Prologue #2
The old nun gestured behind her, somewhere in the bowels of that great, mysterious nunnery. “Inside,” she said. “He has been well-fed and well-tended by women who will never have children of their own. The child has been loved and coddled beyond measure.”
“He cannot stay here.”
“I know,” the old nun said. “I knew what thou would say. But do not take him now. Wait until he is older and stronger. I would assume thou intends to take him back to London?”
Edward sighed faintly. A fragile infant on a long journey would not be the wisest. Moreover, it would not be prudent to bring his bastard to London.
It would be best if he could send him somewhere nearby, some place where he would be safe.
As he thought on where, exactly, that might be, he caught a glimpse of de Lara in his periphery. He turned to look at the man.
That gave him an idea.
“Your holdings are close,” he said. “Just over the border into England.”
Rory nodded. “About a four-day ride from here, Sire.”
“Your wife has recently given birth to a son, has she not?”
“She has, Sire.”
“One more child will not tax her.”
Rory began to realize why he was asking. “Another… child, Sire?” he said. “But… surely you cannot…”
“You are the best choice for this,” Edward said, not giving the man the opportunity to refute him.
“Your holdings are just a few days away. You are my most trusted man, Rory. I cannot take the child to London with me—you know this. He must be raised by a great family and trained properly. You are the perfect father for him.”
The more Edward spoke, the more adverse Rory became. “I already have a son,” he said. “My wife bore Liam several months ago. To take on another infant would be…”
“It would mean very much to me,” Edward said, interrupting him.
Reaching out, he gripped Rory’s arm. “Please, Rory. This child was conceived in love, born through no fault of his own. He is a son of royal bloodlines, including Welsh bloodlines, and I must place him with someone I trust. I trust you, my friend. Please do not deny this request. It is of the utmost importance.”
Rory knew he could not refuse. It wasn’t that he wasn’t willing to take on another son, but this child… his bloodlines alone would bring a curse. Curse of the Welsh, curse of the English. And that curse would come right to his doorstep. The more he thought on it, the angrier he became.
“If the Welsh know about this child, they will come for him and try to claim him,” he hissed. “If the English know about him, they will come for him and try to kill him.”
Edward knew that, more than Rory did. “He will be in danger, I know,” he said. “That is why you must watch over him. He deserves your protection.”
He was trying to make it sound like this task was an honor when it wasn’t. It was a tremendous burden and they both knew it, but Rory was cornered with no way out.
The decision had been made.
“Very well,” he said, struggling not to lash out. “If I take this child, no one can know who he really is. He must be my son and not yours. He bears my name and not yours. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Edward nodded, feeling the man’s fear and anger.
“I understand,” he assured him. “I know I am asking a good deal of you, but if it were not important, I would not ask it. Though it is a moment of heartbreak for me, I will surrender him to you, in every way. Raise him correctly. Love him as your own. But tell him who his true father is when he comes of age. He must know his great legacy. And he must protect it.”
That was very true. The child was the son of a king, the grandson of a prince. His legacy would be more than any man could ever claim.
But the danger would also be more than any man could ever face.
Frustrated at a future that had been foisted on him, Rory simply shook his head.
“Then if you insist I do this, I will return to my property from here,” he said.
“Henry and Ansel can return you to a nearby loyalist castle if you would prefer a larger escort back to London, or you can simply travel as you are and make swift journey of it. It is your choice. But I must return home and tell my wife of your expectations and then I will return to the nunnery with a wetnurse so I can safely bring the child back to Trelystan Castle.”
Edward was feeling great relief that Rory hadn’t taken more of a stand. “That would be appreciated,” he said. “Return to me when you have finished this most important task. And, Rory?”
“Aye, Sire?”
“You cannot know what this means to me,” Edward said, his voice growing soft. “I did love Dera. I know she would be grateful that you will take good care of her son.”
Rory simply nodded. He wasn’t over his aner yet, but there was nothing he could do. Edward had asked it of him and, as an obedient vassal, he had agreed.
He hoped he wouldn’t live to regret it.
As it so happened, Lady de Lara was more than willing to take on the care and feeding of another child a little younger than her own son. Grace was a kind woman, and a generous one, and when her husband finally delivered the black-haired infant to her, she fell in love with him immediately.
Lady Grace had a very strong maternal instinct.
She named him Tate Crewys, after her own father, a landed lord in Somerset, and the child grew up with a brother of the same age in Liam and a host of younger siblings as the years went on.
The boys were told that they were simply born close together, as they were almost exactly ten months apart, but when Tate turned eighteen years of age, Rory finally told him about his true heritage.
Considering Tate had been visited by Edward a few times during his life, and the visits always seemed to focus on him, he truly wasn’t surprised when Rory told him the truth.
You are the son of a king.
Perhaps he was, but Tate never viewed himself as one. He was a knight, and an excellent one, and as he grew into manhood and assumed more duties from the royal household, one thing was certain—he was a legend in the making.
And the myth of Dragonblade was born.