Broken Vows, Mended Hearts

Dear Reader

The process by which two people become a couple has always fascinated me. Marriage, even in the best of circumstances, takes a huge amount of work, hope and determination to succeed. In medieval times, those of the upper classes rarely had much choice in the matter. How would you cope if someone else chose a mate for you? A virtual stranger? Remember that this was a business deal—divorce was not an option and love rarely a consideration. It was truly death till you parted. Would you rail against fate, or do your utmost to create a loving relationship?

In A BOUQUET OF THISTLES I give you a couple who were amiably betrothed at a very young age, but then were changed by war and circumstance into two very different and headstrong individuals. When Alys and John finally meet as adults, can they make love out of a young girl’s fantasies and a fledgling knight’s indifference? I truly hope you enjoy their efforts and mine.

Happy Reading!

In memory of my good friend, Donna Mixon.

Chapter One

Hetherston Castle, Northumberland, 1366

"He does not want you, Alys. No one expects you to honor—"

Alys of Camoy shoved past her cousin. He is here now. I shall have a husband. Twice she had been denied that by death and circumstance. Even had she possessed a choice when betrothed, she could not have fared better this time. And her knight was home. There will be a wedding.

So say you. But if he did not come to claim you before…

Hush, Thomasine, and let go my arm. I must hurry if I am to greet him in the courtyard.

Let him wait! her cousin admonished. "He has kept you waiting long enough!"

Her kinswoman, newly arrived from London, grasped at Alys’s sleeve again to slow her progress. Do not fly to him this way. You should cry off it, Alys. The entire court makes sport of you for clinging to a ten-year contract with that half-Scottish lout!

One whom the king holds in high regard! Alys snapped. Her betrothed had been taken prisoner by the Spanish usurper Trastamere while saving the king’s son, Lancaster, from capture. That selfless act should endear John to the entire royal family.

Though delighted to have word by Thomasine that John was still alive and had recently arrived from Spain, Alys wished her cousin had remained at court. Thomasine reported that John cursed anyone who dared come near him there, even the king’s own physicians. Untrue, of course, for that was not the genial knight she knew and loved.

She had no time to argue further. Cease your prating and wait here, Alys ordered. Though she used a commanding voice sparingly, she could exhibit authority when need be.

Thomasine scoffed. Go then! Act the eager pup and wriggle at his feet! I warn you, any man will take advantage if you—

Alys did not hear the rest and did not wish to. Thomasine did not know John. She had not grown up as Alys had, feasting on the stories of his youth fed to her by his mother or glorying in the tales of his courage told by his father. No, and Thomasine had not been there at the betrothal ceremony. She did not know him.

The gates opened wide just as Alys reached the bottom step of the great stone keep. She took pride in the way she had managed since the baron’s death. John would not be disappointed in her care of his estate.

Their larders were better stocked than most after a harsh winter. A generous welcome feast tonight should present no problem and there was plenty in store for the wedding celebration. Fish hatched in the holding ponds. The swine were increasing, as were the cattle. Planting had begun.

The moat had been cleaned only weeks ago and had refilled with the spring rains. She had insisted the grounds be raked and leveled regularly and had timely repairs on the buildings made. He can find no fault with me in that respect, she assured herself as she brushed at the wrinkles in her skirts.

Only then did Alys stop and think of how she might appear to her future husband. Last he had seen her, she was only eleven years old, dressed in a swathe of rich blue brocade and wearing a ringlet of spring flowers over her long blond hair. What would he think of her now?

This day she wore a plain gown of pale camlet with an un-trimmed surcoat of green linen. Her hair had darkened to near brown save for streaks the sun kept light. Caught up in a day cap that refused to hold it all neatly, her errant locks did nothing to enhance her appearance.

She hastily tried to tuck the stubborn curls out of sight and tied the ribands of her cap under her chin. La, he’ll think I’ve become a maid of all work, she muttered, straightening her shoulders and marching on out to meet him. Too late now to mind her looks. Gallant as he was, John would surely understand.

The spiky portcullis inched its way up, creaking with each tug of the ropes. Should she have opened it sooner to signal immediate welcome? Or would he have seen that as a foolhardy measure, inviting a possible attack? Hetherston was very near the border and outlaws roamed. None had dared since she had lived here, but she thought it best not to offer them the temptation of an open door.

Alys bit her lips and moistened them, then arranged a smile upon her face. The jingle of harness and creak of leather ensued as the riders filed into the courtyard. The small party consisted of only about a dozen men.

Which one was he? Her gaze flew hither and yon, from man to man. Would she know him still? Had he changed?

How handsome he had been that day when they plighted their troth before his beaming parents and their many guests. Newly knighted, he had worn Lancaster’s colors for the first time, red and black.

