Chapter One
Chaldon Castle
Dorset, England
The sultry August heat was manageable this day.
As the sun broke the eastern horizon, the lush English countryside embraced the coming day with open arms. Not only was the advancing day glorious of weather and promise, but the inhabitants of the gentle hills of Dorset were anticipating this day with excitement.
In faith, the day itself could have been wrought with storms and foul weather and still it would have been a grand morn.
For on this day, a long-standing celebration was preparing to mount and nothing could dampen the spirits of peasant and noble alike, fine blood and common lines readying the stronghold of Chaldon Castle for the activities of the approaching gala.
The mighty stronghold of Chaldon guarded the road between Dorchester and Weymouth and was being prepared as a new bride for her husband.
Proud banners of du Bonne red and white streamed from the mighty battlements, snapping in the steady ocean breeze.
The constant hint of salt-air was heavy upon the fortress, licking man and beast alike with dampness as they went about their duties.
Just outside of the open fortress gates lay the field of celebration, a margin of meadow that had been prepared for the events of competition.
A large bank of lodges had been constructed to accommodate the noble visitors that would be gracing Chaldon this day, and already a small army of peasants had constructed their vendor’s shacks and stalls to provide refreshment between contests.
In the enormous keep of Chaldon that housed the reigning Constable and his family, all was not as sunny as the day appeared. The object of the pending celebration was not the least bit pleased at the moment as he tripped over the clutter of his bower.
“God’s Blood,” the young man spat. “I cannot find anything in this place.”
A smirking face appeared in an adjoining door, features similar to those of the cursing young man. “Temper, temper, my young lord,” he cautioned. “You’ll chase all of the young women away with your foul temper and nasty disposition.”
The frowning man slugged his fist into his smug companion’s chest, lacking any power to the blow. “Shut your mouth, Ian. Where in the hell is my hauberk? I cannot find the thing anywhere.”
Ian, at least a head taller than his testy younger brother, maintained his smirk as he kicked through a pile of clutter on the floor. “Here it is, lover. Do not fret so.”
The younger man snatched the mail hood from his brother, scowling fiercely. “God’s Blood, I’d rather get dressed by myself. Go and bother someone else.”
Ian snorted humorously, ignoring his brother’s demand for solitude and moving for the suit of armor against the broad stretch of wall. Two young squires sat against the cold stone, polishing the armor furiously.
“There is no one else to tolerate me,” he said, examining a recently-cleaned greave.
“Stephan is with Genisa, probably mounting her for the fourth time this morn, and Summer has been in her solar since dawn, demanding to be left alone. She swears this gala to celebrate your knighthood will drive us to the poorhouse.”
The cross young man grunted as he fumbled with his mailed protection. “I did not ask for a party. ’Twas at father’s insistence.”
Ian returned the greave to one of the young squires and moved to stroke the crafted hilt of his brother’s sword.
“Be glad he insisted on celebrating your knighthood at all, Lance,” his voice was somewhat subdued. “Stephan received a new sheath for his broadsword. I received a handshake.”
Lance glanced to his middle brother, two years older and sixty pounds heavier.
Much larger than any of his siblings, he was a mild-mannered lout with a wicked sense of humor.
It was a quick wit that Lance had missed terribly when the man had been knighted two years ago, leaving his youngest brother to finish his training alone.
Stephan, Ian and Lance du Bonne had fostered together at Shrewsbury Castle on the Welsh border, far from their coastal fortress of Chaldon.
It was an unusual move to keep siblings together to foster, but the three had insisted.
The three men had lived together, practiced together, and protected each other from the brutal realities of a careless world.
They were a fearsome trio with an unusual reputation of family unity.
Some had even wondered if the brothers were able to work one without the other.
But they somewhat disproved that theory when Stephan was inducted into the knighthood at twenty-one years of age; Ian and Lance functioned quite well when Stephan returned to Chaldon.
Four years later, Ian received his spurs and also found his way home, leaving young Lance alone at Shrewsbury to finish his training.
As the gallery of critics awaited Lance’s failure, the lad proved them wrong and honorably earned his knighthood.
