Lovesong: Song, #4

By Allison Knight

Arvel Ap Brynn Ffrydd has served as Edward I's spy long enough and will complete this last mission for the wife and estate promised him. Discovered by his enemy he must conceal his identity and find a way to deliver his message. Circumstances force him to care for a widow, a beautiful, bossy and stubborn woman, then drag her with him only to find she has grown to mean more than the King's reward.

 

Catherine de Berford Javier, physically and emotionally abused by her first husband, refuses to trust men. Another marriage is the last thing she wants, but this man who claims to be in Edward's service makes her heart flutter. However, she believes she means nothing to him until he offers his love but will sacrifice his happiness to keep her safe. Fate, in the form of traitor, gives them a future together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: May 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781771551335

Book preview

Lovesong

The Song Series, Book 4

ALLISON KNIGHT

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Lovesong

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

712 SE Winchell Drive, Depoe Bay OR 97341 U.S.A.

~~~

Second Edition 2024

ISBN: 978-1-77155-968-3

Copyright © 2024 Martha Krieger All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Robyn Hart

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you for complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

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As always – to Hank and my Welsh ancestors

who provided the inspiration for this series.

Chapter One

The end of June 1299

Arvel ap Brynn Ffrydd slipped through the manor gate, putting a satisfied smile on his face. Hidden in the trees some distance away, two men waited for him. Thanks to that buxom maiden willing to warm Arvel’s furs, King Edward would have the information he wanted.

His liege should be pleased, and Arvel would have the pleasure of taking his place beside his brothers, with a wife of some worth and land of his own. An estate to settle on was the most important.

He slapped his gloved hand against his thigh and crouched against the wall, staying within the shadows. This night was perfect for his plans; no moon or clouds covered the few stars struggling to shine any light upon a silent earth. Aye, his leave-taking would go unnoticed for a time.

However, the three of them would need to gain entrance to London well before their monarch took his new bride; Edward would want to act on Arvel’s information with speed.

He wanted to laugh, thinking how easy it had been to woo the maid with sweet words and get her to tell him what he wanted to know. Bowing his head for a fraction of a second, he grimaced. There was much more to life than charming ladies and ferreting out information for a demanding monarch. He wanted time to learn more about the healing arts, for his soul clambered for greater knowledge, so he would never again face the anger, the hurt as he watched his father die and knew there was nothing he could do to help.

He confined those thoughts to the dark recesses of his mind. This night was not the eve to dwell on past pains. Nay, he had to think about the only thing that gave him a feeling of worth. What he wanted was an estate, a winsome wife, an heir, perhaps a daughter as well, and more knowledge. That would bode well for the remainder of his days. And Edward had promised.

With a soft curse, he glanced at the distance yet to be covered. After Edward had the missive Arvel carried under his clothes, after he had received his grant of land and wife, then he could spend time seeking a better life, instead of a life full of pretense.

~ * ~

Five days later

Catherine de Berford Javier swayed in her palfrey’s saddle. Worry grew. Anguish had her gripping the reins tighter and biting her bottom lip with each step her mount took. As the horse fought the pull on the straps, she tried to reassure herself.

ʼTis a beautiful day, I’m away from the manor house and despite the objections of Sir Robert, I want to enjoy market day at Bakewell. Still, bitterness sat heavy on her heart.

She could not forget that her father would soon return from London, bearing the name of the man he had selected as her second husband. Marry again? Never. She could not. Her father did not know of the cruelty of Ronald Javier, the pain, the bruises, and the contempt whenever her husband spoke to her. If she was honest, she wondered if her father even cared. Mayhap he would care, if he knew her secret…

Halt! The shout came from Sir Robert Deemer, her father’s favorite man-at-arms.

She jerked the palfrey to a stop, almost unseating herself as she watched a man stumble from a clump of brush and into their path. Oh, nay, she whispered. She threw herself from her mount.