She remembered how he had towered over her at least a foot, resplendent with the shiny sword and golden spurs he wore. But more distinctly, she recalled the merry smile that bared his perfect white teeth. She remembered the deep blue eyes inviting her to share happiness. His dark lustrous hair had waved just so, teasing the top edge of his silver gorget. Other details of his features had faded over the years in her mind. Would she know him?

One of the men quickly dismounted and approached her. This could not be John. The fellow was nearly as short as she was. And as rotund as Father Stephen. On closer inspection of his raiment, she determined he was no knight.

Greetings. You are well come to Hetherston, she said. The castle folk were gathering, forming a wide arc around the riders, likely as curious as she to see the returning son of the house.

My name is Simon Ferrell, I am Sir…I mean Lord John’s squire.

John had inherited his father’s barony upon the old lord’s death a half year past, so he was no longer merely a sir. He was lord here now. Lord Greycourt of Hetherston.

She had resumed her scrutiny of those still mounted when Ferrell cleared his throat to regain her attention. Have you a bed prepared?

Alys grasped the man’s forearm. Is he very ill then? She cast about for a litter but saw none. Where is he?"

Here, a voice growled from atop a horse nearby. He had been leaning forward in the saddle so she had not yet seen him. Now he walked his mount closer. Where is my cup, woman?

Alys’s gaze flew to him, relishing the sound of his voice, not caring that its tone bore pique. Speechless, she took in the pallor of his skin, the dark shadows beneath his eyes and the tightness of his lips. Was he in pain?

Oh lord, she had not even thought of the stirrup cup. What sort of wife would she make if she couldn’t do this least of services to a returning husband. I shall fetch it! she declared, turning to do just that.

Hold! he ordered, slipping from his saddle with some effort. Leave it be. I would as soon take the wine in the hall. Ferrell rushed to support him.

As you will. Here, allow me, Alys said, hurrying to lend him her shoulder on the opposite side from his squire.

He pulled back and shot her a forbidding look. What was wrong with him that he would not accept her help?

Unfortunately, little Walter chose this moment to make himself known. The towheaded imp dashed up and danced around them like a jongleur, tugging once at the hem of John’s tunic. I’m Walt! he announced. You must be Johnny!

Walter, go inside now, Alys ordered, kindly but firmly, pointing to the keep. You may speak with him later when he has rested. Mind me well or no pudding at supper!

The boy cartwheeled twice, showing off his newest trick, then raced away laughing. Alys shook her head, hands on her hips, as she fell in step beside the men. Do forgive him, my lord. He’s only excited to see you, as we all are. It is so good to have you home.

Who is he? The question sounded gruff, disapproving even, as his frowning gaze followed the child.

Why, Walter, of course. Did you not receive your mother’s letter giving you news of him?

Nay. Stand aside, girl, lest you trip me, he muttered, sounding distracted, as if putting one foot before the other now commanded the major part of his concentration.

Once inside the keep, he had to deal with the steps leading up to the hall, so Alys remained silent, pretending not to notice his difficulty. Though he did not limp or gasp for breath, he did appear gravely weakened.

She rushed to the table not yet cleared from the noon meal, poured him wine and returned. He gulped it quickly as if his thirst had overcome him.

Alys watched the working of his throat with fascination, then stared at his moistened lips when he had finished. He licked them and glared at her as he handed back the cup.

When their fingers touched, it was as if he really noticed her for the first time. The sharp blue gaze raked her head to toe, then returned to her face. His expression turned quizzical, but he said nothing, not even to thank her.

Alys forgave that. He was obviously ill and travel weary. Perhaps you would like a bath now and a meal in your chamber? she asked, keeping her voice bright. I will have the hot water fetched and be up to attend you when the tub is filled.

My squire will see to the bath.

But I…very well. She forced a smile. He was surely being considerate and only thought to spare her sensibilities, Alys decided. She was, after all, still a maiden. How could he know she had assumed the duties of his mother long ago and saw to the bathing of all guests of any import? If you require anything else, you have but to ask.

"I am no guest here, woman. Who are you and where is the child, Alys? Is she here?"

He cast a narrow-eyed glance toward the hearth. Thomasine sat there with her embroidery, obviously pouting, definitely observing them from the corner of her eye. Did John think she was the one? The blond and comely cousin suddenly assumed the role of rival.

I am Alys, John.

His head swerved with a jerk and his eyes flared. Alys? The word emerged in a whisper. You?

She grinned, amused by his surprise. Aye. I thought you knew me. But how should you since I am much changed from the child you would remember?

She spread her arms and looked down at herself and laughed. And dressed no better than a goose girl, how could you guess who I am? Apologies for that and a belated greeting, she said sincerely. I am so relieved that you survived your captivity and overjoyed that you have arrived. You can see that we did not expect you so soon.

