Heroes of Honor: Historical Romance Collection Read online

  “You won’t need your weapons where you’re going,” chuckled Marcouf.

  “You won’t need those fine clothes either,” added Giles with a grin.

  “Why not?” Étienne stilled his actions and looked up at the three of them, having a feeling something worse was coming, if that could possibly be true. “Traveling knights stay at monasteries all the time so I am sure it won’t matter if I bring my weapons inside the priory walls. Plus, I can protect the monks if need be.”

  “You don’t understand, Étienne,” said his father. “You are not just living there until you repent. I have enrolled you in the monastery as a novice.”

  “A n-novice?” Étienne faked a laughed. “Now I know you are jesting.”

  “I assure you, I’m not.” The scowl on his father’s face told Étienne it was true. “In one year from now, you will become a monk.”

  Étienne couldn’t believe his ears. Could his father really be doing this to him? “Nay. I won’t do it,” he protested.

  “It’s for the best,” answered his father, turning his horse. “There is no place for you in France anymore, thanks to your choices. Becoming a monk is the only way honor will ever be brought back to the de Beynac family name again.”

  Étienne had no words to speak. His world just came crashing down around him and he felt as if he wanted to die. His father was an earl and his orders could not be denied. No one would go against him. Earl Jean-Pierre de Beynac’s decision for Étienne was a fate worse than death, and he had no choice in the matter. Without his family’s support, Étienne wouldn’t survive in France. His father was much too powerful, and no lord would go against him by taking in his exiled son. He would be an outcast forever.

  Despair mixed with anger pushed through his veins. Didn’t they see that trapping him behind holy walls wasn’t going to change who he was? Étienne took a deep breath and then released it, pondering over the absurd idea. Although his head felt as if it were splitting wide open, one small ray of light managed to break through the fog in his brain. Mayhap, something good would come from being a monk across the channel after all. That is, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as being hated, taunted, rejected, and disowned by his own family.

  Chapter 1

  Candlemas, Lincolnshire England, six months later

  A soft, encompassing glow from dozens of lit candles filled the cold, stone church bringing a spark of hope into the hearts of the weary.

  Candlemas was nearly over, but Lady Philippa Willoughby hadn’t heard a word of the mass. She’d paid no attention to the priest blessing and passing out candles to the parishioners of St. Anne’s Church in Lincolnshire, because she had more important things on her mind. Hope might have filled everyone else’s heart on this day, but she didn’t need it. Philippa created her own destiny and also helped shape the destinies of others.

  Smiling in pure satisfaction, Philippa prided herself on what she did best – playing matchmaker to the villagers and the servants of her father’s demesne. If the nobles weren’t so adamant about betrothals and having to marry for alliances, she would have played matchmaker to the upper class as well.

  “Pippa,” whispered her ten-year-old brother from her side, reaching out to yank on her cloak to get her attention. He used the shortened version of her name that her deceased mother used to call her. It was a special bond that she once had with her mother, so she cherished the name.

  “Shhh, Franklin,” she told the boy, holding a finger to her lips. “You must be silent in church.”

  “I’m tired and cold,” he whispered back to her, speaking a bit too loudly.

  Lady Martha, her father’s newest widowed companion turned around and shot a nasty glance over her shoulder at the boy. She, her arrogant son, Wilbur, and Pippa’s father, Baron Franklin Willoughby III, sat on the bench in front of them.

  This was the second day in February and a very special time because there would be a wedding taking place here after the mass, thanks to her. Two villagers who fell in love because of her matchmaking would finally be united as man and wife. The idea excited her! It felt right. Pippa believed everyone should marry for love, even if it wasn’t a popular belief amongst the nobles. Secretly, she hoped that, someday, when it was her turn to wed, she would also be able to marry for love instead of for alliances or money.

  Her father’s status of being a baron enabled her family to enjoy many luxuries that weren’t known to others. They had wealth, land, and lots of coin. Pippa had never wanted for anything in her life. That is probably why life bored her. If it wasn’t for the challenge of bringing men and women together in love, she didn’t know what she’d do for excitement.

  She flashed Lady Martha a snide grin, not liking the woman at all. And when Martha turned back around, Pippa slipped her arm around her brother’s shoulders, pulling him closer to give him warmth. Franklin had always been a weak child with many illnesses while growing up. He had just started regaining his health in the past few years. Ever since her mother died, Pippa watched over her brother, feeling more like his mother than his sister.

  “Mass is almost over,” she whispered to the boy. “When we get back to the castle, you can warm your bones by the hearth in my chamber. We’ll add extra logs to the fire if you wish.”

  “Can we drink spiced mead and can I help you plan the Valentine’s Day dance, too?” he asked, his brown eyes growing wide with hope. Her heart went out to him. Ever since her three older brothers’ lives had been snuffed out through the years in battle, her father longed to have another son to follow in his footsteps. When Franklin was born, her father even named the boy after himself. Her mother almost died giving birth to the son that her father insisted he have.

