Authors: Kathryn le Veque
Sutton provided enough of a distraction that he hoped it would buy his brother time to get away, but instead, Weston fell to his knees, eventually collapsing onto his left side. As Sutton watched in horror, distracted at his brother’s collapse, Wellesbourne managed to clip him on the neck with his mace and Sutton was knocked to the ground.
John bolted over the edge of the lists, running for Weston as fast as he could. Amalie was screaming, the children were screaming, as Paget and Heath tried to shield them from what was happening. It was a painful, chaotic scene as John nearly reached Weston, only to be chased off by Wellesbourne. The man picked up Weston’s flail where it had fallen onto the ground and swung it at John. Without a shield or a weapon of his own, John was at a disadvantage as he tried to get to Weston. Wellesbourne eventually clipped him on his left shoulder and the flail tore through mail and flesh. John was forced to fall back, bleeding heavily from a nasty wound.
Wellesbourne was rabid with bloodlust, turning for his victim lying in the dirt a few feet away. Weston lay still, the broadsword protruding out of his left shoulder, as Wellesbourne came upon him. The crowd was screaming and other knights were starting to make their way onto the field, in particular, Richmond le Bec.
Richmond was already heading over towards Wellesbourne with a contingent of Billingham knights, instructing the men to spread out and attack Wellesbourne from all sides. Several Clifford knights had also spilled out onto the field, two of them going for Sutton, who was picking himself up out of the dirt with a gushing neck wound.
Wellesbourne, however, would not delay. He would not let them reach Weston in time. He was going to kill the man where he lay and do it gladly. As the crowd roared to titanic proportions, Wellesbourne approach the wounded Weston. He had his mace lifted high, preparing to bash Weston’s brains in. Amalie, seeing all of this from her vantage point in the lists in spite of Heath’s efforts to shield her, shoved the red-headed knight back by the throat and leapt over the side of the lists.
Amalie hit the ground running. There were a dozen knights out on the field, but no one was making any attempt to help her husband. They were all standing around waiting for him to die. But not Amalie; she couldn’t watch her husband’s death, not while there was breath left in her body. She was going to save the man or die trying. To hell with staying quiet and inactive; the time had come to act. She would save the man who had once saved her. She would save the man she loved.
She bolted past le Bec, who made a swipe to grab her and barely missed. She ran right into the back of Wellesbourne, who was barely bumped by her insignificant weight. He turned around, furious, to find Amalie throwing fists at him. Reaching out, he grabbed her by the throat.
“You little bitch,” he seethed. “You started all of this, you whore. I should have killed the night I took your innocence but my lust had the better of me. I wanted you again and again, so I allowed you to live. It was my mistake. But I will not make the same mistake now.”
Amalie knew that voice; God help her, she knew it all too well. It was the same dark, evil voice that had whispered lewd words to her on the worst night of her life and the hand that held her by the neck had once beat her senseless. It wasn’t Wellesbourne who fought her husband; it was Sorrell.
Amalie opened her mouth and tried to scream but no words would come forth; he was holding her too tightly. His fingers tightened. As the world began to darken, something odd happened.
Sorrell jerked as if he had been struck. His grip on Amalie loosened and he pitched forward, face first. Amalie screamed as she started to fall with him but le Bec grabbed her, pulling her free of the collapsing body. Startled, she looked down to see Sorrell lying in the dirt with a broadsword sticking out of his back. A pair of boots stood at Sorrell’s feet and Amalie looked up, fixing on the figure, hardly believing her eyes.
Weston was gazing down at Sorrell’s fallen body. He looked pale and in pain, but the big broadsword was no longer sticking out of his left shoulder - it was on the ground and Weston’s right hand was pressed over the wound, attempting to staunch the blood flow.
The weapon jutting from Sorrell’s back bore the proud insignia of the House of de Royans and Weston kicked the helm from Sorrell’s head to get a good look at the man he had just killed. He had come to suspect early in the battle that it was not Wellesbourne he was fighting and made every effort to ensure that Sorrell would pay for his crimes. Now, he finally had.
He stared at the man, absorbing the view, telling himself that it was finally over. He had done what he had set out to do. But he caught a glimpse of his wife out of the corner of his eye and it was all of the enticement he needed to go to her, capturing her against his bloody armor and holding her more tightly than he had ever held her in his life. Amalie threw her arms around his neck and squeezed.
“Are you all right, my angel?” he asked softly, his voice quivering. “Let me see your neck. Let me see what he did to you.”
She waved him off, rubbing at her neck. “I am well enough,” she was overwhelmed with all that had happened, struggling against the frightened tears. “What happened to Wellesbourne? How did Sorrell come by his armor?”
Weston was weak with blood loss but he held on to his wife as if afraid she was going to slip away. “I do not know,” he said grimly, looking up to see Richmond standing a few feet away. “We must search for Wellesbourne.”
Le Bec came upon the shaken and wounded pair, and began to wave his men over to begin the clean-up process.
“We will,” he replied. “Let us take you back to your encampment and send for a physic. You look as if you need one.”
Weston nodded wearily. “Perhaps,” was all he would say,” but I am more concerned with my wife. I would have her examined first.”
Amalie shook her head vehemently. “Nay,” she insisted. “You must be tended immediately. He stuck a sword in you. I thought he had killed you.”
She was starting to tear up and Weston hugged her close, kissing her forehead. “Nay, my angel,” he whispered. “He could not kill me. But I will admit that it is a decent wound.”
He sounded so casual about it, mostly to comfort Amalie so she wouldn’t know the wound was worse than he let on. Le Bec watched Lady de Royans as she struggled to compose herself before fixing Weston in the eye.
