A Sense of Duty - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 4) Read online

  Finally, she took up her tankard and swallowed the ale down in one long draw, pulling strength from the rich brew. When she was done, she put the empty mug solidly down on the table and looked up at the man she loved. She spewed the words out in a rush, knowing if she stopped she would never get through it.

  “I will never go to you, Gabriel. You are my guard, and it has been an amusing few years. Now it is time for me to marry, and I must have a real noble as a husband. I need a title for my children, and a fine house to raise them in. Surely you knew this.”

  Gabriel stared at her for a long moment, stunned. Constance struggled to keep her face still, to keep even the slightest hint of emotion from her demeanor. She nearly broke from the effort, but she held firm.

  Then he was standing, his gaze cold, distant. He straightened, turned, and walked toward the door. He did not look back as he strode through the archway and out of her life.

  Chapter 1

  Six years later

  Constance leant back against the warm stone bench, stretching out her arms to release the ache in her shoulders. The summer sunshine dappled her dress, the roses of her private garden spreading around her like pebbles on a rocky beach. She put down the embroidery she was working on – a new pillow cover for her aunt’s upcoming birthday. Bees droned lazily from one flower to the next, and lassitude filled her.

  A rounded white rose bush, planted for her son, Enoch, flowered prettily to one edge of the path. She looked on it with sadness, thinking of how tiny the infant had been when she miscarried at five months. Alongside this bush was another holding yellow roses ringed with ruffled petals. This was for Vera, her daughter who had clung tenaciously to her chance at life. After the sixth month the struggle had overwhelmed her frail form, and she too had been stillborn.

  Two young lives had been denied their opportunity to sample the world’s bounty. After that … nothing.

  Constance sighed. Despite her desire to have children, she knew she counted herself lucky that Barnard had stopped intruding on her bedchambers for the past five years. It was clear to all in the keep that he was busy trying his luck with other women. By all accounts he was failing there as well. It eased the burden of blame and guilt on Constance’s shoulders, but it did not make her life any smoother.

  Constance reached out to gently touch one of the yellow roses, feeling its velvety softness. She could almost feel sorry for Barnard. He had honored her parents’ wishes and waited a long ten years between the initial engagement and final handfasting. He had assumed her youth would guarantee him instant heirs. Instead, he found himself fading and without offspring.

  She let out a long breath and picked up her needlework again. She longed for a ride through the forest, a breath of fresh air, but she knew it was not safe. The bandit attacks had grown progressively worse over the past years, and it was all Barnard and her family could do to maintain the safety of the two keeps. She had become a virtual prisoner within Barnard’s walls.

  Even worse, as the icy chill of her personal relations with Barnard grew, her world had shrunk even smaller – to her bedchambers, her sewing room, and her personal garden. These three areas were her inviolate sanctuaries. She found what peace she could here. After all, where else was there for her to go?

  Her heart became melancholy as she sorted through her dwindling options. Her father had been slain less than a year after she arrived, taken down by a mace in a heated battle against the incursions. Her mother, grief stricken, passed away only a few months later. Now her elder brother ruled her family keep, and Barnard dissuaded her heavily from visiting. She wondered if he feared she might try to return to her home, and take her provinces with her. She knew that was no choice at all. Without Barnard’s protections, her lands would fall quickly to the bandits. The people who relied on her for their safety would be mown down without remorse. And so she remained.

  Yet, in return for her sacrifices, Constance did insist on one trip. She went to pay respects to her aunt Silvia on a yearly visit. Barnard could not deny this pilgrimage of faith. Other than that one indulgence, her routine was quiet. She knitted and sewed clothes for the less fortunate. She tended to any who were ill and brought to the keep’s infirmary. It would have to be enough.

  A heavy footstep entered her garden, and she looked up with a smile. “Ah, Ralph, is it time already?” she asked pleasantly. “Well then, I am prepared.”

