Word of Honor (Knights of Valor Book 1) (6 page)

Geoffrey
lay on the stone floor. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d been
brought to this Hell. He’d been feverish for what he assumed to be days. The
healer came periodically. Inspected his wound. Changed his bandages. Bathed his
face with a wet cloth. Forced him to drink.

But she
never spoke to him.

The fever
had finally broken. His body no longer burned with fire. Even his shoulder had
calmed from a raging inferno to an ugly, dull ache. So he knew he wouldn’t die
from it.

What
awaited him was a living death.

Now that he
was in his right head again and could think coherently, he could see no way out
of this prison. True to his word, the earl brought food as he’d promised. Not
enough to fill his belly to satisfaction, but far from starving him.

How could
he escape?

A sound
came from a distance. His ears had attuned to the quiet of the dungeon so he
could hear a rat scurrying about in the darkness.

Someone was
coming.

Hope sprang
in his heart. And just as quickly fled.

The earl of
Winterbourne appeared at the cell’s locked door. He opened it and put the day’s
repast before him. He never came close enough for Geoffrey to touch him, always
staying just out of where the chains could reach. He would eat later. He didn’t
want Berold to see how hungry he was nor how dependent he’d become on him.

“You should
be able to remove your bandages.”

Why would
the earl say that?

He knew the
answer in his heart but said, “I’m no healer. She should do so to see if I’ve
made good progress.”

“She’s
assured me you will be fine.” He paused. “She won’t be returning.” Berold
locked the door again and hung the key on the wall opposite his cell. Folded
his arms across his chest and smiled. “They came here today.”

They?

But once
again, he knew without asking. This time he remained silent.

Berold’s
eyes met his. “Your father. Your cousin. And . . . your wife.”

Geoffrey’s
fists tightened. Thoughts of Merryn flooded through him.

His captor
frowned, as if concerned. “She didn’t look well. She was quite pale, in fact.
She looked as if she hasn’t slept in—”

“Enough!
You aren’t to speak of her. Ever.”

The
nobleman took his outburst in stride. “I sympathized with them, of course. Kept
my expression grave. My tone hushed and respectful.” He smiled. “And all the
while I wanted to shout to the heavens that you resided below in
my
dungeons. That you’d survived the crossbow attack. And would never see daylight
again.”

Berold
stepped away. “Till tomorrow.”

Geoffrey
waited till the retreating steps ended, leaving him once again in darkness.

For the
first time, he wept.

***

“My lord?”

Geoffrey
stirred from sleep. He sat up and saw a figure standing at the bars.

Hardwin.

Hope
stirred within him. Mayhap the boy’s guilt would spur him to act responsibly
and set him free.

“I brought
you something.” He tossed a leg of meat through the bars. It hit the floor.

That didn’t
matter. Geoffrey pounced on it, eager for the taste of meat after being
deprived of it for God only knew how many days or weeks. He had no way to count
time.

“My name is
Hardwin. My friends . . . call me Hardi.”

He chewed a
moment. He needed to gain this boy’s trust.

“’Tis good
to know your name, Hardi. I am Geoffrey.”

“I know,”
the boy said sullenly. He looked around. “I’m not supposed to be here,” he
muttered.

“But you
are.” Geoffrey held up the leg. “I thank you for the meat. I don’t know if I’ve
tasted anything better. I appreciate this small kindness on your part.”

“Did you
really kill my brother?”

How should
he answer that? He couldn’t alienate this boy, but he also could not hide the
truth.

“I had a
part in his death.” He paused. “What has your father told you?”

Hardi
snorted. “He tells everyone that Barrett died a hero on the battlefield. That
France only capitulated because of brave men such as his courageous son.” He
looked searchingly at Geoffrey. “But I have heard the whispers amongst the
servants. And when I questioned Father in private, he told me you were
responsible for Barrett’s death.”

“Nay, I’m
not.”

