Lords of Eire: An Irish Medieval Romance Bundle Read online

  LORDS OF EIRE

  A Medieval Romance Collection

  By Kathryn Le Veque

  Enjoy four Irish-based Medieval Romances together in one bundle plus a bonus excerpt from the March 2020 release, DARK WARRIOR.

  © Copyright by Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

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  This collection contains:

  HIGH WARRIOR

  BLACK SWORD

  THE DARKLAND

  ECHOES OF ANCIENT DREAMS

  AN EXCERPT FROM DARK WARRIOR

  HIGH WARRIOR

  A Medieval Romance

  By Kathryn Le Veque

  © Copyright 2018 by Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  Text by Kathryn Le Veque

  Cover by Kim Killion

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

  Author’s Note:

  Welcome to Bric MacRohan’s tale, and what a tale it is!

  Bric, as we’ll see in these pages, is a big Irish knight who is both an invincible and flawed man. There is no one tougher than he is and no one as fearless or fearsome. I’ve written about a lot of fearsome knights – in fact, all of my heroes are quite fearsome in their own right – but Bric has something special about him that just makes him extraordinarily bad-ass. But when men who have that intense command-and-control personality fall, they fall hard because they have no experience otherwise.

  What Bric suffers from, as you will see, is essentially a mild form of PTSD. There are severe forms that affect modern soldiers, but battle fatigue and PTSD have been affecting warriors as long as there have been battles. It was only until modern times that we really came to understand what it was (it was actually diagnosed back in the Regency period), but before that, no one really understood it and considered it cowardice.

  It's interesting to note that a 14th century knight named Geoffroi de Charny wrote about the mental instability of knights who have suffered much in battle. But in my research, a Medievalist familiar with de Charny’s work made a distinct point between Medieval warriors and today’s modern soldier – Medieval knights were born into the warrior life, and modern-day soldiers aren’t.

  From a very early age, medieval knights were trained as warriors and saw brutality that few did. Therefore, warring was, literally, the only life they knew, so mental fatigue and all that came about differently for them. They’d never known a “civilian” life, only to be thrust into the brutalities of war like today’s modern soldier is. So, it’s a completely different kind of “battle fatigue” when it comes to the medieval knight and a different mindset for those who observed it.

  The House of de Winter features heavily in this book because Bric is the captain of the guard, so I should explain the family tree because he is also related to them – my novel Lespada is the main de Winter story. So if you haven’t read it, you should. But a little about the de Winter family – Daveigh (pronounced Day-vee) de Winter is head of the House of de Winter at this point. His father, Davyss de Winter the First, is the great-grandson of Denis de Winter (WARWOLFE), descendant of the Visigoths.

  Now, here’s where it becomes a little complicated – Daveigh is Davyss’ eldest son from his first wife. When the first wife passed away, Davyss the First married again and his second wife gave birth to Grayson, who is Davyss de Winter the Second’s father. Daveigh married an Irish woman, and that is how Bric came to serve the House of de Winter – as part of her dowry – but Daveigh and his wife never had any children, which is how Davyss II ended up with the de Winter sword, Lespada. The eldest de Winter male always carries that sword, and Davyss the Second was the next in line after Daveigh passed on.

  Because Davyss the First married a bastard daughter of the Earl of Norfolk, he was given a title upon his marriage – something Hugh Bigod, the earl, had to petition the king for (because barons can only be given lands and titles from the king). A donation to Henry (then-king), and Bigod’s bastard daughter received the title of Baroness Cressingham, a title that Hugh de Winter inherited when he married her, becoming Baron Cressingham.

  All of these titles were passed down from Daveigh to Grayson (who married Katharine, sister of the Earl of Surrey and Simon de Montfort’s lover at the time), and then on to Davyss the Second as the eldest de Winter male. Davyss the Second isn’t born until about fourteen years after our story takes place, but it’s important to understand where the de Winters fit into the politics of England at this time – they are an extremely important war machine with relations to the Earldom of Norfolk. Kind of like Norfolk’s attack dog. And our hero, Bric, is the teeth of that attack dog.

  He is the Ard Trodaí – the High Warrior.

  Since this tale is quite complex (as far as family relations go), there are charts attached, something I don’t normally do. But in this case, it was important. Make sure to read them and their notes – it will help clarify the backstory, and how Bric came to serve the House of de Winter, so you can understand how everyone is related.

