Epic Knights of Legend and Steel

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

July

Caerlaverock Castle, Scotland

W hoosh!

Drake had heard the sing of the arrow coming and had been fast enough to hit the ground before the arrow pierced his skull, but some of his colleagues had not been so lucky. As archers on the battlements of Caerlaverock Castle let loose with a barrage of arrows, many of Edward’s men were caught in the storm of flying wood. Drake could hear the grunts of agony around him as he rolled over on the ground, pelted by the arrows that had ricocheted off solid obstacles, men included. By the time he stood up, there was a scattering of injured around him.

“Damn,” he hissed as he beheld the carnage.

Bending over the soldier nearest him, he ripped the arrow from the man’s shoulder and tossed it aside. Men were starting to stand up now, wounded, while still others were being dragged off to safety by those who had missed the arrow barrage entirely. The ground, having been saturated by a summer storm the night before, was muddy and bloody, and Drake was ankle-deep in the sludge. He helped an injured man out of the range of archers, turning him over to some colleagues before heading off to the west. He could see his liege in the distance, waiting for him.

“Drake!” a dark-haired, dark-eyed man in expensive, well-used armor lifted a hand as Drake drew closer. “You escaped the barrage? God be praised.”

Drake nodded, wiping mud from his left cheek where he had hit the ground. “I did,” he replied, turning to eye the big, triangle-shaped castle in the distance. “We cannot get near the gatehouse or the moat in front of it without being a clear target for the archers. They have the gatehouse completely covered, as you just saw. They will cut us down if we try.”

Sir Cortez de Bretagne, garrison commander of Sherborne Castle in Dorset and also Drake’s liege, simply nodded as he looked around him. The siege of Caerlaverock Castle was in full-swing and had been since yesterday. About fifty great houses and warlords, including a total, so far, of eighty-seven knights, had followed Edward up to Scotland to quell the rising Scottish rebellion, beginning with the Maxwell property of Caerlaverock. About a day’s ride from Carlisle, it was a strategic location and Edward wanted it badly.

But there was a distinct problem with Caerlaverock; the castle was moated and well-protected, and the Maxwell garrison was having little trouble repelling the superior English forces. Edward had ordered de Bretagne and the son of the Earl of Warenton, William de Wolfe, to plan for the breach of the gatehouse while the rest of Edward’s army distracted those inside the garrison by bringing up the siege engines, but so far, the garrison of Caerlaverock would not be distracted. They had been ready and waiting for Drake and de Wolfe. Even now, de Wolfe was falling back with his men and de Bretagne was doing the same. The group charged with the gatehouse siege moved away from their target, gathering out of range to re-think their strategy.

De Wolfe was the grandson of the great border knight, William de Wolfe. He was the son of William’s eldest son, Scott de Wolfe, who now held the title of the Earl of Warenton since his father had passed away some years before. But the earl suffered from the same painful joint affliction that had fallen many great de Wolfe knights and did not fight these days at his advanced age. His son, however, did, and he was an enormously powerful and cunning fighter very much in the image of his legendary grandfather. It was this big knight, with his dark hair and pale green eyes, who faced de Bretagne and his group, including Drake.

“There is no way to get near that gatehouse even with the distractions that Edward is presenting,” de Wolfe said, wiping sweat from his eyes. “You just saw what happened. We lost several men trying to get close. It will be my suggestion to the king that he bring forward that beastly trebuchet he has named after my ancestor and try to breach it with that thing. I fear that may be our only option at this point.”

The group was listening carefully. De Wolfe was speaking of the massive trebuchet that Edward employed in battle, the biggest one in existence, and it was, indeed, named after de Wolfe’s ancestor. That ancestor had come over with the Duke of Normandy, a man who had been a key general in the conquest and had possessed such legendary skill that he had passed into a demigod-like status among warriors. It wasn’t every man who had battle machines named after him.

“The Warwolfe ?” de Bretagne asked, speaking the name that Edward had given his massive trebuchet. “It is on the east side of the castle. Edward has been using it against the walls. But it will take hours for him to bring it around. It will sink straight into the earth under its weight in this mud.”

