WolfeHeart: de Wolfe Pack Generations, page 5
Oh, but the suggestion made Alfie unhappy. Grossly unhappy. He stiffened up and fell forward onto a cushioned chair, groaning and hissing because he didn’t want to play quietly. Kings were not supposed to play quietly. But he wasn’t unhappy enough to argue with his mother, whom he loved with all his heart. He also obeyed her without question. Well, at least most of the time.
… some of the time.
“Come, querida,” Amabella said, reaching out to pick up her big boy and cradle him. “Come and play quietly. Do you want to play with your sticks? You can build a fortress with them like you did the last time. It was a fine fortress, Alfie. Good enough for a king.”
That had Alfie’s attention. He kept a stack of sticks and pieces of wood in his mother’s solar and he’d built many a castle with those sticks. He slithered out of her arms and went over to the corner where he kept his sticks, piled in a basket to keep them from scattering. He sat down beside the basket and grabbed a handful as Aleanor sat up in her chair and frowned.
“But what of my honey puffs?” she asked.
Amabella shook her head as she sat back down to her sewing. “It is too late in the day to set out for Berwick,” she said. “Mayhap tomorrow. Let me think on it.”
“Please, Ama.”
“I said I would think on it. Now, return to your sewing. It is looking beautiful, querida.”
Aleanor blamed her little brother’s appearance for her mother’s reluctance to go into Berwick on this day. It was only early afternoon and there was plenty of time for a journey there and back as far as she was concerned.
Alfie was always spoiling everything with his demands and pushy nature.
But Aleanor didn’t argue. Instead, she settled back with her garment. It never did any good to argue when it came to Alfie. She had just taken the first stitch when there was a sharp knock on the solar door.
“I’ll answer!” Alfie said.
Eagerly, he raced to the solar door and yanked it open only to reveal his greatest enemy in all the world. The man who had denied him his pony.
Shand Bexwell stood in the opening.
Alfie immediately frowned and moved away, rushing over to his mother and throwing himself in her lap even as Amabella tried to stand up. She was forced to push Alfie to his feet as she faced Shand.
“Sir Shand,” she said politely. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
Shand wasn’t un-handsome; he was average in height, with long blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He wasn’t particularly large, but he was deceptively strong. He had great skill with the sword and with a bow and arrow. Roget had put a great deal of faith in Shand.
The man forced a smile in response to Amabella’s question.
“I was hoping to have a word with you, Lady de Sauque,” he said. “Is this a convenient time?”
For lack of a better response, Amabella shrugged. “As good a time as any,” she said. “How may I be of service?”
Shand glanced at the children in the room. “Privately, please,” he said. “This does not concern your offspring.”
There was something ominous in that statement, which put her on her guard. Amabella could only pray that it had nothing to do with the servant she’d sent to Berwick. She’d done it secretly, pretending to send servants to Berwick to purchase foodstuffs when what they really did was head straight to the massive castle that overlooked the city. She knew the servants wouldn’t tell, for they had no great love for the army or for Shand, but it was possible he’d had the servants followed.
Paranoia was a common world Amabella lived in.
“Certainly,” she said calmly, looking to Aleanor. “Please take Alfie with you and go to your chamber.”
Aleanor was rising from her seat nervously. “But, Ama…”
Amabella put her hand to her daughter’s cheek. “Please,” she said. “I will come for you when I have finished with Sir Shand. Please go.”
Aleanor was still nervous but she did as she was told. She grasped Alfie by the hand and pulled him from the room, but the boy wasn’t particularly keen on going and did everything but throw himself on the ground in order to delay the inevitable. Finally, Aleanor was able to take him from the chamber as Shand closed the door behind them.
“Please open the door,” Amabella said steadily. “It is not proper for you and me to be alone in a chamber behind a closed door.”
“What I have to say is private,” he said. “I do not wish for the entire keep to hear. I will stay here by the door if you feel uncomfortable.”
Amabella studied him for a moment before finally nodding, but she moved away from her chair and back over to the lancet window so she was about as far away from him as she could get. Moreover, her sewing kit was on the table next to her, including big iron shears, which she could use like a dagger if she had to. Not that she didn’t trust Shand, for she’d never felt threatened by him, but she didn’t like that he had shut the door.
“Speak, then,” she said. “I am listening.”
Shand cleared his throat softly. “It has been four days since the death of Lord Roget, my lady,” he said. “We have put his body in the vault, but you’ve made no mention of where you wish to bury him or when. May I know of your plans?”
Amabella felt a little relieved by the question but she wasn’t sure why he needed a closed door for it.
“My family has been buried at St. John’s near Berwick for four generations,” she said. “It is where we attend mass every Sunday. Summon the priest from the parish and I shall make the arrangements with him. Roget can be buried with my father, a man he was glad to see die so that he could take his castle. Let him explain that to my father in the afterlife, buried next to the very man he plotted against.”
There was bitterness there, but Amabella had never made any real effort in concealing the disdain she held for her husband. Shand simply nodded.
“I will send for the priest, then,” he said. “But there is something else I wish to speak to you of, something Lord Roget and I discussed on several occasions.”