Then she realized how bittersweet this homecoming must be for him. She had had time aplenty to come to terms with his parents’ sad absence. It would take time for him to adjust to it as well. Small wonder he was out of sorts, when she had not yet offered condolences. John, I do so regret—

His dark eyebrows met. He grabbed on to his squire’s shoulder and turned to the stairs. We will speak later, he muttered, ostensibly to her. Then, his voice even weaker, he addressed his squire. Get me to my chamber, Simon.

Rest well! Alys called after him. The water and victuals will be up in a trice.

She watched for a few seconds as he leaned even more heavily on his man. How badly was John hurt? The war or captivity had wounded more than his body, she would guess.

This was not the young knight she had stood beside ten years before. John was a man in need now, in need of sympathy and a woman’s care. Her care, if he would ever allow it.

She twisted the silver ring he had placed on her finger at that time and felt the tightness of it pinch more than usual. She had outgrown it over the years, moved it to her smallest digit and even there it no longer fit. Was that perhaps an omen?

Nonsense, she muttered under her breath. He is simply not himself after the grueling ride in his condition. Who could expect civility?

There are things to be done, Alys reminded herself sternly. Food to be got and hot water to pour. With a shrug, she moved to order them from the kitchens.

Never mind that he was obviously disappointed in the way she had turned out. He had not seen her to best advantage and that was her own fault.

All she had to do was to make him glad to be home and help him regain his strength. When rested he would recover his good nature, she was certain of it. John was ever kind and considerate, a perfect knight. His current mood troubled her, but she knew it to be temporary. Meanwhile, he would have naught but smiles from her, no matter how dour his words or acts. Her future depended on it.

Her happiness hung upon it, as well. Every waking moment for ten long years, she had thought of nothing but this wonderful man and their making a life together.

John realized he had rarely given the girl a thought.

Alys of Camoy might as well have been one of the lovely tapestries his mother made to lend beauty to Hetherston’s hall. Or a silver goblet his father purchased to set out on special occasions. She had only been part and parcel of the estate in the mind of a young knight anticipating lifelong adventure in service to the king’s son, Lancaster. However, now the parcel had a voice. And she also possessed a presence he could not ignore. What was he to do with her?

You gave the lady grave insult with every word, Simon Ferrell muttered. Especially the ones you did not say.

She will learn quickly enough that I have no plan to marry her. As soon as I am able, fitted for new armor and in possession of a decent mount, it is back to France to join Prince Edward’s campaign against Trastamere.

What care you which Spaniard rules Spain?

It is enough the king cares, that the duke has a vested interest, John reminded him. Not to mention my own need for revenge.

Simon blew out a breath between his teeth. Suppose you do not survive? Why not wed and sire an heir while you are here? Simon suggested.

John sighed. What do I know of being a lord? I fight. That is what I do and all I know. What use is a wife? Or an heir, for that matter. He winced as he stretched his arms wide to loosen his muscles. "After ignoring Alys of Camoy all these years, should I now wed her, put a babe in her belly and leave her to fend for herself? Fair treatment that would be, eh? Let her have her freedom and the title end with me, it’s no matter."

It might matter to the people here. Especially her.

Nonsense. This is her third betrothal. The king will find her another man.

Simon drew off John’s dusty surcoat, then tackled the heavy mail John had borrowed for the journey. With practiced effort, he removed it and laid it aside to be cleaned. She is a beautiful woman. I have yet to see you ignore one of those.

This one, I will. John sank onto the edge of the bed and buried his face in one hand. I am so devilish weary, Simon. And my stomach is afire. Go and tell her—

Ferrell unbuckled the padded gambeson. Tell her yourself. I hate to see a woman mistreated just because your belly burns.

Mistreated? John asked with a huff, shoving Simon aside. He shrugged out of the garment himself and threw it down. You do not know the meaning of that word.

Simon issued a grunt and rolled his eyes. "And you do, of course, languishing at the mercy of the Spanish, lo, this long, long year past. Are we lapsing into misery again?"

Again? John asked with a bitter half laugh. Have I left it yet? My parents are dead. My strength is but that of a newborn calf. And I have wasted a decade of that poor girl’s youth. Give me one good reason I should not feel miserable.

I will give you reasons. Simon tugged off one of John’s boots and dropped it to the floor. You escaped those heathens. You are alive with no lasting damage to your person. And you have a winsome lass eager to become your bride. Simon paused but an instant, then added, I’ll give another for good measure. Self-pity does not become you.

’Tis not self-pity, Simon, only grief and regret. And guilt and anger, John did not add.

Those wear the same face then, Simon said.

