Chapter Eleven
His name was Sir Kenneth St. Héver. He had served with Tate de Lara and Stephen of Pembury as the third in the trio of knights that was the most reputable and powerful in all of England at this time.
The three of them had been bodyguards to young Edward the Third when the youth had fled his mother and Roger Mortimer.
Together, the trio had kept young Edward alive and ensured the fall of Mortimer and Isabella so that Edward could assume his rightful place on the throne of England.
Even before that, their association had been a long and honored one.
Kenneth, being the oldest of the trio, had even served in his very young years under Edward the First. At thirty-eight years, he was seasoned, wise, terrifying and gifted.
He was also the most feared of the three.
Tate was brilliant and powerful while Stephen was the strongest merely by his sheer size, but Kenneth went beyond size and intelligence.
He was not as tall as Stephen and perhaps slightly taller than Tate, but he was broader than even the broadest man.
And it was pure, unadulterated muscle. He had an enormous neck, square jaw, and eyes that were so blue they were nearly silver.
His close-cropped hair was so blond that it was nearly white and thick blond lashes surrounded his shocking blue eyes.
He had a reputation for being exceptionally unfriendly though never unfair, and called no one friend except for de Lara and Pembury.
Sir Kenneth St. Héver was a knight’s knight.
He was the man that most knights could only hope to be.
At the fall of Roger Mortimer, the young king had gifted Sir Kenneth to Garson Mortimer, a cousin to Roger who had sided with young Edward.
That had sent Kenneth to the Welsh Marches, the first time in fifteen years that he had been separated from Tate and Kenneth.
But it had been a very honorable post he had assumed at Kirk Castle keeping the Welsh at bay.
Still, he was eager to see his friends again, men he’d not seen in almost a year.
It was this man who had ridden hard for five days after he had received the missive from Pembury asking him to come to Berwick Castle.
Knowing that Stephen would not have asked for him unless he had a very good reason, Kenneth had ridden day and night to reach Berwick.
It had been an exhausting journey but he was not particularly concerned with that.
He was more concerned with why Stephen had called for him.
Fortunately, July was a good month to travel.
No rain, no inclement weather, and he made good time.
As he reached the outskirts of Berwick, he could immediately see that the town was in shambles.
Great sections of it were burned and as he rode deeper into the town, he could see how destitute the people were.
It was just after the nooning hour and the peasants eyed him suspiciously as he rode into town.
Another English knight was not a welcome sight.
He passed children who were sitting in the gutter weeping with hunger. It was a sobering sight.
Berwick Castle was on a hill by the river, surrounded with massive walls.
As he neared the castle, he could see the activity up on the battlements.
He could also see that the castle was buttoned up tightly.
There was no moat, only sheer walls that towered overhead.
He came to a halt at the main gate, an opening with a massive iron gate in front of a pair of massive wooden doors, and called up to the sentries.
After he announced himself, the massive wooden doors, and the iron gate, were eventually cranked open.
He guided his foaming charger into the gatehouse, emerging into the dusty bailey.
It was an enormous area, penned in by several towers, a hall off to the left and a keep to the right.
He pulled his charger to a halt somewhere between the keep and the hall, looking about his surroundings.
There were soldiers everywhere and a few servants.
A young stable servant timidly approached to take the charger, who snorted and snapped at the lad.
Kenneth dismounted stiffly, stretching his muscular body as he reached into a saddle bag and pulled forth a muzzle.
Muzzling the horse, he removed his bags and headed into the hall.
The great hall was empty, surprising at the nooning hour.
Sitting at the massive, scrubbed table, he tossed his bags onto the table surface and grumbled orders to the nearest servant.
The man was to bring him food and send for Pembury, in that order.
A serving wench eventually brought him bread, cheese and wine and he tore into it with gusto.
He hadn’t eaten in over a day. As he was downing the wine, a familiar voice came from behind him.
“God’s Blood,” Stephen hissed. “It is about time you got here.”
Kenneth turned around, the very rare event of a smile on his lips. He stood up, taking Stephen’s outstretched hand and shaking it longer than necessary. For a man who kept his emotions buried deeper than most, it was a strong display of sentiment.