He staggered toward them, blood dripping from his head and holding his left arm close to his body as if it too was injured. His kirtle had been torn and hung from one shoulder. Bare hands and no head covering told her thieves had waylaid him and left him for dead.

The dirt-encrusted embroidery of gold and silver oak leaves adorning his garment marked him as noble. Could this be a wealthy man of some importance? Aye, for hadn’t she seen enough of them during her marriage to Baron Javier?

Nay, Robert shouted at her as she moved toward the injured man, but for once his considerable bulk worked to her advantage. She was close to the victim before Robert managed to leave his saddle.

As she approached the man, matted dark brown hair hung to his shoulders and, although his face was bruised and swollen, he was a handsome man. He was certainly a big man, taller than most and carrying several stones more, as well.

It had to have taken an army of men to bring him to this condition.

Just as she reached him, Robert caught up to her. You must not, he yelled and grabbed at her.

She spun around and yanked her arm from his hold. Do not tell me what I must do. This man is injured. We will see to him.

Nay, my lady, he muttered.

This is my father’s land. It is our duty.

She turned back to the man before her who had sunk to his knees. Turning to the second man-at arms, Jankin, she said, Hurry to the manor house and bring a litter to bear him there. She turned to her maid, now at her side. Laura, we will need hot water, linen to bind his wounds and my herbs. Go, go, both of you.

Sir Robert shouted, M’lady, they cannot leave you. I forbid…

Silence.

London, the man at her feet whispered. The king. Must get to Edward. His voice was a stark contrast to his condition. It was deep, melodic, but full of pain.

Sir, you are injured. I must see to your wounds.

He attempted to stand and groaned.

You are too weak to continue. Rest here for a time while my people bring aid.

He gazed up at her, and a knife of desperation struck her. ‘Twas obvious this man could be an agent of their king. How important a man was he?

Your name, sir, she asked, her voice nearly a whisper as she knelt at his side.

The king. Must get to Edward. Now his voice carried a strained note.

What pain he must be suffering.

He blinked, blood oozing into one of his eyes. She pulled the edge of her bliaud from under her knee and wiped his brow. He had taken a blow to the head hard enough to break the skin, mayhap the bone itself. Had he suffered a head injury severe enough to destroy his chance of surviving?

She shivered. Wounds to the head such as this were often a death knell. More than once, someone who suffered such an injury had died in her arms.

He stared up at her, his wide brown eyes glazed with pain. Must…

What strength he had deserted him, and he fell forward into her arms. While she cradled him in her arms, holding this man and having to watch him die sent a ragged stab of pain slicing through her. Nay, he would not die. She would see to it.

Robert, his face a disapproving scowl, hovered above her as she held the victim. The manor house was not far, and in no time she heard the sound of horses moving at a fast clip. At least Jankin had realized the need for speed. Four more of her father’s men arrived, Jankin leading the group, the makings of a litter carried by two of the men.

For some reason, she had no desire to release the man in her arms. Others are here to help. The words danced through her mind. She bit her bottom lip. This was so unlike her. Never had she reacted to any man with such speed. With care she eased him to the ground and stood.

He has serious wounds, and I fear he is important to King Edward, she said.

She heard the mutters at the mention of the king. Several of the men, as part of their service, fought for him in Scotland months ago. Respect, but also dislike, tempered their tones, while Robert glared at them all. Clearly, he disbelieved her words. Yet had he not heard the injured man claim he must reach the king?

She scowled at Robert and mumbled her disgust. He had been left at the manor house to guard her, to see there was no occasion to do anything to thwart her father’s goal. William de Berford wanted her married, the sooner the better, to almost anyone who could rid him of his useless daughter.

At four and twenty, she was too old to marry and according to her dead husband and her manipulating father, she was barren and therefore without purpose. She argued for months asking to be allowed to enter the convent.

Nay, her father said.

He would see her married for she could not inherit, and he wanted an heir. Even more important, he sought a man with a son who had more influence in Edward’s court. She would marry!

Catherine doubted her father had much sway in the king’s court. Nor could she imagine the kind of man who would seek a wife unable to bear a child, and her small dowry offered almost no hope of anyone suitable.