  But lastly, let’s not forget about our lady of this tale, the lovely Eiselle (pronounced ee-ZELL). You can see on the family tree how she is related to Dashiell, and the house of du Reims. She’s a little lost at the beginning of this book, but she quickly finds her place, and when Bric falls for her, he falls hard. I love how she came to be his rock, the man who was always the rock for others. These two make quite the passionate and bold pair.

>   Lots going on in this book, so hold on tight, expect a surprise appearance of a former Le Veque hero (Sean de Lara from Lord of the Shadows plays a key role in the end), and enjoy the ride!

  Hugs,

  Kathryn

  “Greater love hath no man than he lay down his life for his friends…”

  John 13:15

  PROLOGUE

  20 May, Year of Our Lord 1217

  City of Lincoln

  In the dead of night, they moved.

  Thousands of men were skirting the great medieval walls of the city of Lincoln, one of the largest and most strategically important cities in all of England. It was held by the rebels against King John, a man who had died seven months earlier.

  But the rebels were stubborn. They were fewer in number now, since many had defected to support the new king, nine-year-old Henry, because the church had declared its support for the lad. The pope had gone so far as to say that anyone opposing young Henry was now upon a religious crusade to destroy the church itself, which greatly swung many of the rebel warlords into Henry’s fold. No one wanted to be accused of crusading against the church.

  Opposing the king was one thing. Opposing God was quite another.

  But there were those who had been swayed for other reasons, not necessarily a threat from the pope. The great houses of de Lohr, de Vaston, Burton, Forbes, de Royans, and de Winter returned their support to the crown because it was the right thing to do. The young king had good advisors around him, including the stalwart William Marshal, and it was Marshal who had eventually coerced the great warlords back to their support of the crown.

  These were houses that had always supported the crown, and their turn against John had been a difficult decision. The return to Henry, and the hope of a new king, had not been. The decision had been relatively simple.

  A united king meant a united kingdom.

  But there were some holdouts that still felt Henry would simply be carrying on his father’s legacy. It was those stray rebels that were still holding a few cities for the French prince, Louis. And now that Henry was upon the throne, the great warlords who had returned to Henry’s support determined it was time to remove the French and the rebels, once and for all.

  Lincoln was the first target.

  Therefore, in stealth, they moved on a clear night, so clear and bright that the blanket of stars in the sky looked as if they’d been smeared across the heavens. The stars were blending into each other, creating a band of light. An army of thousands marched on Lincoln, staying well out of sight until dawn, when a smaller and heavily-armed group left the main encampment and made their way to the city walls. Payment in gold coins to the rebel sentries on the western gate meant they had entry into the city.

  After that, it was chaos.

  As the sun rose over the dew-kissed fields surrounding the berg of Lincoln, William Marshall sent battle-seasoned knights in through the western gate, each man leading a crack squad of soldiers. Men like Christopher and David de Lohr went in first, leading their experienced squads as they headed to the north side of the city to clean out the rebels who were in charge of the northern gate.

  Other groups led by Gart Forbes, Marcus Burton, and other experienced knights headed straight into the middle of the city to claim the cathedral. The castle, being held by the rebels, would be their last target in the center of the city. They would have to secure the city before they could reclaim the castle.

  The south side of the city was the most heavily occupied by the rebels, and a group of men led by Dashiell du Reims, captain to the Duke of Savernake, and the duke himself, Bentley de Vaston, made their way with extreme stealth along the great wall of the city as they headed towards the south gate. Another very heavily-armed group led by Bric MacRohan and Daveigh de Winter, from the respected de Winter family, headed into the heart of the south end of the city to drive the rebels to Savernake so they could crush their enemy between them.

  Bric was a man on the move. He had about twenty heavily-armed men with him, while his liege had taken thirty. Fifty of the best men the House of de Winter could provide from their army that numbered in the thousands, encamped about ten miles away with the rest of the loyalist armies. They knew they couldn’t breach the city with a massive collective army, for that would only make the people respond with great rebellion. A stealth incursion had been the way to go, catching them off guard and, so far, it had worked.

  Catching the rebels unaware was key.

  Sneaking up a dark alley that smelled heavily of urine, Bric could see sentries on the main avenue, watching for any signs of trouble. Sheathing his broadsword, Bric kissed the talisman he always kept around his neck for good fortune. Made from steel and in the shape of a cross, it contained Latin words etched into the metal, words that Bric repeated nearly every time he went into battle. They were words that had kept him alive, all this time. He believed in those words, and they had never failed him.

