Nunnery Brides Read online

  “What are you doing down here?” he demanded. “I thought you were going for the keep?”

  Dane turned to the keep at the top of the rise, in the inner ward. “The Welsh have it,” he said. “Boden is trying to organize a charge, but it’s my sense that Shrewsbury is going to have to move some war machines in here if he wants to take the keep. The Welsh are dug in like rabbits in a hole. Where is Shrewsbury, anyway?”

  William began to look around. “I saw him not too long ago with his personal guard,” he said. “They were over by the bridge that crosses into the inner ward the last I saw. Didn’t you come from that direction?”

  “I did.”

  “And you did not see him in the inner ward?”

  Dane shook his head. “Nay.”

  “Then you’d better look in the moat below the bridge,” William said, warning in his tone. “The last I saw, Shrewsbury was right by the bridge.”

  “Where is du Reims? Isn’t he with him?”

  William shook his head. “Du Reims took a bad blow to his shoulder,” he said. “He could not even lift his sword. He has been sent back to camp.”

  “So Shrewsbury is alone?”

  William nodded ominously.

  Somewhere up near the keep, the Shrewsbury battle horn sounded again, their rally cry. It was an alarm that the Shrewsbury army always carried with it, and always responded to. That horn was famous up and down the Marches. But Dane ignored the muted wail; he was feeling some trepidation now at William’s words. So many men had fallen into that moat; not only did it surround the upper bailey, but the lower one as well. He couldn’t imagine that an old man in armor would fare very well in it, so he motioned for William to follow him and, together, they made their way back up the slippery outer bailey towards the bridge that crossed into the inner bailey. It was a bridge that the English were trying to prevent the Welsh from actively destroying.

  In fact, Dane sent William to the bridge to help the English fend off the Welsh, who had axes, and he could hear William yelling insults at the Welsh as Dane headed over to the moat to see if, in fact, Shrewsbury had ended up in it.

  What he saw didn’t help his anxiety.

  Because of the slope of the hilltop, this portion of the moat was deeper than it was up towards the keep. Everything was draining downward, including men and guts and bodies. Down on this end of it, it was deeper and filled with far more muck than it was upslope.

  And then, he saw it.

  Two of Shrewsbury’s personal guard, dead in the moat. As he ran to the edge of the pit, he could see two more trying to claw their way out, holding the limp, dazed duke between them.

  Seized with panic, Dane ran to the edge of the moat, just where Shrewsbury guards were trying to lift out the duke, and he reached down, grabbing the old man by the arm and hauling him out of the moat. As the rain pounded and lightning lit up the sky, Dane ended up on his arse at the edge of the moat, clearing mud and debris from the old man’s eyes and mouth. Shrewsbury coughed, beginning to come around.

  “I have you, my lord,” he said calmly. “You are safe now. I have you.”

  The old man was in a bad way, but he was so covered with filth that Dane couldn’t see where he was injured.

  “Dane?” he said feebly, trying to open his eyes. “Dane, is it you?”

  “It is me, my lord.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “Nay, my lord. Are you?”

  Shrewsbury blinked, with eyes the color of the gray sky above. “My belly,” he said. “They stuck a sword in my belly.”

  Dane looked at the man’s midsection but he honestly couldn’t see anything. He began to pull at the man’s plate armor, trying to see what he was talking about. Shrewsbury had the latest in armor, and very expensive, so it fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Dane couldn’t see where there were any gaps until he wiped away some mud near Shrewsbury’s groin and saw a bright red river of blood burst forth. Then, he knew.

  It was bad.

  “My lord,” he said, looking around to see if he could spy William. He needed help. “I shall find William and we shall remove you from this place.”

  He started to move, to shout at William, who was far enough away that he couldn’t hear Dane’s cries over the storm and roar of battle, but Shrewsbury stopped him. He grabbed at Dane, refusing to let him go.

  “Nay,” he rasped. “Dane, you must listen to me. It is important.”