She dismissed her troubling thoughts, mounted her horse, and followed the liter as they made their way slowly back to the house, Robert riding beside her.

His displeasure at this turn of events annoyed her. She turned toward him. At least we will not be going to market today.

He mumbled words that sounded much like, There is that.

In a short time they reached the manor house, and Catherine installed her patient in the area next to her solar while ordering Laura to fetch more servants. First, I must see to his injuries.

She ran her hands over his left arm and across his shoulder. He cried out in agony. In the battle they must have wrenched his shoulder out of place. She set about her task, ignoring the groans from the man on the bed. It was painful, but something she had to do.

When the joint slipped into place, relief flooded through her and for a second her knees threatened to give way. Badly bruised ribs, even those not cracked or broken would make taking a breath a painful experience. Mayhap if she bound his arm against his ribs, he would find some comfort.

Now, he must be bathed, she murmured. She cut away what was left of his rich cloth.

Catherine assigned the task of bathing him to one of the older women while she tended to the cut on his head. Such a wound could bring fever, mayhap cause the patient to sleep without waking until death claimed him.

Not this man. She would not let that happen. For some reason she had to use all of her skills to see that he lived. Did this man not claim a knowledge of the king?

For the rest of the day, with Sir Deemer at her side, she watched over her patient. When darkness began to descend she ordered a simple meal brought to the solar. You will miss supping this night if you stay here with me, she told her shadow.

Again, as he had done for most of the day, Sir Deemer snorted. You cannot be allowed to remain with this man.

Sir. She stared at him. I am not alone. Laura will remain at my side. He is too gravely wounded to leave.

Your father would not approve.

She almost laughed. Her father approved of almost nothing she did. Mayhap she needed to remind Robert of the injured man’s words. He said he had to reach Edward. He was traveling to London to see the king. He must be an important man.

Nay, he could not be. What would he be doing alone if he were so important? Use your senses, m’lady. He was alone.

How do you know that? Mayhap, if you search the surrounding fields, you might find another man, mayhap two or three as badly injured as this man. They might indeed be dead. In fact, you are derelict in your duties, Robert, for you should have ordered an immediate investigation this morn when he stumbled from that brush.

He looked startled for a moment then started for the door. In that you may have the right of it. I will order a search.

Catherine hid a grin. To organize such an undertaking would take most of the night and long into the next day. She could treat her patient without Robert glaring at her every move.

For the next five days, she watched over the injured man, changing linens soaked with healing herbs and forcing bits of liquid through his parched lips. There was the occasional groan of pain as she moved him to see to his wounds, but there was almost no sign of him regaining his senses.

Robert was gone for three of those days, but the search for others yielded only the sight of a battle, miles from the manor house. After they found the site of the struggle, they returned and, to her disgust, Robert came to stand at her side. Let the others see to his wounds, he ordered.

The servants know nothing of the healing arts, as well you know. If one of your men suffered such injuries, would you not want someone with some skill seeing to them?

His only response was another scowl, but that afternoon he left her and did not return.

On the night of the sixth day, Laura woke Catherine from her slumber to tell her the injured man had opened his eyes and stared at Laura. Catherine slid from her pallet, grabbed her robe and rushed to his side.

She soothed his bound arm and murmured, Do not move your arm for it protects your ribs, which may be broken. Try to rest, for you have suffered from a fever.

With a voice that was nothing more than a hoarse whisper, he asked, Where am I? Who are you?

She offered what she hoped was an encouraging smile and prayed he knew nothing of her wretch of a late husband. I am the widow, Lady Javier, and you are in the manor house of William de Berford.

When she saw no reaction from him, a sense of ease settled upon her. Her disgrace from the oft mouthed declarations of Javier were unknown to him. If this man was well-known at court, as she suspected, neither her father nor Javier held influence there. She sighed with relief.

