Chapter Sixteen
Unfortunately for Constance, she had spent most of the money Braxton had given her for food and lodgings in the town of Levens.
The town was small but had several well-known inns, and Constance set herself up in the finest tavern in town, the Dixon Arms, and lived like a queen until she realized that she was very nearly out of coin.
Her plan had always been to return to the seat of the mighty Grays with a grand story of abduction and exile.
It was not in her nature to admit the truth; in fact, the truth had long since become amalgamated with the fiction created in her mind into a story that she was truly coming to believe herself.
In her mind, Braxton had taken over Erith and forced Gray into marriage.
Worse, he had forced Brooke into an unsuitable marriage with one of his knights.
Then, he had exiled Constance, the last line of defense between her daughter and granddaughter and the mercenary knights.
Constance considered herself the victim in all of this.
The other details were conveniently forgotten, those that pointed out Constance’s foul actions.
In her mind, she could do no wrong. She did what she had to do, in all things.
And a mercenary knight bannerette was not going to best generations of breeding and intelligence.
She was going to punish the knight and emerge the victor no matter what the cost.
So she hired two men to take her to Thirlwall Castle, the Gray stronghold in Northumbria where she had been born.
It was at least a four-day ride from Levens.
Unfortunately, she had agreed to pay the men by the day and by the third day, her funds had run out and they left her in the small town of Rosehill, just to the east of Carlisle.
On a very expensive palfrey that she had purchased in Levens, Constance was forced to travel the last fourteen miles alone, arriving at Thirlwall Castle just after sunset on the fourth day.
Thirlwall was a small castle with an all-inclusive keep that contained stables on the bottom floor and the hall, kitchens and bedchambers above.
The castle itself was heavily fortified with soldiers, being so close to the Scots border, but the only remains of Constance’s family were a distant nephew and his son.
Nonetheless, they were family and they listened to Constance’s tale with great concern.
She came across as intelligent and victimized, not a conniving shrew who would stop at nothing to obtain a victory.
And she made sure to throw Braxton de Nerra’s name into the story at every opportunity.
She wanted the name ingrained into their brains as a man of great evil. She wanted Braxton to pay.
Her nephew immediately sent word to the Earl of Northumberland, Yves de Vesci, asking that men be sent to Erith Castle to save Lady Constance’s daughter and granddaughter from the wicked mercenary de Nerra.
De Vesci, recognizing the de Nerra name as the Lords of Gilderdale, his vassals, sent word to Thomas de Nerra forthwith to seek out his son and rescue Lady Constance’s family.
And with that, victory, for Constance, was guaranteed. She would finally have the last word.
But her assured victory was not to be. Weary from travel and stress, Constance went to bed that night with dreams of success over Braxton de Nerra on her mind.
But those dreams soon faded and she began to dream of a great knife stabbing her in the chest. The pain was tremendous and in her dreams, she struggled to get away from the knife but it remained firmly lodged in her sternum, creating waves of anguish.
And that was the last thing she remembered, for one of the servants found her stiff and cold in the morning, having died sometime during the night in her sleep.
She was buried the next day in the vault of her ancestors, finally, as she had always asserted and demanded, among her own blue-blooded peerage.
The peerage of the dead.
*
Black Fell Castle, Northumberland
“My son would not have kidnapped women and absconded with a fortress,” the man who spoke the words used a deadly tone. “Who spreads these lies?”
A knight bearing the red and blue shield of the Earls of Northumberland stood in the great hall of Black Fell Castle, delivering a message from his liege, Yves de Vesci.
He tried not to appear nervous but, truth be told, everyone was always a bit apprehensive upon entering Black Fell.
The place was full of the dark ambiance that is given to those whose life and vocation is geared towards battle.
Sir Thomas de Nerra came from a long line of aggressive soldiers; powerful but not brutal, brave but not reckless.
Still, the man was more of a warrior than most, seasoned and bred along with the rest of the Lords of Gilderdale.
The sons that stood with him were of the same mold: powerful, cunning, calculating and cold.
But the messenger held his ground. “My liege has received this information from Thirlwall Castle, seat of Sir Edmund Gray.”