“I know who
you are. You are our neighbor. From Kinwick Castle. You fostered with Sir
Lovel.”

“You are
correct. Have you fostered in another household? Been a page? Or surely by now
you’d be a squire?”

The boy’s
bottom lip stuck out. “I was attached to Lord Herry’s household, but Father
decided I would be better served if I were under his tutelage. I returned home
when he came back from France.”

“I see.”
Geoffrey wondered why the earl brought the boy home. He guessed the only reason
would be in case Berold died so that Hardi could continue with this ghastly
blood feud in case of his death. From the look on the boy’s face, Hardi had
come to the same conclusion.

“I liked
Lord Herry. I didn’t want to leave his service.”

Geoffrey
wanted to encourage his defiance of his father. His freedom might be won
through this child, but ‘twould be baby steps to take in order to accomplish
the deed.

“I’m sorry
that your father chose to remove you from one as important as Lord Herry.”

“You know
him?” Hardi’s eyes lit up.

“Aye,
indeed. He’s a great warrior. You could have learned much under him.”

The boy
became sulky again. “He would kill me if he knew I were here.”

“Nay. You
are his heir. Blood of his blood. You will have the title and Winterbourne one
day.”

“Well, he
would certainly punish me.”

Geoffrey
offered a small smile. “Then I suppose you’ll have to be careful whenever you
come to visit me.”

Hardi
sneered. “Why should I visit you? You killed my brother.” He kicked his boot
aimlessly, staring down at the ground.

“Look at
me, Hardi.” His firm tone was one he’d used to command others.

Slowly, the
boy’s head rose.

“I shall
tell you how your brother died. ‘Twas not a hero’s death but a coward’s. He
betrayed king and country to our enemies.”

Geoffrey
took his time, setting the stage and painting the story of Barrett’s betrayal.
Part of him did so to allow Hardi to understand the events that unfolded. Yet a
part of him longed for keeping the boy as company. He judged he was a month
into his imprisonment, and already loneliness swallowed him whole.

When he
finished, horror was written across Hardi’s face. Even his posture became
defeated, knowing his brother had been executed as a traitor in front of the
Black Prince.

“Because
your father had been far from these events and only arrived with the Duke of
Lancaster and his army, your family is spared. Usually, a traitor’s lands and
title revert to the king whilst his family lives in shame and poverty.”

“I hated
him,” Hardi revealed. “Barrett. He was so mean to me. He was older and cruel,
never kind.” He gripped the bars, his knuckles turning white. “I’m glad you
discovered his treachery, Geoffrey.”

Just to
hear his name spoken aloud seemed like manna from Heaven above. And to
experience a glimmer of hope. This boy was on his side. He must carefully cultivate
their friendship.

“I hope
you’ll grow to be a better man than your brother or your father, Hardi.”

“Tilda, give
the king’s messenger food and drink. I shall read his missive and compose my
answer.”

Merryn left
the Great Hall and returned to their chamber. She still thought of this room as
theirs. The one night they’d spent as man and wife both haunted and tantalized
her after all this time.

She knew
what Edward’s letter would contain before she even broke the seal.

Ferand
insisted upon writing the king a month after Geoffrey disappeared. He wanted to
keep his liege informed. The king had visited Kinwick twice since then, both
times while on summer progress, with his full court in tow. He’d instantly
taken to Merryn, insisting she walk with him. Edward loved history, and she had
read and knew a great deal about it. They’d shared long discussions over
England’s past—and what he wanted for its future.

She broke
the seal and opened the missive, spreading it across the small table.

My dear
Lady Merryn—

I hope this
finds you in both good health and high spirits. I myself feel a few creaks in
my knees. I should, I suppose. ‘Tis not every day a man reaches two score and
ten as I have.

I write to
tell you that I shall return on summer progress Kinwick way and will stop to
call upon you. I bring with me a knight I should like you to meet. His name is
Sir Symond Benedict, and he has served me faithfully in my royal guard. You
might recall him from my last sojourn at your lovely estate.