John collapsed back upon the mattress, covering his eyes with his forearm. He could trust the ever-blunt Simon in all things, especially to spit out the ugly truth when necessary. You are right, of course. I did behave badly. I will sleep for a few hours and then be charming.

Simon grunted again. That would be worth a year’s pay to see.

A year’s pay was roughly what was owed the man in any case. That, and possibly John’s very life. Simon, a farrier’s son chosen six years ago from Lancaster’s ranks to become his squire, had made his way alone to Spain after John’s capture. Loyal to the core and practical as the day was long, Simon had done all in his power to aid John while supporting himself as a smithy and living near the castle where John had been held. Without him, there could have been no escape. I applied to the king, Simon. I plan to knight you as soon as—

Meanwhile, let’s get you settled.

John stuck out his other boot and waited for Simon to finish his chore. Then he muttered, Leave me now. Let me rest.

As you will, my lord.

My lord. John could not get used to the title any more than he could accept the fact that his father was gone, buried in the crypt within the chapel. And his mother, dead just over a year, lying there beside her beloved.

He should have come home long ago, at least for a short visit. How he wished he had, even if it had involved going against the duke’s wishes. Even if it had meant wedding that infant they had chosen for him. Now he had a choice in that, having left it so long undone, but at what cost?

The news of his mother’s death had come on the eve of the worst battle of John’s life. Surrounded by the stench of death and the cries of the wounded, he had received the last missive he was to get before his capture the month following.

The brief letter had been penned for and signed by little Lady Alys. No fault of the messenger, but he resented her still.

How did this orphan whose very existence was owed to his father’s mercy and the king’s favor, think it her place to write of such a weighty matter?

He had not heard of his father’s more recent death until he reached London. That grief was still raw as an open wound. How he wished he had returned to England during the decade past.

Had he not been so keenly intent on keeping, and even surpassing the Greycourt tradition of valor, he might have avoided the capture that now blighted his service. The Spanish had confiscated his costly destrier, armor and weapons and starved away his strength. Thankfully, they had not believed him capable of escape there at the end.

Little Lady Alys had waited all this time. Why, when it would have behooved her to set aside their betrothal and wed elsewhere? He always assumed she would. He had, in truth, counted on it. The betrothal had been but a formality, the price for his parents’ entertaining the duke and his huge retinue at John’s knighting.

Now that he bothered to look back, he vaguely recalled how Alys had looked then, a rosy, smiling tow-haired cherub who fairly danced in place throughout their short ceremony. Everything had amused him that day, even her. He hoped he had been kind to her, but could not remember exchanging a single sentence with the child after scratching his name on the contract.

Though she had grown taller and older—much, much older at one and twenty—she had not lost her youthful exuberance and eagerness to please. While it might have been endearing in the child, it troubled him now.

She was a beautiful woman despite her obvious lack of vanity. But where were her sense of caution, her dignity and righteous anger? What female with any good sense smiled so heartily at insults? Was she simpleminded?

Perhaps a lack of wit excused the fact that she had not ransomed him when the need arose. He hoped there was no other reason she had left him to his fate. Though he could hardly blame her if she believed she had cause not to save him. John had abandoned her first. The thought ate at him.

He owed her freedom. If he misliked being betrothed to gain wealth and property, how must she feel? What woman of sound wit truly accepted what amounted to being sold? Now there was an even better reason not to marry her. But would she be free to choose her life if they set aside their contract? Could he arrange something to give her some voice in her future?

Sleep tugged at him insistently and he embraced it like a welcome mistress. It provided his only escape from the devils that plagued him. And from thoughts of Alys, who stoked his guilt with her eager and blameless acceptance.

Chapter Two

"No one dared approach him, did you see?" Thomasine said.

Alys inspected the table set for supper, wishing all the while that her cousin would leave her alone and stop trotting out the obvious.

She lifted a wine cup, checked the rim for damage, then replaced it. You put too much stock in rumor and have apparently spread it far and wide since coming here. You are the one who made everyone hesitate to greet John as they should.

I did no such thing! Thomasine declared, pressing a long-fingered hand to her chest. Well, perhaps I did repeat a few tales I heard. But they were from very reliable witnesses and true. She took a deep breath and let it go in a sigh. They say he refused an audience with the duke. Can you believe it? ’Tis said the king humored him, but only to avoid a scene. Everyone knows Greycourt is a savage. The Scots blood, no doubt.

You should return to court, Alys suggested. Whatever will they do there without you to stir the gossip pots?

I had to come and warn you he was arriving soon. Her cousin scoffed. You will rue the day if you marry that man.

Alys turned on her, barely controlling the anger that welled up inside. Then what would you suggest I do, cousin, ask the king for yet another? How do you think that would set with him when he has already given me three?

"So, do not trouble the king. Cry off first, and then