De Wolfe shrugged. “That is true, but I feel we have no option unless we all wish to be cut down by Maxwell’s arrows.”

Before de Bretagne could reply, another man in the group asserted himself. “Madness,” he hissed. “We do not need the Warwolfe to beat down the gatehouse. We need to test the depth of the moat while our men build ladders across it. To breach it, we must swarm it.”

All eyes turned to the man who spoke. John of Brittany, nephew to the king and son of the Duke of Brittany, was a favorite of Edward’s. It was unfortunate because the man was a mediocre soldier at best in spite of the name and wealth he carried. He was not particularly talented in battle, nor did he have a mind for strategy, but Edward loved him like a son, which made him, perhaps, the strongest voice in the group. John could say, or do, almost anything he wanted and by his sheer relationship with the king, men would be forced to follow. Knowing this, de Wolfe and de Bretagne braced themselves.

“Unwise, John,” de Wolfe said evenly. “You saw what just happened. If we approach the gatehouse again, they will cut us down. The best strategy is to have the trebuchet pummel it enough so that it drives them from the gatehouse and gives us the opportunity to get close to it.”

John spat. “Ridiculous,” he said. “I will take my men now and charge the gatehouse. We will get across while you are sending for Edward’s war machine. We will be there and have it open before you can even move that monstrosity into position.”

He started to move but de Wolfe put out a hand, stopping him. “You will get yourself and your men killed,” he said, his voice low. “In this case, you are very wrong.”

John flared. “Take your hand from me,” he said. “I shall lead my men and you cannot stop me.”

De Bretagne stepped in. “Think about what you are saying, my lord,” he said, more placating than de Wolfe had been, although Cortez was known to have a fiery temper when aroused. “You just saw several men cut down by arrows. By now, those inside of the castle have had time to reload. If you go now, you will be walking into a hail of arrows. You and your men will be cut down. I do not think that will please the king.”

John faltered; anything that displeased the king always made him think twice. But his indecision didn’t last long, for he came back quickly, stronger than before. He was determined to assert himself, in any situation, especially over men who were wiser and more talented than he.

“Edward favors the brave,” John said arrogantly. “I am going now. If you wish to come with me, I will not stop you.”

With that, he turned swiftly and began calling to his men, gesturing for them to approach while he relayed his plans. The men he had so recently left, the group including de Bretagne and de Wolfe and Drake, watched Brittany gather his men with some trepidation.

“You cannot let him go this alone, my lord,” Drake said to de Bretagne. “If you do and he is cut down, you know that Edward will blame you. He will think you responsible for Brittany’s folly.”

De Bretagne grunted unhappily, making a face of displeasure as he looked to de Wolfe. “Drake is correct,” he said. “You know that Edward will blame us if we do not protect that idiot.”

De Wolfe snorted in both humor and disgust. “Idiot hardly encompasses what I think of John of Brittany,” he complained. “I would like nothing better than to watch the man cut down by a storm of arrows and then I will not have to worry over him any longer, but you are absolutely correct– Edward will blame us if he suffers harm.”

There was resignation in that statement, for they all knew what had to be done– the fool would have to be protected which meant putting good men at risk. De Bretagne turned to his knights, all three of them– in addition to Drake, there was Sir Oliver St. John and Sir James de Lohr, both of them fair, blond, and big knights from excellent families. He threw his thumb in Brittany’s direction.

“Go,” he muttered. “Stay vigilant, but stick with Brittany. See if you can save him from himself. I am going to find Edward and get that enormous war machine moved into position so we can batter the gatehouse.”

The knights were on the move, taking with them a host of de Bretagne soldiers lingering nearby. De Wolfe went with de Bretagne in search of Edward while his men followed Drake, all of them fanning out in Brittany’s direction. Beneath sunny skies that were beginning to cloud up again with angry gray clouds and brisk winds, the men made their way to Brittany as the man began shouting both commands and encouragement to his men.