“West, I must apologize for this,” he said. “I feel as if it is my fault. Had I acted with more speed against Sorrell, perhaps none of this would have happened.”
Weston smiled weakly. “It was not your fault,” he assured him. “I do not blame you. I am glad you came to my aid. I was starting to wonder if anyone would.”
Le Bec wriggled his eyebrows. “We tried,” he said. “I would not have let Sorrell bring the mace down upon you; I was prepared to gut him with my sword when your wife tackled him. Then I had to worry about her safety as well, which rather complicated things.”
Weston looked at Amalie, exhausted and pale, smeared with his blood. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.
“She was enough of a distraction that I was able to kill him myself,” he said quietly, realizing he didn’t particularly want to dwell on the event any longer. He smiled at his wife. “You are a very brave woman, Lady de Royans. I am proud of you.”
Amalie returned his smile weakly, feeling drained now that the entire event was over. She had been riding on such a terrified high that the cessation of the situation and the fact that her husband was not dead had her rather muddled.
She looked down at Sorrell, face down in the dirt as blood pooled beneath him. It seemed surreal that the man was finally dead, the man who had changed the course of her life on that dark and terrible night. Weston watched her face as she stared at the body.
“What are you thinking, Ammy?” he asked softly.
Her big green eyes were riveted to the corpse. “I am thinking of that night so long ago when I thought he had ruined my life,” she looked up at Weston. “But in the same breath, had he not come to Hedingham, I would have never met you. He set off the chain of events that brought you into my life, West, and… and I do not know what I am thinking, only that I thank God for you and every blessed day we share together.”
He put his big hand on her head, pulling her towards him until their foreheads touched. It was a sweet, poignant moment as they took comfort in one another. Before Weston could reply, they could hear familiar screaming and they both looked over to see Heath standing at the base of the lists with Paget handing Colton down to him. Heath carefully set Colton onto the ground and as he reached up for Aubria, Colton took off towards his parents.
Weston watched the boy run to them, watching as Amalie reached down to pick the child up. Aubria wasn’t far behind, intercepted by her Uncle Sutton who was holding a big bandage against his bloodied neck. It wasn’t a bad injury but still a bloody gash, and he was moving well enough that he could take Aubria’s hand. Sutton didn’t look completely worse for the wear.
“Are you well?” he asked Weston.
Weston nodded wearily. “I will be,” he replied. “And you? I did not see you fall.”
“You were already on the ground,” Sutton told him. “I tried to reach you but without my armor, it was difficult.”
Weston smiled faintly. “You and my wife make a brave pair, running to my aid in the face of a madman.”
“We would die for you, West.”
“You almost did.”
Sutton grinned, holding on to his neck and letting go of Aubria’s hand so she could go to her parents. He happened to glance back at the lists to notice that Heath was helping Paget down to the arena floor. Scowling dramatically, he began looking around frantically.
“Where is that bloody mace?” he demanded.
Weston looked at his brother. “Why do you need it?”
Sutton looked stricken, his blue eyes blazing. “I am going to murder de Lara if he does not have the sense to stay away from Lady Paget.” He suddenly spied the mace on the ground and picked it up, shaking it at Heath as the man approached with Paget beside him. “You and I have some business to attend to, de Lara. I told you what would happen if you went near her again.”
Heath knew what he meant. He threw up his hands as if to surrender but that wasn’t good enough; Sutton, bandaged neck and all, took off running after Heath and the red-headed knight bolted.
Weston and Amalie laughed heartily as Heath leapt over the fence on the east end of the arena and kept going. Sutton, not quite up to par with the neck injury, wasn’t able to leap the fence but he did manage to bust through the gate. They could hear Sutton shouting at Heath even at a distance.
By that time, most of the knights in the arena were laughing. Amalie, giggling, fell against her husband, so incredibly grateful for the man’s life. The day had brought the pinnacles of both despair and joy, but they had survived and were stronger for it. Amalie had said it best when she had said
, I thank God for you and every blessed day we share together
. Weston did, too.
Torston and Kingston de Royans were born in June of the following year, big healthy boys with their father’s good looks. They were three months old when they attended the wedding of their Uncle Sutton to the Lady Paget Clifford, and two years old when they were joined by a sister, Elizabeth, and the first of six cousins when Paget gave birth to Kirkton Clifford de Royans.
Life went on, more children were born, and the love that Weston and Amalie held for each other only deepened. Like a fine wine, it aged beautifully. Amalie sometimes reflected on those days when she had first met Weston and of her repeated attempts to end her life.
Like a guardian angel, Weston never left her side, loving her even when she didn’t love herself. It didn’t matter to him that to the lady was born a bastard, a child not of his loins. All that mattered to Weston was that he loved Amalie with a passion only dreamt of.
Amalie thought her life had ended on that snowy night all of those years ago. Never had she imagined that the moment Weston de Royans rescued her from the frozen lake was the exact moment she had begun to live.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KATHRYN LE VEQUE is an Amazon All-Star author, and a #1 bestselling, award-winning, multi-published author in Medieval Historical Romance and Historical Fiction. She has been featured in the NEW YORK TIMES and on USA TODAY's HEA blog.
"This author... genius...!" ~ Ind'Tale Magazine
In October 2014, Kathryn was the 31st MOST READ author on Amazon. She is extremely prolific with over 50 published novels and 37 #1 Hot New Releases in Medieval Historical Romance since May 2012. When new readers see how many novels she has published, the inevitable question is...
"She writes so many novels! Are they any good?" The answer is... YES!!
Welcome to Medieval England - hard-core, battle-scarred, power-driven alpha knights of the highest Norman order and the women who love them. Like High Middle Ages action and romance? Welcome to the Le Veque Medieval Machine.
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