  Pippa’s brother was eight years younger than her, and would have been fifteen years younger than her eldest brother had he still been alive. Franklin wasn’t shaping up to be the warrior her father had envisioned. Her father paid little attention to him since he’d always been ill. Franklin had stayed close to his mother’s side. Even now, with their mother gone, their father ignored Franklin, favoring Martha’s son, Wilbur, instead.

  “Of course we can do that,” she told Franklin, running her free hand through his hair. The candle the boy held wasn’t lit like the rest of the churchgoers because her father didn’t allow it. Franklin had mishaps all the time. His latest, being that he’d started a fire in the great hall playing with the castle hounds too close to the hearth.

  “Thank you, Sister.” Franklin’s body stopped shaking and his pale face took on a rosy glow, bringing him back to life. Pippa held her lit candle up to his and smiled as the flame caught his wick. She then pressed her finger to her lips to warn him to be quiet about it. Franklin smiled, holding the candle with two hands, his eyes never leaving the flame.

  Pippa never had been good at following orders and, as far as she was concerned, she wasn’t going to change. She was known for hosting gatherings and celebrations at the castle quite often. Some of them had lasted a sennight or even a fortnight at times. Her father could have stopped them but, deep down, she knew he favored her since she was his only daughter.

  Franklin loved to sing and dance, always accompanying Pippa wherever she went. He might not have been very skilled with weapons, but he had a very creative side to him that Pippa admired.

  Father Oliver sprinkled holy water over a chest filled with candles next. The priest was a tall, old man with graying hair. He liked to recite all the masses in Latin even though it was becoming more and more common to conduct them in French or even in English. However, he wasn’t one to easily change with the times.

  He raised one bony hand in the air, stretching out his long, tapered fingers, blessing all the candles that would be used by the church throughout the entire year. He then proceeded to chant a prayer in Latin as he nodded to the altar boy, directing him to start smudging the candles with frankincense.

  The young boy lifted up a metal ball swinging from a chain. The sweet, woody aroma of the incense d
rifted out of the openings of the burner, filling the air with wisps of smoke. A little frankincense would have been more than sufficient, but Father Oliver tended to overdo his blessings. Every time the boy lowered his arm, the priest jerked his hands in an upward motion to tell him to continue. Finally, the man grabbed the ball and chain from the boy, taking control of it for himself. He held the incense high above his head as he made his way down the aisle, smudging the entire congregation as he walked. The server boy hurried behind him, his hands folded in prayer and his eyes focused on the ground.

  When they passed by Pippa, the incense became so strong that she had to raise her hand cloth to cover her nose and mouth, stifling a cough. It was getting difficult to breathe. When Franklin started wheezing, she handed him the square of cloth since he often found it difficult to catch his breath even without there being incense in the air.

  A choir of monks started chanting a melodic tune from the gallery up above, accompanied by a few musicians that played a harp and rang small bells.

  Then a procession of people made their way up to the dais at the front of the church. As they shuffled forward slowly, they clutched their belongings possessively as if their things were of great value to them. The boxes they carried were filled with naught but candles from their homes. Kneeling down reverently as they approached the dais, the villagers waited in silence for a blessing as well as a sprinkle of holy water from the priest.

  Most of the commoners only possessed tallow candles that were made from animal fat. After all, beeswax was expensive and reserved for those with money. As one old woman passed by her, Pippa glanced down to her nearly empty basket. In it were only a half-dozen candle stubs that were so small that Pippa wouldn’t have thought twice about discarding them. She would be surprised if the woman would ever be able to relight and burn them again. The faith of these commoners was astounding. These simple people believed that if they had a blessed candle in their possession, no matter how small, they could burn it when they were ill and it would bring them health, as well as ward off any evil spirits.

  Pippa scanned the long line of parishioners and then her gaze shot across the church as she tried to find the matchmade couple. Holding tightly to the beeswax candle in her grip, she lifted the flame higher to shed more light on the occupants attending mass. It was a dreary morning. Very little light filtered in through the stained glass window above the altar. With frigid weather outside, it was sad to say it wasn’t much warmer inside either. It was so cold in the church that every time the priest spoke, she could see his breath. She looked down to her brother whose thin body shivered. Her heart about broke for the unfortunate child who was loved by only her.

  Early this morning, the sky had turned cloudy and gray. It had been snowing when she and her family came to mass and she wouldn’t be surprised if it turned into a blizzard before they returned to Grimsthorpe Castle. They could have very well attended mass in the castle’s chapel today instead of venturing out into the snow. Lady Martha, her father’s consort, would have preferred that.

  With Pippa’s mother deceased, her father thought it was time he had a woman to fill her position. But Pippa didn’t agree. It had only been three years since her mother passed, and it was much too soon for her father to be thinking of marriage.

  Pippa didn’t like Martha and neither did she care for her arrogant son, Wilbur. She didn’t want them holding power over her father and his decisions. That is why she’d convinced her father to come to the church today instead of attending mass at the castle’s chapel.

  Spotting Abigail, the chandler’s daughter, across the room, Pippa leaned forward looking for Matthew, the son of a fisherman. When she shifted, she bumped into Martha standing in front of her. The action caused the wax from the lit candle in her hand to splash on the back of the woman’s cloak. Martha jerked and gripped on to the baron’s arm, whispering something that Pippa couldn’t decipher.

