“Then thou shalt share such mournful forebodings with me, as I am already thy spouse, despite the absence of the sacrament and the official proclamation. Surely thou dost know, after all these years, thou dost own me and my unshakeable allegiance.” To impress her point, she framed his face. “Titus, I love ye.”
Without warning, he squeezed her so tight she could scarcely draw breath, but she resisted not, as she sensed his alarm, and her apprehension grew in epic proportions, as the great Titus Saint-Germain feared naught. Thus his reaction only increased her concern.
“Fair Desiderata, thou art my queen, and I am thy humble and unworthy servant.” As he held her in check, he whispered into her ear, “I am the bastard son of thine enemy. My sire was not Roncin Saint-Germain. Rather, my father was Titus de Wolfe, a Lancastrian. It is plausible that Mama’s secret was not so secret, and Hastings covets the Saint-Germain lands. A union with me could bring shame and poverty, and I would understand if thou dost no longer want me.”
As the world seemed to spin out of control, his declaration echoed in the deepest recesses of her mind, but Desi never wavered in her commitment and the staunch belief that their fates were inextricably intertwined. So in sotto voce she replied, “Dost thou think me so fickle, as I care not for thy name, thy property, or thy fortune? All things being equal, if thou art content in thy choice, I should be thy wife.”
To her unmitigated shock, Titus broke, and in his rare display of vulnerability, he won her again. With renewed resolve, Desi offered succor, and in their mingled tears they found mutual consolation interspersed with achingly sweet kisses intended to reassure each other that their affiliation remained rock solid—unbreakable, impervious to attack or outside forces.
“If we are to stay the course, my Desi, thou must persist in thy vigilance.” After drying his cheeks with his cloak, Titus rested his chin to her crown. “Do what must needs to survive until I return for ye—and I will return for ye. Even if it requires ye to concede to thy father’s demands—”
“Nay, I will not.” In that she would not agree. “If Papa is at odds with thee, then he is at odds with me.”
“Ah, how I cherish thy fit of temper, my girl.” He patted her bottom. “As thou art as wise as thou art beauteous, so use thy talents and consider that ye may have to concur, on the surface, to accept the idiot, but delay and postpone thy ceremony, as I will come for thee.”
“I will agree, with one stipulation.” Though she detested the mere notion. “Thou must maintain the secret of thy birth. While I know not if father is aware of thy parentage, thine enemies would use the information to destroy thee.”
“But I promised Mama I would seek my kin.” With a frown, he compressed his lips. “I must honor my pledge.”
“And thou wilt do so, but not today.” In play, Desi caught the tip of his nose with her teeth and then eased her head to his shoulder. “Thy primary objective is to persevere, that we might marry with expediency. Anon, we can seek thy relatives, together.”
“By thy command, I obey.” Then he seized her mouth in a tempting expression that conveyed more than a hint of farewell, and she lingered, unwilling to relinquish Titus to those who would strike at him. “How I hate to leave thee, as I am alone but for ye.”
“My darling, thou art never alone or without me, as thou dost carry my heart, as a shield, invulnerable to the weapons of war. And whither thou dost go, so go I.” In obeisance of his unspoken entreaty, she slipped from his grip and descended from his lap. Despondent over their looming separation, she fought the urge to touch him before he departed, as she feared she might never release him. “May the grace of the Lord protect and defend ye, until we are reunited, and I hold ye in my arms. But as the date of that glad tiding remains a mystery, I shall simply remind ye that I love ye.”
With nary a word, he nodded once and heeled his horse. Then he drew rein and glanced at her. “My Lady Desiderata, I love ye, too.”
In that moment, she gave vent to a cry of elation, and her spirits soared. “Oh, Titus, my love, have faith. Thou wilt not fall, as hither shall I endure, waiting for thee, and we will celebrate thy return with our nuptials.”
As he charged the moor, she stood guard, prepared to raise the alarm should some foul beast attempt an ambush. But Titus gained the edge of the forest, safe and sound, and paused to wave, which she acknowledged in like fashion. When he rode out of sight, she sat in the grass to admire the sunset and pray. As twilight encroached, she stretched upright, brushed the wrinkles from her gown and matching cloak, and gazed at the stars.
