To one of Henry’s knight, the words were a call to action. They hung in his mind, lingering, and as he mulled them over and over, they began to paint a picture he could clearly see. He’d served with Henry for several years and he’d seen the contention between Canterbury and Henry. He knew their history. Finally, Henry was making a plea. He needed help and he needed peace.
To Sir Hugh de Morville, those words sounded very much like a command. Glancing at the comrades standing nearest him– FitzUrse, de Tracy, le Breton… he could see their expressions. They were looking at Hugh as if they, too, had understood Henry’s plea. These men who guarded the king, who had sworn an oath to obey and to serve.
They, too, heard the command. As knights of the king, they could not ignore it.
Something had to be done.
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 wasbright, 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 isyourfault for not remarrying.”
His mother flicked her eyes up to him, eyes the same color as his. “But the lack of grandchildren isyourfault.”
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.