His commands were simple and stupid. He ordered his men to charge towards the gatehouse and make their way to the moat. Brittany reasoned that if even some were cut down by arrows, a few would survive and make it. All he wanted was for his men to get across that moat and he seemed to care about little else. His troops seemed hesitant and even though they were armed with shields, arrows had a way of penetrating them. No one wanted to commit suicide in spite of what Brittany was saying. As Brittany began screaming and charging towards the gatehouse himself, the first singing sounds of flying arrows could be heard.

Arrows began to rain down upon them and men began to scatter. Brittany was still screaming, calling his men cowards now, as Drake bolted in his direction. He was closer than anyone else and therefore logically assumed that he could get to the man faster to protect him. Or kill him. At this moment, with arrows falling from the sky, Drake was considering either action just to shut the fool up. As he came up behind Brittany, he threw himself on the man, tackling him with his big body, and sending him straight to the ground.

As Brittany screamed beneath him, infuriated, two arrows hit Drake– one in the back of the right thigh and the other in his torso near his right shoulder blade. The truth was that if the arrow had been a couple of inches to the right, it would have missed him altogether, but as it stood, Drake had taken two arrows that surely would have hit Brittany. As he lay there in pain, Brittany managed to free his arm from beneath Drake’s body and began pummeling Drake’s head.

“Get off me!” Brittany howled. “How dare you touch me? How dare you…?”

“My lord!” one of Drake’s men had come up, seeing the state of his liege. “Can you hear me, Sir Drake? Can you move?”

Drake grunted as someone grabbed Brittany and dragged Brittany out from beneath him. He hit the muddy ground once Brittany was removed, propping himself up on his left elbow.

“I can move,” he said, sounding disgruntled and in pain. “Remove these arrows. Be quick about it.”

By now, there were a few men standing around Drake, including Brittany, who suddenly wasn’t so angry at the knight when he saw the arrows sticking out of him. In fact, he became rather aghast when he realized that the knight’s actions quite possibly saved his life. With that awareness, he changed his attitude rapidly.

“Do not touch this man!” he barked. “I will have my personal physic tend him. Do not touch him, I say! Quickly! Call for my litter bearers!”

A couple of the men began to scramble as thunder rolled overhead, signaling the onslaught of yet another rain storm. As Drake tried to get a look at the arrow in the back of his thigh, a heavily armored knight knelt down beside him.

“Good Christ,” the knight muttered. “You took arrows for that fool. Why did you not let them hit him?”

Drake managed to grin up into James de Lohr’s face. “I should have,” he said. “Look at me. Now I am a martyr for Idiotdom.”

James laughed. He and Drake had been good friends for many years, as long as they had both served de Bretagne. But his smile quickly faded. “How bad is it truly?” he asked. “Can you breathe well enough? You took one in the back.”

Drake nodded his head. “I can breathe fine,” he said. “If you can remove the arrows, I would be grateful.”

As Brittany stood over Drake and screamed at de Lohr, James ignored the man and quickly removed both arrows. Carefully, he inspected the open wounds.

“Neither one of them went very deep,” he told Drake. “But the wound in your thigh has mail shoved into it. You will need to have a physic remove it.”

Drake pushed himself up onto his knees. “I can walk.”

“Nay!” Brittany cried. “You will not walk. My litter bearers are coming and we shall remove you to my tent, do you hear? Stay where you are!”

Drake rolled his eyes, looking at James, who shook his head at Brittany’s antics. “Let his physic tend the wounds,” de Lohr mumbled. “You will never hear the end of this if you do not. Besides, he may feed you fine wine to ease your pain that you would otherwise not have the opportunity to sample. You know he travels with the finest wine money can buy.”

Drake wasn’t in any mood for Brittany and his foolery, but as he struggled to stand, Brittany’s litter bearers appeared and Brittany began shouting at them, demanding they remove Drake immediately. Drake found himself manhandled by six men, all trying desperately to move quickly to do Brittany’s bidding. Soon enough, he was on the litter and being carried off towards Brittany’s tent. He had to hold on to the sides of the litter or risk being bounced off because of the rapid and unsteady pace, and he caught a glimpse of James’ grin as they carted him away. He cursed James under his breath.