  Dane didn’t want to hear a dying confession. He was fond of the old man and the situation was dire. He had to get him out of there.

  “My lord, if you will only…”

  Shrewsbury cut him off. “Listen,” he said. “I do not have much time, so I must tell you what I have done. I have done something terrible, Dane.”

  Dane sighed faintly, knowing he was going to hear a confession whether or not he wanted to. “I am sure it is not so bad,” he muttered. “If it were Willie, I would believe it, but not you.”

  Shrewsbury smiled faintly. “You must trust that Willie will find his way someday,” he said. “I have told you before. He will be a great knight.”

  “I will believe that when I see it.”

  Shrewsbury emitted a noise that sounded like something between a laugh and a groan. “You will,” he muttered. “But I have done something to you, Dane, and I beg your forgiveness. Mayhap you will not be pleased about it, but I felt strongly for it.”

  Dane wiped more rain out of the old man’s face. “What did you do?”

  Shrewsbury’s muddled gaze fixed on him. “My daughter,” he muttered. “Grier. I have told you of her.”

  “You have, my lord.”

  “She is at St. Idloes Abbey, in Llandridod,” he said. “You must go and bring her home.”

  “Me? Why not Dastan?”

  “Because she belongs to you.”

  Dane blinked, registering surprise. “She belongs to me?”

  Shrewsbury reached up an old, wrinkled hand, trembling because his strength was failing him. Everything was failing him. His watering eyes were intense on Dane.

  “She is the last of my line,” he rasped. “She is a great heiress, Dane. She will be a great prize for any man, but she is your prize. I made the decision some time ago that she should belong to you because, as the heiress to Shrewsbury, the dukedom goes with her. You shall be the Duke of Shrewsbury when I am gone. Everything I have, I give to you. It is yours.”

  Dane couldn’t keep the astonishment off his face. “Me?” he said. “But… I do not understand. You have nephews, my lord. You have told me this yourself.”

  Shrewsbury closed his eyes. “They are all very distant and very unworthy.”

  “But… but what of Dastan? He is most worthy and…”

  “He is already married,” the old man stressed. “Dane, only you are worthy of my daughter and my wealth. Accept this and let me die in peace, knowing that Shrewsbury shall be taken care of after I die.”

  It was too much for Dane to process. A wife, a dukedom… he was a simple knight, a son of a duke, but the truth was that he was the second son. In fact, Gaston de Russe wasn’t even his blood father, only his adoptive one, so in that sense, Dane felt even less worthy.

  Aye, that was the truth – he wasn’t a real de Russe and everyone knew it. His real name was Stoneley and his father had been a vile excuse of a man. His history against the crown, against humanity, was something only whispered of by the brave.

  It was something Dane had spent his whole life trying to live down.

  “My lord,” he said, taking a deep breath and trying to stay on an even keel. “You are most generous and you know that I am grateful, but I am not sure I can do this. I… I am no one of any great note, and certainly no one who should hold the Shrewsbury titles.”

  Shrewsbury’s eyes opened again, but his lips were starting to turn blue, a sure sign that his blood was draining out of him, as was his life. Time was short.

  “Your father disagrees,” he said. “Warminster has accepted the
offer of my daughter on your behalf.”

  Dane’s jaw popped open at the mention of his father. So Gaston was in on this, was he? And just when did he, or Shrewsbury, plan to tell him this? It was clear that a mortal wound had pushed Shrewsbury’s hand into revealing the truth out of necessity, but Dane couldn’t help but feel both miffed and confused.

  “My father knows of this?” he asked, incredulous.

  Shrewsbury reached out a hand and Dane took it. The old man squeezed as hard as he could, which wasn’t very hard considering his life was slipping away.

  “He knows,” he muttered. “He only wants the best for you, lad. My daughter is yours, Dane. Promise me you will take good care of her.”

  Dane didn’t even know what to say. “But I…”

  “Promise me.”

