WolfeHeart: de Wolfe Pack Generations, page 4
Someone was trying to get his attention.
“Papa, Kieran is here,” Markus was suddenly by his side, pointing to the north side of the field. “What in the hell is he doing here?”
They were referring to Kieran Hage, a young knight from Berwick who had been left behind to help man the fortress. Named after his grandfather who had died about thirteen years earlier, he looked exactly like his namesake – enormous shoulders, vast brute strength, with dark blond hair and brown eyes. He was the son of Alec and Katheryn de Wolfe Hage, making him Patrick’s nephew.
And his presence here wasn’t a good thing.
“I don’t know,” Patrick said after a moment. “But I am certainly going to find out.”
As Patrick headed off, Markus followed. They pushed their way through the pockets of fighting, finally coming to the edge of the field where Kieran was standing.
Patrick didn’t give the man a chance to speak.
“What’s happened, Kieran?” he asked. “Is Berwick standing?”
“Aye, Uncle Atty,” Kieran replied. “Berwick is fine.”
That brought Patrick a good deal of relief, but he was still concerned. “Then why have you come?”
Kieran had to dodge out of the way when a competitor from the mass competition came hurtling off the field, narrowly missing him.
“Can we step away from the field of battle?” Kieran asked. “I bear concerning news, enough that Eddie believed I should bring it to you personally.”
He was referring to Edward Hage, his eldest brother, who was in command of Berwick at the moment. Patrick nodded, already moving away from the field as Markus followed. They pushed through the crowds encircling the field until they broke free into the open area between the field and the visitor’s encampment. That was when Patrick came to a halt and faced Kieran again.
“We are away from the noise,” he said. “Now, tell me what has happened. Why did Eddie send you?”
Kieran nodded. “Concerning news that he wanted you to know,” he said. “Early this morning, we received word from Trastamara Castle. Roget de Sauque has been killed.”
Patrick’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “What happened?”
Kieran’s gaze moved back and forth between Patrick and Markus. “Apparently, he was going to visit one of his properties and was set upon by outlaws,” he said. “You know that entire area north of the border where Trastamara sits is filled with outlaws and murderers. He was robbed and then burned alive.”
Patrick’s eyes widened “What of the men he brought with him? Was there a battle?”
“He was traveling alone, we were told.”
“Christ,” Markus hissed. “The forests in that area are full of such cutthroats. De Sauque should have known better than to travel alone. Who sent you this news?”
Kieran held up a hand. “That is the strange part,” he said. “It did not come from de Sauque’s soldiers. We received the news from a servant of Lady de Sauque. She says that Roget is dead and the army is under the command of his knight, Sir Shand Bexwell. She has no control over anything. Lady de Sauque is fearful of what that will mean for her and her children. She asks that we send help to supersede Bexwell and help her regain control of Trastamara Castle for her son and heir, Atlas.”
Patrick stared at him a moment before sighing heavily. “God’s Bones,” he muttered. “Atlas de Sauque is fostering at Castle Questing. Does he know of his father’s death?”
“Eddie sent word to Uncle Scott about it. He should know by now.”
It was indeed troubling information, all of it. An ally was dead and the army was under the control of the man’s captain, not his son and heir, who was a squire at Castle Questing. Trastamara Castle protected an important bridge over the River Tweed, a strategic location and one that was important.
One the Scots would love to get their hands on.
No wonder Kieran had come all the way to Bamburgh.
“This is a situation that involves the House of de Wolfe quite unquestionably,” Patrick said quietly. “In truth, I am not surprised to hear that Bexwell has taken control. It’s Roget’s fault, really… I always thought the de Sauque marriage was an odd arrangement. Roget married Lady Amabella and gained Trastamara from her father when he died, but the man took it over and treated his wife like a possession. He provided well for her and the children, but the woman had less rights than his soldiers. It makes perfect sense that Roget’s captain would take command and disregard her.”
Markus was nodding to his father’s assessment. “And now, she wants our help to wrest control from Bexwell.”
Patrick looked at him. “Bexwell is not in command,” he said. “If he ignores that fact, then we shall have to remind him. It is Atlas’ castle even though the lad has only seen seventeen years. He is his father’s heir.”
“And what if Bexwell will not relinquish it to the boy?”
“He’ll have no choice,” Patrick pointed out. “Roget swore Trastamara’s allegiance to me about ten years ago when we helped him fend off a series of attacks from Clan Gordon. We even had de Wolfe troops stationed at Trastamara for a couple of years after that. You were newly knighted at the time, Markus. Do you recall this?”
“I do,” Markus recalled. “I’ve had limited contact with Trastamara since, however. I’ve only met Roget once or twice in all the time I’ve served at Berwick, but I know he has been a loyal vassal. But now…”
He trailed off, implying the obvious, and Patrick simply wriggled his eyebrows. “Now, we may have a situation on our hands if Bexwell does not relinquish control peacefully,” Patrick said. “Even if Lady de Sauque had not asked, I would still take men to Trastamara to bolster her ranks and secure the castle. When the Scots hear about Roget’s death, they could very well try to move on the fortress because they will consider it vulnerable. Trastamara is important and strategic, so I do not want it to give the illusion that it is weakened. Markus, you and Kieran ride back to Berwick now and begin preparations. I will make apologies to de Vesci and have the men break down our camp. I think we can make it back before nightfall.”