Drake and the litter reached Brittany’s lavish tents by the time the sky opened up above and the storm began in earnest.

*

The wine had been extremely fine, just as James had suggested. Something from the Bordeaux region that had been rich, red, and sweet. It had been delicious. Brittany had poured him cup after cup, just as fast as he would drink it, as Brittany’s physic had plucked debris from both arrow wounds. By the time the physic was finished, Drake was drunk from all of the wine he had been given. He lay on his belly, half-unconscious and snoring on occasion, dozing on and off as the physic worked and the rain pounded outside. At that point, he really didn’t care about the state of the battle. He wanted to get his hands on more of that wine.

But the rain meant that the battle had been called off, at least for the moment. The sun was beginning to set and even the heavily-fatted torches wouldn’t stay lit in the torrents of water falling from the sky, so Edward’s army had backed off from Caerlaverock for the moment. Drake could hear the sounds of men outside the tent, mingled with the thunder, but the wine had him so drowsy that he was sleeping more than he was actually listening.

Drake had no idea how long he’d been passed out in a drunken stupor when he awoke to sounds of men in conversation. Their voices were fairly close, and loud, and it took him a moment to realize that the conversation was happening in the tent. Struggling to open his eyes, as the effects of the alcohol still had him very groggy, he turned his head to see that there were men standing a mere few feet from him.

The tent was fairly well lit from banks of expensive tallow candles, sending a yellow glow against the canvas walls. Drake recognized de Bretagne immediately, who smiled at him when their eyes met. He went to Drake, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Ah,” he said. “The great martyr awakens. How do you feel?”

Drake gingerly tried to move his right shoulder and right leg. “Not too terribly,” he said. “But the wine that Brittany gave me still has my head swimming.”

De Bretagne chuckled. “Only the finest wine for Brittany will do,” he said. “Your actions were quite heroic, Drake. You have made me look good.”

Drake smiled weakly as he pushed himself onto his left elbow; his right shoulder was still too tender at the moment to support much weight. “That is my only goal in life, my lord,” he quipped with a painful grunt, “to make you look good. But what is happening? Why are these men here?”

Before de Bretagne could answer, another man approached, interrupting the conversation. Drake caught a glimpse of the movement, a man in heavy leather breeches and a dirtied tunic beneath a very long fur and leather coat. When he looked up into the man’s face, recognition was instant.

“De Winter,” the elderly man spoke. “You are to be commended. Your actions of valor in protecting Brittany are worthy of the de Winter legacy.”

Drake tried to sit up a bit to at least face the man. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said. “I am sure my father will be pleased that I did not kill myself in the process of adding another act of bravery to the family legacy.”

Edward the First of England laughed softly; a man in his sixties, he was still strong and tall and quite active at his age. His hair, once blond curls, had turned gray long ago and now tumbled in silver strings to his shoulders. He was bearded these days, covering his weathered skin because it kept him warm, and the fire behind the dark eyes was something that had never dimmed from his younger days. It was still smoldering and powerful. Someone pulled up a chair for the king and he planted his lanky body next to Drake.

“I am sure he will be pleased also,” Edward said. “I miss your father these days. I miss his sword. But I am glad he has, at least, supplied me with you. One would think with all of the sons he has, I would be provided with more. But it is of no matter. It would seem that I have the bravest son in you. I want to personally thank you for saving Brittany’s life under what were evidently foolish circumstances.”

Drake didn’t want to speak ill of Brittany, especially to Edward. “A fine line separates foolishness from heroism, Your Highness,” he said, somewhat avoiding Edward’s statement. “It would seem I have walked that line myself, hence the wounds in my back. But I will recover and Brittany is unharmed. That is all that matters.”

