VALOROUS: A Medieval Romance (Age of Honor Book 1) Read online

  VALOROUS

  BOOK ONE: AGE OF HONOR

  TAMARA LEIGH

  TAMARA LEIGH

  THE WULFRITHS. FIRST. IN BETWEEN. IN THE END.

  The late middle ages. England’s king seeks to recover the French lands of his ancestor William the Conqueror and claim the continental throne. France’s king aspires to seize the remainder of his royal vassal’s lands and retain his throne. So begins the Hundred Years’ War, the backdrop against which the formidable Wulfriths of the AGE OF CONQUEST and AGE OF FAITH series continue their tale.

  THE HONOR OF HECTOR WULFRITH

  Pale rider. For all the wives lost to him, it is what some call England’s renowned trainer of knights, a name that reaches beyond those losses to the plague come out of the east. Believing it God’s will he not wed again, Hector Wulfrith resists being drawn to the courageous lady who enters a country at war with her own and, disguised as a man, trespasses on his home. However, when her resolve to obtain training for a boy she claims is Wulfrith kin drags him into her mess of murder and thievery, mutual attraction becomes something more. If he can save her, dare he risk gaining her for himself knowing her fate could prove the same as his doomed wives’? Would it not be better to encourage her to return the affections of his heir—a brother wronged for what Hector stole from him?

  THE MESS OF SÉVERINE DE BARRA

  Since the surrender of her town to English forces, the greatest kindness shown Séverine is that of an enemy of silvered dark hair who saved her from his own when she sought to protect her cousin. Years later, she crosses the channel to keep her word to the boy’s departed sire to place him with distant kin for knighthood training. But the trouble awaiting them in England follows them to Baron Wulfrith whom she must deceive to gain an audience—one that comes to naught though he proves her former savior. Desperate to secure her cousin’s future before the fugitive made of her endangers him, Séverine furthers her deception to obtain the baron’s aid and finds her heart turning to him. But to what lengths will one of fortified emotions go to save a French lady destined for imprisonment in the Tower of London—and possibly death?

  From USA Today Bestselling author Tamara Leigh, the first book in a new medieval romance series set in the 14th century during The Hundred Years’ War. Watch for BEAUTEOUS, the second book in Summer 2022.

  For new releases and special promotions, subscribe to Tamara Leigh’s mailing list: www.tamaraleigh.com

  VALOROUS: Book One (Age of Honor) Copyright © 2022 by Tammy Schmanski, P.O. Box 1298 Goodlettsville, TN 37070 [email protected]

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  All rights reserved. This book is a copyrighted work and no part of it may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or any information storage and retrieval system) without permission in writing from the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the author’s permission is illegal and punishable by law. Thank you for supporting authors’ rights by purchasing only authorized editions.

  Cover Design: Ravven

  Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-942326-56-4

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-942326-57-1

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Beauteous: Book Two Excerpt

  Pronunciation Guide

  Glossary

  Also by Tamara Leigh

  About the Author

  “As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.” ~ Psalm 103:12 KJV

  Chapter 1

  Crécy-en-Pointhieu, France

  August 26, 1346

  Let not that conniving woman turn you from your purpose, Hector of the Wulfriths. Honor your name! Do your duty to king and country! Protect the prince!

  No easy thing with the sixteen-year-old abandoning his position to attack forces that sought to prevent the English army from reclaiming French ancestral lands that belonged to King Edward by way of William the Conqueror. Of course, now there was another matter of contention between the English and French kings—the former’s claim to the throne of France by way of his mother.

  As Hector and the prince’s standard-bearer forged a bloody path on the ridge for others coming to aid Edward the younger who was being surrounded by the French, once more someone rallied the English with, “God is our side!”

  So it seemed though they numbered half their opponent. The first portent of French defeat occurred when King Philip’s forces began a disorderly advance into the valley and crows flew before them, the next when the sky darkened, thunder rolled, and lightning preceded heavy rainfall.

  Then as if backhanded by God, the clouds had fled and the setting sun shone in the eyes of the French. With dusk approaching and the ground over which they must pass muddied, the English had expected them to withdraw and make camp for the night, but as if pride usurped reason, King Philip of France had unfurled the Oriflamme.

  As his crossbowmen plodded forward, the immense red banner with its golden sun was loosed upon the breeze to strike fear in the English nobility who knew what it signified. Until lowered, no quarter would be given, those otherwise taken prisoner for ransoming slaughtered. However, it was the French crossbowmen who were slain when, urged on by trumpets and pressed forward by foot soldiers, they shot bolts before they were in range—though they were well within range of the superior longbows of the English.

