Medieval Romance
To Grace Surrendered
The greatest of these is love . . .
He has learned to love her with all his heart. Now he must learn to let her go.
There is peace in the kingdom at last, and King Philip wants nothing more than to spend his days watching his children grow and enjoying the company of his beloved Rosalynde. Reghed, Lynaleigh’s neighbor to the north, suffers greatly under the heavy hand of its king, the evil and demented tyrant Sarto. But Philip resists God’s urging to bring aid to Reghed’s people until the night Rosalynde is torn from his arms and carried into Sarto’s dark realm. Despite the serious injuries he sustained trying to protect her from her captors, Philip insists on following after her and finds himself face to face with the suffering he has till now turned away from. Sarto eventually captures Philip, too, determined to kill him in order to fulfill his sinister plans. Can Philip free himself, Rosalynde and the people of Reghed? Or has his disobedience lost him the love and protection of God?
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PROLOGUE
The first day of the new year dawned bright and crisp, the night’s fresh-fallen snow touching all of Winton with its dazzling purity, capping the spires of the cathedral and the castle towers with white and laying in thick drifts against the city walls. Inside the castle, only the servants had begun stirring. The rich tapestries that hung over the windows in the king’s chamber shut out the sparkling winter light and held in the night’s still peace for the two nestled together in the luxuriant bed.
Philip Chastelayne, King of Lynaleigh, stretched his sleekly-muscled shoulders and pressed closer to his wife’s warm body, making an only-partially-conscious decision to go back to sleep. A solid thump from inside her rounded abdomen changed his mind.
“The baby is awake,” Rosalynde said, sleepy amusement in her emerald eyes.
Smiling with one side of his mouth, he stretched the whole lithe length of his body, then laughed softly to feel another sturdy kick.
“Are you certain he is coming in two months and not two weeks?” he asked, caressing her stomach through the fine linen of her shift.
“Joan is of the firm belief that this one is a girl.”
“What, with such a kick?” He laughed again. “Surely not.”
“It would not displease you, my lord? I mean, were it to be a girl?”
“Faith, love, not a bit of it.” He kissed her forehead. “God has given us two fine sons. Surely He best knows whether we need another.” He turned towards her, looking into her sweet face, caressing the smooth, blooming curve of her cheek with the back of his hand. “Who am I to deny the world a copy of the fairest thing in it?”
She feathered her fingers through his dark tousled hair and nuzzled his cheek. “Sweet.”
He pulled her into an awkward, tender embrace and her arms went around his neck.
“Sweet,” she murmured again, pressing nearer, closing her eyes as she surrendered to his kiss, then there was a discreet knock at the door, and with a rueful grin, he sat up.
“Come in, Rafe.”
“They’ve begun to arrive already, my lord,” the stockily-built, brown-bearded old man said as he began setting out the bread and fruit he had brought for their breakfast. “Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning, Master Bonnechamp.”
“And there are two young gentlemen who demand an immediate audience with your majesties.”
“They demand, do they?” Philip asked, and Rosalynde smiled at his feigned displeasure. “Well, I suppose such boldness commands our attention, does it not, my lady? By all means, Rafe, admit them.”
A moment later Rafe returned, bringing two dark-haired little boys with him.
“Good morning, my angels,” Rosalynde said, holding out her arms, and the children scampered across the room and began struggling to crawl into the high bed beside her.
“Take care, John,” Philip said, lifting the younger boy over her, sitting him between them with a kiss. “And you, Robin.”
He pulled the three-year old up into the bed, too, and was rewarded with a tight hug and a smacking kiss. Then Robin threw his arms around Rosalynde’s neck and kissed her, too.
“Good morning, Mama,” he piped, then he leaned over and pressed a careful kiss against the bulge in her middle. “Good morning, baby.”
“Mornin’, baby!” John crowed, patting her vigorously. Rosalynde laughed, and Philip grabbed his hand.
“Shh, John, the baby is sleeping.”
“Mornin’, baby,” John whispered as he nestled against his mother’s stomach and patted it very softly.
“There’s my sweet boy,” Rosalynde said, putting her arm around him.
He put his thumb in his mouth and looked up at her, his big eyes as green as her own, and she cuddled him closer. “My pretty baby.”
He flashed her his father’s bright smile and patted her again. “Pitty baby.”
Philip smiled, too, then he picked Robin up and sat him astride his chest.
“You and John are to come to court today, remember?”
“Because the people are coming?”
“Yes, and all of them will want to see you both.”
Robin leaned down and propped his chin against his father’s. “Why?”
“Because you are their princes and one day they will come to you for justice.”
Robin considered this for a moment.
“I need to ride my pony,” he confided finally, his dark eyes solemn.