Edward grunted softly. “You do not have your father’s arrogance,” he said. “Davyss de Winter would have told me how great and powerful he is by now. He would demand I pay him homage for the rest of my life. I see you have some of your mother’s humility, at least.”

Drake gave him a half-grin, ironic in nature. “I have not yet achieved my father’s status that would afford me to be so arrogant in the face of the king, Your Highness,” he said. “Your thanks on the life of Brittany will suffice.”

Edward shook his head. “In faith, it will not,” he said. “That is why I have come. It is my intention to reward you for your bravery, lad. You deserve my thanks as well as my reward.”

Drake was very interested in the conversation now that a reward had been mentioned. “Truly, Your Highness?” he was pleased and flattered. “I am deeply honored.”

Edward nodded. “You should be,” he said. “You will be well-rewarded for your act of courage. Brittany is my nephew and I am quite fond of him. I would have been devastated had injury or death befallen him. You have saved me such anguish. I am therefore very pleased to be able to bestow great gifts upon you.”

Drake’s interest grew. “I am listening, Your Highness.”

Edward sat back in his chair, accepting some of that fine Bordeaux wine that had sent Drake into a drunken stupor. Edward drank deeply before continuing.

“The earldom of East Anglia,” he said, smacking his lips of the wine still on them. “What do you know of it?”

Drake’s eyebrows lifted in thought. “East Anglia?” he repeated. “I know it well. It borders my father’s lands. It is a very old earldom that belongs to the House of du Reims.”

Edward nodded. “It does indeed belong to the House of du Reims,” he said. “They have had it since the time of Matilda and Stephen when their ancestor murdered the de Mandeville earl in order to obtain it. You know that the House of de Mandeville has been trying to gain it back ever since.”

Drake nodded. “I do know that,” he said. “De Winter and de Mandeville and du Reims are all Norfolk and Suffolk-bound. There is not much we do not know about one another.”

“Then you know the de Mandevilles are going to turn their venom on you when you become the new earl.”

Drake forgot all about the pain in his right shoulder or his thigh. He pushed himself up to sit, facing Edward with pure shock. “Me?” he asked, aghast. “The Earl of East Anglia?”

Edward nodded, enjoying the astonishment in Drake’s features. “Aye,” he replied. “I told you I would reward you greatly. East Anglia, and her holdings, shall be yours in thanks for saving Brittany’s life.”

Drake simply stared at the man. He was having difficulty putting together the proper words of gratitude. His head was spinning and not merely from the excess drink. Surprise didn’t completely encompass what he was feeling at the moment. Of all the rewards in all of England, the gift of an earldom, or any title really, had never entered his mind.

“I… I am astonished, Your Highness,” he finally said, struggling to speak. “If you grant me the East Anglia earldom, when my father dies, I shall inherit the Thetford one as well. That will make my holdings the largest in Norfolk and Suffolk, if not the whole south of England.”

Edward nodded. “I realize that,” he said, taking another drink of wine. “I am not a fool, lad. I know what this will mean to you and to the de Winters. But I also know that I would rather see it with you than with anyone else. East Anglia is very important. It also holds a portion of Kent, including Rochester Castle. When Christian du Reims dies, I do not want the holding to go to someone who is not utterly and completely my ally, which is why it must go to you. The House of de Winter has two hundred years of service to the crown and I know that will never change. I know something about you, Drake. I have heard how you are noble and true and of moral character. De Bretagne has told me such things. In fact, we had a long conversation about you while your wounds were being tended to. We have both decided that the earldom of East Anglia will suit you. I will feel confident knowing it is yours.”

Drake had no idea what to say to all of that. Oddly enough, his head was no longer swimming. He was thinking quite clearly. As thrilled as he was about the gifting of East Anglia, there was one small question in his mind, a question that was perhaps the biggest factor in all of this. He knew enough about East Anglia to know that the earl had one child, a daughter… so what about the daughter? Already, he thought he knew the answer and he didn’t like it in the least. Not one bit. He cleared his throat softly.

“As I recall, Your Highness, East Anglia had one child,” he said, trying not to sound ungrateful or hesitant. “I believe it was a daughter.”

