The Warrior and the Wildflower Read online

  The Warrior and the Wildflower

  Forgotten Flowers of Flanders

  Book One

  Everley Gregg

  Copyright © 2020 Frances Brown writing as Everley Gregg

  Text by Everley Gregg

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition January 2021

  Kindle Edition

  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. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Dearest Reader;

  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

  Happy Reading!

  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Everley Gregg

  Forgotten Flowers of Flanders Series

  The Warrior and the Wildflower

  The Knight and the Rose

  The Earl and the Lily

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Everley Gregg

  Author’s Notes

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Afterthoughts from the Author

  About the Author

  Author’s Notes

  Most romantic historical fiction seems to have forgotten, or ignored, northern Europe in the late Middle Ages. The territories north of France, today known as Belgium and the Netherlands, were known as the County of Flanders and lost their independence to Burgundy (the French House of Valois) in 1405.

  Duke Philip III of Burgundy, also called “Philip the Good,” ruled over the Flemish lands from 1419 until his death in 1467. This period is known to most historians as the waning of the Middle Ages, a transitional period lying on the threshold of the Renaissance. In reality, the period was far from a time of waning. Under Philip the Good, the extravagance and richness of court life reached its pinnacle.

  If ever I went back in time to live in the Middle Ages, 15th Century Flanders is where I would want to be.

  One of Phillip’s indulgences, as pegged by the Bishop of Tournai, was his “weakness of the flesh”—in addition to his nine legal offspring, Philip produced at least eighteen illegitimate children by twenty-four documented mistresses.

  At least.

  After being widowed twice, Philip married Isabella of Portugal in 1430. Isabella bore him three sons, only one of which survived. Not a shrinking violet by any means, Isabella became an important and influential member of Philip’s court, establishing a reputation as an expert negotiator.

  Although Philip provided well for many of his bastard children, there were numerous offspring, particularly the females, who have vanished into obscurity. These were the women who, although of royal descent, laid no claim to lands or titles. To history, they have essentially been lost.

  The duchess, Isabella, chose to accept Philip’s “weakness of the flesh.” In this author’s interpretation of her personality, she also chose to take pity on his many female bastard children and to involve herself in their upbringing.

  As an author of romantic fiction and one obsessed with this period of history, I decided to make liberal use of artistic license and bring some of these “lost flowers of Flanders” back to life.

  These are their stories.

  Enjoy the Journey!

  Everley

  Prologue

  September, 1408

  Othée, Flanders

  The Liègeois’ collapse had been brewing for over fifteen years.

  Victor de Flambre, a commander of Liège’s rebels, anxiously awaited news of the arrival of help from the Burgundian duke. It was now a cold, dreary January day, and he and his men had been bombarding the town of Maastricht with over fifteen-hundred cannonballs since November. Victor’s men were tiring, and they didn’t seem to be making any progress. He decided to withdraw, recoup, and resume the siege a few months hence.

  But the rebels were far from finished with Maastricht. They continued their siege again in July, meeting with strong resistance still. Although a rash and unpredictable ruler, John of Bavaria wasn’t to be taken down so easily. When word came that John of Burgundy was on his way—presumably to help the Liègeois—Victor rallied new hope.

  He was in for a surprise.

  The morning of September 20th dawned cool and breezy. Victor sat on a fallen log near one of the cooking fires, its scent heavy on the air. Over the anxious snorting of the destriers being saddled and suited for battle, Victor heard the pounding of hooves.

  The scout galloped into their midst with news the commander loathed to hear.

  “My lord, the Burgundian duke is in Liège.”

  “Ah, thank Christ, at last.” De Flandre spat on the ground as he rose heavily to his feet. This siege had stretched on far too l
ong. Since last fall, he’d only been able to return home to his young bride in Awans for a short respite in early summer. A reprieve far too short, and far too long in coming.

  “No, my lord. The news is not good.” The scout’s high-pitched voice marked his youth. But there was something else to it that sent itchy fingers under the admiral’s skin. Fear.

  The boy continued quickly. “Burgundy comes not to aid, but to set siege against us.”

  Victor staggered back a step, his boot making a sickening sucking sound on the wet turf. “This is not possible.” He narrowed his eyes at the scout, whose foam-flecked courser pranced in a semi-circle before him, flinging mud with every footfall.