‘Tis time,
my lady. I have not pressed you, knowing the sorrow you have been burdened with
and wanting to give you ample time to grieve. But I insist you make a marriage
and find some happiness for yourself. Almost seven years is a long time to
mourn a husband of one day. Symond would make a good partner to you. He is
courteous and respectful, and he has a good head on his shoulders—though I believe
you would be the more intelligent.

All I ask
is that you think upon it. We can discuss it together when I next see you.

I receive
excellent reports of the wonderful work you do at Kinwick. The wise decisions
you make. How your crops thrive. And of your healing hands. I may beg of you to
make me some of your special remedy that soothes the aching in my head from
time to time. I have run out of the last batch you so kindly provided me on my
last visit.

I shall
make my way to Kinwick next month, arriving in mid to late June. Till then, my
lady.

Merryn
pushed the parchment aside. She did remember Sir Symond. The one time Edward
had motioned him over for them to speak, he’d turned bright red, as red as his
hair and beard. The soldier was Geoffrey’s opposite in every way, from coloring
and size to personality. She wondered if he wished this Symond to be her
marriage partner for that very reason, so no resemblance would remind her of
her beloved husband.

The king
had been more than patient with her. Most widows remarried quickly under his
order. Only the rapport that had been struck up between them had saved her from
doing so.

Till now.

Merryn’s
head told her it was time to move on. But not a day went by that her heart
didn’t cry out for Geoffrey. She fingered the sapphire brooch pinned to her
cote-hardie, affixed next to her heart. It remained a daily reminder of him and
his love for her.

And the
king was wrong. It wasn’t a husband of a single day that she mourned. It was
her best friend of many years. The boy who had grown into a man. The man she’d
waited for years to marry. The husband who’d introduced her into the hidden
mysteries and passion of lovemaking.

The only
one who would forever hold her heart.

Tears
sprang to her eyes. She didn’t indulge in them often. She had too much to do
and too many people dependent upon her. She believed tears a sign of weakness,
though she’d cried a river of them in those first weeks as they scoured the
countryside for Geoffrey.

But the
king’s missive gave her the excuse to pull off the scab that never seemed to
heal. Merryn flung herself onto the bed and sobbed. She raged at God for taking
her beloved and not allowing her to know why He’d done so.

Then she
dried her tears and composed herself. She wrote a response to her king, telling
him of her delight at his upcoming visit in a month’s time. She promised to
serve him his favorite dishes and told him she looked forward to a private chat
with him. She even stated she would be interested in talking with Sir Symond
Benedict if it pleased her king.

She made no
promise to take this Symond in wedlock. But Merryn knew that by the time Edward’s
progress moved on, she would be a wedded wife once again, a new husband in her
bed.

She sealed
the letter and returned to the Great Hall. The messenger flirted with a servant
girl. She caught his eye, and he came to her at once.

“Here is my
reply to the king’s missive.”

“Thank ye,
my lady, and for the brief respite and meal I received. I’ll be off.” He bowed
to her and left.

Tilda came
and joined her. Hugh had been kind enough to allow Tilda to come to Kinwick in
those first bleak months when Merryn had been out of her head with grief.
Having the familiar servant nearby eased her. Once she decided to move on with
her life, Tilda stayed at Kinwick. She was fond of the old woman, who mothered
her to no end.

Thinking of
Hugh, she told Tilda, “I need to look in on Milla. Her eyes are most weepy when
spring arrives in England. Mayhap I can create a concoction to bring her some
comfort.”

The servant
frowned. “She’ll be weepy till she gives your brother a child, that one will. I
say she’s barren. Lord Hugh should ask her to remove herself from Wellbury and
have her go to a convent so he can seek a new wife who will give him babes.”

