WolfeHeart: de Wolfe Pack Generations, page 10
It was fascinating.
“The sword,” Aldwin said, pointing. “It has a dog’s head.”
Markus looked at the sword that was longer than some of the children were tall. He put his gloved hand on the hilt.
“Not a dog,” he said. “A wolf’s head. My family name is de Wolfe.”
The boys were brave enough to come a little closer. Even Alfie came closer, all of them looking at the exquisite wolf’s head with the ruby eyes. Then, he looked at Markus’ tunic and pointed.
“The wolf head is on your tunic,” he said. “Is it everywhere, then?”
Markus nodded. “Everywhere,” he said. “I even have it on my body, a mark of the House of de Wolfe.”
That brought great interest from Alfie and his knights. “What kind of mark?” Alfie asked. “Is it burned on you?”
Markus shook his head. “It is drawn on,” he said. “In ancient times past, it was called a stigmata. It is a mark, a picture of something, that is made with something sharp upon the skin. Then, an ink is put in the little wounds that make the mark permanent. When I take off my mail, I will show you. It is the de Wolfe’s head, the mark of the grandsons of William de Wolfe of Castle Questing.”
Alfie was fascinated by the suggestion of a permanent mark upon the skin, but something else in Markus’ conversation caught his attention. “Castle Questing,” he said. “That is where Atlas lives.”
Markus nodded. “He serves at Castle Questing, the heart of the de Wolfe empire,” he said. “But there are other castles, too. Berwick is one and that is my father’s castle. It is by the sea.”
Alfie’s eyes lit up. “I want to go there,” he said. “I want to take my horse guard and go to the castle by the sea. Is that where you live?”
Markus nodded. “I do,” he said. “I live there with my mother and father and brothers and sisters. But I am not going to be there much longer.”
Alfie looked at him with concern. “But why?”
“Because I am going to London to protect King Edward.”
That brought expressions of awe from the children. Even the little girls, who were wrapped up in vines and dried flower garlands, seemed impressed. But the goose suddenly appeared and tried to nip Alfie, who howled and lifted his stick to the goose. It was a standoff because the goose wouldn’t run away until Alfie told his horse guard to go vanquish the evil dragon.
But it was really a goose.
The horse guard proceeded cautiously, and for good reason.
“Ow!”
Aldwin was on the receiving end of a goosey pinch as Markus stood there and snorted. He was, however, wise enough to back away because even he didn’t want to tangle with the big goose. He had a feeling slaying it in front of the children might not be well-met. He watched four boys try to fend off the aggressive fowl, turning his head away so they wouldn’t see him laugh. As he did, he caught sight of his brother, Cassius, over at the yard gate.
“Cass,” he called, waving an arm. “Come over here.”
Cassius de Wolfe was eighteen months younger than Markus. He had his mother’s blue eyes, quite the handsome lad, but he had curly hair when no one else in the family did. Everyone else had straight hair, or hair with a slight wave to it, but Cassius’ hair was silky and kinky, in ringlets that a woman would envy. He came over to his brother, eyeing the gaggle of children and the naughty goose.
“What are you doing?” he asked his brother.
A smile played on Markus’ lips. “Watching a mighty battle,” he said. “St. George fought the dragon. King Alfie fights the goose.”
Cassius had no idea what he was talking about. “King Alfie?”
Markus nodded, waving the children over when the goose seemed to tire of the fight and waddle off.
“Meet King Alfie and his horse guard,” he said to his brother. “King Alfie is the younger brother of the new Lord of Trastamara.”
Cassius lifted a dark eyebrow. “And just what is Alfie king of?”
“King of the kitchen yard, of course.”
Cassius nodded in understanding. “Charming,” he said drolly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, King Alfie.”
Alfie inspected Cassius with the same naked curiosity he had inspected Markus. “What’s your name?”
“Cassius de Wolfe, my lord.”
