Beast: Great Bloodlines Converge (5 page)

Sir Braxton de Russe ...

Toutes les choses doivent se passer . Votre fils a pris la Lumière de la France . Notre espoir est faible mais il n'a pas disparu.

Nous sommes l'air , les oiseaux . Nous sommes la nuit.

Nous craindre parce que nous allons venir pour vous.

(Undated and unsigned missive received by Sir Braxton de Russe, West Court Manor, London on July 23, Year of Our Lord 1431. Translated as:

Sir Braxton de Russe...

All things must come to pass. Your son has taken the Light from France.

Our hope is dim but it is not gone.

We are the air, the birds. We are the night.

Fear us because we will come for you.)

London, England

Early August, 1431 A.D.

The evening at sunset was sultry and cloudy as de Russe disembarked the barge he’d taken from Calais. The ports of London were busy any time of night, and this eve was no exception. Amidst the smell of the dirty river and equally sewage-ridden docks, de Russe was disembarking with eight hundred of his men and four hundred of Bedford’s men, men who had been in France for two long years and who were now returning home for a much-needed rest. De Russe was returning home, too, but his reasons were different. It wasn’t a rest he had coming. He had a mission to fulfill.

London hadn’t changed much since the last time de Russe had been here. There were boats lined up along the Thames at the docks to the east of the Tower of London, boats that were bringing forth men and riches, bound for all points within the city itself. The Tower hadn’t changed. It was still a tall, gray-stoned building with turrets like fingers as they reached, claw-like, for the sky. The smell was the same, too, that stench that rose above the city like a fog, the odor of human habitation and failure. De Russe thought France had much the same smell. It didn’t change from country to country.

It was just after sunset as the men filtered off Bedford’s three boats, men gathering on the shoreline so de Russe could move them to Etonbury Castle in Bedfordshire, one of Bedford’s former holdings that now belonged to de Russe. On the evening following the death of the Maid, Bedford had granted the castle to de Russe as well as the title Baron Henlow and a large section of Bedfordshire lands that went with it. He’d given de Russe another title as well, but one de Russe wasn’t yet willing to acknowledge, at least not until he was forced to. He didn’t even like to think about that particular title. As he stood on the shore, watching the big warhorses being brought off of the ship nearest him, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“King’s Protector, is it?” the man said. “Are you now a nursemaid?”

De Russe knew who it was before he even turned around. Massive arms folded across his broad and armored chest, he slowly turned around to see two men grinning at him from a few feet away. One was older, big and broad, while the younger one was tall and well-built, grinning like a fool.

De Russe shook his head at his uncle, Aramis de Russe, former Duke of Exeter, and Aramis’ eldest son, Sir Worthington de Russe. He pretended to be disgusted at the sight of them when the truth was that he was pleased to see them.

“Sweet Bleeding Christ,” he hissed. “How did you two find me?”

Aramis laughed softly and moved forward, slapping de Russe on the shoulder. It was like slapping a tree. De Russe was so big, and so solid, that the older man ended up hurting his hand.

“How do you think?” Aramis said, wincing as he rubbed at his injured palm. “It is all anyone can speak of in London - the Beast is returning from France, now to guard the young king. The mere thought has thrown the entire court into a frenzy. Already, they are scared to death of this great warmongering legend that you represent.”

Aramis wriggled his eyebrows in dramatic emphasis as Worthington, known as Worth, who two years younger than de Russe’s thirty years, grasped de Russe by a big shoulder affectionately. Worthington had the de Russe size and dark hair but he didn’t possess the de Russe stoic and rather grumbling demeanor. Both he and Aramis were quite jovial and amiable in direct contrast to their brooding, unfriendly relation.

“We have missed you, old man,” Worthington said sincerely. “We have been hearing great rumblings from France.”

De Russe suspected what he meant right away;
the Maid
. It was in Worthington’s expression more than his words. There wasn’t anyone of political awareness in France or England that didn’t know about the young woman from Domremy.

But de Russe did not elaborate or comment on that particular fact, certainly not this early in the conversation. Perhaps he was being paranoid that the incident with the Maid was all they would have heard of his exploits in France. He had done some other noteworthy things, too, such as being the Earl of Salisbury’s muscle during the Siege of Orleans. He had very nearly been the mastermind behind that battle. He had, in fact, been fighting in France dating back to squiring during the Siege of Rouen.

Aye, he’d spent more of his adult life in France than he had in England, but still, he wondered if people would have heard about his other heroics, the great feats of the mighty Beast, the man who was the culmination of seven great families, the bloodlines of which pulsed through his veins. De Shera, de Wolfe, de Russe, de Nerra, de Lohr, de Velt, and de Lara all culminated in the most powerful knight England had yet to see. But at this point in time, the Maid seemed to take precedence over everything, including the respectability of his breeding.

“Is that so?” de Russe finally said. “Well, I suppose I should have known. You two are always at the cusp of any gossip. By the way, what are your titles now, Uncle? Since you were stripped of Exeter last year, I’ve not heard if you’ve regained what you lost.”

Aramis shrugged. “It is an easy thing to fall out of favor,” he said, almost callously. “I refused Bedford more troops for France, when he had already taken a thousand men from me, and he stripped me of my title and gave it to Lord Holland. Fortunately for me, I have the sympathy of his brother, Gloucester, who is also the king’s uncle and regent, and he has given me the Warminster dukedom for my loyalty to the crown. Small compensation for losing Exeter, but I am fairly certain I will regain it again someday. Holland’s father rebelled against the young king’s father so it is well known the Hollands have a tenuous hold on any titles they have, including mine. I shall have it again someday. But I take comfort in that Warminster comes with Deverill Castle as well as a title for Worth.”