“To no one and everyone, I challenge thee, and thou shalt hear me well.” She pressed a clenched fist to her bosom. “On my firstborn I swear, Titus Saint-Germain and I will meet again.”
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CHAPTER THREE
After Warwick, now fighting for the Lancasters, refused to engage Edward at Coventry, the Yorkist forces marched south on London. To the surprise of everyone involved, the city provided no resistance, instead welcoming the once exiled monarch, and Edward reclaimed the throne, reunited with his wife and infant son, and took Henry VI into custody without fanfare.
But news reached Edward that Warwick, joined by Exeter, Oxford, and Montagu, regrouped and advanced on St. Albans, and the King ordered his army to move north and attack. Traveling with Clarence’s troops, Titus and his lancers gathered at the center, with Edward.
In an obscene contradiction on the holiest of days, Easter Sunday, amid heavy fog blanketing the earth in an impressive display of nature’s omnipotence, the battle of Barnet commenced with a torrential hailstorm of arrows, before both sides deployed polearms. With the Lancastrians flanking the Yorkists on the left wing, and under cover of the thick haze, Oxford’s troops routed Hastings.
“Courage, men.” At the heart of the fight, as the Lancasters rallied, Titus spurred his destrier and charged. “Follow me.”
At his left, Theron the standard bearer kept pace, and Titus’s trusted armiger Philocrates guarded the rear. The lines of engagement shifted and deteriorated, as the clash degenerated into hand-to-hand combat, leveling the field for king, lord, and soldier, alike. Lowering his lance, he took careful aim at an impressive foe, when a vicious blow from behind ripped off Titus’s helmet and sent him tumbling, head over heels, to the ground.
Time suspended, the world spun on end, and his ears rang like the bells in a Ramsey steeple. Dazed from the fall, he rubbed his eyes, scrambled upright, and then searched for his horse and weapon. The body of a Yorkist landed at his feet, and he stumbled backwards. To his infinite horror, his standard bearer assumed an aggressive stance and then lunged.
“God’s bones.” Titus dropped, rolled to his right, and snatched a lost sword, as his mother’s warning proved invaluable. “Theron, wherefore dost thee take arms against me?” When Philocrates waged a second assault, Titus ducked and swerved, and he just evaded a lethal molinetto, which would have gutted him. “Good sirrahs, wherefore dost ye betray me?”
“Hastings grants thy properties to Idaios Staatsrat.” Theron executed a savage riverso, which Titus deflected with a fierce parry. And I am to be granted an earldom, an estimable parcel of land, and Lady Endera Leplat.”
“Thou wilt sell thy soul so cheap?” Scanning the immediate vicinity, Titus spied his lance. In a flash, he launched a daring offensive against his former allies. “Thou dost know the woman is impure.”
“That should make the consummation far easier, and I care not for the bitch.” Theron gave vent to a menacing cackle and lunged. “I covet her dowry and the rank.”
“And what of ye, Philocrates?” Titus countered with a stop-thrust and gained an edge. “At what price hath ye condemned thyself to the bowels of hell?”
“The same.” The armiger snickered and lowered his sword. “Only I bargained for Lady Leurun de Gherea, as I will have a maidenhead for my efforts.”
Just then, a band of Lancastrians chased down and dragged Montagu from his saddle. The odd sight
mirrored Titus’s predicament, to an extent. When the enemy stripped off Montagu’s armor, they revealed the inexplicable fact that the marquess wore Yorkist colors beneath his chain mail. And the action ceased for a brief second, as the soldiers chanted, “Traitor.”
It was the lucky break for which Titus had uttered a silent prayer. Yielding his weapon, he dove for the lance. When Philocrates came alert and sprang forth, it was too late. Titus grasped the polearm, tucked it firmly in the crook of his elbow, and the armiger walked straight into the pointed end, impaling himself just below the fauld of his armor. The villain toppled to the ground.
For a brief moment, Titus breathed a sigh of relief—until Theron slashed Titus along his left temple. Coupled with the earlier injury, the merciless blow rendered him confused, and he collapsed on his back. His vision blurred, as Theron appeared as a shadow standing overhead. Adjusting his grip on the hilt, the standard bearer poised to deliver the mortal strike.