Alfie looked between Markus and Cassius. “You are brothers?”
“Indeed, we are,” Cassius said.
“I have a brother.”
“I know.”
“Do you want to be in my horse guard?”
Cassius lifted his eyebrows as he looked at Markus. “Do I?”
“Of course you do,” Markus said. “It is a great honor.”
Cassius merely shrugged. “I am sure it is,” he said. “But mayhap later. I hate to take you away from this royal duty, but Papa is looking for you. He says you are to go immediately to the lord’s solar inside the keep.”
Markus frowned. “I just saw the man at the gatehouse.”
Cassius nodded. “I know, but Atlas has emerged from the keep and Papa took it as a sign, evidently,” he said. “He is heading for the keep. Then, Hermes took Shand by the arm and they, too, are heading to the keep. What’s going on?”
Markus was acutely aware that Alfie was watching them. “Did you not hear anything at all?”
“About what?”
Markus turned away so that Alfie couldn’t hear him. “Atlas is sending Shand away,” he muttered. “The lad doesn’t want Bexwell here and I don’t blame him. He’s been positioning to take over Trastamara.”
Cassius frowned. “Who told you that?”
“He asked Lady de Sauque to marry him so he could act as Atlas’ regent.”
Cassius wasn’t stupid. He could put the pieces of the puzzle together, too. “I see,” he said. “So it is as we suspected. The man’s ambition is showing.”
“It certainly is.”
“Then you had better get into the solar if that is what they are about to do. They may need your strength to physically remove Bexwell if he does not move under his own free will.”
Markus suspected as much, though he hoped that was not to be the case. “And you,” he said. “You are fully armed, so come with me. It may take both of us if Bexwell does not give up without a fight.”
Cassius was up for the challenge. Leaving Alfie and his horse guard in the kitchen yard, Markus and Cassius headed for the keep. They made an imposing pair as they crossed the bailey, drawing looks from some of the Trastamara soldiers. They’d already seen the Earl of Berwick heading for the keep along with Shand, who was their commander. But word had spread among the men that Atlas de Sauque had also arrived, and he was now their liege.
It was an unsettling time for the men of Trastamara.
But Markus and Cassius ignored the looks of curiosity and concern. They had a job to do and they were running by the time they hit the stairs to the keep, rushing up the steps and into the cool, dark entry. The door to the solar was partially open and they slowed their pace as Markus opened the door, admitting Cassius first before following.
They walked into a standoff.
Shand was over against the wall, eyeing Atlas with a baleful expression. Patrick was standing near the door, as was Hermes, and Patrick held up a hand to Markus and Cassius, indicating to them to be still and silent.
The knights immediately complied.
Over against the wall, Shand glanced at the two latest arrivals to the solar.
“So you send for de Wolfe’s sons because you think I will not obey your command?” he said, his attention back on Atlas. “Why did you not simply speak with me about this, Atlas? Why do you need to send me away? You need me, much as your father needed me. I know Trastamara better than you could ever hope to. I will be invaluable to you, as the new lord.”
He sounded as if he were pleading, but Atlas stood his ground. “Shand, I will explain my position to you so there is no question as to why I have ordered you away,” he said. “My father was poison. He infected everything at Trastamara that he touched. He only married my mother to gain her family fortress and when my grandfather died, he seized everything and treated my mother no better than a servant. She was a prisoner here and you know this. Worse still, my father’s poison touched you, Shand. You have been enforcing my father’s immoral and apathetic commands since the beginning and I do not want you here. You are as shallow as he ever was, but I am learning something about you. You have ambition. You gave that away when you asked for my mother’s hand.”
Shand’s eyes flickered, but only for a moment. He was adept at concealing his surprise that Atlas had been told of his offer to Lady de Sauque when the truth was that he shouldn’t have been surprised at all.
He should have expected it.
“It was what your father wanted,” he said evenly. “You have only seen seventeen years. He knew that you needed a seasoned man to help you govern and as your mother’s husband, I would have more freedom to do that.”
