Lord Of Lyonsbridge

ANA SEYMOUR

has been a fan of English history since her childhood, when she devoured the historical epics of Thomas Costain, Rafael Sabatini and Anya Seton and spent late nights up watching the swashbuckling movies of Errol Flynn and Tyrone Power. She spent a number of years working in the field of journalism, but she never forgot the magic of those tales. Now she is happy to be weaving some of that magic herself through Harlequin Historicals. Ana loves to hear from her readers at P.O. Box 47888, Minneapolis, MN 55447.

The Lyonsbridge Brands were named in honor of my Brand descendant cousins: Kathy Brodniak, Beverly Killiam, and Brand and John Frentz, who have all said such nice things about my books!

Chapter One (#ulink_da6e01e1-7646-5399-916b-d08aee5ae84d)

England, 1130

It was a rare day. Around the stable yard a crystalline lace of hoarfrost outlined the trees and fences in white. Connor’s breath showed in puffy clouds as he struggled against the big man in his grasp.

“I trow, you’ve put on another stone since last sennight, Martin,” he gasped.

Father Martin, friar of St. John’s, shoved his shoulder against the slighter man, sending them both tumbling to the frozen ground. “’Tis you who’ve grown weak, big brother. Best you lay aside your lute and spend more time with the quarter staff.”

Connor gave the priest a great heave to roll his considerable bulk off to one side, then sat up. “Not too weak to snatch you up and set you right-side down on your bald pate, Martin, if I were a mind.”

Father Martin grinned. “Try it,” he challenged.

Connor returned his baby brother’s smile. “I’ve too much respect for the holy church.”

The priest snorted. “Now there’s a tale. When was the last time I saw you at vespers, brother? Or in confession?”

Connor stood easily, offered his hand and pulled his brother upright. “I’ve a reason for avoiding the confessional.”

“As your spiritual advisor, my son, I’d like to hear it.” Father Martin’s words were solemn, but there was a twinkle in his bright blue eyes.

“You’re my brother by blood, Martin, not my father. No church vows can change that.”

“Well, I’ll hear the reason, for all that. Why’ve you been neglecting the sacraments?”

Connor brushed at the frost that clung to his leather tunic. “By the saints, Martin. If I gave a true confession, I’d have to sully the reputation of half the maids in Lyonsbridge. Is not chivalry a virtue in the church’s eyes?”

Connor thought he detected a slight blush on his brother’s round face. Not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like if he, Connor, had been the third Brand son, destined to give his life to the church, instead of the firstborn. He gave a little shudder. Of course, if the gossips were correct, the vows of celibacy sat lightly on some members of the holy orders. But Connor suspected that his brother, for all his jovial nature, took his vocation seriously.

As if affirming Connor’s thoughts, Father Martin frowned. “You should be shriven, Connor. The account of your sins would never leave the confessional.”

Connor shook his head and began walking toward the stable. It was past feeding time. “’Tis safer if the account of my sins never leaves my lips, Martin. Do you have time to help with the animals?”

Father Martin matched his brother’s long strides, undeterred by his clerical robe. “Aye. Brother Augustine will be giving compline this night.”

“Mayhap we should resume our wrestling match, then. Let me seek revenge.”

The priest laughed. “Give it up, brother. ‘Tis small wonder I can best you if the only wrestling you’re doing these days is with the fairer sex.”

Connor studied his brother. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, making his eyes look bluer. The hair that was left around his tonsured skull was blond, identical to Connor’s own. Before Martin had taken his vows, the brothers had sometimes been thought twins, though they were four years apart in age. Handsome and strapping, the three Brand sons had begun turning female heads when they were still youths. Their adventures had provoked outrage and awe in nearly equal measure. “Do you not miss it, brother?” Connor asked softly.

Father Martin hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “I’ll leave the maids to you, Connor, and I’ll add you into my prayers each night, since you seem determined to risk your immortal soul.”