  “’Tis true, my lord. The duke has been in negotiation with the prince-bishop for several days, but it did not bode well. Even as I headed out, Burgundy’s artillery was pommeling Tongeren.”

  The scout’s youth and obvious terror caused the commander not to question the message. He did not believe this was not a ploy to draw the rebels away from Maastricht. This was, by God’s bones, a horrific twist of fate.

  They were so close to capturing the city. With Burgundy’s help, it could all be over in day. Now, what he had expected to be a gift from heaven turned out to be a curse from hell.

  Two days later, Victor and his army perched on a rise overlooking Othée. As the sun rose high in an almost cloudless September sky, dread overwhelmed him as he scanned the impressive forces spread out on the opposite rise. Thousands of men awaited him. A huge mass of foot soldiers, flanked by archers and cavalry on both sides, stood in the midday sun. Flashes of light sparked blindingly off those lucky enough wearing armor.

  Victor advanced his men until they were no more than three bow shots from the enemy before the bedlam ensued. The Burgundians began their assault from a distance, with iron balls shot from their hand-held coulevrines—far more destructive than a rain of arrows. Victor signaled to return the gunfire, but the rebels were grossly outnumbered. The Duke’s army held their ground.

  The stalemate didn’t last for long.

  The Burgundians attacked, sending a torrent of cannonballs and arrows raining down over the rebels. His men’s carefully practiced formations wavered as panic overtook them. All around him, Victor heard the screams of horses and watched helplessly as his men fell by the dozens. From his position in the left cavalry flank, he witnessed a literal decimation of his infantry as the enemy swept forward through his front line.

  Over the mayhem, shouts made their way to Victor’s ears through the ranks at the rear. The news made his blood run cold. Apparently the Burgundians had broken up, sending hundreds of cavalry and infantrymen around his forces—to attack from behind. Just then he heard an ominous whoosh. He turned to find a cavalryman’s mace had barely missed taking off his head.

  Victor was ready when the Burgundian swung a second time. He ducked and raised his sword to parry the blow. Successfully twisting his blade in the chain, he yanked the weapon from the big man’s gauntlet. Sliding his sword free, Victor gritted his teeth and lifted it again, poised to run his opponent through. But he never got the chance.

  Something fell out of the sky.

  Twenty pounds of roughly molded iron, its weight amplified by its acceleration from above, landed square on the top of Victor’s helmet. The impact crushed the metal, caving it inward to bear upon his skull. He heard the collision of metal on metal, but never felt any pain.

  For a moment, he was floating, and all sounds of the battle around him ceased. Then his body jarred mercilessly as he hit the ground. Time stood still as he lost touch with his arms, his torso, his legs. His world darkened rapidly, from the edges inward. As death claimed him, his life’s blood flowing in warm rivers over his face, all Victor could think of was that last night in his lady’s bed.

  A night when the last de Flandre had been conceived—a child who would never know the brave warrior who was his sire.

  Chapter One

  February 1436

  Ghent, Flanders

  The missive arrived by courier, a messenger on horseback, one who was clothed more elaborately than a common peasant.

  Eva sat on her usual perch, a stool in the chilly back corner of the tailor shop just off the Market Square. She usually did not pay any mind to the muffled clatter of hooves on cobblestone. This was a common occurrence along this narrow but well-traveled street. It was only when the clopping ceased at the shop’s front door that she laid her needlework in her lap and looked up.

  Her mother also left her work to meet the messenger inside the door. A cold blast of winter wind followed the man inside to flutter the garments hung along the wall, its cold breath seeping under the worktable. Eva shivered and tucked the folds of her woolen skirt more tightly under her.

  A messenger’s arrival was not uncommon in the tailor shop. Many times the bourgeois sent orders this way. If Marisse had fashioned garments for the patron before, she already had their vitals recorded, their patterns made. Requests for new garments often arrived by missive, especially in winter.

  It was only when her mother gasped and held a hand to her throat that Eva rose and, her steps uneven, hurried to her side.

  “What is it, maman?”

  Marisse pointed a finger at the seal holding the rolled parchment closed. “This is . . . a royal seal. Is this from—?”

  “Yes, Madame Geretsz. The missive is from the duke.”

