A Bit of Heaven on Earth (3 page)

“Out, man!” Berwyn proclaimed.

She opened her eyes to see him pushing their priest out the door. If she were destined to rot in Hell, she was certain Berwyn would be there to keep her company.

“Can you not get this over with, Wife?” he demanded, not bothering to chastise her in quiet tones. “How long does it take a devout woman to die? Surely God is anxious for you to come to Him.”

He narrowed his eyes and studied her, his thick lips curling in contempt. “You spent more time in conversation with God than you ever did in our marriage bed or even caring for this household. You already have one foot in the next world. If not for Gavin, your time on earth would be worthless. Hurry up and die. I wish to marry again, a woman who shall be a true wife to me.”

Gillian tried to wet her cracked lips in order to issue a quick retort but failed. Berwyn sneered at her weak effort. He left the room, brushing against the old priest who stood just outside the door.

Berwyn continued down the dimly lit passageway, barely restraining his fury. He did what his father commanded years ago and married Gillian. The old man hadn’t lived a twelvemonth afterward. At least Berwyn had enjoyed the wealth Gillian’s dowry brought to Ashgrove. It had allowed him to expand the estate and make numerous improvements over the years.

The worst was that Berwyn found himself saddled with what might as well have been a nun for a spouse all these years. She’d produced the required heir within the first year of their union and then promptly lost all interest in carnal things.

And he was a very carnal man.

“God’s teeth!” he roared. He’d gone into the chamber that smelled like death in order to fetch a bauble for Clarine. He’d promised her a jewel after their lovemaking last night and knew he could not go to her again unless he presented the trinket. Berwyn angrily paced down the hall again to retrieve a gem from his wife’s casket. She never wore them and would probably be dead by the time he placed a necklace about Clarine’s luscious throat.

Father Michael no longer stood guard outside. Undoubtedly, he had gone in again to offer solace to Gillian. Berwyn pushed open the door, grimacing at the stench of stale vomit that greeted him again.

Before he could take more than a few steps in, however, he halted. Gillian’s faltering words forced him to a stop.

“. . . and so Gavin is not Berwyn’s son. In truth, Father, ‘tis Lord Aldred’s blood that runs through his veins.”

Shock caused a physical reaction. Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed quickly and took two steps back so as to remain out of sight. He’d fostered with Aldred of Kentwood when but a youth, worshipping the man far more than his own father, who was Aldred’s closest friend. Lord Aldred taught him how to ride and use a sword. How to wench and drink. Now, Berwyn learned a score and four later that the famed nobleman had cuckolded him?

When had it transpired?

He thought back to the earliest time in his marriage. Gillian delivered a son to him eight months after their vows. She told him many times first children came early, and he hadn’t any reason to question her. Gavin had been perfect in every way.

Now, he saw in an instant how much Gavin resembled his true father. Berwyn had wondered where Gavin’s height had come from and his unusual eyes. Why had he been blind to the truth all these years? Rage rushed through his veins.

“He might have been a score more than I, yet he was the kindest man, despite his war-like attitude. Gavin is just like him, Father. He has Aldred’s eyes and smile and his gentle disposition.”

Gillian moaned softly and panted like a dog would before she continued. “I have seen Gavin nurse a mare in labor with tenderness, yet ‘tis fierce and unhesitating he is with his sword. A son any mother would be proud of. I have kept my secret all these years, Father. ‘Twas my sin to bear. I have suffered in silence so that my son would become lord of Ashgrove.”

The priest murmured soft words of absolution, but Berwyn blocked them out. He forced his clenched fists to open and took a calming breath. His face now a blank mask, he strode through the room and placed a hand on the clergyman’s back.

“Forgive my earlier outburst, Father. I regret the harsh words I spoke to my wife. I have come to beg her forgiveness, as she is so near to death.”

He gave Gillian a soft smile before looking again at the cleric. “Would you allow us some privacy?”

Father Michael turned and shuffled from the room, shaking his head as he mumbled to himself. Berwyn waited till he heard the door close before he looked at his traitorous wife.