  She put down her needlework and drew a dagger from the belt at her side. Standing before her was a wiry guard with a deeply creased face. Ralph had taken on employment here just about when Constance had arrived, the soldier having recently returned from the Crusades. Where most of Barnard’s own guards were dismissive of her interests in sword work, Ralph had been understanding, even approving of her efforts. He had worked with her privately over the long years, helping her maintain and expand her skills with sword and knife.

  He had slowed only slightly as time had rolled past. His short, dark hair was peppered with grey, yet his decades of service in the Crusades and his calm patience served him well. He was lean, rangy, and fit. Constance found him an excellent teacher and a good friend.

  She stood and walked over to face him, settling the dagger more firmly in her grip.

  Ralph drew his sword with a gentle salute. First they went through a series of stretches as a pair – circling their arms, leaning into lunges, rotating their wrists. Then Ralph turned to stand before Constance.

  “All right, let us take up where we left off,” he offered. “Defenses against high attacks. I am a bandit, and I am bringing my sword down at you from above my head. What are your strengths here?”

  “Speed, and my small size,” responded Constance easily. “He will be weighed down by his armor and used to fighting a larger foe. I can leap back before the blade strikes me and duck beneath his swing.”

  Ralph nodded in satisfaction. “Correct. He will probably be stronger than you, but perhaps not quicker. You must seek out every advantage you can in order to stay alive.” He began to bring the sword over his head in a slow arc. “So what is your defense here?”

  Constance dodged to the right, bringing her dagger up to deflect the sword just enough to the side that it missed her body. Then she pivoted sharply, bringing the dagger up against Ralph’s neck.

  “Exactly!” praised Ralph with a smile. “Deflect – do not try to block. Use his strength against him. Then use your smaller size and agility to move in as quickly as you can.” He took a step back. “Again.”

  Constance repeated the motion, and soon they were taking the swings at full speed, Ralph changing his angle of attack, sweeping in from the right and the left. Constance focused on the small changes in his stance, in the slanting of his shoulders, in the direction his eyes looked to judge which way to leap. She enjoyed this part of her day, enjoyed the testing of her knowledge and muscles against a larger opponent. The minutes flew by in a blur of spinning blades and dancing feet.

  “Right then,” called Ralph at last, stepping back. “Now let us see if you can use the same mindset to handle me attacking with a dagger.” He sheathed his sword, drawing out the smaller blade.

  Constance settled down lower into her stance. She knew that daggers often involved grappling, quick movements, and tight quarters. Ralph brought his dagger down in a sweeping arc, and she leapt to the right. Without a pause, Ralph turned to strike again. She spun to defend, but he was quicker, and in a moment he had wrapped an arm across her chest, pulling her in close.

  Constance was not sure if it was the warm summer sun or the recent musings about the nunnery at St. Francis. Suddenly it seemed that it was not Ralph who was holding her, but Gabriel. It had been so many years ago, and she could still feel the strength of his arms, hear the rumble of his voice, see the sparkle of his blue eyes when she looked up at him. It all flooded back in an instant, and her eyes filled with tears.

  Ralph glanced down at her face and released her instantly, his face filling with concern. “My Lady, are
you hurt?”

  Constance shook her head, lowering herself to the carven stone bench. “No, I apologize, Ralph,” she responded between long breaths, wiping at her face. “I am sorry, I just get this way when it is time to go visit my aunt. It brings up sad memories.”

  Ralph sheathed his blade, nodding in understanding. “Of course, I am sorry for not remembering. Maybe we should finish for today, then. You are gone for two weeks?”

  Constance finished drying her eyes, drawing in deep breaths. “Yes,” she agreed, “although Barnard threatens to cut my trip short due to the bandits being so active. He is upset at my taking even two guards along. You know that he refuses to allow you to go. He claims that we need every man we have to defend the keep proper.”