“What is that?”
“In the event of his death, he wished for me to marry you.”
Amabella felt as if she’d been hit in the chest. All of her calm resolve left her and she stared at the man in shock.
“He…” she stammered. “He wished for you to marry me?”
Shand nodded and, contrary to his assurances when he shut the door to the chamber, he took a couple of steps in her direction.
He didn’t stay by the door.
“Lord Roget did not wish for you to be without a husband,” he said. “He wished for Trastamara to continue as it always had, now with me as Lord of Trastamara.”
Amabella couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But you would not be Lord of Trastamara,” she said. “Atlas is his father’s heir. By birthright, the castle is his.”
Shand lifted his shoulders. “He is not yet of age,” he said. “He is fostering at Castle Questing and it was his father’s wish for him to continue to foster there. He will be knighted by de Wolfe and once he is of age, then we will discuss his birthright. But not now. Trastamara is an important castle and, more importantly, it maintains control of The Orchard crossing over the River Tweed. It is one of the most important bridges in this area. Therefore, all of this must be commanded by a seasoned knight.”
“You?”
“Me.”
Amabella stared at him for a moment before turning away. She wasn’t sure Roget had ever said such a thing to Shand, but then again, Roget had never discussed his business with her. Shand had never come across as particularly ambitious, but he could very well see this as an opportunity.
She couldn’t be sure.
“There is no need for me to ever marry again,” she said. “Atlas is now the Lord of Trastamara. I am only his mother. I hold no value to anyone.”
Shand was watching her closely. “Untrue, my lady,” he said. “Atlas is underage. As your husband, I will have the right to act as his regent. It was Lord Roget’s wish.”
“He never spoke of such a thing to me.”
“Do you doubt my word, my lady?”
She turned to look at him. “I did not say that,” she said. “All I said was that my husband never spoke of such a thing to me.”
“But he spoke of it to me,” Shand said. “I would not say it if it was not so. Until Atlas is able to assume his duties, he will need a regent.”
“And you must marry me to accomplish this?”
“As I said, it was Lord Roget’s wish.”
He wasn’t being aggressive in his stance, merely factual. Or, so he seemed. But Amabella didn’t want to consider it or even talk about it. After a moment, she shook her head.
“Forgive me, Sir Shand,” she said, “but my husband has not even been buried yet. At least let me get the man in the ground before we discuss this.”
Shand nodded, but it was with reluctance. As if he’d been expecting an instant answer.
“As you wish, my lady,” he said. “I will send for the priest today so we can bury Lord Roget before the week is out.”
Amabella merely nodded, turning away from him. She had nothing more to say and the fact that she wouldn’t even look at him was Shand’s invitation to leave. He did, quietly, and shut the door softly behind him. Amabella turned to make sure he had left.
Only then did she emit a sigh of relief.
And frustration.
Something told her that Shand would be right back at her the moment Roget was put into the ground, and the next time, she might not be able to brush him off so easily. He didn’t need to be married to her to be acting regent of Atlas’ inheritance, but perhaps marrying her would make his position stronger. It would also give him cause to deny Atlas and retain Trastamara for himself.
It might even put Atlas’ life in danger. Alfie, too, as another of Roget’s sons.
It was possible that Shand wanted Trastamara all for himself.
With those horrible thoughts rolling through her head, Amabella found herself looking from the window that faced south, praying that the Earl of Berwick was soon on his way to Trastamara. If she was convincing enough, Berwick might take her side in this and deny any claim Shand thought he had to her and to Trastamara. At the very least, he could protect Atlas from his father’s overly ambitious knight.
Amabella prayed the situation wouldn’t get any worse before it got better.
If it ever became better.
Time would tell.
CHAPTER THREE
“What do you know about Trastamara Castle, Damien?”
The question came from Kieran Hage, proposed to a knight who had been at Berwick for twenty-five years. Sir Damien d’Vant from Cornwall was as far away from the home of his birth as he could possibly get, but he’d come to the House of de Wolfe as a pledge and ended up staying. As he told the story, there was excitement in the north that never happened in Cornwall.
He rather liked the thrill of the edgy northern borders.
Damien glanced at Kieran, a smile playing on his lips. “How long have you been at Berwick, young Kieran?”
“I’ve was born at Berwick,” Kieran said, reminding Damien of what he already knew. “It is my home.”
Damien would not be schooled by an arrogant young knight. He held up a finger. “You were born at Berwick, but you left when you were seven years of age and sent south to Norwich Castle with your older brothers for several years. Then you served at Ramsbury Castle in Wiltshire before returning home last year. Just because you were born at Berwick does not mean you know it, or the area, as well as I do. Otherwise, you would not be asking me the question you just asked.”
Properly put in his place, Kieran wasn’t pleased that he’d just been publicly humiliated. He was riding at the head of a five-hundred-man army from Berwick Castle along with his Uncle Patrick and his cousins, Markus and Cassius. Titus had remained behind with his eldest brother, Edward, but another Berwick knight had accompanied them, an old knight who had served his Uncle Patrick for as long as Damien had. Sir Anson du Bonne heard Damien’s answer and snorted.