Atlas could read him beneath the surface. He could see the man who wanted everything he had.
“You would also have the power of Trastamara in your hands and I do not intend to fight you for my inheritance,” he said. “Regardless of if it was my father’s wish for you to marry my mother, it is not my wish. Better to send you away than have a dagger shoved into my back at some point. I will send you with enough money to take you wherever you wish to go, but you will go.”
Shand was staring Atlas down as if his glare could cause the young man to change his mind.
“This is not fair,” he finally hissed. “I have given ten years of my life to Trastamara and this is how you repay me?”
Atlas, surprisingly, remained calm, impressive for so young a man. He could have easily become emotional and angry, but the words from his master, Tobias, had taken root.
Emotion will get you killed, lad.
It was a lesson Atlas had taken to heart, or at least tried to.
“You have been paid many times over, I am sure,” he said. “You have had fine weapons, a roof over your head, food to eat, and I would suspect a good horse. Did you purchase any of these things yourself?”
The tic in Shand’s jaw began to grow worse. “Your father wanted me to have the best equipment money could buy,” he said. “I am his captain. My weapons, my dress, directly reflect upon him.”
“Then he bought it for you.”
Shand hesitated before spitting out the words. “As my liege, that was his obligation.”
Atlas studied the man. He took a good, hard look at him before taking a step in his direction. “Show me your sword.”
Shand had the scabbard of his broadsword strapped to his waist and thigh. He unsheathed the weapon but as he did so, both Markus and Cassius unsheathed theirs. They moved towards Shand, the message obvious.
Move against Atlas and you will die.
Shand saw the knights advancing on him and he slowed his movements. His focus was fixed on Markus.
“He asked to see my sword,” he said, almost belligerently. “I must be permitted to unsheathe it.”
Markus didn’t say a word, but he came to stand next to Atlas. Cassius stood on the other side, his sword in a position that could easily slice into Shand should he bring up his hand.
Frustrated, and clearly fighting a losing battle, Shand finished unsheathing his sword carefully and gripped it so the hilt was in Atlas’ direction. The young man took the sword from him, inspecting it.
“This is very fine,” he said. “Where did you get it?”
“From a sword maker in Madrid.”
“Spanish?”
“They make some of the finest weapons.”
“And my father purchased this for you?”
Shand sighed heavily. “He commissioned it.”
“Give me a straight answer. Did he pay for this?”
“He did.”
“Then I shall keep it.”
Atlas handed it over to Markus, who took it without hesitation and then extended it to Hermes, who came forward to collect it. Shand watched his beautiful Spanish sword slip from his grasp, unable to do anything about it.
Atlas, however, had no qualms about what he had just done. At least, not on the outside. With Markus and Cassius standing on either side of him, he was very brave. He proceeded to frisk Shand for anything else of value that his father might have purchased for him, coming across two very fine daggers. He handed those over to Markus as well, but he left Shand his coin purse, belt, and shoes. Then, he stood back.
“You are to proceed to your chamber and collect your possessions,” he said. “You will only collect what you brought with you to Trastamara ten years ago and no more. You will leave your Trastamara tunics behind as well as anything else that identifies Trastamara – mail, helm, protection. Leave it. Then, you will come to the stables. I will meet you there with money for your journey.”
There was nothing Shand could say at that point. He was outnumbered and without a weapon, so any show of rebellion or anger would not be well met. He simply couldn’t believe that ten years of his life had come to this moment, wasted as if it had been dust upon the wind. He could see those years blowing away before is very eyes, vanishing into memory, and it cut him to the bone.
Everything he had worked for was gone.
Taken from him by the son of the man he’d been so loyal to.
God, but hatred was blooming in his heart. Hatred and vengeance. It simply wasn’t fair, any of it, but if he fought back now, they would kill him. Perhaps that’s what they wanted to do. Maybe they were hoping he would resist.
