DRAGONBLADE
A Medieval Romance
Book One in the Dragonblade Trilogy
By Kathryn Le Veque
CHAPTER ONE
The Month of January
Year of our Lord 1326
Cartingdon Parrish; Northumbria, England
The time ofyear dictated that the landscape would be an eternal shade of twilight, no matter what the time of day. Gray colored the sky, the earth and the mood of the people.
The town of Cartingdon was no exception. The people were pale with the limited nutrition of winter, their woolen clothes barely adequate for the freezing temperatures that the north winds brought. More than the grayness of the air and people, there was something else this day that darkened the land. Everyone could feel it and they were edgy.
There were whispers floating about like the many snow crystals in the air. Word had spread through the markets that morning after Matins, moving to the avenue of the Smiths and finally to the street of the Jews, telling everyone of the meeting that would be held at Vespers. The purpose was to discuss the most recent rumor regarding England’s king. These were turbulent times in a turbulent land.
The sun hovered on the horizon and the church-bells chimed the onset of Vespers, calling the masses to the meeting. The townsfolk flocked to the stone church that they had built withtheir own hands. Fanged gargoyles imported from France hung on the eaves, lending ambience to the disquiet. Once the people filled the church, they stood in angry, hissing clusters.
The priests had lit a few large tapers, giving the sanctuary a haunting glow as they prepared for the meeting and subsequent mass. Several aldermen were having an intense discussion near the great altar; their deliberation raged for some time until the tall man in the center of the discussion silenced the group and called forth the crowds that had gathered. What they had to say would affect them all.
The mayor of the town was Balin Cartingdon. He was a farmer of noble descent who had flourished, turning a small sharecropping plot into a vast agricultural plantation. He had been a very young man when he sank his first barley seed into the ground, when the settlement of Cartingdon had been an assembly of huts called Snitter Crag. Twenty-two years later, his barley production was the largest in Northumbria and he had added wool and sheep to his empire. The tiny town had exploded due to his farming and was renamed Cartingdon in his honor.
“Good people,” Balin’s voice rang above the fickle buzz. “Thank you for coming. We have called this meeting to discuss the needs of our king and country.”
“You mean the needs of Mortimer!” someone from the crowd shouted.
As the others agreed angrily, Balin shook his head. “Roger Mortimer is not our king. I speak of young Edward.”
The grumbling grew louder. At the rear of the church, a small figure suddenly entered. It was apparent that the form was a woman from the drape of the cloak she wore, a soft green-blue garment that clung to her shapely body. A few of the village folk recognized her, moving out of her way as she pushed through the crowd. By the time she reached the front of the church, she had removed her hood, revealing cascades of golden-brown hairand almond-shaped eyes that were a brilliant shade of hazel. She had the face of an angel, but beneath the sweet façade lay an iron will. In the township of Cartingdon, the first daughter of Mayor Balin was more feared and respected than her father.
“Mortimer rules the country with Queen Isabella.” The woman spoke loudly, addressing both her father and the assembly. “If rebellion is in the air and we support it, his hammer will fall on all of us. Everything we have built, and all that we have, will be confiscated. I personally do not want to see everything that my father has worked so hard for taken away in the blink of an eye.”
“It is doubtful it will be taken away,” Balin said patiently, displeased that his daughter had chosen not to remain silent. He had gone so far as to ask Toby not to attend the meeting, but alas, that was too much to hope for. If there was an opinion to be had, she was usually in the middle of it. “Our liege, Tate Crewys de Lara, also supports the rightful king. We have no choice but to support the crown if those who hold our fate have such loyalties.”
“But what of the Queen?” the crowd spoke again. “She has the support of the King of France. He is her brother. What if she calls on him to quell the rebellion? What if the French overrun Northumbria and destroy our town?”
“They will kill us all!” another shouted.
The crowd surged unsteadily and Balin held up his hands. “You forget that young Edward has the Scottish king’s support,” he replied calmly, hoping to soothe the mob. “He will protect us. But we must help our king and that is why we are here today. It is our duty. Every man must decide for himself if he is willing to sacrifice for a greater cause.”
“The king is a child,” Toby pointed out. “His mother and Roger Mortimer rule on his behalf. Never forget that they did England a tremendous service by deposing young Edward’sfather, King Edward the Second. He was a vile infection that drained this country of all that was good and righteous. They subsequently rid England of the Despencers, the father and son who vied for the throne, thereby eliminating the last links of Edward’s contemptible reign. For the past three years under Isabella and Mortimer, England has known a measure of peace. Do we truly want to feed the beast of rebellion again and perhaps create a tempest that will destroy us all?”
It was a brilliant summation of the recent past of England’s monarchy, given by a woman who should have, respectably, known nothing of the matter. The crowd roared as she finished; some in approval, some in disapproval. Toby looked at her father, sorry she had not completely supported his stance, but in the same breath, hoping it would cause him to deliberate the potential consequences. She didn’t want to see her people die for a futile cause. There had been too many of them over the past several years.
“Toby,” her father had to raise his voice over the commotion of the crowd. “Please go home. You do not help this situation.”
Toby was genuinely contrite. “I am sorry to appear as if I oppose you, but I do not believe you have clearly considered this subject. It is greater than you think.”
“I am well aware of how critical it is. But these are simple folk; I cannot outline the detailed politics of England’s situation. I should not have even outlined them to you, but I did for reasons that no longer seem valid. I should have known you would find a way to contradict me.”
“I did not mean to. I simply meant to give you my opinion.”
“I know well enough your opinion. I know it, I think, even before you do.”