And then Theron groaned, listed, and tumbled.
Wounded, Titus pictured Desiderata, waiting for him at the lancet window, as she always did, her saffron locks shimmering in the sunlight, and the mere thought of her cut through the chill of the fog and offered comfort in what he surmised were his final minutes of life. Unable to move, he noted the sickeningly sweet smell of blood from countless casualties, the stench of damp earth, and the morbid cries of the injured.
Through the violent conflict, his lady called to him: Come back to me.
Mustering a small measure of strength, he attempted to sit but buckled. A mountainous Lancastrian kicked Titus and then paused. What happened next Titus never would have guessed.
The imposing adversary knelt and lifted his visor. “Titus?”
The utterance, more a plea, manifested a wealth of meaning and interminable sorrow.
“Aye.” Given he still could not see clearly, Titus prepared to meet his fate, as searing pain throbbed behind his eyes, and he blinked. “What dost ye want, Lancastrian?”
“How is it possible?” The man seemed bewildered, as he removed Titus’s coif. “Christ’s tears, it cannot be, yet I will not deny that to which I am witness. Thou art Titus?”
“Yea, I am Titus. Art thou deaf?” Losing his fragile grip on reality, Titus recalled his promise to Mama and realized it was his last chance to fulfill her dying wish. “I am Titus Saint-Germain, son of Margreit Saint-Germain and Titus de Wolfe. Prithee, tell Lady Desiderata de Mandeviel I love her.” And then he succumbed to an all-consuming shroud of darkness.
~
A fortnight had passed when Papa summoned Desi to the solar. As she gazed out the lancet window of her chamber, she folded her arms and shivered. The world beyond her room presented a dreary landscape, as unusually cool weather mingled with April showers, but the gray skies matched her mood, and in them she found a measure of solace.
As she strolled down the hall and up the narrow stone steps, she sighed and dried her damp palms on her wool cotehardie. Given the repeated arguments she had enacted with her father, since Titus’s departure, their once favorable relationship had waned to the extent that they hardly spoke. Halting at the oak panels, she knocked.
“Come.” The muffled call granted her entry.
“Good eventide, Papa.” She found him sitting in an overstuffed chair near the hearth. “Thou dost wish to see me?”
“Aye.” Folding a sheet of parchment in half, he nodded toward the matching seat. “Come hither, my child, as I need to speak with ye.”
Oh, no. Not another quarrel about the idiot.
Biting her tongue, Desi abided her father’s request and settled her skirts. Gazing at her clasped hands, which she rested in her lap in an illusion of calm, she braced for battle. After adopting the proper posture, of which her mother would be proud, Desi inclined her head. “What is it, Papa? Wherefore art thou distressed?”
“I have news from London.” Papa wiped his brow. “Thither is no easy way to impart ill tidings, but I would not keep recent developments from ye, as thou must accept the change in thy destiny, however distasteful.”
Indeed, she was to endure an additional lecture on the merits of a union with Idaios Staatsrat. “Father, as much as it pains me to oppose ye, as thou hast always been my closest ally, I must follow my heart, and it doth belong to Titus.”
“Mayhap that is true, but thou hast no choice. Thou must wed Staatsrat.” Then, to her unmitigated astonishment, Papa wept. “My darling girl, they killed him. They butchered him as an animal in the field. Our Titus is gone.” He buried his face in his hands. “Dost thou think me unfeeling? Dost thou not comprehend my wretchedness, as Titus was as a son to me, and I would have done anything to spare him, but I am old and weak, and I could not protect him?”
Thither existed a delicate fragment, a fragile sliver of time in everyone’s life when the world ceased its motion, and the forces of creation aligned to deny the emotional reaction to unimaginable sorrow. The rain dwindled to a gentle mist, the hounds quieted, the birds alighted, and the wind slowed to a whisper of a breeze. Misery functioned as an invisible but nonetheless potent barrier so indestructible as to render it impenetrable, so powerful that even the splendor of nature could not breach the veil of despair. For Desiderata, it was the moment when Papa proclaimed Titus’s death.