“And how would he know this?”
“Because his father’s sister, the Lady Constance Gray de Montfort, has returned to Thirlwall with this information. Sir Edmund is most concerned for his cousin and her family.”
Thomas de Nerra gazed at the man with calculating blue-green eyes.
Most of his sons resembled him to fault, the exception being his eldest, Robert.
Robert had the dark of his mother. Even now, Robert stood beside his father, his blue-green eyes hard as he listened to the tale involving his youngest brother.
Before his father could reply, he interjected his thoughts.
“There must be a logical explanation for what Lady de Montfort has said,” he replied firmly. “My brother is not the sort to go around confiscating castles and abducting women.”
The messenger’s eyes flicked to him. “Be that as it may, the earl is concerned enough that he asks you to ride to Erith Castle and remove your son. This he demands on behalf of the Grays of Northumberland.”
“God’s Beard,” the second eldest brother, a big man with graying blond hair named Davis, cursed lowly. “Braxton is a grown man and, I might add, a powerful knight in his own right. Do you think we can simply march to Erith and scold him like a child? That is ridiculous.”
Robert shook his head in agreement, glaring at the messenger as he turned away.
Not to be left out, the third de Nerra son, Steven, made his presence known.
He was a massive, hairy beast of a man with shaggy gray hair and hands the size of trenchers.
He was also the most volatile, which is why Davis grabbed the man before he could throw the messenger into a head lock.
“Braxton would not do what your lord fears,” he snarled. “He is a man of honor.”
“He is a well-known mercenary,” the messenger unwisely countered. “He will do what is necessary if there is profit involved. Lord de Vesci is simply concerned for the safety of Lady Constance’s daughter and all of you, as vassals of de Vesci, are obliged to obey his command.”
There was truth in the statement that none of them could refute.
Thomas sighed heavily, thoughtfully, averting his gaze as he scratched his neck and generally fidgeted about as his sons grumbled and postured.
He rose from the bench upon which he was seated, stretching his muscled legs and thinking of the son he’d not seen in years.
He hadn’t even heard of him in nearly as long until one of his knights, Niclas de Aughton, returned from mission to Gloucester.
He had run across Braxton and his army and told quite a different tale than the one being carried by de Vesci’s knight.
Thomas sent a soldier for de Aughton before returning his attention to the messenger.
“One of my knights has recently seen Braxton,” he said. “I have sent for him and we shall clear this up once and for all.”
The messenger didn’t say any more; he was only the messenger, after all, and not qualified to argue the point.
So he stood politely while de Nerra’s sons conferred between them, big men with big reputations.
They were growing older now and their own sons were beginning to take on the family mantle; Robert had two boys while Steven had one, young men that were even now outside with the army.
Thomas went back to the bench and lowered his body heavily, sitting near the fire because his joints ached.
The messenger’s gaze moved from the whispering sons to the pensive father, brushing over the features of the massive two-story hall that smelled like dogs and men.
He’d never actually been to Black Fell Castle but he could see why it was considered a foreboding stronghold; it reeked of war.
He could feel it, and see it, everywhere.
It was a dark place of stone, smoke and power.
De Aughton wasn’t long in coming. The big black knight with eyes of obsidian entered the smoky great hall from the bailey outside, approaching Thomas with pounding steps. Before Thomas could speak, Steven leapt out to intercept him.
“This fool has come to tell us that Braxton has taken Erith Castle hostage,” he barked. “You have recently seen my brother. Is this true?”
Niclas had to step aside or risk being run over by Steven in the man’s anger. His dark brow furrowed as he looked from the enraged de Nerra brothers to the de Vesci messenger several feet away. Puzzled, he focused on the messenger.
“Who told you this?” he demanded.
The messenger was outnumbered but he held his ground.
Each successive man at Black Fell seemed to be bigger and angrier than the last. “Lady Constance Gray de Montfort,” he replied evenly.
“She has come to my lord de Vesci for assistance. She claims that Braxton de Nerra has confiscated Erith and is holding her daughter, the Lady Gray, hostage.”