  “Yes, he talks of the imminent threat frequently,” admitted Ralph slowly, looking down at her with grey eyes. “It is hard to know how much of his concern is the continual attacks of our enemy, and how much is his desire to look strong with your brother Charles being so covetous of the land.” He hesitated a moment, then added more softly. “Apparently now that Charles’ brood has grown to four children, your brother is beginning to think that he, not Barnard, deserves the Beadnell lands.”

  “My brother was always loathe to let the land go,” mused Constance with a sigh. Her father’s plan was to have the two keeps mark out the two edges of the land area, all held by his children and jointly protecting the province for future generations. With her lack of children, her brother now had designs on taking the whole area himself.

  She shook her head wearily. “Even Charles must see that, for now, we need Barnard’s soldiers to keep the large area safe. Charles’ children are barely walking!” She took in a long breath. “Still, even if my brother wished it, he could not move against Barnard for now, not with the bandits being so hostile. I am sure when he eventually does muster a large enough force to spread this far, his move will be couched in the language of family protection, of watching out for me.”

  Ralph’s face creased into a frown. “It will not make it easier on you,” he commented with concern.

  Constance shrugged. “I have barely seen my brother in years. My brother’s wife apparently has no love for me. I hear she sees my presence, my ability to someday bear an heir, as a threat to her own children and her goals.” She looked down, digging her foot into the rich soil. “Still, for now, I am only a potential stumbling block to them.” Her eyes lit up with mischief. “After all, I could always retreat to the nunnery and take shelter there. Maybe the nuns would enjoy the land.”

  Ralph’s eyes flew open with shock. “My lady, you would not! There are people here who depend on you!”

  Constance smiled, taking up her embroidery as she stood. “No, I would not,” she agreed. “However, my brother does not know that – and my father shrewdly worded the legal agreement to keep the Beadnell lands under my name, to ensure Barnard could not keep them should something happen to me. They go to me or to my issue, not to him. If I went to the church, so would the lands. Would that not create a sticky problem for both my brother and Barnard?”

  Ralph escorted his lady back toward the keep. “Aye, it would, lass,” he chuckled gently, his voice dropping low as he used the more familiar term. “You just watch out for yourself, all the same.”

  A tall man in the uniform of a guard strode from the entryway, his dark, curly hair close around his smooth face. “Ralph, there you are,” he bit out tersely. “You should have been on duty a half-hour ago. Get up on the wall.”

  “Yes, Captain,” responded Ralph neutrally, giving a fond bow to Constance before turning and heading into the building.

  Frank waited a moment until Ralph was out of sight before turning back to the woman before him. He ran his eyes slowly up and down Constance’s form, his mouth widening into a grin. “You appear to have had quite a work out, M’Lady,” he murmured suggestively.

  “No more than any other day, Frank,” replied Constance, keeping her tone even. It would do no good to rile Barnard’s right-hand man only a few hours before she left.

  “You know, Lord Barnard does not like you participating in that training, but I think it is good for you. It keeps your body fit and firm.” His grin grew wolfish. “Would you not agree?”

  Constance folded her hands before her. “You know that is not my aim, Frank,” she responded quietly. “We have many villagers who come to us for alms. I am able to help train those who are alone – the widows, for example – in ways to defend themselves.” A smile grew on her face. “Only three weeks ago, Cecily was able to fight off a wolf who came into her barn to go after her new lambs. It is tales like that which keep me going.”

  Frank took a step closer to her. “I would like to hear what else keeps you going,” he leered.

  “I am sorry, but I am afraid I have some packing to do,” demurred Constance, moving her way past him. “Are the guards almost ready to go?”

  Frank gave a short bark. “Do you think we would waste trained guards on a babysitting duty such as this, given the current bandit situation?” He laughed in amusement. “We need them all here, around the keep. No, Barnard has hired a pair of locals to ride with you. They should be more than adequate to protect you on your journey. Your trip is short, and only during daylight hours. You will be fine.”

  Constance glanced up at that, confused. “Local men from the village? But surely Ralph …”

  “No,” snapped Frank, his face darkening in jealousy. “That man spends far too much time with you as it is. The locals are ready in the main hall. You will take the coach, as usual, and once they get you to the nunnery, those walls are more than ample defense. No bandit would dream of taking on that challenge.”

