“The barons have been rebelling against the king for years,” she insisted. “First Henry and now his son, Edward. And this most recent lot is simply a gang of anarchists. They go about burning and pillaging because they are fools. You cannot stop the rage of spoiled children.”
He kissed her hand again. “They will listen to me.”
“They will kill you.”
He shook his head. “You are wrong,” he said softly. “You said yourself that all of England knows of my fairness and wisdom. That is why Baron Bretherdale has asked me to ride with him. The rebelling barons are intent on attacking fortresses in the area that are loyal to our new king, Edward, and de Wolfe hopes that by flying my colors, it will cool the heated tempers of opposition.”
Avrielle’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “Scott de Wolfe,” she growled as if repeating the name of something terribly vile. “Men call him the Black Adder, the viper of shadows and darkness. I have heard that he murdered his wife.”
“He did not murder his wife.”
“But he is a cold, unfeeling man.”
“Mayhap that is true, but he is an excellent knight. The very best.”
Avrielle wasn’t happy in the least. “But what kind of a lord is he?” she said. “He cannot even hold his lordship without help from you.”
“De Wolfe is a fair and just liege,” Nathaniel said patiently. “I’ve never seen a finer knight in battle.”
Avrielle snorted rudely. “I’ve been told he’s as stupid as a post.”
Nathaniel smiled faintly, amused. “Only jealous men speak so of him. He is learned and brilliant. His intellect and skill in battle is surpassed by none.”
“If he is so great, then why does he need you?”
“I told you why. And I am honored by his favor.”
She cocked a well-shaped eyebrow at him. “You would praise this man who would send you to your death?”
His smile broadened and he tried to grab her once again. “Of course I would praise him. Scott de Wolfe is certainly not a man I would choose to insult, not even within the privacy of my own bedchamber. The man is much like his father, the great Wolfe of the Border, William de Wolfe. Scott could engage Cuchulain, Beowulf, and Lancelot in mortal combat all at the same time and emerge the victor. But there is a rage behind his actions, something dark and deep that drives him. The things I’ve seen him do….”
He abruptly trailed off, stopped trying to chase her, and began hunting around for his cloak. It would seem that thoughts of Scott de Wolfe’s war exploits had dampened his ever-present humor and Avrielle ceased evading him. She went to his side and tenderly touched his cheek.
“You fear him?” she asked softly. “Is that why you do this, because you fear him?”
His smile made a quick, forced return. “De Wolfe? Of course not. But I would not want to be the man’s enemy.”
“What have you seen him do?”
“Do?” he shook his head, putting his hand over her warm fingers, still on his cheek. “Nothing I should discuss with my lady wife.”
Her pale eyes were serious. “Tell me, Nat. I would know of this man you risk your life for.”
His smile faded. “He is a de Wolfe. Need I say more?”
“You did not answer my question.”
He sighed faintly; Avrielle was not a typical woman, willing to be submissive when bade. She was curious, and smart, and at times very demanding. But he loved her regardless. He kissed the palm of her hand and threw his cloak over his shoulders.
“What de Wolfe has done in the heat of battle would give you nightmares for the rest of your life,” he said, his light mood morphing into something serious and thoughtful. “He did not murder his wife, Avrielle. She was killed almost four years ago in an accident along with two of de Wolfe’s children. I did not serve the man at the time, you recall, so what I am telling you comes from men who did. But those men say before their deaths, he used to be a man of great humor and warmth. He was well-loved by all. But after their deaths….”
He trailed off, shrugging, but Avrielle was hanging on his every word. “What happened?”
Nathaniel sighed faintly, perhaps wondering what would ever become of him should he lose his wife and children.
