The Valcourt Heiress (Medieval Song 7)

Garron managed to quash the insane desire to laugh. He’d fallen into despair and now King Edward himself had seen to his salvation, or rather he hadn’t quibbled overly when his queen had seen to his salvation. He doubted such a thing would occur again in his lifetime.

Burnell introduced him to Sir Lyle of Clive, a younger son born without lands, just as Garron had been until three weeks ago. He was Garron’s senior by at least ten years, dark as a Spanish Moor, hard and lean as the whip he carried in his wide leather belt, its leather-wrapped handle twisted around his sword hilt. His eyes were set close beneath heavy black eyebrows, eyes as black as a sinner’s soul. Why had he thought that?

Sir Lyle bowed. “I was knighted eight years ago by Lord Alfred of Crecy when I saved his life in battle, but there was naught to go with the title. I was at his side until his death two years ago.

“Last month I nearly died in a battle fought over a putrid swamp near Kettlethorpe. The mangy baron who hired me then refused to pay me and my men. He had ten soldiers surrounding him so I couldn’t kill him. When I met with the king to air my grievance, he had just heard of your troubles here at Wareham. My men and I are looking for a home, my lord, and the king said you needed men. There

are four of us. We fight well and we can work just as well.”

Garron studied Sir Lyle a moment longer. His life depended on making the right decision about a man’s character. It was odd, but he simply wasn’t certain about Sir Lyle, those black sinner’s eyes of his. Was he honest or was he a villain? At the moment, it didn’t matter. He’d brought three men, strong men by the looks of them, well fed, and that meant more hands to build and repair. He clasped Sir Lyle’s sword hand.

“Welcome to my service. I have two other small keeps within a day’s ride of here, Furly and Radstock. I have no idea if this man—the Black Demon—and his men also attacked and destroyed them. As you can see, there is much to be done here. Look yon, all the barracks are destroyed. If you wish Wareham to be your home, you must needs assist in rebuilding it.”

Sir Lyle said calmly, “My three men are hardy, my lord, all of them eager, as am I. I believe all of us would like to build for a while rather than lay waste to other men’s lands. My men are all trustworthy—well, for the most part.” Lyle gave a crack of laughter. “I saw both the outer curtain wall and the inner wall are sound and that is a relief. This Black Demon, I have never heard the name. Have you any idea yet who he is?”

“Not as yet.”

“Was your brother killed by this man?”

“No, he was not. He died suddenly before this man arrived with his soldiers. Once all is set to rights here, I will discover his name and then I will kill him.”

Sir Lyle nodded. “Aye, he should be killed. It’s easy to see the barracks were once fine indeed, and that was once a fruitful orchard. Allow me one sword slice of the fellow, my lord, when we catch him.”

Those were fine words, Garron thought, but still, he simply didn’t know about Sir Lyle of Clive. Well, he would see soon enough. No man could hide what he really was for long. He would challenge both him and his men—no, now they were Garron’s men, and Sir Lyle was his man as well—with backbreaking work and tasks they’d likely never attempted before. He saw Aleric eyeing Lyle of Clive, his seamed face utterly expressionless, then turn to the three new men, asking names, getting a feel for what each man could do, and if they could indeed be trusted.

Garron spoke to the two soldiers who’d gone to the king, saw they were both wounded, and called to Merry.

When she was at his side, he said only, “They were my brothers’ soldiers. Now they are mine. They are brave men and both are hurt. Please see to them.”

Even before Robert Burnell was settled into a makeshift chair, its rough-planked seat hurriedly covered with blankets, Garron heard the sound of a single hammer in the inner bailey. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard in his life.

13

Clouds hung low, the air was chill, but it didn’t rain. Garron rubbed his hands together, told Tupper he was the porter and he trusted him to keep sharp, which made the old man square his meager shoulders. He stationed the king’s soldiers on the ramparts, then ordered the portcullis left winched up, the drawbridge down. During the day, two dozen more Wareham people straggled into the keep, all starving and in rags, but now, at the sight of all the activity, at the sight of all the sheathed swords, at the smells of cooking food, there were wondering voices, even one rumbling laugh, but most of all, there was hope. Garron had never thought much about the quality of hope before, but he realized now it was a tangible thing, something he could feel, even smell in the very air.

A dozen soldiers, most wounded, returned as well. Merry cleaned and bound their wounds while Garron questioned them closely, but they knew nothing he didn’t already know.

Aleric managed to mix the groups together, with no arguments or broken heads, and set all the men to work, each to his skill.

What pleased Garron the most, he realized, was the young woman who came straggling into the inner bailey with two small boys, their dirty hands clasped in hers, along with three dispirited dogs, their tails down. Her name was Elaine. Her husband had managed to spirit his family out of Wareham and hide them in the Forest of Glen. Then he’d returned to fight.

Elaine bowed her head. “My husband never returned to us.”

Garron hoped Tupper or Miggins would know where the man was buried. While he spoke to the mother, he saw Merry give the two little boys and the three dogs milk from the goat Queen Eleanor had sent.

He heard her say, “Ivo, Errol, what shall we name our new goat with her delicious milk?”

“Eric,” Ivo said. “It was my father’s name. The bad men kilt him after he hid us and came back to fight. ’Tis a good name. Ma cried and cried when he didn’t come back. I didn’t, but Errol did. He’s just a little boy.” It didn’t matter the goat was female. From that day on, her name was Eric.

Their mother, Elaine, a woman whose pale bruised eyes were no longer blank with fear and grief, heard what Ivo said. She turned to Merry and curtsied. “Thank you, my lady. I believed we would die, but no longer. Thank God, no longer. We saw Lord Garron and his men hunting but I didn’t know who they were, so we were afraid to come out. Then, I supposed it didn’t matter. We were so hungry and cold. Then we saw all those mules with the packets.” She sighed, hugged her boys against her. “The little dogs followed us. Now even they are happy again, with milk in their bellies. We are so glad to be home. I was in charge of all the sewing once the weaving was done. I see everyone is in rags. If you can give me cloth, I will make new clothes. I see Talia has survived, thank the good Lord. She is an excellent seamstress as well. My husband, Eric—” She swallowed. “He was a good man.”

Merry lightly touched her hand to Elaine’s shoulder. My lady? She had to correct her, she had to—“I will see that you have the cloth and needles, but first you must eat and rest, your boys too.” She leaned down to pat one of the dogs.

Merry went through every single bundle. Three mules carried food, another carried seeds for the vegetable garden, even some cuttings for rosebushes, and packets filled with spices. Two mules carried bolts of sturdy wool and a dozen needles, and praise be to St. Catherine’s bonny face, there were three small pear and apple trees, their roots bound up in damp cloth. There was so much, Merry felt tears start to her eyes.

When she found candles, she started singing. But she didn’t find any soap. She was in sore need of a bath. Well, she knew how to make soap, and given the odors coming from all the people, herself included, she should do it this very minute, though she wondered if she could talk them into bathing, something few of them did in the best of years.

Everything moved quickly. Sir Lyle and his men went hunting, led by three of Arthur’s former soldiers who surely knew the lay of the land and where the best game could be found. Every other able-bodied man was out chopping down trees in the nearby Forest of Glen to make trestle tables, benches, and beds.