De Russe looked at his younger cousin. “Now
you
are titled?” He shook his head. “God and saints preserve us. The country is going to the dogs.”

Worthington grinned broadly. “I am now Viscount Westbury,” he said proudly. Then, he thumped de Russe on the chest. “But you, Bastian… you have come home with something quite substantial. We heard rumor of what you have been granted for your service in France. Do tell us all of it, man, and hold nothing back.”

Sir Bastian de Russe gazed at his uncle and cousin, a faint smile playing on his lips. With his fine breeding, Bastian held the best traits from all of his ancestors – at six and a half feet tall, he had the height of his great warrior forefathers and he also had their big, powerful bodies, something that set him apart from almost anyone else. He had the dark complexion from the de Sheras, the sky-blue eyes of the de Lohrs, the de Wolfe square jaw, the de Velt shoulder-length black hair, the de Nerra gift of speech, and the de Lara razor-sharp intellect. It was a devastating combination for not only was he the premier warrior for the House of de Russe, he was also the biggest of the male line and the most beauteous. Many a female had thrown themselves at de Russe’s feet, only to be kicked aside. To Bastian, women were a necessity and nothing more. He had little use for them.

That was why he thought carefully before replying to his nosy uncle and nosy cousin. Aye, he’d been granted rewards for his service in France, riches and titles, but he’d also been granted a marital contract, something he wasn’t willing to acknowledge yet. He was still hoping to talk Bedford out of it but, in hindsight, it would be of no use. Bedford’s decision was final and the marital match was a strategic one. Even so, Bastian couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the fact that he was soon to become a husband. The axe of matrimony hanging over his head was almost enough to send him running back to France.

And it was something his uncle and cousin didn’t need to know, at least not yet. As he mulled over his response, he stepped aside as more men and horses disembarked the cog behind him. He delayed purposely, making his meddlesome uncle and cousin wait for the information they would undoubtedly shout all over London. The pair could never keep quiet for long.

“King’s Protector is more of a command from Bedford than it is a title that I am pleased to accept,” he finally said. “The nine-year-old king needs a protector, or at least Bedford and Gloucester believe so. Therefore, I have been appointed the task of being a bodyguard for their nephew, young King Henry. But Bedford knew this would be a distasteful assignment for a field commander, so he has granted me Etonbury Castle in Bedfordshire along with the title Baron Henlow and Arlesey in compensation. I now have a big chunk of Bedfordshire that belongs to me. You may address me as Lord Henlow from now on.”

Aramis and Worthington were grinning at him. “And?” Aramis prompted. “What else did he grant you?”

Bastian sighed softly. He knew what the man was driving at. So they had undoubtedly heard about the marriage contract, too, the intrusive magpies that they were, and it was an effort not to show his displeasure.
Great Bleeding Christ
, he thought to himself. He was going to have to face the marital contract sooner than he’d hoped. There was no way to avoid it.

“Am I to understand that you have heard that part of it, too?” he asked unhappily.

Aramis nodded. “It, too, is all over London,” he replied. “You have been awarded a bride from the very powerful le Bec family. Richmond le Bec himself will be your father-in-law. Surely you are grateful for this match.”

Bastian scratched absently at his jaw. “I suppose I should be,” he said. “But I am not ready for a wife yet.”

Worthington couldn’t resist picking at him. “We hear she is vastly talented and vastly beautiful,” he said. “She’s part of the Duchess of Gloucester’s court and I have heard she can speak five languages, paint, recite, and sing. Rumor has it she is the best singer in all of England. The young king is evidently very fond of her. I also heard that the Duke of Gloucester has his eye on the girl, so mayhap you are doing her a favor by taking her out of Eleanor’s court. If Richmond le Bec hears that Gloucester has eyes for his eighteen-year-old daughter, Gloucester’s days are numbered.”

Bastian nodded his head patiently. “I have heard all of this,” he said. “You forget that the lady’s brother is sworn to me. Gannon le Bec is my friend as well as my knight and he has told me everything I need to know about his youngest sister.”

That statement interested the pair. “Does le Bec seem agreeable to you marrying his sister?” Worthington asked.

Bastian nodded his head. “He does,” he said. “But, much like me, he has little choice but to accept the situation.”

As if on cue, a big knight in a full complement of plate armor suddenly appeared at the top of the ramp that led down from the cog. Leading a blond and equally armored charger, the tall, dark-haired knight came to the bottom of the ramp, catching the attention of Bastian has he moved.

“My lord,” he greeted Bastian, politely acknowledging the other two de Russe males. “All of your men have disembarked. De Lara and I are the last.”

Bastian looked up to the dark deck of the ship, seeing another knight appearing at the top of the ramp. These were big, battle-hardened warriors, sworn to him personally, and he relied on them heavily. In the darkness, their silhouettes were big and wraith-like, as if they were angels of doom. The grating of the armor as they moved sounded like death itself. These were the Beast’s minions, men who were feared nearly as much as de Russe himself.

“Ah, I see de Lara,” Aramis said as the second enormous knight headed down the ramp leading his heavily-burdened charger. “So your cousin on your mother’s side is still sworn you, eh? The de Laras usually keep close to their own families along the Marches. I am surprised to see that Lucas is still with you.”