In a sense, the festivities planned for this day were in celebration of the du Bonne brother’s reunion, not merely the recently attained pair of golden spurs. The three were looking forward to a future of tournaments, leisure and exhilarating adventure.
At this moment, however, Lance could not consider the future beyond locating his boots. As Ian lingered against the wall, continuing his inspection of the squires’ handiwork, Lance fumbled about in his cluttered chamber like a huffing bear.
“Damn… I cannot find a damn thing!” he grumbled, managing to locate one boot but not the other. After a moment, he stood tall and shook his fists in frustration. “How is it that everything I need is missing?”
Ian shook his head, moving away from the squires and into the center of the room. “Mayhap if you cleaned the chamber, you could find what you are looking for.”
“Enough from you, swill-brain,” Lance snarled, crowing with triumph when he caught sight of his other boot. Falling to the mussed bed, he pulled on his footwear. “Stephan said that Genisa was finishing my new tunic. He should have brought it to me by now.”
Ian pursed his lips wryly. “I told you that he is most likely with his wife, driving himself into her lovely body until he dies. In fact, I should be so fortunate to warrant such a death.”
Lance eyed his brother a moment, his irritation fading as he gazed into the familiar features. “You are still quite fond of Genisa, are you not?”
The mirth in Ian’s eyes faded as he averted his gaze. “She is my brother’s wife.”
Lance rose from the disheveled mattress to collect his hauberk. “You’ve been in love with her since you met her. Two years ago, I believe.”
Ian refused to look at his brother. “I never told you that.”
Lance put his head through the mail hood, moving for the open door. Holding out his arms, Ian took the silent request and helped his brother don the remainder of the heavy mail.
“You did not have to,” Lance’s voice was quiet as he adjusted the protection about his shoulders.
“I can see it in your eyes every time you look at her. I can only imagine that the feeling for her blossomed when you first met her upon returning home from Shrewsbury two years ago. Summer swears that you have never looked at Genisa with anything other than love in your eyes.”
The mood between the brothers du Bonne was reversing; where Lance had been irritable and sullen only moments before, Ian was now taking on brother’s characteristics.
“Our little sister does not know everything.”
“Aye, she does. She has wisdom beyond her years.”
Ian scratched his blond scalp, uncomfortable with the subject of his lovely sister-in-law. If truth be known, Summer was right. And so was Lance. But he would not admit the truth, not when he loved Stephan far more than his beautiful wife. A sweet fantasy was Genisa and nothing more.
Moving away from his brother, he pretended to busy himself with his Lance’s armor. He was eager to change the subject.
“Speaking of Summer,” he said casually, “What are we going to do about our baby sister today? Has Stephan made any suggestions?”
Lance shrugged, aware of Ian’s bid to shift the subject. “I do not suppose there is anything we can do except be with her constantly. Summer should not be alone for a single moment, Ian.”
Pleased that his brother had taken the hint to change the topic, Ian nodded gravely. “Indeed. I do not suppose we could discourage her from attending the tourney altogether, could we?”
Lance snorted. “Not a chance. She has hardly been out of Chaldon as it is and, as with all young maidens, is eager to attend her first tourney.”
Ian let out a long, harsh breath. “So be it. We cannot discourage her from attending the festivities,” scratching his head again, he seemed to be regaining his good humor. “God help the idiot who is the first to criticize her condition.”
“Which is why one of us must be with her at all times,” Lance said firmly. “Under no circumstances must Summer be allowed to express herself.”
“You mean speak.”
“Aye, that’s exactly what I mean. We will do the speaking for her.”
Ian’s gaze was pensive as he watched his brother mill about the piles of disarrayed clutter.
“God’s Blood, Lance, what did she do before Stephan returned home from Shrewsbury six years ago?” he wondered aloud. “Who protected her from the ignorant rabble?”
Lance found the pair of protective inner gloves he had been searching for.
“She was only three when I left home to foster and had not yet learned to speak,” he said.
“By the time Stephan returned, she was eleven. Kermit, her childhood tutor, kept her sequestered in the solar most of the time, teaching her to read and figure mathematics. I suppose that is why the solar is still her favorite place; she can hide from the world within its shielding walls. It is the only safe haven away from those who would taunt her.”