Edward knew where he was leading and he quickly met the subject head-on. “He does indeed,” he said. “Du Reims has asked me to find a husband for his daughter and that husband will be you. Through the daughter, you will inherit the earldom and all of her riches.”

It was a tactical move on Edward’s part, making sure Drake understood the wealth that came with East Anglia in spite of him having to marry the heiress to get it. He could see the instant defiance rippling through de Winter’s expression, the resistance and displeasure. But Drake was also very good at masking what he was feeling so the flicker of emotions was just as quickly gone.

“I am afraid that is impossible, Your Highness,” Drake finally said. “My mother and father have already brokered a marital contract for me with the House of Summerlin. In fact, I was due to marry the girl before your march to Scotland circumvented that.”

Edward was unmoved. “I will offer Summerlin an attractive husband for his daughter,” he said without missing a breath. “You needn’t worry over that. I will inform du Reims that you will marry his daughter immediately and I will further inform him that I am gifting you and the future Lady de Winter with one of my holdings on the Norfolk-Suffolk border. Being that you are from Norfolk, do you know where Spexhall is?”

Drake was reeling from the turn the conversation had taken but managed to nod. “I do,” he said. “It is on Norfolk’s border with Suffolk. There is a small keep there as I recall.”

“It is yours,” Edward said. “You and the future Lady de Winter shall live there until such time as Christian du Reims passes away and you can take control of Thunderbey Castle, his seat. I will gift you with one thousand men for Spexhall Castle and you can garrison it for the crown. At the moment, it is a very small outpost under the command of Watcyn de Witt, but I expect you to take charge and become acquainted with the area you will one day rule over. You are now one of my commanders with the autonomy to administer justice for my subjects. At some point, I will more than likely make you Sheriff of the Shire, but for now, you will be the military power in that region. I trust these terms are acceptable, de Winter?”

Drake didn’t know what to say other than the fact that there was no possibility that he could deny any of this. The king was gifting him with tremendous riches, all for saving the foolish Brittany, and Drake knew he could not refuse. It simply wasn’t done. Like it or not, in order to inherit the East Anglia earldom, which he realized he very badly wanted, he had to marry the heiress. Stunned, and overwhelmed, he simply nodded his head.

“Aye, Your Highness,” he said.

Edward smiled although there was no warmth or humor behind it. He was simply forcing a smile because the knight, who clearly wasn’t thrilled about the marriage part of the reward, had agreed to everything. The king drained what was left in his cup and stood up.

“Take heart, young de Winter,” he said, putting his hand on Drake’s shoulder. “I hear that the heiress is quite beautiful. In fact, I have been rather curious for a glimpse of her myself. Even if she is a peckish shrew, mayhap her physical appearance will make up for it. Sometimes we must do things that are distasteful in order for a greater gain. That is how you should look at this.”

Drake looked up at the man. “You have been most generous, Your Highness,” he said, though there was defeat in his tone. Greater gain, indeed! “My father will be greatly pleased, I am sure, as will my mother. But I would ask one thing, if I may.”

“Speak.”

Drake hesitated slightly, seemingly pained. “My mother will be the one to soothe about breaking the betrothal to Summerlin,” he said. “It is her you should appeal to when rearranging what she has done.”

Edward shook his head. “I plan to deal with your father alone,” he said flatly. “Let the man deal with his irate wife. I want no part of it.”

Drake smirked, an ironic gesture, as Edward quit the tent and headed out into the sheets of rain with his entourage behind him. Left in his wake was a pair of Brittany guards and de Bretagne.

Cortez hadn’t left with the others, mostly because he wanted to remain behind to congratulate Drake on his reward. He knew about it before Edward had told Drake, so he was quite happy to congratulate the man. Knowing his views on marriage, however, and knowing that he had escaped a marriage arranged by his mother to fight in Scotland, he thought that mayhap he should remain behind to offer his condolences, too. When the tent emptied out, Cortez made his way over to Drake.