“Sometimes, a thing like that is just too much for a man to bear,” he said quietly. “De Wolfe wandered for months until his father, in desperation, reached out to King Henry, who brought the man to London where he served Henry directly for the last year that the king was alive. Henry gave him a title and lands, and Ravenstone Castle as part of those lands. Even so, Scott still seemed to wander, rarely at the castle he manned for his father, Wolfe’s Lair, and rarely at Ravenstone. He simply… wandered. But some say that Scott underwent a physical transformation as well… from what I’ve heard, he was always a powerful knight, but he lost himself in training and battle during this time and emerged as a beastly man, enormous and scarred and hardened. I have seen him in battle and suffice it to say that his sword is almost a useless instrument to him. What de Wolfe does, he does with his bare hands. There is such rage in his actions.”
Her long-lashed eyes widened as she listened to the sad tale of a man’s tragedy. She felt pity for him. “Truly?”
He nodded shortly and kissed her on the cheek, now trying to lighten the heady mood. “Truly.” Taking her hand, he led her to their chamber door. The old panel creaked open, revealing a long, smoky corridor beyond. “Are you ready to bid me a fond farewell now?’
Tears stung her eyes but it was not her nature to show her emotions so openly. Later, in the privacy of her chamber, she would cry for him. Right now, her husband needed her strength.
Dutifully, she kissed him. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t done this before, hundreds of times over the past eight years. It was almost a routine; she begged him not to go, he made light of her concerns and, in the end, he always returned to her as he said he would. In all the years that they had been married, he had never even been injured beyond moderate scrapes. She had no reason to worry overly but, for some reason, this time was different.
“Godspeed, Husband,” she murmured, feeling his beard tickle her soft cheek. “I shall pray for your safe return.”
His ready smile appeared, one last time. “If all goes as it should, I will be home in two or three days.”
She was so worried for him that her stomach hurt. “Until the next time de Wolfe calls you.”
His smile faded and he stroked her cheek. “Does it truly disturb you so? I’ve been fighting since you were a babe, you know. I am rather good at it.”
She closed her eyes and a small, mutinous tear splashed onto her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, but not before he saw it. “I would rather have you home, with me. And the children need their father; so does the child I carry. I want him to know you, Nat. I do not want our children growing up without you.”
He was touched by her tears. He had been a warrior for so long that he almost knew of no other way. But to keep Avrielle happy, he would do most anything. He did so want to grow old beside her. Tears from his wife were an unusual thing, so much so that he chose to take her concerns seriously this time. Perhaps he was getting too old for this; perhaps he should think on retirement after all.
“Very well,” he sighed after a moment, patting her gently rounded belly. “If it means so much to you, I shall bring it up to de Wolfe. Perhaps he can do without me after this one last campaign.”
A light of hope appeared in her eyes. “Truly? You would do this?”
He kissed her sweetly on the lips. “For my beautiful Avrielle, I would do anything.”
He left her standing in the corridor, as was their usual parting custom. He didn’t like her down in the great bailey of Canaan, choking in the dust from hundreds of soldiers. Avrielle watched him disappear down the stairwell before going back into her chamber and peeling back the oilcloth from one of the long lancet windows. There she stood until her husband and his party of four hundred men rode from the bailey, out across
the drawbridge and into the green countryside beyond. The standards of red, silver and blue for the House of du Rennic flew steadily in the early morning breeze until they disappeared from sight. Then, and only then, did Avrielle move away from the window.
And then, only then, did she cry.
CHAPTER TWO
Four months later
They stood in a great cluster on the rise of a gentle, green hill, the sun behind them setting low in the red sky. Their black silhouettes were strong against the muted dusk, men clad in armor and seated on magnificent warhorses. Somewhere, a night bird sang softly upon the damp evening breeze, giving the twilight a gentle feel though the warriors on the hill told of a different story. There was a strained anticipation this night, as thick as the summer humidity, as the knights gazed upon the fertile valley below.
“You are quite sure they know of our arrival?” one knight mumbled. He sounded confused. “They do not look prepared in the least.”