  “What are you doing, Pippa?” her father asked in a low voice, only half-turning his head to look over his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, flashing him an apologetic smile, but really wanting to laugh. She was sure Lady Martha would burn her cloak now rather than to be seen with wax on it.

  Pippa caught Abigail’s eye from across the room and smiled at her. Abigail and Matthew were in love, but their parents hadn’t approved of their children being wed at first. However, in time, seeing how happy their children were together, they accepted Pippa’s pairing. But since they didn’t have the extra coin for the fee to pay the church, the wedding had yet to happen.

  Well, that no longer mattered. Pippa fingered the pouch of coins tied to her belt, planning on paying the fee for them. Today was the day when Pippa would help two people in love attain their dreams of spending a lifetime together.

  * * *

  Étienne de Beynac stood just inside the door of St. Anne’s Church along with Brother Paul, fingering the rosary around his neck in thought. He watched as a wedding just finished taking place. It was only a marriage between two commoners but, still, a noblewoman in a cloak as well as a young boy stood at the couple’s sides. On the bench were seated who he guessed to be a nobleman, another noblewoman, and a boy of about four and ten years of age. Across the aisle from them were a few more people who were probably the bride and groom’s family.

  Étienne had traveled across the channel from Chateau de Beynac in the south of France six months ago. He came with only his weapons and one trunk of personal items in his possession. With nowhere else to go, Étienne had been living at Alkborough Priory as a novice ever since then.

  He had been praying and asking God for forgiveness, hoping this would help to someday restore his relationship with his family as well as be forgiven for his sinful ways. If nothing else, he hoped all this praying would at least pave his way to heaven.

  As a novice of the Benedictine monks, he had to not only sign a parchment promising all sorts of things, but he also had to agree to the vows of chastity, poverty and obedience. It wasn’t easy at all, and became harder with each day that passed. Étienne knew he didn’t have what it took to be a monk and his father must have known this as well. This was his father’s wicked form of cruel punishment he decided. He wanted Étienne to suffer for having shamed the family name.

  As hard as he tried, and as many times as he attended mass a day, Étienne found that he could not change. He still practiced with his weapons in secret in his room after dark, and always seemed to have coupling with women on his mind. Lately, he had even been sneaking out of compline, the last service of the day, to meet with the traveling knights who sought shelter for the night at the monastery. A drink here, and a little gambling there, might be a sin but it sure made him feel like a man again.

  Étienne used to spend his days fighting, drinking, and wielding a sword. All he did now was plow the fields, plant the crops, wash the clothes, scrub the floors and help to cook food that consisted of mainly vegetables that couldn’t fill the belly of a child. He wore robes instead of chain mail and his long hair had been cut short but, thankfully, not in a tonsure. This wasn’t the life he wanted. He was a noble and wanted to live like a knight, not a servant. All these chores, along with attending prayer services eight times a day, were beginning to drive him mad.

  He didn’t want to be here today, but he was doing it for a chance at redemption. It was at his brother’s request that he come here. While no correspondence with family or anyone was permitted, he met a messenger on the road while working the fields one day. The messenger happened to have a missive for him from his brother, Giles. Étienne wasn’t about to turn the boy away.

  His job now was to find out information about a woman to whom his brother was recently betrothed. Giles promised in the missive to take Étienne back to France to stay with him after he was wed if he did him this favor. Although it wasn’t an ideal situation after how he’d been treated by his brother, Étienne was willing to take the chance it would work out rather than have to take
the vows of abstinence and poverty for the rest of his life.

  “My lord, I thought you’d want to go directly to Grimsthorpe Castle instead of stopping at the church,” said Brother Paul, a short, round monk, nearly twice Étienne’s age. Étienne had confided in the monk because he needed help to be excused to leave the monastery for a few days. Since Brother Paul was a friend of Étienne’s father, he said he would help Étienne out.

  “That was my plan,” admitted Étienne. “However, I heard from a commoner on the road that Lady Philippa was here at the church today. Do you think that woman could be her?” He narrowed his eyes, trying to see across the room.

  “I’m not sure my lord,” said the monk, using Étienne’s courtesy title since he was of noble blood. “Shall I ask someone?”

  A young altar server brushed past them on his way from the dais, carrying a slotted iron ball on a chain with incense piping out of it. Étienne coughed.

  “Frankincense,” he grumbled under his breath, knowing that scent well from spending the past six months with monks. What was supposed to be a new life for him had turned into naught but a living nightmare. “Boy, can you give me the name of the lady up at the dais?” he asked.

  The boy stopped in his tracks, looking over his shoulder through the smoke. “Do you mean Lady Martha? The baron’s consort?”

  “Nay,” he said, realizing the boy was talking about the older woman who was still seated. “I mean the lady who is standing near the just wed couple. Who is she?”

  “Oh, that is Lady Philippa.”

  “Lady Philippa Willoughby of Grimsthorpe Castle?” he asked curiously.

  “Aye, that’s right.” The boy coughed and waved his hand through the air, trying to waft away the smoke. “Will there be anything else, Brother?”