  Affording Marisse a small bow, the messenger turned on his heel and left, the heavy oak door thunking closed behind him. She turned wide eyes on Eva. “Philip has not contacted me in many years,” she whispered.

  Her mother’s words sounded like an apology. And so, they might. Eva knew of her own—and her mother’s—history. Her real father knew as well. After all, after Marisse conceived Eva, it was Philip who had arranged for her mother’s betrothal to Andries Geretsz, the Flemish tailor with whom Philip had done much business. It was only Eva’s siblings, her younger stepbrother and sister, who didn’t know the truth of their sister’s lineage. At five and six years of age, they were too young to yet understand their mother’s past.

  Marisse had once, for a short time, been a mistress of the duke, Philip III of Burgundy—one of many. Philip the Good. ’Twas how Eva came to be.

  With trembling fingers, Marisse slid her thumbnail under the seal, carefully, trying not to crumble the wax bearing the seal of the Order of the Golden Fleece. Even now, Eva could sense her mother’s reverence. She wasn’t sure how that made her feel. Was it respect for Marisse’s loyalty? Mayhap. But in all good conscience, how could Eva respect what it was that her mother had been to the powerful Burgundian?

  A mistress. Nothing more. Eva was among Philip’s countless bastard children, though not one granted the title. She laid no claim to anything from her father’s court. Some of his illegitimate daughters were recognized, but not Eva.

  Eva of Utrecht, at just shy of sixteen winters, had accepted her fate. She knew no nobleman, no knight of honor would ever ask for the hand of a bastard, especially one swept aside by a powerful Burgundian duke. Especially one who, born with a club foot only partially corrected by the healers, had been left with an uneven gait. She would remain a seamstress, a tailor’s daughter, until some man—a local craftsman, or mayhap even a commoner—decided he needed a wife.

  If ever.

  A missive from the Duke himself, however, could signal a change. A glimmer of hope sparked in Eva’s chest.

  She watched, waiting patiently as Marisse read the words inscribed on the parchment. She was surprised to see her mother’s eyes fill with tears. When she finally looked up, Marisse’s voice cracked with the words.

  “Philip is sending for you. You are to attend the May Day Festival at his castle in Coudenburg. He orders, in this message, for an exquisite gown to be fashioned for you of the finest silk, at his expense.”

  In a rare display of affection, Marisse embraced her daughter. Was she happy for her? Or simply relieved she would no longer be
burdened with a bastard daughter for whom she’d have support until some man took pity on her crepled offspring?

  ’Twas relief, Eva was quite sure.

  That night, Eva lay in her bed as the winds rattled the windows in her tiny, shared bedchamber above the tailor shop in Ghent. Her thoughts spun like a leaf in the gale. Why now, after sixteen years of ignoring—or perhaps denying—her existence, had her true father decided to acknowledge her? Did he have plans to provide for her future after all?

  Eva dared not even hope. She had accepted her lot, the daughter of tailors, destined for a commoner’s life. Still, she possessed pride. Eva was comely, with a river of golden-blonde hair so long she often sat upon it, and womanly curves developing already beneath her plain chemise and kirtle. She had mastered the craft of plying cloth into exquisite garments, producing stitches so fine they were almost invisible.

  Invisible. This had defined Eva’s existence since the day she was born. It was how she’d remained to her father, the Duke, since she was nothing more than a bastard child—and one with a disfigurement. Even her stepfather preferred to ignore her existence, as she remained a constant reminder to Andries Geretsz of his wife’s sins. Philip had arranged the marriage. Andries had accepted Marisse and her infant bastard daughter, but that didn’t mean he loved Eva as he did his own children.

  Now Philip had summoned Eva to the grand May Day celebration at his luxurious palace in Brussels. In truth, she’d never ventured beyond the gates of Ghent. Eva couldn’t put a name to the many emotions swirling through her—shock, excitement, anticipation, but also a healthy dose of fear. Eva was not trained in the ways of the court. She did not know what to expect, or how to act.

  Floating on the top of all these emotions was one Eva had experienced very little of in her short life—hope.

  Although far from worldly, Eva heard the other girls’ chatter at the Market Square. She knew that dancing was among the festivities at the May Day feast. Day to day, Eva got along pretty well with her twisted foot. It remained hidden under the hem of her kirtle and, if she took her time when walking, no one was even aware. But dancing? Impossible.