The question was directed at a knight lodged slightly forward from the rest. He sat atop his great chestnut charger, his gaze perhaps more focused than the others. “Indeed, they are quite aware.” He was a big knight, with blue eyes and skin that had been pocked by eruptions in his youth. Even though there was a gentleness to his manner, and a soft voice that was low and deep, he was not the sort of man one would care to tangle with. He, perhaps more than any of them, could be quite formidable when aroused. “Fear not, my brave comrades. I sent word ahead myself. Castle Canaan is, indeed, expecting us.”
“But you recall what du Rennic’s knights said, Stewart,” another knight said to him; the knight was a long-limbed man with luscious auburn hair concealed beneath his helm. “They threatened our lives if they ever saw us again and I, for one, do not feel like entering the enemy’s den this night.”
Sir Stewart Longbow shook his blonde head patiently. “They were merely expressing their anguish at du Rennic’s passing, Milo. You know as well as I that the threats were empty. Moreover, they have no choice. Our liege has been ordered to assume control of Castle Canaan and that is exactly what we shall do.” He sighed faintly, perhaps with a measure of trepidation. “Castle Canaan is without her illustrious lord. She is vulnerable in every aspect. To have her without du Rennic at the helm is to leave the entire Fawcett Vale vulnerable because Canaan controls the road from Carlisle to Kendal. She is far too valuable to leave alone and well they know it.”
Sir Milo Auclair scratched his dirty hair beneath the helm. He wasn’t going to argue with Stewart, for the man was supremely wise and calm in matters as complex as this one threatened to become. But all of the knights were understandably wary. Since Nathaniel du Rennic’s death back in December, the lord’s men had made no bones about their grief and fury. And this evening, in what should have been a simple matter of being welcomed into an ally’s stronghold, threatened to start up another war altogether.
They were being kept outside, waiting like beggars.
The knights of Scott de Wolfe’s stable were lost to their own thoughts, anticipating the battle to come. They wouldn’t turn away and they wouldn’t be kept waiting. Frankly, they didn’t like the idea of a fight simply to gain entry. Stewart started to say something to them, words of encouragement or reproach perhaps, but his attention was diverted by a vision in his periphery. The knights, sensing his distraction, turned their full focus to the sound and sight of pounding hooves.
There wasn’t one man there who did not feel a distinct twinge of pride and, perhaps, consternation. A shadow, outlined by the setting sun, came down from a higher rise where it had been perched among a cluster of oak trees. The charger itself was larger than anything known to man; a Belgian steed of such enormous strength and temper that the beast had not one bit in its mouth, but two for maximum control. Its hooves alone were the size of a man’s head as they pounded the sweet English earth. Silver in color, its mane and tail had been shortened to bristly nubs to make it less vulnerable to attack in the heat of battle. And each man would swear, when the horse looked at them, that there was blood in its eye.
It was a horse bred to kill.
But the horse was nothing in comparison to the master astride it. A man this size would have to have a massive horse in order to support both his mass and weight in full armor. A sword as long as a woman was tall hung down his left leg, the hilt set with semi-precious stones, and the hand that rested upon it was the size of a small boulder. Effortlessly, he rode the Belgian stallion, the menacing horse as gentle as a kitten under its master’s guidance, for everything about the man reeked of intimidation and power. Wickedly, his armor gleamed red in the setting sun as he approached the assemblage of knights and the men. They focused on him as if they were eager and adoring children, awaiting his words.
“I see no welcoming party from Castle Canaan, Stewart,” the massive knight rumbled. His voice was so low that his words came out a growl. “Is it possible that they did not receive your missive?”
Stewart did not seem intimidated by the man in the least. He was quite calm when he spoke. “Possible, my lord, but doubtful. They are simply being obstinate, I fear.”
Scott de Wolfe’s helmed head turned in the direction of the enormous castle, surrounded by a moat fed by a stream that was, in truth, a small lake. It would be no small feat to breach her. Castle Canaan was a magnificent fortress built to withstand a siege and de Wolfe did not relish the thought of having to burn it to the ground should du Rennic’s men prove difficult. He was only here on the king’s orders, after all. It wasn’t as if he had a choice in this, either. A massive mailed hand came up and raised the three-point visor as if to gain a better, unobstructed view.