Her beauty had faded long ago. Only her eyes burned brightly in her shriveled face. They held his, questioning, unsure why he would offer her an apology.

“You’re right, my dear,” he said almost tenderly. “I won’t beg your pardon.” Berwyn moved closer to the bed, breathing from his mouth so as to keep the scent of death from him.

He placed his hands upon her bony shoulders and gripped her tightly as he brought his face close to hers. The fear in her eyes brought a smile to his face.

“I am here to tell you one thing, Wife.
Your bastard child will never be master of Ashgrove. Never
.”

Tears sprang to her eyes as he watched the realization seep through her.

“Yes, I heard your confession.” Berwyn lifted a hand from her shoulder and wound his fingers around a lock of her graying hair. “I may have been fooled for years, but no more. Gavin is as good as dead to me.”

He smiled at her. “As are you.”

With a swift movement, Berwyn pulled a pillow from behind Gillian’s back and pressed it to her face. She struggled briefly, but the disease that ravaged her body had robbed her strength. When she ceased moving, he lifted the pillow and returned it from where it came.

She lay with eyes open, full of fright. Berwyn steeled himself and brushed his palm across her face, closing her lids. He straightened the bedclothes and then went across the room. Opening the casket that contained all of her jewels, he pawed through the contents, choosing a circlet to place inside his tunic. Clarine’s golden tresses would look lovelier than usual now.

He returned to the bed and knelt next to it. He took one of her hands in his. Already it was cool to his touch. He bit his tongue hard to give him a pained look, one that he hoped would pass for sorrow, and bellowed at the top of his lungs.

“Sweet Jesu! Come quickly! My wife is dead.”

CHAPTER 2

France, 1356

Gavin of Ashgrove awakened quickly, as always, his body instantly tense, hand upon his sword. Well before daylight, he would once again follow the Black Prince into battle against the French.

At five and ten years, he had stood as large as any grown man a decade ago when he acted as squire to Lord Aldred, who gave him permission to ride into the skirmish that lay ahead.

“If young Edward can lead troops into battle only a year older than you, Gavin, I suppose the time has come for you to ride by my side.”

Gavin fought valiantly that day, Aldred serving as his guide. Young Prince Edward had been far outnumbered by French troops, yet the royal youth guided the English lines into holding their position on the hill and on to victory. Gavin continued the fight until Edward’s army, weakened by illness, was forced into battle by a vastly superior French army. Fortunately, the English longbow had again triumphed at Crecy, before the English had returned to England.

Gavin itched for war again these past ten years, when a lull in the fighting occurred. The Great Pestilence swept across Europe, and no man was safe on the battlefield from its long arm. He’d spent the time at home, happy to be back at Ashgrove learning how to run a large estate, keeping his father’s army of knights ready to fight at a moment’s notice.

Finally, his time came again. Today. Gavin, now officially knighted, would once more follow the Black Prince into the fight against the French. Gone, however, was Aldred, who remained at Kentwood. Age had taken its toll on the gallant warrior. Since Gavin left his service, Aldred had married for a third time, almost half a score ago. The union had produced no children.

It was unfortunate because Aldred’s elder son died in the taking of Calais several years before, while his younger son fell from his horse while hunting. Paralyzed for two years, every breath an agony, the boy succumbed to the same fever that also took his younger sister. Gavin knew of these events from missives received by his father. After the deaths of Aldred’s two remaining children, no news came.

He shook himself from the past, wondering why he always became so contemplative before battle. It pained him to think of Aldred’s troubles, for he loved the old lord to his core. His own father, Berwyn, never seemed more than a distant relative. They had little in common except their connection through Gillian.

Gavin smiled at the thought of his beloved mother. Though she spent much time in prayer, she’d never been the remote parent his father had. She lavished him with love from his earliest memories. An English victory today might mean he could return home. Her health, always delicate, caused him some concern. He prayed she was well and then rose for the day.

Dace, as usual, appeared from nowhere. The loyal squire anticipated his every thought and action. Gavin knew the boy would make a steady soldier one day. High-spirited, with boundless enthusiasm, Dace was as much family to him as Robert.

