Lone Wolfe

by Barbara Devlin

  “Shh. Thou dost not want to startle him.”

  “I still cannot believe it, as he looks just like thy brother.”

  “That is what I said.”

  “But how can it be possible?”

  “That is what I thought when I found him.”

  “Mayhap, somehow he survived and returned from the grave—yet did not age?”

  “That is what I wondered.”

  “Wilt thou cease thy prattle?”

  “Prithee, wilt both of thee interrupting my slumber cease thy prattle?” Stretching long, Titus opened his eyes and discovered two men staring at him with unveiled interest. In a flash, he lurched upright, but the walls of the chamber seemed to spin out of control, and he slumped on his side.

  “Rest easy, graceful one.” The younger of the interlopers extended support and fluffed a pillow, which he situated with care. “My physic stitched the gash on thy temple, but thou hast lost a significant amount of blood, and thou hast a wicked bump. However, thou must give thanks, as thou dost possess a thick skull, and thou wilt survive.”

  “Whither am I?” Titus accepted the mug of Adam’s ale, which the stranger offered. “Whither has ye brought me, and wherefore am I hither? What are thy intentions?”

  “Thou dost enjoy the hospitality of Alnwick Castle, and thou mayest calm thy nerves, as I have no desire to seduce ye.” Then he drew a familiar item from beneath his tunic. “We found this tucked inside thy armor. How didst ye come by this ailette, Yorkist?”

  On guard, Titus searched the immediate area for a weapon or anything with which he might defend himself, but he located naught. “What business is it of thine, Lancastrian?”

  “Oh, he is a de Wolfe, all right.” The older, gray-haired character, with an animated countenance, chuckled.

  “Given I saved thy life, and hauled thy miserable arse from the battlefield, thou might render me a bit of courtesy.” At full height, the mountain flexed his fists, and Titus swallowed hard. “Or would ye rather I left ye at the mercy of thine enemies?”

  “My mother gave it to me on her deathbed.” As his former adversary spoke the truth, Titus figured the least he could do was answer the question. And if the Lancastrians were going to kill him, it made no sense to shield him and nurse him back to health. “It belonged to my father.”

  “What did I tell ye?” asked the giant, as he elbowed the elder.

  “Pray, indulge an old man.” The somewhat frail male pressed a hand to his chest. “Who sired ye?”

  “Titus de Wolfe.” With a shrug, Titus cleared his throat. “At least, that is the name Mama gave me.”

  “God be praised.” As his lower lip trembled, he clutched the younger’s wrist. “And thy mother was Margreit Saint-Germain, formerly d’Engagne?”

  “Aye.” Slow and steady, Titus moved to a reclining position but kept the blankets to his chin. “And thou who dost claim to have spared me, to whom do I owe a debt?”

  The curious but robust and somewhat dubious savior shuffled his feet. “It would seem I am thy uncle, Atticus, the Lion of the North.”

  “And I am thy grandfather, Solomon de Wolfe.” When Titus shifted, the sheet dropped from his chest, and Solomon grasped Titus’s arm. “Atticus, dost thou see it? He bears the very same wolf’s head mark in the identical place.” Then he retreated, as tears filled his eyes. “Forgive me, but it is as if I have confronted a ghost after all these years, for thou art the image of thy father, my beloved eldest son.”

  “That is what Mama said.” He should have been shocked by their revelations. Instead, as their disclosures expounded on their actions, Titus mustered a smile. “It is good to meet ye, at last.”

  “Sit, Papa.” Atticus ushered Solomon to a chair. “Isobeau took a single glance at him and fainted, and I would not have ye embarrass thyself before our kin.”

  “Thou art not surprised by these auspicious facts?” Solomon scratched his cheek.

  “Yea and nay, as I had knowledge of my brother’s affair with Lady Margreit, given we kept little from each other, and I knew he coveted strong sentiment for her.” Atticus peered at Titus. “But I knew not of any issue from the relationship.”

  “According to my mother, my sire never knew of my existence.” Titus recalled her final words, which had been ingrained in his memory. “And he died before she could reveal my parentage. But she wed Roncin Saint-Germain to protect me.”

  “That explains so much, as Titus came to me in a rush, begging to break the contract with the de Shera’s, that he might marry Margreit. But I could not do it, as I had long wished to unite our families.” Solomon rubbed the back of his neck. “Would that I had done so, instead of forcing the union between Titus and Isobeau, as thither was another option.”

  “I do not follow.” Atticus arched a brow. “What other option didst thou have at thy disposal?”

  “Who dost thou think?” With a grunt, Solomon shook his head. “Given what thou dost enjoy with thy wife, in the wake of thy brother’s demise, I should have betrothed ye to Isobeau from the first. But thou were so focused on thy vocation and waging war that I lamented thou might never find a match.” Then he sniffed and wiped his nose. “I was so wrong, and we will never know what might have been had I relented.”

  “Thou cannot second-guess thy decision, Papa, as thou hast always done thy best by our family.” Again, Atticus gave his attention to Titus. “Art thou hungry? I can send for a light meal.”

  “Aye, but right now I could eat a heavy meal.” Inching upright with prudence, he relaxed when the chamber ceased its rotation. “And mayhap thou canst apprise me of the outcome of the battle.”

  “Ah, thou dost not know what happened, given thou didst snore through the worst of it.” Atticus snickered, strutted to the door, hollered for a servant, ordered food, and then returned. “The Yorks won, the Lancasters suffered twice the casualties, Edward retains the throne, and Warwick and Montagu were killed.” After dragging a chair to bedside, he sat. “That sums up the results. Now, mayhap thou wilt tell me how it came to pass thy own men struck ye in the heat of the conflict.”