A cocky young knight wasn’t going to find any sympathy here.
“Very well,” Kieran said, listening to the older knights snicker at his expense. “I concede to your extreme old age and knowledge. I have heard of Trastamara, but I do not know the history behind it. Would you enlighten me?”
He was respecting Damien and insulting him at the same time, which had Damien fighting off a genuine laugh. He looked at Anson.
“Please, tell me we were not like this one when we were his age,” he said.
Anson started to laugh but Patrick, riding behind them, heard the comment. “Must you seriously ask that question?” he said. “Damien, you and Anson were the worst. My father used to laugh at you two because of it. Papa used to say that he found it amazing you could walk without effort considering your pride had the weight of an anchor. It was an awesome burden to bear.”
That brought Damien’s smile full-bore. “Ah, the great Wolfe of the Border,” he said. “I miss the man, Atty. I miss his wisdom, his sheer presence. God, to bask in that man’s aura was truly something to behold.”
Patrick was riding without his helm, his graying dark hair exposed to the weak sunlight of a mild day. Damien’s comment had him reflecting on his father, who had inarguably been the greatest knight of his generation. The name William de Wolfe meant something in England and in Scotland. It stood for strength and honor, and a type of magic that can only be found in men who had achieved something extraordinary in life. That was the aura Damien spoke of – the inherent quality of a legend.
The pain of William’s passing was as fresh to Patrick as if it had only happened yesterday. It was like a weight, pressing on him, threatening to crush him, though over time, the weight had lessened. He and his father had been so close, in every way, and like most children, he viewed his father as immortal. Surely such a man could never die. But one winter’s night, after a brief illness when William seemed to be on the mend, he went to sleep and never woke up. The old knight died warm and safe in his bed, with his wife beside him.
It still brought Patrick to tears to think about it.
“It was,” he agreed, fighting off the familiar grief. “It still is. I can still feel it, every time I go to Castle Questing, only now it’s coming from my mother. She was his heart and that heart is still beating.”
Damien turned to look at him, smiling. “That she is,” he said quietly. Then he gestured to Kieran. “Would you care to educate your nephew on Trastamara Castle? Beyond the oddness of Roget de Sauque, I mean.”
Torn from sad thoughts of his father, Patrick looked at the host of knightly faces around him and realized the younger men might not know everything, as Kieran had said. Berwick had many allies, and the scope of their influence was dotted by many small castles and pele towers, each one with a particular story. But none so unique as Trastamara. They were riding to aid an ally and that was all they knew, so a little background would be helpful.
Just so they knew what they were getting into.
Patrick spurred his horse forward so everyone riding on point could hear him.
“Trastamara Castle, first and foremost, guards the only crossing over the River Tweed between Berwick and Northwood Castle,” he said. “When you hear men speak of The Orchard crossing, that’s the one. It is an old stone bridge that was built many years ago, using a sandbar as support and built where the river narrows. The Scots cannot burn the bridge, but they’ve tried to gain control of it. Several times. If that happens, the Scots will have an easy way to invade our part of England, so it is imperative that Trastamara maintains control of that bridge.”
Everyone had heard of The Orchard crossing, but Patrick had clarified the importance of it.
“What about Roget de Sauque?” Kieran asked. “I’ve heard men say he married for his property.”
Patrick nodded. “He did,” he said. “But many men marry for their property, so that is nothing new. Trastamara was built by the House of Abril, a family from Aragon who fought for Henry the Third. Henry granted them the lands north of the River Tweed and they built Trastamara Castle, named for the Trastamara family of Aragon. They are part of the nobility of Aragon. Some say the family will produce kings someday.”
“They’re royalty, then?” Kieran wanted to know.
Patrick shrugged. “They are old Spanish nobility,” he said. “The lord who served Henry received the grant of land and built his castle, and acquired other properties through marriage. There are at least three that I know of. Roget de Sauque acquired Trastamara when he married the heiress, Lady Amabella Hemada Abril.”
“Her mother was born in Algiers,” Damien interjected. When Patrick looked at him, he nodded. “That is what I was told by a soldier who served de Sauque. I’ve never seen the woman, but they say she has the look of the Berbers.”
“I have seen her and she looks like an Englishwoman to me,” Patrick said. “She’s quite beautiful from what I remember, but it has been a few years. That may have changed.”
“How old is she?” Kieran asked.
Patrick lifted an eyebrow. “Too old for you if you’ve got any ambitions to be the next Lord of Trastamara,” he said, watching Kieran flush. “She has been married to Roget for twenty years, so that should give you an idea of her age. In any event, it does not matter. Trastamara has lost its liege, Lady de Sauque is fearful that her husband’s army may try to wrest the place from the rightful heir, and we are going to ensure that none of that happens.”
“Papa,” Markus said from behind him. He’d remained mostly quiet through all of the chatter, listening. “If the army is threatening to take control of the castle, and they do not know Lady de Sauque sent us the missive of her husband’s death, then how are we to approach this? We have five hundred men with us. Do we just march up to Trastamara’s gatehouse and demand entry?”