Philip laughed and sat up, letting him slide down into his lap. “No pony for you today, Robin.”
“Ride the pony,” John gurgled, and Philip tugged his ear.
“Nor you, mite. Come now, both of you, let Mama and Papa have their breakfast.” He hugged both boys once more and set them on the floor. “See Joan has them properly dressed, Rafe.”
“I will, my lord.”
Once Rafe had led them away, Philip pulled on his dressing gown and went to the window, not surprised by the sight he saw below him. Despite the early hour, people of all ranks and conditions were making their way towards the castle, well bundled against the cold that had not dampened their holiday humor.
“Rafe is right, Rose. They’ve come already. More of them than ever, by the look of it. Are you certain you feel well enough to–”
”You spoil me terribly, love,” she said, taking a pear from the breakfast tray.
He got back into bed beside her and stole a bite out of it.
“Thief,” she accused, pulling back from him, and, with a playful light in his blue crystal eyes, he stole a kiss instead.
OOOOO
It was the fifth new year of King Philip’s reign and, in keeping with tradition, people had come from throughout the city bringing their homage, their good wishes, and their petitions before their young sovereign. It was tradition, too, to have all the royal family present for the occasion, so in the great hall, under the banner of the white saint’s rose that was the emblem of all the sovereign Chastelaynes, alongside the king and queen and the two little princes, were the king’s younger brother, Thomas, Duke of Brenden, and his wife, Elizabeth.
They were also expecting a child, this one their first, and, because her time was so near, Elizabeth was allowed to sit in the king’s presence at the formal audience, a privilege usually granted only to the queen herself. By late afternoon, she was shifting uncomfortably in her chair.
“Let me take you upstairs, sweetheart,” Tom told her quietly while his brother settled a dispute between two merchants. “You ought rest now.”
She smiled at the concern on his face and at the little boy asleep against his shoulder. “We’d not want to wake Robin, my lord.”
“He’ll scarcely notice, Bess. Come, let me help you up.”
“Oh, not yet. Please, my lord. I want to see this mysterious King of Reghed when he arrives.”
“If he arrives. Surely, were he truly coming, his servants, some of his lords, his steward at the least, would have preceded him, to see all was in readiness for his coming. We should have had some word of him beyond the one message he sent.”
“Perhaps not, my lord,” Rosalynde put in, shifting John to a more comfortable position in her lap, careful not to wake him either. “We know little of Reghed’s ways and, what I hear of their king, even they think him peculiar.”
“Do you think the stories true, my lord?” Elizabeth asked.
Tom shook his head, suppressing a smile. “You ought not heed such macabre tales, Bess, much less take such delight in them.”
There was a repulsed fascination in her dark eyes. “But do you think it true? That when he became king he truly dressed his dead mistress’ bones in the royal robes and crown and forced his nobles to swear loyalty to her? Even to kiss her hand, though there was no more flesh left on it? Ooh, it chills my blood!”
“There’s been nothing but such fables come from Reghed these twenty years and more since he became king and shut up all his kingdom’s borders.”
“Then why has he decided he must come to Winton now?”
Tom shrugged. “He’s not said. Perhaps trade, perhaps defense, perhaps–”
”Perhaps we shall learn why now,” Philip interrupted with a nod toward the rear of the great hall.
“His Imperial Majesty, Sarto, King of Reghed,” the herald announced.
The attention of the entire court was fixed on the hooded figure that swept towards the throne, attended not with the pomp and splendor of his courtiers but with a grimly-armed guard, all marked with his emblem, the hissing, red-eyed dragon of Reghed.
“Your majesty,” Sarto said, his voice a low rumble in the silence of the great hall.
Philip returned a slight nod. “Your majesty. You are welcome to Lynaleigh and to Winton.”
For a long moment, Sarto said nothing more, did not move, did not lower the hood that concealed his face.
“Is there something Lynaleigh might grant your majesty?” Philip asked finally, exchanging an uneasy glance with his brother.
“Merely allow me a moment more to look upon heaven.”
Rosalynde’s eyes widened in surprise as Sarto seized her hand and pressed it fervently to his lips. Then he lifted his head, and the hood fell away from his face.
She took her hand from his and shrank back a little at what she saw. It was not that Sarto’s features were particularly unhandsome. He had the sagging corpulence of a once-comely man who, through drink and dissipation, had grown fat and now, as the last remnant of youth was waning into age, his flesh had begun to waste on him, but there was nothing unsettling about that. It was more his eyes, the dead grey-green of something cold blooded, that seemed to unnerve her.
“Your– your majesty is too kind,” she murmured, pulling John instinctively closer, and Philip put one hand on her arm.
“It has been many years, my lord, since the king of Reghed has ventured beyond his own borders,” he said. “We are honored.”