“Sometimes
a child is a long time in coming. Look at Geoffrey, for instance. His two
sisters were half a score older than he. Lady Elia had given up hope of bearing
a son when he appeared. Mayhap the same will happen for Hugh and Milla.”

Tilda
touched her arm briefly in comfort. Merryn had learned to speak Geoffrey’s name
calmly to the outer world, but inside a torment of rage and passion rumbled
each time she did so. Yet she brought him up in casual conversation from time
to time. She did not want him to be forgotten.

Her
mother-in-law appeared in the doorway and came straight her way.

“A
messenger brought this,” Elia said. “He did not stay since he was from
Winterbourne. He said no reply would be expected.”

“Hmm. I
wonder what the earl might want.” The family at Kinwick Castle had never been
close to that at Winterbourne, so any contact was out of the ordinary. Merryn
accepted the letter Elia handed her since her mother-in-law had never learned
her letters. She opened it and scanned it quickly.

“It seems
Lord Berold has passed on. A funeral mass is scheduled on the morrow, and the
new earl would have us attend.” She thought a moment. “What was the boy’s name?
I saw him, years ago.”

Merryn
remembered the exact occasion. They had gone to Winterbourne to search for any
news of Geoffrey. Lord Berold had briefly introduced the boy, who’d slipped
from the room. She had supposed he was the shy sort.

“Hardwin,”
Elia replied. “I remember names if not faces. And the boy is a man now. He’s to
be married soon, or so I’m told.”

***

They sat in
the chapel at Winterbourne. Merryn found it odd the two families so rarely had
contact. They were the closest neighbors to Kinwick, even closer than her own
family at Wellbury to the south—yet no ties kept them in touch.

She glanced
over at Hugh, handsome as always. Milla sat on his other side. As usual in
springtime, her nose dripped and was red in color. Her eyes watered constantly
as she dabbed at them. Merryn so wished for them to have children. She prayed
for that every morning at mass.

And for
Geoffrey to come home to her.

Her
attention turned to the new earl. She barely recognized Hardwin from her last
glimpse of him all those years ago. He’d grown slightly taller, but his body
had filled out. His face had also matured. She hoped they would be able to
share a word of comfort with him once the funeral mass ended.

Merryn’s
mind wandered as the proceedings went on. She wondered if she should have had
some kind of mass for Geoffrey. It was so hard. He was neither alive nor dead,
almost as if he’d been in a Purgatory all these years.

Just as she
had.

Yet in her
heart, Merryn believed she would have sensed his death. No inkling of that ever
came to her. Others might call her foolish, but she had faith that one day
Geoffrey would walk through the doors of the Great Hall, and all would be well
again.

She pinched
herself, forcing the fantasy to fade. She had to prepare herself for the king’s
upcoming visit.

And make a
decision regarding Sir Symond Benedict.

Mass ended.
She’d heard there would be food and drink offered afterward for those in
attendance, but she was in no mood to stay.

She leaned
toward her brother. “Let us go offer our condolences to the new earl and be
off.”

He nodded
and escorted her and Milla toward Hardwin. As they drew closer, the earl looked
up. Their eyes met, and he gave her a slight nod.

They
reached him and exchanged pleasantries and then told him of their sorrow for
his loss.

“You
understand loss, my lady,” Hardwin said, his eyes locking on hers.

His words
took her aback, but she recovered. “Yes. I do. Not a day goes by that I don’t
wish for my husband to be back at my side.” She fingered her brooch absently.

“’Tis a
lovely piece you wear,” the nobleman told her. “Are those sapphires?”

“Yes.
Geoffrey found it for me in France. ‘Twas his wedding gift to me.” Her eyes
closed for a minute, and she was back in the moment when he presented it to her.
She opened them again, forcing herself back into reality.

“We must be
off, my lord. Please let us know if there is anything we may do for you.”

His gaze
held hers. “Thank you, Lady Merryn. And mayhap one day I can return the favor.”