“You are looking well, Stephen,” Kenneth said. “Perhaps older and fatter, but well.”
Stephen laughed. “Fatter, indeed. When you discover what a fantastic cook my wife is, you’ll go to fat and do it gladly.”
Kenneth displayed emotion for the second time in as many seconds. “Wife?” he repeated, stunned. “What wife?”
Stephen sobered and let go of the man’s hand, motioning for him to sit back down.
“The Lady Joselyn de Velt Seton Pembury,” he said.
“She is the daughter of Alexander Seton, the Commander of Berwick Castle until it fell to Edward. At our king’s insistence, I married her to cement England’s stake at Berwick. ”
Kenneth nodded faintly in understanding. “I see,” he was still rather shocked, studying Stephen’s expression for any signs of distress. “You do not seem troubled by this.”
Stephen shook his head. “Not at all,” he realized he was somewhat embarrassed to tell his friend the truth, simply because they had always considered romantic love a fool’s emotion. At least, they had once. “You may as well know that I adore the woman. She is my heart.”
Kenneth’s white eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
Kenneth stared at him a moment, still shocked, before finally shaking his head. “Then all I can say is congratulations,” he said, shifting the subject because he was not sure what else to say on the event of Stephen having taken a wife. “So why am I here?”
Stephen lowered himself onto the bench beside him.
“Much has happened since you and I last saw one another, but the majority of it has happened within the last month,” he paused before he started his story.
“The siege of Berwick was brutal. Many died and the politics of the story is something that will be told for hundreds of years to come. It was savage, even by our standards. My wife was wounded in an ambush ten days ago. A fever still lingers within her and her health suffers. Her cousin, one of the leaders of the rebellion, is in the vault right now. We have been plagued by raids and I believe this man holds the key towards ending them. I have sent for you because my attention has been on my wife, as foolish as it sounds. I have never been this close to a woman, Ken, much less love her, and my attention is not on my post as Guardian Protector of Berwick. I need your wisdom, man. I need your sword and your good sense to help me discover the source of these raids once and for all, for I find that my focus is not where it should be. As long as Joselyn remains ill, I cannot think on anything else. She consumes my being.”
Kenneth was gazing steadily at him with no judgment in his expression. In fact, the usually ice-cold silver eyes were oddly warm.
“Then you did right to send for me,” he said after a moment. “I was bored at Kirk, anyway. The Welsh are behaving themselves for the moment and I was thinking on taking up sewing to pass the time until I received your missive. Thank you for this opportunity to reaffirm my manhood.”
It was the kindest possible way to express what they both knew.
Stephen was, for the first time in his life, having a weak moment and Kenneth put a spin on the situation that allowed the man to retain his dignity.
Their friendship was that deep. Stephen understood this clearly, smiling weakly and clapping him on an enormous shoulder.
“I am indebted to you,” he said quietly.
“Aye, you are, but someday I will call you to help me quell the Welsh and you will rip them apart with your bare hands,” Kenneth could see that Stephen needed reassurance that he was still the most powerful knight in the realm.
“There is no one fiercer in battle than you, Pembury. Even I am afraid of you.”
Stephen broke down into soft laughter, prompting a grin from Kenneth. Kenneth downed the last of his wine as Stephen sobered and rose from the bench.
“You need to meet my wife,” he said. “She knows you are here and if I do not bring you to her, she will come down here herself.”
Kenneth rose. “Is she bedridden?”
Stephen shrugged as they made their way out of the hall.
“Not really,” he said. “At least, I cannot keep her there. She gets up and walks around when I am not with her, so I have taken to being with her nearly every moment. She was struck by an arrow in the ambush and poison still flows through her veins. I cannot seem to cure her of it.”
Kenneth squinted as they emerged into the sunny weather of the bailey. “Does she weaken?”
Stephen shook his head. “Strangely, not much. She eats well and behaves rather normally, but the fever is still there. Faint, but still there. I am afraid it will flare at some point and overtake her if I cannot rid her of it.”