While her father sobbed, she eased to her feet, but her knees buckled, and she stumbled to the table. Struggling to breathe, she leaned forward, opened wide her mouth in a silent scream, inhaled, and exhaled. Anon, she walked to the small portal on the back wall, shoved ajar the access to the balcony, and studied the setting sun. How many occasions had she shared the glorious event with Titus? Too many to count.
Closing her eyes, she treasured the happy memories of years past. They attempted their first kiss when he was but seven and ten, and she was twelve. In a fit of panic, she lashed out with a fist, hitting a particularly sensitive spot for a man, and thereafter he made his intentions known before approaching her. Of course, she had long since changed her tune, and she welcomed his tender overtures. To think she would never again taste his lips should have broken her, but it did not.
Desi came alert with a flinch.
The colorful horizon, a random mix of blues, pinks, and oranges, due to the abundance of clouds, spread wide before her, yet the awe-inspiring sight brought no joy. But that was not what snared her attention. Rather, it was what remained noticeably absent that held her transfixed.
As she waited for the emptiness, for the heartbreak, for the slow, agonizing fracture of her existence, she prevailed. For a second time, she calmed and reached for reality. With a gulp of cool air, she rolled her shoulders and opened herself to the possibility that everything she planned for the future had died with Titus. And yet she did not falter.
A premonition dawned.
Returning to the solar, she knelt at Papa’s feet. “Whither is my love’s body? When will he be buried, as I would attend his funeral and pay my respects?”
“My dear, that is not possible.” He stroked her plaited hair and with the back of his sleeve brushed the moisture from his cheeks. “Titus fell a fortnight ago. No doubt his corpse was left to rot on the battlefield.”
“Then I would grieve for him, as would a widow.” Her mind raced in all directions, and she formulated her strategy with ruthless detail. “As he was my betrothed from my birth. I owe him that, Papa.”
“But I must negotiate thy nuptials with Staatsrat.” Her father frowned. “With the Saint-Germains gone, we are alone and must ally ourselves with a well-connected benefactor, else we may suffer the same fate as Titus, and I will shield ye, with what little we possess to tempt a viable candidate.”
Now everything inside her rebelled, as Desi contemplated a union with anyone other than Titus. At once, she seized on a suitable excuse to delay what Papa thought an inevitable conclusion, as she had to impede, hinder, and obstruct any ceremony.
“Given the length of my betrothal, tradition demands an annum of mourning.”
As a dutiful daughter, she rested her head to his thigh. “If Titus perished on the fourteenth of April, then I shall not marry Staatsrat a day before then, next year.”
“But thou wilt accept him?” Papa offered a ghost of a smile. “Thou wilt obey me?”
“Aye, Papa.” He set her back and then helped her stand. “If thou wilt honor my request, which I deem right and true for any well-bred lady of character. Would thou expect anything less?”
“Nay, as I taught ye better than that, but thou hast pleased me and lifted a burden from my soul.” He escorted her to the door. “Now I would have ye take thy ease, and I shall send a light sup to thy chamber. And on the morrow, I shall journey to London to open a dialogue and begin the deliberations.” Then he kissed her forehead. “I am relieved and very proud of thee.”
Without a word, she dipped her chin, curtseyed, and returned to her sanctuary. In the privacy of her room, from her fitchet she drew the last letter she received from Titus and unfolded the missive. The fervent declarations of which he wrote called to her, as a piercing scream in the night to jolt her from the wretched pall that would blanket her existence in a shroud of gloom. Retracing her earlier steps, she perched at the lancet window and stared at naught.
For the third instance, she hailed the desolate chasm of quietus and death that would consume her if she relented. For the third time her summons went unanswered.
Unshakeable certainty invested her senses and emboldened her resolve. Desi marched to the hearth, dropped to her knees on the plush rug, and gazed into the blaze. “Titus, my love, thou art not dead.”
_________________
CHAPTER FOUR
The first clue that Titus remained very much alive manifested as a vicious pounding in his head. Coupled with a series of annoying whispers, the throbbing pulled him from blissful sleep and naughty visions of a naked Desiderata, and that he did not appreciate, as the latter he counted an invaluable prize.
“It appears he wakes.”
Lone Wolfe Page 3