  A maiorem caritatum nemo habet.

  It was a passage from the bible: A man hath no greater love. It was the beginning of a verse that Bric had always kept close to him, something an old Irish warrior had told him when he’d been young. Keep the word of God with ye, lad, and ye’ll always find yer way home.

  And he tried to do just that even though religion had never held much interest for him. Still, the complete verse was from the Book of John. A man hath no greater love than he lay down his life for his friends.

  It was Bric’s magic spell against death, and he believed it implicitly.

  He believed it even now as he and another knight, his good and close friend Pearce de Dere, snuck up behind the two sentries and slit their throats before they could scream, dragging them back into the alley for a couple of the de Winter soldiers to stow the bodies while the majority of the squad continued.

  There was a thrill to what they were doing, breathing in the familiar stench of danger with every breath. But that was the way Bric liked it. That was the way he functioned best, when his life was on the line every second. It wasn’t that he thrived on the risk of death, but more that he was simply focused on a task to complete, and danger was simply part of it. As Bric often said – he didn’t focus on the danger of his task, only the task to be done. The man had never failed at anything in his life and, in his estimation, he never would. He was calm, cool, and calculated in everything he did.

  And that attitude made him deadlier than most.

  Bric and his squad encountered more rebels near the south gate – in fact, perhaps a hundred or more. Unfortunately, the rebels had already spied Daveigh’s squad and there was a battle going on. When Bric and his men plunged into the skirmish, it turned into a brutal, bloody brawl – heavy weapons were drawn but Bric was the type that would often strike with a fist first, a sword second. He caught men off guard that way, if he could get close enough to them, and he hammered through them easily.

  But their fight had drawn attention, and alarms were going up through the city. Citizens were panicking, barring their doors, shutting out the fight that was going on around them. But some, the men in particular, were taking up arms to reinforce the rebels. Seeing this, William Marshal sent men back to the encamped army, calling them forth because the fighting had also roused the garrison at Lincoln Castle. Now, everyone knew the loyalists were there.

  Rebel soldiers were mobilizing.

  Still, the Marshal’s initial ground work had left the rebel army compartmentalized in pockets of fighting. The loyalists had them in groups, and those groups were being decimated. The fighting went street to street; one street would be secured and then they’d move on to the next. Rebels were either running, being captured, or being killed, and more than one of them had been chased down by the big Irish warrior with the silver eyes.

  But it was more than being chased down by him; they could hear him coming. Bric moved with the greatest stealth when it was necessary. But when he wanted to frighten the enemy, he would howl like a beast. It was a sound that had the rebels
in panic mode, because no sooner would they hear the sound than a massive knight would come barreling down on them.

  Sometimes he had an ax in his hand, sometimes a sword, but sometimes it was his preferred fists. He’d flattened many a man with those ham-sized fists, and rumors of the crazed knight with the silver eyes was beginning to spread. The rebels lived in fear of that man. Some were saying that he was more animal that human.

  The big Irish knight, the High Warrior, lived up to his name on that day.

  Bric and his men had just finished cleaning out a small residence of six hiding rebels when Bric emerged from the home, his nostrils still flaring from the excitement of the fight, only to have someone with a scythe jump out at him from an adjoining alley. Bric reacted as he’d been taught – strike first. In battle, there was no time for indecision or second chances. But when the surprise of the ambush settled, Bric looked down at his victim to see it was a boy, perhaps no more than thirteen years of age.

  A young boy who just had his guts cut out of him.

  For the first time all morning, Bric’s command and control mode took a hit. He exhaled sharply, wiping the sweat from his brow at the sight of the child he’d just killed.

  “Bloody Christ,” he hissed. “Are they fighting with children now? Has their cause become so desperate that they are sending their babes into the streets?”

  Daveigh was behind him. His squad of men had joined up with Bric a short time before. Daveigh was younger than Bric by about ten years, but a strong and wise liege, a fine tribute to the House of de Winter. Daveigh Alexandre de Winter, Baron Cressingham and the Earl of Ardmore as part of his wife’s Irish dowry, was a broad man with big shoulders, dark hair, and muddy brown eyes. Those eyes were fixed on the tow-headed lad at Bric’s feet, bleeding out into the muddy gutters of Lincoln.