Sarto spared him only a brief glance and then fixed his eyes again on Rosalynde.
“It is time our two lands benefitted one another, my lord king. Reghed has prospered and I have heard much of your own kingdom’s bounty.” His piercing gaze moved from Rosalynde’s face, down her body and again to her emerald eyes. “And beauty.”
“Lynaleigh has many treasures,” Philip agreed, his voice cool and wary, “though not all of them for trade.”
Their eyes met and Sarto’s intensity faded into an amiable smile. “Of course not.”
“So you come to open trade with us, my lord,” Tom said.
Sarto bowed negligibly, favoring him, too, with a glance. “Perhaps, my lord of Brenden. For now, I merely wish to become acquainted with my neighbors to the south.”
Just then, Robin woke and blinked his dark eyes in sleepy bewilderment at the stranger that stood before him.
“Your child, my lord?” Sarto asked,
Tom held the boy a little more snugly. “Prince Robert is my nephew, sir.”
“You must forgive the error, but your lordship and his majesty resemble so strongly.”
That was true enough. Except for the fine scar on Philip’s left cheek and Tom’s eyes being brown rather than blue, the brothers might at a careless glance have been mistaken one for the other. The children, too, had the same look, fair skinned, dark haired, handsome far beyond the ordinary, the look of the royal Chastelaynes.
Sarto’s heavy lips curved again into a smile. “But I see, my lord, you are at any moment to have a child of your own.” He looked amused at Elizabeth’s obvious awe of him, then once more he set his eyes on Rosalynde, his mild humor turning intense. “And his majesty is yet again to be favored as well. It must please you, my lord king, to know that, should any mischance befall you, fortune forfend, your house shall not be lacking in heirs.”
“I thank God,” Philip said gravely.
“And to know that your lady is as fruitful as she is wondrous fair.”
“Again I thank God,” Philip replied. “My lord, is there something you wished-“
”Death to the tyrant!”
A gasp rose from the court as a man sprang upon the king of Reghed out of the crowd. There was a brief struggle, the flash of a dagger, and then men from Philip’s guard and Sarto’s seized the assailant and dragged him to his feet.
“You are hurt, my lord?” Philip asked urgently, waving away the soldiers who had moved to protect him, helping his guest to stand.
Sarto merely smiled again and pressed his silken handkerchief to his side, quickly staining it with blood. “Slight, my lord. Slight.”
“Take the children to the nursery, Rafe,” Philip commanded, seeing that Robin had taken in every detail of the incident and that it had wakened John as well.
“Why do they fight, Papa?” Robin asked, owl eyed, as Tom handed him to Rafe.
“You go with Master Bonnechamp now, son,” Philip said. “We will speak of this later. Come, John.”
The two-year old huddled closer to his mother. “Stay.”
Philip gave him a stern look, and Rafe scooped him up, keeping his voice cheerful to ward off the tears that threatened.
“Come, my princeling. We will see if Mistress Joan has something nice for your supper.”
“Some of you go with him,” Philip ordered his guard, then he turned to the silver-haired courtier standing to his far left. “My lord of Darlington, take three or four of my men and see the queen and Princess Elizabeth to their chambers as well.”
“Surely the danger is passed, your majesty,” Elizabeth protested, pleading with her eyes against Tom’s insistent expression.
“Yes, surely, my lord,” Sarto agreed. “I would not be the cause of these ladies’ departure for all my kingdom. Take my assurance, my lord, there will be no risk to them.”
Philip looked uncertainly at his wife. “Rose?”
She smiled faintly, and he turned again to his guest.
“Very well, your majesty. You must accept my apology that such an incident has been allowed in my court, perpetrated by one of my own people.”
“No, my lord,” the would-be assassin said, a proud lift to his head. “I am from Alderness. In Reghed.”
“I have long dealt with such rebels,” Sarto said. “I ask your pardon, my lord, that the ruffian chose such a place for his treachery.” He picked up the dagger and turned to his attacker, a very tall, very thin man with fiery, reckless defiance in his eyes. “Well, knave, you’ve hit more chain mail than flesh. Trust me, my executioners shall not be so inept, nor shall their dealing with you prove so short lived.”
“I would take such torture a thousand times over, butcher, for even the hope of ending your life.”
“This is your king, man,” Philip reproved. “Dare you speak so? After such treason?”
“I will not call him my king, your majesty, nor would your lordship call him so if you knew what we suffer at his hands.”
“There are always malcontents, my lord,” Sarto told Philip blandly. “Surely even in your own kingdom.”
“True enough.”
“But none, I think, would step so far in hate,” Tom observed, studying the prisoner. “It takes a grievous wrong to fuel such passion, does it not, man?”