  Dane hesitated for a brief moment, knowing there was really nothing he could say other than the obvious. He felt as if he’d just lost a battle he hadn’t even had the chance to fight. It was over and done with before he was even let in on it.

  “I… I promise.”

  All of the concern seemed to leave Shrewsbury’s features. “Then I am satisfied,” he said. “Send word to your father right away to let him know of your new appointment. He will want to know. I know that you shall make me proud, Dane. I’ve always… known…”

  Before Dane could respond, Shrewsbury’s personal guard managed to make it out of the pit, and even as Dane sat beside the old duke, his men were picking him up, intending to take him to safety. Even though Dane knew the old man was beyond help, as the red river that ran from his groin and into the mud was heavy and dark, he waved the personal guard on, drawing his sword and providing protection as they carried the old man out of the fighting. Dane fought off many a Welshman, killing at least two, before Shrewsbury was clear of the fighting and carried off to camp.

  And that was the last time Dane ever saw Shrewsbury alive.

  CHAPTER ONE

  St. Idloes Abbey

  One month later

  They couldn’t make her do it.

  She had no intention of being married, not now, not ever. There was no way she was going to permit people she didn’t know to push her into a marriage with a man she’d never even heard of. So many strangers attempting to control her destiny, and she wasn’t going to have any of it.

  She refused to cooperate.

  Until the moment they’d arrived, it had been a day like any other day at St. Idloes Abbey – the day had dawned rather misty and damp. The bell had rung at Matins and the prayer candles had been lit. Nuns, novices, postulates, and oblates had been herded through the cloister and into the church, where they’d prayed before they’d eaten their simple oat gruel.

  Once prayers were offered and the morning fast was broken, the women went about their daily chores. The Lady Grier Ysabel de Lara went to sew delicate lace shawls along with the other oblates, merchandise sold for profit to provide to the abbey, and supervised by Sister Agretha, who was a worse disciplinarian than any taskmaster alive. The woman was as hard as nails and twice as sharp; nothing missed her scrutiny. Therefore, Grier had learned to be perfect in her stitching and her behavior, lest Sister Agretha take her willow switch and smack her across the knuckles, among other places. She’d been struck in other places more times than she could count.

  Ouch!

  But the normal morning routine changed when the Mother Abbess, Mother Mary Moria, had come to pull Grier away from her sewing, giving her the message that men from Shrewsbury had come to deliver. Her father, Garreth, had been killed and, as his heiress, she was now being called forth to do her duty as the surviving child of the duke. She was to marry and take her place as the Duchess of Shrewsbury. A man had already been chosen for her husband.

  But she wanted nothing to do with it.

  In truth, Grier hadn’t given her heiress position any thought over the years because being part of St. Idloes was simply a normal way of life. She had been very young when she had first come to the abbey following the death of her mother. Her father had been a kind man, but he had not been prepared to raise a child by himself. Therefore, the only option open to him was to send his young daughter to St. Idloes Abbey because the duke’s sister had been a nun there, and she had died there, so the St. Idloes Abbey was part of the Shrewsbury blood.

  Now it was part of Grier’s blood.

  But they were asking her to break that bond.

  Quite honestly, she’d been shocked by the news, and by the expectations that had been so abruptly forced upon her. She didn’t understand any of it; she’d been given over to the Benedictine order as an oblate, or someone who was to be raised as a nun with the intention of becoming one. Indeed, she was an heiress, but that had never been brought up as her obligation, not ever. Grier’s father, in the limited communication she’d had with him over the years, had never mentioned it. Expectations had never been relayed.

  But now, they were.

  After delivering the news, the Mother Abbess had taken Grier from the sewing room, along with her friend and fellow oblate, Eolande ferch Madoc. Perhaps, the old nun had believed that Eolande would be of some comfort to her considering the girls had grown up together. Eolande was the closest thing Grier had to a sister, and even as they walked the cloister behind the old nun, the young women clung together. The Mother Abbess had taken both girls to a small room near the chapel and told them to wait.