You require rest. My father’s man will come to you soon, but what you need now is a bit of nourishment then sleep to regain your strength. She started to turn, but he grabbed her arm. Nay, sir, she murmured. You must rest. Sir, your name?

He closed his eyes and frowned. With a jerk he tried to gain a sitting position, but she pushed him back onto the bed. You cannot.

With a grating sound like river stones rubbing against each other, he muttered, Arvel.

She waited, but he said nothing more. Could the blow he received have done more damage than she feared? She grimaced. Robert would demand he have a family name, especially if he was, as she had said, an important man.

The man became agitated, and despite her hand on his right shoulder, once again he tried to rise.

Calm yourself, she said with as much confidence as she could muster. If you do not remember, then you must rest more. She turned to Laura. We must prepare a tisane. You know the one we need. She nodded in the direction of the man who was now desperately trying to gain a sitting position.

In a moment, Laura had the warm mug in Catherine’s hands. Sir, you must take a sip. You are weak. You need time to recover. Your wounds were severe. Please.

It must have been her entreaty, for he looked at her then the mug she held to his lips and took a mouthful of the liquid.

She tried not to stare, but he had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. They were golden brown, warm, with the look of expensive cinnamon at the center. Long lashes would shield his thoughts if he so desired. Amazing, because she read confusion and pain in them now. Mayhap not so surprising given his injuries. It might take time for his mind to grasp reality. Aye, what he needed was time.

That had to be all that was required.

~ * ~

With his mind clearing, Arvel grappled with her question. She wanted his name. He swallowed the sip of liquid, closed his eyes, and considered his plight. He was in a strange place with no knowledge of the household or their allegiance. Strong feelings against the Welsh stirred some of the nobles to war against Edward still, and Arvel’s name was obviously Welsh. Yet he had to prepare for questions.

Garrett de Shay, his brother by marriage, was the only one privy to the knowledge that Arvel worked for their king. Arvel would give her the name the two men had agreed upon several years ago when Arvel started working as agent for Edward. But could he admit to a kinship to Garrett? He would see.

Sir Arvel Reynard. He took a breath, despite the pain in his side. I am cousin to Garrett de Shay, Baron of Knockin.

A look of relief crossed her face. Mayhap the residents in this manor house were loyal to Edward and Arvel had no worries.

Her words played through his mind. She said she found him injured, which would explain why he ached all over. But where had he been injured, and who had knowledge of his mission? Where am I?

This is the manor house of William de Berford. I am his daughter, the widow Javier.

How did I get here?

You staggered from brush along the road to Bakewell. We brought you here to tend to your wounds.

He grimaced for he had traveled a distance with his injuries. His men! He lifted his uninjured hand to rub his head. Had they survived, or had they escaped as he ordered?

The lady was hovering. Did she intend to ask more of him? Before you lost your senses, you mentioned the king. That you must get to Edward. Is there a message someone from this household can send for you?

Nay, but I would have word sent to my cousin.

I will see to it. Now, you will rest. ‘Tis what will aid the healing.

Arvel fought a smile. She was a bossy thing. For the first time, he gazed at the woman who had dragged his battered body to her home. Without the haze of severe pain, he looked his fill. Her face was a perfect oval, her nose smallish with the slightest flare above her bow shaped lips, but it was her eyes that commanded attention. They were wide set, of a blue like the water of a deep Welsh lake on a day of full sun.

Those eyes held such a look of concern it shamed him, for surely the servant had called her from her bed. Her appearance suggested it as well; her clothing had to have been donned in a rapid manner, her belt hanging too loosely around her hips, and her cowl and the attached veil only holding back some of her dark, red hair, leaving more strands curling on her graceful neck. More wisps drifted around her face and curled against her cheek.

She pushed at them in what appeared to be annoyance. If he had to guess, her hair was near the color of smoldering embers of a dying oak fire, a deep rich red hinting at a touch of Scots blood in her veins.

As she bent to observe the bandages he sported, the fragrance of woman and herbs teased his senses. Heat swirled through his veins, and he gazed at her arm when she lifted the sleeve of her bliaud. Her skin was smooth and pale, the color of cream, and had the