All three of them glanced up at the sky, noting that the puffy gray clouds were growing heavier. The smell of damp was in the air.
“It might rain,” Markus said. “I will return with Kieran and begin the preparations, but why don’t you spend the night here and return early tomorrow morning? Avoid the bad weather if you can.”
Patrick glanced up again, scratching his cheek where the mail was chaffing him. “Possibly,” he said. “Muster five hundred men and have them ready to move by noon tomorrow. Even with all of those men, it will take us an hour at most to make it to Trastamara.”
“Aye, Papa,” Markus said. “Anything else?”
Patrick shook his head. “Not now,” he said. “But I want Atlas to meet us at Trastamara, so send Hermes back to Castle Questing and have him escort Atlas to Trastamara. Now, off with you both. And, Markus – wave to Lady Emmalina as you leave the area.”
Markus cast him a long look as the conversation veered back to a distasteful subject. “I will not.”
“Do it or I will be forced to make apologies for my rude son.”
Markus made an unhappy face at him. “Then make those apologies,” he said, grabbing Kieran by the arm and dragging the man along. “If I am rude, it is your fault. You raised me that way.”
Patrick sighed with exasperation as Markus and Kieran took off running for the de Wolfe encampment to collect Markus’ belongings and, as it turned out, Lady Emmalina never even saw him. By the time Patrick made his way over to her father to make his apologies for departing early, Lady Emmalina was surrounded by at least three young beaux who had her full attention.
Patrick found himself frustrated that Markus wasn’t one of them, but that frustration quickly faded. He had enough on his mind with a dead ally and a vulnerable fortress without the added burden of an heir who had no intention of finding a wife any time soon.
But not if Patrick had anything to say about it.
One problem at a time.
CHAPTER TWO
Trastamara Castle
Five miles northwest of Berwick
“Ama? Do you think we can send someone into town for the honey puffs?”
The timid question came from a pale, frail girl who had seen thirteen years. Seated in her mother’s small solar, the tiny one that her father had allowed the ladies to use, she was positioned in front of the hearth because, even on warm days, she had a chill to her bones. Young Aleanor de Sauque had never been very strong.
But she liked her honey puffs.
The woman sitting across from her, on a cushioned chair with a footstool to prop up her feet, glanced up from the intricate sewing in her hand. She was creating a cover for a pillow that would adorn her youngest son’s bed, a horse’s head because he liked horses so much. She was also the young woman’s mother and although “ama” was another name for “mother” in the Spanish language, it also happened to be a nickname of her given name – Amabella.
Amabella Hemada Abril de Sauque smiled at her daughter.
“Is that what you would like, querida?” she asked softly. “The day is growing late, but mayhap tomorrow. Would you like it if we all went? That way, you could pick them out yourself.”
Aleanor appeared intrigued by the suggestion, if not downright interested. But she was a fearful child; fearful of the world, of people in general, of nearly everything around her. At her age, she had never fostered because she had been too terrified to leave Trastamara Castle. Therefore, the question had her both frightened and curious.
“Will you go?” she asked.
“Of course,” her mother said. “We will bring Alfie and Ambra. Your brother and sister would like to go into town, too. There is a man there with dogs he has trained to jump on each other that they like to watch. Do you remember that from the last time we went? You liked them a great deal, too.”
Aleanor nodded, but the thought of venturing out was too intimidating, even with the lure of honey puff pastries, so she lowered her gaze and went back to her sewing. She was very good at sewing, perhaps even better than her mother, and she was making a surcoat for herself modeled after one she had seen the last time she’d gone into the town of Berwick. It wasn’t too far away and it was the largest town this far north. There were many people in it, the town dominated by a massive castle that was perched over the River Tweed.
But Berwick frightened her and the only reason she had gone was because her father had forced her to. He’d bellowed at her when she started crying, so she was forced to huddle in a wagon with her mother so her father would not become overly angry.
But he was gone now.
Truth was… she wasn’t sorry.
“Allie?” her mother said gently. “Answer me, querida. Would you like to go get the honey puffs yourself?”
Aleanor glanced at her mother. “Mayhap,” she said. “Do you think we could learn to make them here? They do not look too difficult to make.”
Her mother smiled. “Why would you want to try when we can simply buy them and they are already wonderful?”
It was her mother’s way of encouraging Aleanor to go out into the world, but the young woman wasn’t convinced. She set her sewing back in her lap.
“Because you can do anything, Ama,” she said. “Dada said you have a great talent for the kitchen and you can prepare any dish he likes. Or liked. When he was here, I mean.”
Her head dipped down again, back to the sewing, but the gesture or the words didn’t go unnoticed by her mother.
Lady Amabella Hemada Abril de Sauque eyed her daughter. These were difficult days following the death of Roget, the father of Amabella’s four children – Atlas, her strong and noble son who was fostering at an allied castle, Aleanor, who had such a timid view of the world, Alphonse, her young and bright and strong son, and then Ambra, her baby. Four children who had been treated by their father like cast-offs.