  But… for what?

  For Grier, it was like waiting for a death sentence.

  It was a chamber seldom used, smelling of dust and damp because of the packed-earth floor and old stone walls. There were two chairs there, rough-hewn and nothing fanciful. Once the door shut, Eolande took her seat in confused silence, but Grier remained near the door. She was frightened and bewildered with what the day had brought her, struggling to think clearly in the face of such rapid change, and it was in that small room where she decided that she wasn’t going to cooperate. She was going to dig in, and if they forced her, then they would have a fight on their hands.

  She wasn’t going to be pushed into a marriage she didn’t want.

  “Are you afraid?” Eolande asked.

  The softly-uttered question broke Grier from her thoughts of rebellion. Coming from a noble Welsh family, Eolande’s English was heavily tinged with a Welsh accent, something that Grier had gotten used to over the years. In fact, Grier had picked up a hint of that Welsh accent herself.

  She eyed her friend, a little woman with black hair and black eyes. Eolande tended to be rather wise in all things, but she also tended to be cautious. Grier did not have an ounce of caution in her, and she could be reckless at times, things that had her on the receiving end of religious beatings and scoldings from time to time. But she was as brilliant as a new day, and it was a brilliance that would not be silenced.

  “Nay,” she said. “I am not afraid. And I will not marry. I do not care who these men are. My father gave me over to St. Idloes to become a nun, and become I shall. I am not meant to be any man’s wife.”

  Eolande heard the resistance in her voice, the defiance. That was normal with Grier. But that bravery could be misplaced, as she suspected it was now.

  “Who has come for you?” she wondered aloud. “Mother Abbess says that your father’s men have come, but I wonder if that is true.”

  Grier looked at her curiously. “What do you mean?”

  Eolande’s gaze moved over her friend; petite, with a curvy figure buried beneath the rough woolens. Grier had chestnut-colored hair to her knees and eyes the color of a sunset – shades of gold, of greens, and even yellow and dark orange. She had the face of an angel, with a bright smile and a quick wit. Eolande had seen other postulates and novices scorn her with their jealousies, even whispering about her when her back was turned.

  She is too pretty, some would say. She will lose her beauty when she gets older, others would mutter. Hurtful words that were meant to wound, but Grier simply accepted them without complaint. Even when the Mot
her Abbess would punish the offenders, Grier took no pleasure in it. Eolande thought that the Mother Abbess had a soft spot for Grier, although the woman wouldn’t admit it. But perhaps, that was why she looked so concerned when she’d delivered the news of Shrewsbury’s death, concern over the young woman who had been her charge for many years.

  A young woman who held the rich and vast Dukedom of Shrewsbury in her hands.

  “What I mean to say is I wonder if these men are up to no good,” Eolande elaborated after a moment. “They could be lying, you know.”

  Grier’s eyes widened. “Lying?” she repeated. “Why should they want to do that?”

  Eolande rose from her chair. “To take you away,” she said simply, going to Grier and reaching out to take her hand. “What if they wish to abduct you and ransom you to your father?”

  Grier’s momentary shock became suspicion. “They’d not dare,” she hissed. “Would men truly lie to the church? Do they realize how they can be punished?”

  Eolande simply held Grier’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “Mayhap, they do not care,” she said. “Mayhap… mayhap, we should run to my brother for protection. He would save you!”

  Grier smiled for the first time, a gentle gesture in the midst of such a serious subject. It was as if the bewildered nature of the conversation suddenly took a turn, one that caused Grier to soften at the mere suggestion. It was clear by her expression that Eolande’s statement had touched her in some way that there was more to the words than the meaning they conveyed.

  “Although your suggestion is noble, we both know it is not true,” Grier said, a hint of sadness in her tone. “But I thank you all the same.”

  “But we can try!”