  “Wulfrith!” Sir Richard FitzSimon shouted as he gripped the standard that must not be lost to the enemy and with his other hand thrust his sword into the belly of a warrior between him and King Edward’s son. “The prince is down!”

  As Hector felled another chevalier, he saw what remained of the young man’s bodyguard struggled to give him time to regain his feet, which he absolutely must lest the French claim one priceless spoil of war.

  Though Prince Edward had not received his knight’s training at Wulfen Castle for which Hector’s family was renowned, a moment later he showed the superiority of his education in all things warrior. He shot upright, lunged past his guards, and thrust his sword in an opponent. As that one dropped, he whose build was not yet fully developed set himself at another and once more dealt a killing blow. It was then the knight guarding his back was put through, providing a clear path to King Edward’s heir.

  The prince pivoted and arced his blade high, but the strength of hi
s opponent’s blow spun him to the side and his knees hit ground again.

  “His left flank, Wulfrith!” FitzSimon bellowed.

  As already Hector moved that direction, he arrived well ahead of the one under whom he had served during the campaign. Thus, it was his sword that pierced the enemy seeking to take the prince.

  Forced to relinquish his hold on young Edward, the Frenchman swept up his blade to avert his opponent’s next swing. When Hector leapt to the side, the tip of that one’s blade sliced the back of his hand and skimmed his armor-clad shoulder. He felt the sting, but the hand yet functioned, allowing him to land his blade against knees lacking protective armor.

  As the man toppled, FitzSimon gained the ground in front of the prince and dropped the standard. Setting a foot atop it to keep it out of enemy hands, he shouted to fellow warriors fighting their way forward, “To the king’s son!” Then he and what remained of the bodyguard fended off the French who continued to advance.

  As Hector moved toward Edward the younger, the prince pushed up and came around with sword in hand. Despite a bloodied temple, his eyes were bright and teeth flashed. “Much gratitude for aiding your prince while he came right of head, Sir Hector!”

  Hector was not surprised the young man knew the identity of FitzSimon’s knight, not only for the renown of the Wulfriths but this one’s prematurely silvered hair. However, he had not expected him to be acquainted with his Christian name.

  That Hector of twenty-two summers had achieved such notice made him feel esteemed as if he were more than six years the prince’s senior.

  As expected when the Wulfrith heir had answered the king’s summons to join his campaign, Hector’s reputation grew. He knew it was a small part of his purpose in fighting for his sovereign, but the indulgent pride mostly excised by his trainers—foremost his sire and his uncle—was stitching itself back into place.

  More he should resist since it could render a warrior vulnerable in a world partial to breaking its fast on the weak, but it was balm and distraction to what was of greater detriment—anger over his wife’s betrayal. If a warrior’s emotions were to be greatly moved, surely better by pride that aided in swinging a sword harder than anger that made him want to thrust his blade in the ground, raise his face, and roar.

  Assured the prince was firm on his feet, Hector said, “Sir Richard dispatched word to your father you are in great straits, but I see no reason we cannot finish these Frenchmen ere relief arrives. Do you, my prince?”

  As his sire’s cannons fired more projectiles, Edward the younger shouted, “I see no reason at all!”

  When a score of the king’s bodyguard arrived minutes later, including Hector’s relation, Sir Achard Roche, they were not needed. Those seeking to capture the heir were in retreat, FitzSimon had raised the standard, and the prince, two of his guards, and Hector leaned on their swords amid the slain.

  As expected, the reprieve was short-lived, but allowing them to catch their breath ahead of the next onslaught. And it was needed since it would be nearly midnight before the last of the enemy retreated. Not only had the English killed two horses out from under King Philip, but an archer had put an arrow in his jaw, forcing him to flee. As for his sacred battle standard, its bearer had been of special interest to English bowmen who struck him down.

  Just as the King of England’s unequivocal victory was unexpected, so were his losses numbering in the hundreds. Just as the humiliation dealt the King of France shocked, so did his losses numbering in the thousands.

  Beneath a sky ink-black but for a quarter moon torn into that canvas and punched through with stars, the windmill atop the hill that had served as King Edward’s command post was filled with brushwood. Set alight, it allowed the English to move among the fallen and more easily locate their own, whether for burial or delivery to a physician.