They’d reached the door of the massive Lyonsbridge stable. When the Brands of Lyonsbridge had held dominion over the entire fiefdom, it was widely known that there were no finer horses in all of England. Connor’s father had had requests for Lyonsbridge bloodstock from as far away as Spain, a land that boasted proud stock of its own.

“If the Lord finds objection in the pleasuring of a man and a maid, then he’s a cruel lord indeed,” Connor objected. “For he’s left us Saxons with little enough joy in our lives.”

His brother grew solemn. It was true that life had not been easy for the Saxons these past few years. With the Norman king, Henry, firmly established on the throne, the fighting was ending. But the hardships continued.

“Aye. Times have been hard, and I believe if the man and maid are both willing, the Lord might be willing to overlook a tryst or two outside of the marriage bed.”

Connor clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Lucky thing for me. But might he not then also overlook one or two outside of your holy vows? Leofric the miller has two daughters that are among the tastiest morsels I’ve set eyes upon. I had a deal of a time choosing the elder. The younger is still ripe for plucking, but I have scruples about two sisters—”

Father Martin interrupted him with an upheld hand. “I’ll be on my knees until midnight if you continue, brother. I’m asking you humbly to turn your conversation to more noble paths.”

Connor grimaced. “They’ve made a holy man of you at last, I’m afraid,” he said. “Can I not interest you in at least hearing about the maid’s virtues?”

“’Tis not of her virtues that you want to speak, brother, so leave it be. Did you not tell me that you’ve work to do aplenty?”

Connor pushed back the sleeves of his surcoat. “Aye. They’re due on the morrow—our new masters.”

“Lord Wakelin himself?”

“Nay, it appears the new Lord of Lyonsbridge is too delicate to face the people whose land he’s usurped. He’s sending a nephew and, I hear, his daughter.”

“The lady Ellen?” Father Martin asked in surprise.

“Aye.”

“Well, now.” The priest looked over at his brother, who had begun to curry a huge black charger named Thunder, one of the stable’s finest. “Are you not curious to see her?”

Connor shrugged. “I doubt I shall. I hear that Norman maidens bathe in milk, sleep in silk and never let the light of day fall on their lily skin.” He gave the big horse a slap on its polished rump and gestured to his brother. “Are you going to help me or not? That holy life of leisure is padding you with lard.”

Father Martin picked up a second brush and moved toward Connor, but stayed with the prior topic. “’Tis said the King of France himself wanted her. They sing of her beauty.”

“Let them sing. I’ll take a robust, blooming English lass any day.”

“Aye, I wager you would,” Father Martin said with a twisted grin. “But even I find myself curious about whether the lady Ellen does justice to the ballads they sing of her.”

Connor laughed and gave the priest a gentle shove. “Curious, eh? Ah, brother, mayhap all hope is not lost for you yet.”

“I knew England would be primitive, but I didn’t realize it would also be colder than the devil’s cellar,” Ellen of Wakelin said with a shiver.

Sebastian Phippen grimaced at his cousin and hastily made the sign of the cross on his chest. “’Tis no wonder your father has exiled you, Ellen, with the tongue you wield.”

Ellen sat straighter in her silver-tooled saddle, stretching her weary back. “It’s not exile. Father asked me to come to Lyonsbridge because it wants proper Norman management. He said he’d neglected it for too long.”

“Which is why he asked me to serve as castellan in his stead,” Sebastian replied smoothly. “I hadn’t expected he’d want me to bring you along.” At Ellen’s scowl, he added hastily, “Though ‘tis always a pleasure to be in your company, fair cousin.”

“Don’t think I look any more kindly on the task, Sebastian. The sooner we can put some proper order into these estates and return to Normandy, the better.”

Ellen looked out over the bright green countryside. Here and there it sparkled with frost in the waning sunlight. It was pretty, and she’d probably be enjoying the ride if she hadn’t lost all feeling in her fingers quite some time ago. She hadn’t complained, since it had been at her insistence that they had continued riding, even though it meant they might not reach the castle until dark.