The man stared fiercely back at him, then he swallowed hard and took an uneven breath. “I have been a loyal man, my lord, but there is only so much loyalty will bear.”
“Tell me.”
“Ask him if he does not remember Alderness, my lord,” the prisoner said, jerking his head toward the king of Reghed.
“The law was broken,” Sarto said calmly. “I was bound to punish the guilty.”
“All Alderness was burned, my lord of Brenden! With the people shut up in the church to burn with it! Were they all guilty? The children as well?”
“The punishment is set down in the law,” Sarto replied, unmoved.
“The law you made!”
“What wrong was done, my lord?” Philip asked tautly.
“Tell them,” the tall man insisted when Sarto made no answer. “No? It was a heinous crime, my lords, truly. One of the milk maids dared laugh on the Day of Mourning.”
Philip and Tom looked at each other, baffled.
“The Day of Mourning?” Rosalynde asked.
Sarto turned to her, surprise on his face as if she should not have had to ask, then he smiled slightly. “This is a matter for Reghed alone, my lord king. I will see this man never again causes such a disturbance in your court.” He signalled his guard. “Take him.”
Rosalynde looked beseechingly at her husband. “My lord-“
”It is beyond my sovereignty, my lady,” Philip told her. “He says true, this is a matter for Reghed alone.”
“Please, your majesty.” Rosalynde came to stand before Sarto, making an eloquent plea with her eyes. “Please.”
“What would you have, gracious lady?”
“Mercy for this man, my lord, I beg you. Banish him to Lynaleigh if you will. I will stand surety for him.”
“He is a traitor, my lady.”
“Spare him the torture at the very least, my lord, for mercy.”
“Reghed law is quite specific.” He looked at the dagger he still held, then again at Rosalynde, that odd intensity rekindling in his eyes. “But if you would have him shown mercy-“
With one swift stroke, he cut his prisoner’s throat.
Gasps of horror rose from the onlookers, and Rosalynde hid her face against Philip’s shoulder. He held her there, his eyes blazing.
“Dare you, sir? In my court? Before my lady?”
Once more, Sarto looked surprised.
“I did not think–” Instantly, he was on his knee. “Please, gracious lady, forgive me. I would not by the merest thought offend you.”
“By your leave, my lord,” Philip said, his face taut with anger. “I will thank your majesty to withdraw from my court until such time as we are prepared to discuss terms of trade.”
Sarto stood and bowed coolly, and then he took Rosalynde’s hand from Philip’s arm, not seeming to mind that she did not lift her head. “Until such time.”
She caught a trembling breath when his lips touched her skin, and Philip held her more tightly. With another curt bow, Sarto swept from the great hall.
“Dismiss the court, my lord of Darlington,” Philip commanded over the murmuring of the people, then he turned to his brother. “Tom, I–”
He stopped short and now Rosalynde did look up. Tom was kneeling at his wife’s side, supporting her in her chair as she stared at the blood-drenched corpse Sarto’s men had left behind them.
“Bess?”
She was clutching her stomach, sobbing and gasping, her eyes wide with sudden fear.
“Is it the child, Bess love?”
“Tom– Oh, Tom.”
“Shh, sweetheart,” he soothed, managing a shaky smile. He lifted her into his arms, then gave Philip a worried look when she cried out in pain.
Rosalynde patted Elizabeth’s hand, her gentleness calming the other girl some. “Do not fear. This will be nothing to you once your little one is born.”
“You remember when John came,” Philip told his sister-in-law, a forced lightness in his tone. “They sent messengers to bring me back from the hunt when my lady had her first pains and, when they found me and brought me home not three hours later, she and John both were fast asleep.”
Elizabeth smiled wanly and then gasped as another pang hit her.
“Tom,” she breathed, twisting her fingers into his shirt, clinging desperately to him. “Stay with me, Tom. Stay with me. Do not leave me.”
“Shh, Bess love. I will stay as long as I am allowed.”
Philip watched him carry her up the stairs, then he pulled Rosalynde into his arms, holding her just as desperately. “Are you all right, Rose? Sweet heavens, Sarto is mad!”
“I am fine, my love,” she murmured, kissing his shoulder. “The baby is fine. But that poor man–”
They both looked at the lifeless form sprawled at their feet.
“Mercy and grace,” Philip said, feeling some unnamed dread inside himself, “what a place this Reghed must be.”
Rosalynde stooped down and whispered a prayer over the man, and then she squeezed Philip’s hand. “Now you must let me go see to Lady Elizabeth. She is frightened enough without all this other, and your brother will need you.”
He said something quietly to one of the soldiers. Then he took her arm and helped her up the stairs. A short while later, only a dark stain on the stone floor bore witness to that day.