  This past hour, still arrayed in armor and displaying the Oriflamme draped over his destrier’s back with the saddle strapped atop it, King Edward had ridden among his men, praising them as he kept order to ensure none let down their guard lest the French returned. Having reached the forces that withstood the first attack and seeing his son, he reined in, removed his helmet, and dismounted. Garments more bloodied and tattered than the prince’s, he embraced the youth.

  It surprised how long the sire held the son and the son the sire. When finally King Edward drew back, he considered his heir’s disarray that evidenced how courageously he had fought. “Prince Edward of the revered Plantagenets, most loyal son, you acquitted yourself well and nobly, honoring king and country,” he proclaimed.

  “As due my lord father and our people.” The youth bowed. “I serve.”

  “You are worthy to keep a realm,” his sire said and set a hand atop the prince’s head, closed his eyes in prayer, then raised him up. “Though many proclaim our reign the Golden Age, with you at our side, better it is called the Age of Honor.”

  The young man stood taller, jerked his chin.

  As done throughout the king’s progress, England’s ruler addressed those here, commanding that none boast of victory, all give thanks to God, and to remain on guard lest an enemy relief force attack in the night. Then England’s present and future king crossed to FitzSimon and Hector, the former yet possessing the prince’s muddied and bloodied banner.

  “Well done, FitzSimon.” The king clapped him on the shoulder, looked to Hector. “We are told much is owed you, young Wulfrith.”

  It was hard not to take offense at being made to sound a youth, but Hector reminded himself he had far fewer years than King Edward who was more experienced in life and battle—though since Hector’s arrival in France, by leaps he gained greater experience in both. Including the private side of my life, he thought, then questioned if he would still have a wife upon his return home.

  “’Tis told you were valorous,” King Edward said. “Worthy of your name.”

  As he embraced the praise, the prince inserted, “Greatly he aided, and for it nearly lost his sword hand.” As his sire looked to what was bandaged, he continued, “I am confident I would have escaped capture, but with this knight’s aid, sooner we slew a good number and set others to flight.”

  Again Hector struggled not to take offense, and easier it was to overcome for the smile cornering the king’s mouth. Edward knew his son exaggerated, though not overly. And he was proud as Hector expected one day to be proud of his own son.

  Do I gain one, his thoughts returned to the missive that alluded to him being incapable of siring children.

  “A reward is due you, Wulfrith,” King Edward said.

  Might you appeal to the papacy on my behalf? hope slipped in only to be dealt two swift kicks. The first was the reminder the French pope, unashamed in advancing the interests of his countrymen, would be further ill-disposed toward England’s king after the humiliating defeat of King Philip. The second kick came from sound reasoning. If the lady with whom Hector had been pleased for her gentility outside the bedchamber and ardency inside it did not want him, he would be foolish to try to hold to her. Far better he place his hope in Pope Clement bending to her family’s influence, the lies of their physician, and financial incentive. Once the marriage was annulled…

  The bitter of Hector longed to forswear wedding again, but if he wished a son—and to prove he was capable of siring children—a search must begin for his third wife who would be his fourth had the girl to whom he was first betrothed lived long enough to wed.

  Determining this time he would not leave the decision to his grandmother and sire that had allowed him to devote himself to his training and that of others, he returned his attention to the king and found he was watched.

  “We all wear many hours and shall wear more ere dawn, Wulfrith,” Edward said sympathetically. “God willing, afterward it will be safe to gain our rest.”

  Hoping the warmth in his face was not visible with the great torch made of the windmill behind, Hector said, “I shall not lower my guard.”

  “And
we shall think on your reward.” Edward turned away. “Come, worthy prince, see how well the banner of he who calls himself King of France serves as a saddle cloth. It makes our seat no more comfortable, but we are convinced red and gold look fine beneath us.”

  His son laughed, and as he matched his stride to his sire’s and FitzSimon followed, King Edward commanded his bodyguard to dismount and walk the stiff out of their legs.

  Sir Achard, who hours past had returned to guarding the king when he and others sent to aid the prince appeared, led his destrier to Hector. Being of good size, this relation wore well the marks of battle—so minor the damage to armor and garments there was no doubt the blood upon him was mostly of the enemy.

  Golden hair and face lit by the burning windmill, he swept his gaze down Hector, paused on the bandaged hand, then with forced lightness said, “All your limbs appear intact, little cousin.”

  Little only because Achard was two years older and had aided with Hector’s training at Wulfen during the completion of his own. Proof of that was had when they stood before each other, there being little difference in height nor breadth between cousins so far removed that marriage to Achard’s sister had been a consideration before the deceitful one was chosen for the Wulfrith heir.