But he wasn’t going to. At least, not now.
But the time would come.
With a heavy sigh, Shand pushed past Markus and headed towards the chamber door.
“Go with him,” Markus muttered to Cassius. “Hermes, you also.”
Hermes handed over the confiscated weapons to Patrick as he followed Cassius and Shand out of the chamber. When they were gone, it was only Patrick, Markus, and Atlas left in the room. Atlas turned to Patrick.
“Was I fair enough, my lord?” he asked.
In that moment, his youth became evident. So did his nervousness in a situation he’d faced bravely. Covering those nerves had been impressive, but in that question, he sounded like a boy looking for approval.
Patrick nodded.
“Indeed, you were,” he said. “I thought you handled the situation well.”
Atlas seemed relieved by that, but he didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the situation as a whole. He turned away, wandering over to the windows that overlooked the bailey.
“I intend to take his warhorse, too,” he said. “I am sure my father purchased the animal for him as well, wanting his captain to have a fine steed. I will give him another horse to ride.”
“I approve of your decision.”
Atlas was silent a moment. “Thank you,” he said. “But I have a feeling that he will not leave easily. Trastamara was his home for ten years. Looking into his eyes, I can see how badly he wants it. It is as if he feels… he feels that he is deserving of it. That it belongs to him. He resents me greatly.”
Patrick came away from the wall, heading in Atlas’ direction. “Then he is delusional,” he said. “Any knight worth his oath would never look at his liege’s property as his own. But I would not worry about him if I were you.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am. We will escort him far away so he cannot trouble you.”
Atlas nodded, but he still didn’t seem very relieved. “Thank you, my lord.”
Patrick’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, hearing his doubt. He turned to Markus.
“Send word to Questing and the other de Wolfe properties that if Bexwell shows up looking for a position, they are to turn the man away,” he said. “We do not need that man’s venom infecting our ranks. They will not know what has transpired here at Trastamara and will view him as an ally. We cannot take that chance.”
Markus nodded. “I’ll do it right away,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Have four of our soldiers escort him away from Trastamara,” he said. “Whatever direction he chooses to go is fine, but tell the men to make sure he is far away. At least a two days’ ride away.”
“It shall be done.”
Before Markus could leave, Atlas stopped him.
“Can you please ask my mother where my father kept his coinage?” he said. “I have promised Shand money and I do not know where my father kept it.”
Markus frowned. “That is a question you should ask her.”
Atlas nodded, but there was uncertainty to his movements. “I will admit my encounter with Shand has me questioning… things. I do not wish to explain myself to my mother right now, not until I get a few things straight in my own mind.”
“Like what?”
“That I did not let my anger make my decisions for me. I tried not to, you know.”
Markus gave him a reassuring smile. “You did fine.”
Atlas needed the reassurance. He’d just dismissed a man with maturity beyond his years, which had left him questioning himself.
He very much wanted to do the right thing.
Quitting the chamber, Markus left his father to counsel the young lord who was trying very hard to make just and lordly decisions.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ambra and Aleanor were painting.
At least, Aleanor was painting. Ambra was doing… something. She said they were flowers and trees, but they didn’t look much like flowers and trees. They looked like squiggly shapes with colors. There were little brown splotches that were supposed to be people and other round things with stick legs that were horses. Ambra was happily painting an entire village of splotch people.
For all of Aleanor’s nervousness and odd propensities, she was surprisingly patient with her younger sister. She made the paints herself out of onion skins and dandelion roots, any number of colored berries, or even fresh, green grass. She and her sister would paint on scraps that would come from a variety of sources – pieces of ruined clothing, or sometimes even tree bark.
Amabella watched her daughters work on their paintings intermittently as she stood by the window overlooking the bailey. Since her conversation with Atlas, she’d been unable to return to the sewing she’d been doing, unable to focus on anything other than reliving the discussion with her son.