  Constance looked down. Arguing would do little good, and if she made a fuss it was likely Barnard would refuse to allow her to go at all.

  “If that is Barnard’s request,” she conceded quietly.

  Frank chuckled without mirth. “That is your husband’s order,” he corrected her deliberately.

  Constance flushed, and her left thumb went automatically to rub against the ring on her finger, the golden band engraved with a winding ribbon, not with crosses. She turned quickly, hoping Frank would attribute her discomfort to his tone, not to that word, husband. She had never been good at lying, and playing this game for six long years had worn at her. But it was critical for the safety of the villages in the Beadnell lands, the people who depended on her and on Barnard’s troops to keep them safe.

  She was not Barnard’s wife, she reminded herself almost in desperation.

  Her thumb spun the band in a slow circle against her finger. They had been handfasted, an ancient tradition, a trial period to see how well the couple lived together. She chuckled with an edge of cynicism. She knew that, in most cases, it was more a way to test how fertile the pair was without going through the messy aftermath of an almost obligatory divorce should the partnership be barren.

  Barnard’s edict had been stated clearly to her family before the handfasting ceremony, and her parents had agreed to it without blinking an eye. Barnard would marry only when Constance was on the verge of birthing a healthy child, to guarantee his line would continue. Constance knew her parents felt they were looking out for her as well, worried that she might be trapped with a man no longer capable of siring a child.

  She shook her head, mounting the long stairs with slow deliberation. Her parents were long dead; they could not object that the year of handfasting had stretched into six. Her brother knew nothing of the reality of the situation. She knew if she told Charles that he would demand she return to their family home. He would also insist the Beadnell lands immediately be turned over to him. Constance did not know if she feared more that the bandits would instantly overrun his thinly stretched troops, or that Barnard would refuse to give up the lands and launch into a war.

  And Barnard … she sighed deeply. Barnard enjoyed his power over her. He had the best of all possible worlds. He held the lands he craved w
ithout any contestation. He was also free to attempt to father sons in any way he wished.

  Constance shook her head. It seemed whatever he tried, the chance of Barnard creating a viable son seemed less likely with each passing month. It was almost too clear that Barnard was unable to father a child, no matter what partner he chose.

  Constance shivered, stepping into her room, pulling the door solidly shut behind her. She glanced around her bedroom. Barnard was nothing if not status conscious – her heavy, ornate bed, elegant wardrobe, and richly carved trunks all attested to the skill of the house craftsmen. But it was the four circular wood carvings on the walls which brought Constance the most pleasure. She walked over to one of the maple circles and gazed at it for a long moment.

  The wood carver hailed from Beadnell. His artful, intricately worked landscapes illustrated the four seasons of life in the quiet village. On the other three walls hung the remaining seasons’ plaques. One held a snowy winter scene with laughing children playing by a frozen lake. The second portrayed a bountiful harvest day, the onions and turnips overflowing from a rustic wagon while an elderly couple relaxed on a bench in the shade of a sturdy oak. The third revealed a fresh spring morning, a meadow full of flowers, farmers out planting their fields.

  But it was this one by her window which always called to her. It presented the summer scene, the hand-crafted wares and mouth-watering delights of the Beadnell fair. A couple walked hand-in-hand between the tables of ribbons and jewelry, a goldfinch singing from a cage to one side.

  Constance ran one finger along the smooth edge of the scene, her stomach twisting as she thought of the tenuous safety of those quiet villagers. She could almost feel the half-life purgatory of her existence closing in on her. She had given up so much to protect the innocents for these past six years. So far she had succeeded. The bandits had been kept at bay; there had been no successful raids. But how long could it last? Her limbo could be shattered at any time if one of Barnard’s mistresses bore him a child. She knew while Barnard greedily clung to the Beadnell lands, that his desire for a son would trump even that.