Chapter One
“Even in a hero’s heart, discretion is the better part of valor…”
*
December, nearing the Christmas celebration
Selborne Castle
Hampshire, England
The morning was bright, with ribbons of sunlight streaming in through the lancet windows of the small hall of Selborne Castle.
Although the castle had a large great hall, a separate structure that was only used for soldiers and for major feasts, the smaller hall built into the keep was used for family meals.
Even now, as he came down the narrow stone steps, built into the wall of the keep, he could see the sunlight through the hall doorway and smell the fresh bread.
His mother demanded hot bread in the morning and the smell told him she was already at the table eating.
He braced himself.
Not that he didn’t love his mother. They had an excellent relationship.
But she could be a bit overbearing at times.
That was the kind way of putting it. Last night, she’d had too much to drink and had harped on one of the many subjects she liked to harp on, which had chased him from the room.
He was wondering if she would remember how he’d fled in frustration or if the drink had erased that part of the evening for her.
He was hoping it was the latter.
Entering the chamber, he forced a smile as he kissed his mother on the head. “Good morn to you,” he said pleasantly. “How did you sleep?”
A woman with a severe wimple sat at the table, focused on her food and not her unnaturally cheery son. “Unwell.”
“Unwell? Why?”
She tore apart a small bread roll, sending steam into the air. “Because I dreamt that I had grandchildren and awoke to a dark room and a cold bed,” she said. “I have been dreaming of grandchildren a good deal as of late, Val. One would think you would take the hint.”
Sir Valor de Nerra sat across the table from his mother, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
It was too early in the morning to start on that subject.
Sometimes, he gave himself a headache with all of the eye rolling he did when his mother began to preach to him.
One of these days, he was going to roll an eyeball right out of its socket.
“Are you going to start this so early in the morning?” he asked, his smile leaving him.
“I have only just walked into the room. You could at least bid me a good morning and tell me that you love me. But instead, all I hear is that you have no grandchildren and a cold bed. The cold bed is your fault for not remarrying.”
His mother flicked her eyes up to him, eyes the same color as his. “But the lack of grandchildren is your fault.”
Val took his own hot bread roll and pulled it open. “I will make a bargain with you. If you get married, then I will, too.”
His mother cast him an expression that suggested she didn’t like that bargain at all. “I am too set in my ways, Val. My heart is not strong, nor is my health. It would be foolish to remarry.”
“My heart is strong and my health is fine, but I am too young to marry. It would be foolish for me to do it, too.”
“You have seen thirty-four years,” his mother pointed out. “If you do not marry soon, you will be an old spinster and no woman will want an old husband like you. For shame!”
Val fought off a grin. “Men cannot be spinsters.”
“They can if I say they can!”
He started to laugh. “Can we please defer this until after I eat? You are going to give me a sour stomach if you keep hen-pecking me.”
Lady Margaretha Byington de Nerra eyed her son most unhappily.
Such a beautiful, beautiful boy who had turned into a man that was the most eligible bachelor in all of England.
At least, in her opinion he was. Val was tall, muscular, and broad, with a head of dark, wavy hair and brilliant green eyes.
He was excruciatingly handsome, the subject of many a maiden’s affection, and he soaked it up but never seemed to grow serious about any of it.
And he was successful… Sweet Mary, so successful!
Having served the king for many years in France, her son had come home two years ago with a royal appointment.
Itinerant Justice of Hampshire he was called, and Margaretha could not have been more proud of him.
Prestige and wealth had been given to him by the royal hand.
But Margaretha soon began to realize that the royal appointment was not an easy thing, at least the way Val carried out his duties.
Never one to delegate tasks, he was in the middle of whatever was happening that fell under his jurisdiction – chasing down outlaws, holding judgment over them, and even executing them.
Val took his duties very seriously and, with that diligence, his reputation in the area grew.
Valor de Nerra was a man to be reckoned with.
Now, he was the most powerful man from Basingstoke to the sea, a vast area where he had several men in patrols that kept order in a lawless time.
Margaretha was still hugely proud of her son but she was afraid that his attention to duty was causing him to lack foresight into his future.
Marital future. As his mother, it was her duty to make sure he understood the importance of it.
But after two years of her trying to beat it into his head, she was afraid she wasn’t making much of an impression on him.
“I am not hen-pecking you,” she said as she put butter on her bread.
“It seems to me that you fail to understand the importance of your future. You are the last of your father’s line, Valor, not to mention the last of my line.
In fact, my line is far more important. You understand that it must be continued. ”
Val was quickly growing exhausted of the conversation. When the servant poured him watered wine, he down the entire cup and demanded more.
“I understand,” he said with exaggerated patience.
“I understand that your family line can be traced back to Pontius Pilate when the man was brought by Roman galley to Porchester, whereupon he fathered a child with a local Saxon woman, a child who happened to be your forbearer on your mother’s side.
I also understand that there is Wessex royalty in your blood, Mother, and I give thanks to God daily that you did not name me after the wyvern in your family crest. Instead of Wyvern, you named me Valor because that is what you wished for me.
How could a man with the name Valor be anything other than valorous?
Therefore, I understand clearly what you have been telling me for thirty-four years. ”
Now, his irritation was showing and Margaretha was feeling scolded. Still, she had her pride and that meant her son would never see her in the throes of submission or defeat. Even if what he said was true. She eyed him before returning to her meal.
“I do not think I like your attitude this morning,” she said. “I sense disrespect.”
“And I sense the same.”