Four children who had never known the love or gentleness of a father.
Four children who weren’t sorry that he was gone.
Truth be told, Amabella wasn’t sorry, either, and she had been struggling with that guilt. When she should have felt sorrow, she felt relief. As the man’s wife, she should have grieved his death, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Whatever she might have felt for the man had died a long time ago when he’d married her simply to gain her castle and her father’s wealth. Once he had it, he showed her very little consideration.
None, in fact.
No, she wasn’t sorry he was gone in the least.
But his death didn’t improve her situation much.
Roget had made it clear to her from the outset of their marriage that the army of Trastamara Castle belonged to him. Her family’s hereditary home, the place where she was born, became Roget’s when her father died a year into their marriage. It was then she saw Roget’s true nature. She had absolutely no say in anything about it and because he treated her as if she had little worth, most of the men did, too, including his captain of the guard, Sir Shand Bexwell.
Shand wasn’t an evil man, not really. He’d shown more respect to her than her husband had at times, but he treated her as if she was of little consequence, just like Roget had. He only followed Roget’s lead. Even now, he had taken over Trastamara as if he’d inherited it from Roget. He was making all of the decisions now, something Amabella had been forbidden to do. The woman hadn’t made an important decision since her marriage to Roget twenty years earlier.
She lived like a prisoner in the home she’d been born in.
That was why she’d had to send one of her maids on a dangerous journey, alone, to Berwick Castle. Shand hadn’t notified the allies yet of Roget’s death and Amabella was frankly afraid of what the man might do with her and her children now that he believed himself to be in command of Trastamara. So, Amabella wrote a missive to Patrick de Wolfe, Earl of Berwick and Roget’s liege, notifying him of Roget’s death and asking for help.
She could only hope the man would respond.
Time would tell.
Meanwhile, she had to pretend that life was normal for the sake of her children. Aleanor had no great love for her father and the two younger children had hardly even had any interaction with Roget, so they were indifferent. Alphonse, known as Alfie to the family, had seen seven years while his sister, Ambra, had just seen her fifth birthday. As bad off as the children had been when Roget had been alive, she could only pray that it didn’t get worse in his death for one very good reason – Atlas, her eldest son at seventeen years, was now the Lord of Trastamara.
That was exactly why Shand hadn’t notified the allies yet.
He didn’t want to relinquish the fortress to an inexperienced young man.
Unable to continue with her sewing, Amabella stood up and made her way over to one of two big lancet windows that overlooked the vast bailey. It was well-organized, full of men who might as well have been her enemy for all of the regard they gave her. She was trapped here, caged like an animal, with the title of Lady of the Castle and none of the rights that went with it.
She could only pray that Berwick changed that.
“Ama!”
The door to the solar slammed back on its hinges as a shout roused her from her thoughts. Amabella turned to see her youngest son in the doorway. Like her oldest boy, Alphonse Abril de Sauque had the dark personal traits of her Moorish ancestors, the Abrils from Aragon on her father’s side, and also from her mother, who had been born in Algiers. He had inherited black hair and pale skin with the dark green eyes that were the purest shade, like an emerald. Those eyes were lit up at the sight of his mother.
“Ama,” he said rather petulantly. “I want to ride my pony and Shand will not let me. I must ride. My guard is waiting!”
Amabella smiled faintly at her demanding, vivacious son as she came away from the window. “What did Shand tell you?”
Alfie frowned. “He told me that he could not be res… res… responsible for me and told me to go inside to you,” he said. “What does responsible mean?”
“It means that he cannot watch over you,” she said. “Where is Savia?”
That only deepened Alfie’s frown. “She is sleeping with Ambra,” he said, speaking of the old nurse the children had since birth. “Ambra is a babe and I am not. I want to ride my pony with my guard. Please, Ama, tell Shand that he must let me.”
Unlike the older children, who understood how Roget and Shand had treated Amabella, the younger children still weren’t entirely aware. He naively thought his mother had some control.
Amabella wished with all her heart that she did.
Were it up to her, he could ride with his “guard”, which was made up of eight children belonging to servants – the cook’s three young sons, two daughters belonging to the stablemaster, and three more boys belonging to various other household servants. They were all under ten years of age and Alfie was their leader.
And what a leader he was.
Alfie positioned himself to be the King of Trastamara and his horse guard would ride sticks with pieces of cloth on one end, like reins, escorting their “king” around the compound. Sometimes, they even used leaves or pieces of wood as “standards”, following him around as he rode his fat, brown pony that Roget had given him. It was one of the only kind things the man had ever done for Alfie as a father.
Unlike Roget, Alfie treated his horse guard well. He would bring them food from his own meals, or play games with them, even allowing them to win on occasion. He had the beginnings of great benevolence, something Amabella hoped he never lost. The little boy had heart. None of Roget’s indifference and greed had tainted him.
It was one of the few things that gave Amabella joy.
“You have been out with your guard all morning, have you not?” she asked him. “Why don’t you come inside with me and play quietly? Your guard can rest and then you can resume playing tomorrow. Mayhap Shand will allow you to ride your pony then.”