“Here’s a loaf of bread and a bit of ham, my lord.” Dace handed over the food and removed a wineskin gripped under his arm. “Wine, too. A good soldier needs his strength to enter battle.”

Gavin smiled indulgently at his retainer and ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately. “Right you are, Dace. When your time comes, you will be more than ready.”

Dace’s eyes gleamed at the thought of entering battle.

“And did you start the morning feast without me?”

Gavin turned and saw Robert standing there. “Good morn to you, my friend. I trust you slept well?”

Robert laughed. “Like a babe, Gavin. The thought of battle may terrify most, but somehow ‘tis a sense of peace that falls over me the night before a conflict begins.”

Gavin handed him the wineskin, and Robert took a swig. “Nectar from the gods. These French know how to do something right, after all.”

The three chuckled, and Gavin tore a hunk of bread from his loaf to share with his trusted companions. They talked for a few minutes before Dace reminded them they must prepare themselves for the fight ahead.

As the squire dressed Gavin and Robert for battle, Gavin looked fondly upon them both. Dace he’d known since the boy was a tot, but Robert came from a manor in the south, close to Aldred’s estate. They’d met years ago and had renewed their friendship when Robert rushed to Gavin’s aid in battle. They’d fought side by side ever since. An established trust between them made Robert the brother Gavin never had. He couldn’t conceive going into war without the steadfast Robert next to him.

“Ready?”

Gavin adjusted his cuirass and nodded to his friend and then issued his usual warning to Dace to stay far back from the action. “I can care for myself and if trouble should arise, Robert will be there to aid me. You are to remain here, Dace. Understood?”

The boy nodded his head, but Gavin had his doubts whether he would listen this time. At four and ten, Dace was eager to enter battle and prove his prowess. He also had a sweetheart back home. He’d confided to Gavin that he couldn’t wait to tell her tales of his bravery against the French. Knowing that, Gavin thought Dace might become a little careless, thus he always reminded him of his duties.

“Yes, my lord. Your horses are ready.”

The noblemen followed Dace to their warhorses. Gavin smelled the excitement in the early morning light, hovering across the multitude of men gathered to fight. The Black Prince, heir to England’s throne, inspired courage and loyalty amongst his men. Those present were eager to prove their worth to their royal commander whose black armor gave him his nickname.

Robert slapped him on the back. “We have God upon our side, Gavin. He’d not have given us victory at Crecy and allowed us to take Calais, nay, even control of the Channel itself, were not we on the side of right.”

Gavin nodded, agreeing with Robert’s words. He longed for this fight to be over, for England to take the south of France and allow the Black Prince to rule in Aquitaine. King Edward, still in good health, looked to be upon the throne in England for many years. ‘Twould be only right for young Prince Edward to have his own place to rule, as part of English territory and reward for the great service he’d given both his father and country in their conflict against the bastard French.

He looked about him. Archers, pikemen, light infantry, and cavalry were all in sight, as they had been years before at Crecy. This combined force had proven effective. He was surprised that the French clung to their old-fashioned ways of fighting after that humiliating defeat. He predicted a quick victory for England today.

Gavin mounted his horse. Dace handed over his sugarloaf great helm, and he slipped it over his head. Most of the early morning light ceased, the slit only allowing in a small portion of the sun’s rays. Last, Dace gave him his shield. He gripped it firmly in one hand, the reins of his warhorse in the other. He looked to Robert and nodded as they trotted their coal-black destriers onward.

Another wave of arrows whizzed over Gavin’s head. Everywhere he looked in front of him, men fell left and right, their cries of pain ringing in his ears. The French forces easily outnumbered the English soldiers gathered here. His heart pounded loudly, and he knew it wise to retreat before more casualties occurred.

“Could it be any worse?” Robert shouted through his helmet, above the din.

They’d abandoned their horses in favor of their feet. Dace quickly appeared to spirit the animals from harm’s way. Gavin yielded his sword in one hand, his mace in the other, both clutched tightly as he made good use of them.

“Fall back!” The order sounded several times across the battlefield. He sensed the English forces gradually moving behind him.