“You have my greatest congratulations,” Cortez said, a twinkle in his dark eyes. “The Earl of East Anglia is a remarkable gift. I am very pleased for you.”

Drake looked up at his friend, his liege, before lowering himself back down onto the pallet. He grunted and groaned as his battered body pained him.

“God’s Bloody Bones,” he declared, disgust and surprise in his tone. “Is it true? Have I really been given such a thing?”

Cortez sat down in the chair once occupied by the king. “Indeed you have,” he said. “I am very proud for you.”

Drake was staring up at the darkened ceiling of the tent. “As I am,” he said. “I think. Christ, my mother will have fits when she is told I will not marry the Summerlin daughter. Now I am to marry East Anglia’s heiress.”

Cortez grinned. “I know you have never had a keen view of marriage, but let me say that I rather like it,” he said. “Having a wife is comforting. It fills something within a man that needs filling. A man needs a wife and children.”

“A man needs to be left alone.”

Cortez laughed softly. “Is that truly want you want?” he asked. “To be left alone for the rest of your life? That is a foolish, selfish attitude and one you had better amend. Like it or not, you have been given East Anglia’s heiress. Even if you do not want her, she is yours and it would behoove you to, at least, treat the woman with respect.”

Drake sighed heavily, covering his face with his hands. “Christ, why ?” he begged softly to no one in particular, not even Christ. “No man has ever wanted to be married less than I. Why must I have not one but two brides forced upon me? Why ?”

Cortez was still laughing. “Why do you act as if you are going to your execution?” he demanded lightly. “Drake, listen to me. A wife is not such a terrible thing. You may even grow to like her and if you do not, simply come to Sherborne Castle and resume your duties for me. Leave your wife at Spexhall where she will probably be glad to be well rid of you. Take heart, mayhap she will not like you, either.”

Drake dropped his hands and scowled at Cortez. “Be cautious with your taunts,” he said. “Someday I will outrank you and you will be sorry you were ever cruel to me.”

“I will never be sorry, for anything.”

Drake made a face and looked away. “Instead of taunting me, you should try to at least comfort me.”

Cortez shook his head. “Not when you are being so ridiculous,” he said. “You have just been given an amazing gift from the king and all you can do is focus on what you consider to be the overlying negative factor. Why not focus on the positive? You will be wildly rich someday, the biggest land holder in Norfolk and Suffolk, and I will come and live with you in my old age and spend all of your money.”

That brought a reluctant grin to Drake’s lips. “I will not let you in the gates,” he said. Then, his smile faded. “In fact, I wish I could not let the East Anglia woman in the gates. Or I can let her in and keep her waiting in the church for me until she grows weary of the wait and simply goes away.”

“So you will not show up for your own wedding? You know that you cannot do that.”

Drake nodded, sighing heavily again as he rolled onto his undamaged left side. “I know,” he said. “As much as I would like to flee, I would not shame my family so or anger the king. I suppose the marriage is a small price to pay for what I am to receive.”

“That is a sensible way of looking at it.”

Drake thought so, too, or at least he tried tell himself that. But then he started thinking about the wedding and not showing up to the church again, thoughts he struggled to push aside. But then he recalled something his father told him once, something about the wedding of his father and mother.

Davyss had told him once that he had been so opposed to the marriage to Drake’s mother than he had sent his sword, Lespada , in his stead. Devereux had been forced to marry a sword by proxy and it was all perfectly legal. The more Drake thought on that, the more he liked the idea. If it was good enough for his father, it was good enough for him. Lespada had married one de Winter wife and it could marry another.

“I will marry the East Anglia heiress,” he finally said, stroking his chin. “But I will not do it in person.”

Cortez furrowed his brow. “What in the hell does that mean?”

Drake’s dark eyes glimmered with what he felt to be the ultimate solution to his problem. “You will be at my wedding,” he said. “You will see what I mean.”

Cortez wasn’t so sure he liked that statement. In fact, he was sure of it.

On the day of Drake’s wedding, he came to understand what the man meant.