bottom.  The two older ones were attempting to pick the younger one up and convince him that he wasn’t injured.  Gart took a couple of steps down, watching the boys who seemed much less aggressive than they had been moments earlier. 

“What are you three doing?” he demanded softly.

Three pairs of big blue eyes looked up at him as if startled by the question. He could see the hostility seep back into their expressions but, so far, not one of them had made a move against him. They seemed to be posturing an awful lot.

“Brendt hurt his head,” the tallest child said angrily. “You did….”

Gart waved the boy off. “That is not what I meant,” he took another step down. “What are you three doing attacking men who enter the keep?”

The tallest boy’s brow furrowed. “Robbing them!”

Gart couldn’t help it as his features screwed up in confusion. “
Robbing
them?”

“Aye,” the boy insisted. “This is our castle. Whoever comes in this door belongs to us.”

Gart stared at the lad a moment before finally shaking his head. Truth be told, he was fighting off a grin.  The lad was deadly serious.

“Who are you?” he finally asked.

The boy stood tall. “Romney de Moyon,” he announced. “These are my brothers, Orin and Brendt. Our father is Julian de Moyon, Baron Buckland, and this is our castle.  Who are you?”

Gart came down the rest of the stairs and stood in front of them, massive fists resting on his hips. He avoided the question. “Why do you have white powder all over you?”

Romney looked at his brothers before returning his attention to Gart. “Because we are ghosts. You cannot see ghosts and it makes it easier to rob people.”

Gart rubbed his hand over his chin and mouth so the boy would not see his grin. It was really quite dastardly and very humorous, he thought.

“I see you quite clearly,” he ran a finger across Romney’s chest, peering at the white powder. “What is this?”

“Dust from the stone,” Romney told him. “Father is building house for the soldiers and this is the dust from the white stone.”

Gart inspected it a moment longer before wiping it on his tunic.  His gaze moved to the youngest, who was no longer crying but still rubbing his head.

“Had you not attacked me, you would not have hurt your head,” he was looking at the smallest boy but lecturing all three. “Does your father know what you are doing?”

Romney lifted his shoulders, for the first time losing some of his confidence. “He does not care,” he said. “Will you give me your money or will I have to fight you to the death?”