“The drawbridge in the southern gatehouse is down but the portcullis is in place,” he observed. “What of the northern gatehouse?”
“It is sealed tightly, my lord. The bridge is not down.”
“Then this is a paradox, wouldn’t you say?”
He was addressing Stewart, as was usual. Although his men greatly respected him, it was not a habit for him to address them personally. All communications usually came through Longbow. It has always been thus, very formal and with strict protocol.
“They are inviting us, yet not inviting us,” Stewart responded. “We may cross their bridge, but we may not enter the castle.”
Scott’s hazel eyes were deep and intense. They had a way of shielding his true thoughts, a talent that worked well in his profession. But his granite-jawed face was anything but unreadable; he always looked hard no matter what he was feeling and had ever since that dark day four years ago when he’d lost half of his family to tragedy. The de Wolfe before the loss was a completely different man from the de Wolfe after it. These days, he was a dark, cold, and unfeeling man. Still, he was not insensitive to the grief of du Rennic’s men but he wouldn’t let them turn his army away.
He’d come with a purpose.
Scott lowered his visor. His men, watching every move their liege made, also lowered any visors that were raised and prepared to move forward. They always mimicked his movements, out of fear or out of obedience it was difficult to determine; de Wolfe never gave an order twice and, sometimes, he never even gave the initial order. He somehow expected his men to read his mind, which they had fortunately become quite adept at doing. He was a man who led by actions far more than by words.
“Then we shall accept their invitation to cross their drawbridge,” he growled. “Tell the men to prepare for a skirmish should du Rennic’s men attempt anything stupid. Only the knights will mount the bridge. Tell the bulk of the army to encircle the shores of the moat and position the archers. They shall await my orders. If Canaan does not open her gates, then I will let the arrows fly.”
Stewart nodded, motioning for Milo to give the word to the army. When Milo thundered off, Stewart turned to de Wolfe and engaged him in a tactical conversation and the three remaining knights, who had thus far remained silent, turned to one other. Huddled in a small group behind the more po
werful players, they were the junior members of de Wolfe’s knight corps.
“You know du Rennic’s men, Jean,” the knight on the left said to the knight in the middle. “You have fought closely with a few of them, have you not? Do you really believe they will resist?”
Sir Jean-Pierre du Bois shook his head sadly, his dark brown eyes focused on the distant gray-stoned fortress. He was young and from a good Norman family that was old friends of the House of de Wolfe. “’Tis hard to say,” he said. “They are good men and extremely loyal to him. His death affected them tremendously.”
The man to his right snorted rudely, a big, burly knight with unruly dark hair that tended to remind one of a nest for birds. “They would be fools,” Sir Stanley Moncrief rumbled. “De Wolfe will tear the fortress down around their ears and leave their carcasses for the birds.”
The first knight who had spoken felt the back of his neck tingle. It always tingled when there was a fight in the air and Sir Raymond Montgomery didn’t like the sensation one bit.
“They cannot blame de Wolfe for du Rennic’s death,” he said. “They’re fighting men; they know better than anyone of the perils of battle.”
Moncrief shook his head again. He scratched his torso, chasing the fleas in his woolen undergarments even deeper into his skin. “But du Rennic did not die in battle,” he mumbled what they already knew. “He was assassinated.”
Jean-Pierre nodded sadly. “And they believe de Wolfe is responsible.”
“He is not responsible,” Moncrief insisted. “There was nothing he could do about it.”
Jean Pierre nodded his head again in agreement as he noticed that Scott and Stewart had concluded their conversation and Auclair was returning to the group. The army was preparing to mobilize and there was a sense of determination in the air, the kind of conviction that was always present before a battle.
“Nay, he is not responsible,” he said quietly, gathering his reins. “But they know that the arrow du Rennic took was meant for de Wolfe himself. In a sense, that makes him responsible more than most.”
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