She looked at him, surprised and confused. “What do you mean?”
He sighed. “Evidently, you do not respect my judgement or intelligence enough to know that I realize I must take a wife at some point. We have had this conversation so many times that my head is swimming with your expectations. I know them all too well, Mother. Therefore, may we drop the subject, at least for this meal?”
Margaretha returned her focus to her food, trying not to sound hurt. “If that is your wish.”
“It is.”
Margaretha took a bite of her bread with butter as a servant spooned out an egg dish onto her trencher. Val, too, delved into his bread, eyeing his mother and feeling some remorse for the turn of the conversation.
She meant well; he knew she did. She wasn’t really the harpy that she seemed to be at times.
In truth, she could be very wise and generous.
But the situation with his lack of a wife was starting to create tension between them and, for that, he was, indeed, sorry.
But, as he’d told her many times, she was going to have to let him make his own decisions where that was concerned.
The meal continued in silence for a few minutes until another man entered the hall and Val found himself looking up at his second in command.
Sir Calum de Morville had been on patrol the evening before, for whenever Val wasn’t out attending to his duties, Calum was there in his place.
Still in his mail breeches and still armed, Calum smiled wearily at Val.
“Good morn,” he said. Then, he looked to Margaretha. “Good morn to you, Lady de Nerra. It ’tis a fine morning. In fact, I passed a woman on the road who gave me some bulbs for your flower garden when the spring comes. I have left them at the door for you to inspect.”
Margaretha seemed pleased. “How fine,” she said. “My thanks, Calum. Will you eat with us? My son and I were just discussing my lack of grandchildren. Since you have a wife, mayhap you can stress to him how pleasant it is to have a woman in your bed every night.”
So much for keeping her mouth shut. Val, who had a knife in his hand that he’d been eating with, suddenly flipped it to the dull side and sawed it back and forth across the inside of his wrist, evidently trying to kill himself. Calum caught the gesture and struggled not to laugh.
“We have discussed the issue many times, Lady de Nerra,” he said, biting off a smile. “I am confident that Val will select a fine wife someday. You must be patient.”
Margaretha cocked an eyebrow at the knight.
“Bah,” she said. “He had better do it before I die or I will not be able to rest in peace. With my bad heart, there is the very real possibility that I shall not live to see the morrow. Do you hear, Valor? If you do not marry before I die, then I shall be forced to haunt you.”
Unable to slit his wrists with the dull side of the knife, Val gave up and stabbed a piece of boiled apple, plopping it into his mouth.
“It cannot be any worse than the way you haunt me right now,” he said, chewing.
He looked at Calum. “Sit down and eat. Give her another target to aim for so she will leave me alone.”
Calum couldn’t help the laughter then. “I cannot,” he said, chuckling. “I have come with news, Val. Do you recall the missive we received from Lord Horsham about the knight who had killed one of his sons?”
Val nodded. “Latham de Wyck was the name, I believe,” he said. “He’d come to court one of Horsham’s daughters. When the girl’s brother tried to intervene, de Wyck killed him.”
Calum nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “We have reason to believe that de Wyck is in Whitehill. One of our patrols sent word about the horse that Horsham described as belonging to the knight being in the livery in Whitehill. I thought you would want to see for yourself.”
Val nodded. “I do,” he said, quickly downing the rest of his watered wine and rising to his feet.
“We will take a full contingent of men with us. Forty men, fully armed. If this is the knight, then he will more than likely fight to the death rather than be captured alive. I want the men prepared and protected. Gather them now and I shall meet you in the bailey.”
Calum nodded and, begging leave from Margaretha, fled the small hall. Val wasn’t so quick to leave; he rounded the table and kissed his mother on her smooth cheek.
“I will return when I can,” he said.
He was halfway to the door when Margaretha called after him. “Valor,” she said. She was the only one who ever called him by his full name. “You will take care.”
He winked at her. “I always do, love.”
He was hurrying to leave but Margaretha stopped him again. “Wait,” she said. When he stopped to look at her, impatience in his features, she softened. “I do love you, my dear boy. Surely you know that.”
“I know.”
“I simply want you to be happy. But I want to be happy, too.”
Val softened his impatient stance, but only for a moment. “I promise you that, someday, we shall both be exquisitely happy. I would stake my life on it.”
“Then you shall marry someday?”
“Of course I will.”
“Soon?”
“If I meet her tomorrow, then mayhap soon. But if I do not… be patient, dearest Mother. I will not disappoint you.”
Margaretha knew that. He’d not disappointed her yet; he’d always been a son to be very proud of. Well, most of the time. He flashed her that devilish smile, the one he always flashed her when he got his way, and dashed from the chamber.
When he was gone, Margaretha sat in silence, pondering their conversation and listening to the distant shouts of the men in the bailey of Selborne Castle.
Men sworn to the king and, through the king, to her son.
He was a favored of Henry and a man who could have anything he wished simply for the asking.
It was a charmed life that Val led, in royal favor, something he worked his entire life to attain.
Aye, she was proud of him. Overwhelmingly so.
But pride wouldn’t bring her any grandchildren.
With a heavy sigh, Margaretha returned to her morning meal, one she found she no longer had an appetite for.
Something in Val’s expression as he’d left, in that brilliant smile of straight, white teeth, had given her a sense of doom.
She didn’t know why. Perhaps, it was only her imagination and nothing more.
But something in his face had had a shadow of dread upon it.
Today is a day for dread.
It was just a feeling she had.