  “Hastings covets the Saint-Germain lands, as they hold prime position, high ground between the opposing factions, and Mama warned me as much prior to her death.” Images, bits and pieces of treachery played a morbid tragedy before him, and Titus grimaced. “My standard bearer and my armiger, two of my most trusted defenders, betrayed and attacked me.” To Atticus, Titus said, “I would have perished had ye not interfered in their scheme, and I am grateful.”

  “To be honest, my motives were purely selfish.” Atticus grinned. “When I first spotted ye, under assault by soldiers boasting thy colors, the situation reminded me of my brother, as he was felled under similar circumstances.” Then his expression softened. “Thou didst permit me to win a measure of redemption.”

  “I do not follow.” And then Titus pondered the incident, which occurred with lightning speed. “And given we have never been formally introduced prior to today, how canst thou be so certain of our blood ties?”

  “Have we not made it clear?” Atticus glanced at Solomon and snorted. “Titus—how strange it seems to address ye as such, but thou art an exact image of thy namesake. When I discovered the ailette with the De Wolfe insignia, tucked in thy chain mail hauberk, coupled with thy uncanny likeness, I realized thou were, in some form or fashion, a relation. But the mark on thy arm provides irrefutable evidence. As for my redemption, the answer is elementary. If I could not save my brother, at least I could save his son.”

  “It is fate, and I would not question it.” Solomon rose and massaged his back. “But I should prepare for dinner, and I need a drink, mayhap several, after this eventide. Thus I will leave ye two to get better acquainted.”

  “Gramercy, sir.” Titus studied his patron. “Thank ye, too, Atticus.” Then his thoughts turned to another. “God’s bones, but I must send a warning to my lady, and tell her I am alive.”

  “That would be Desiderata?” Atticus arched a br
ow.

  “How dost thou know her name?” In his absence, he could only surmise what she had been told.

  “Thou hast uttered it so many times, I mistakenly mumbled it in my sleep, and Isobeau was not too happy with me.” Atticus averted his gaze and smirked. “But I managed to smooth her ruffled feathers.”

  “Is it too much trouble to send a messenger to her?” Just as fast, he reconsidered his request. “Atticus, the circumstances are urgent, as her father intends to betroth her to another.”

  “Dost thou think he may be involved in the conspiracy to steal thy legacy?” Leaning forward, Atticus propped his elbows on his knees. “Though thou mayest not want to ponder it, thy Desiderata could be—”

  “Nay.” Titus lurched and collapsed to the mattress, as everything seemed to twist and turn. “Atticus, I met with Desi prior to the battle at Barnet, and I am assured of her affection and unfailing devotion.”

  His uncle whistled in a single, long held note. “Thou art in love.”

  “Aye, what of it?” He winced, as the pounding in his temples intensified. “She loves me, all the same.”

  “Then thou art fortunate, because the gift of a woman’s heart is a treasure, indeed, and none know better than I.” Atticus laughed. “Especially when thou art so unutterably captivated. But fear not, as thou art on the mend, and the physic assures me that ye will be much improved in a sennight. Thou mayest go after her.”

  “Then I am free to leave when I choose?” He sighed in relief, as he would marry Desi at the first opportunity.

  “Thou art no prisoner, so thou dost enjoy free access.” Atticus pointed for emphasis. “But I would ask ye not to surprise my wife, as thy presence quite startled her, given Titus was her first husband.”

  “Thou didst marry thy brother’s wife?” Titus blinked in confusion. “Sorry, but that does not sound sensible.”

  Atticus rolled his eyes. “It is a long story.”

  ~

  As a sentry, Desi maintained her vigil at the lancet window, hoping and praying for some sign of Titus, yet none came in the sennight since Papa departed for London. To her infinite thanks, she secured her father’s promise to observe a year of mourning, and the stipulation would be written into the marriage contract, which would bind her to the idiot, a man she vowed never to wed.

  “Lady Desiderata, come and sit by the fire, as thou wilt catch thy death if thither ye dost stand much longer.” Carrying a tray heaped with covered dishes, Grisel, the maid, frowned. “I brought thy sup, given thou hast eaten naught since last eventide, and I would have thee clean thy trencher.”

  “But I am not hungry.” Shadows played a festive mosaic on the earth, as the sun danced near the horizon, bringing with it the close of another day without word from her beloved knight. “Take it away.”

  “My dear Lady Desi, I have known ye since ye were a wee babe in swaddling, and I will not permit ye to wane.” After depositing the meal on the table, Grisel drew Desi from her perch. “It is not good for ye to delude thyself. Sir Titus is gone, and ye must learn to accept another in his place. But fear not, as men are all alike. What matters is what rests between their legs and what they can do with it. The remainder is of no consequence.”

  “Grisel.” When the maid burst into laughter, Desi could not resist a giggle in response. For a moment, her spirits eased, but reality intruded, and she yielded to tears. “Oh, whither is my love?”

  “Nay, my lady, do not cry.” As always, Grisel offered solace in a familiar and motherly embrace. “I know ye art heartbroken, but thy wounds will heal in time, and thou mayest learn to care for thy future husband.”

  “Never.” The mere thought inspired revulsion, and Desi wrenched free. “I will die before I go to Staatsrat’s bed.”

  “Then if ye must rebel, let it be with a full belly.” Grisel led Desi to a chair. “Now, sit and eat.”

  “Pykes in brasey, my favorite.” She draped a napkin in her lap. Just as she took her first bite of the tasty grilled fish in wine sauce, someone knocked at the door.

  “I will see to it, as thou must conserve thy strength, and consume thy meal while it is hot.” The maid grumbled an incoherent entreaty, as she opened wide the oak panel to reveal Reolus, the young and handsome steward of Waelmore Castle. “Well, what is it, trite breeches?”

  With a groan, Reolus sneered. “Woman, anyone with a face as unsightly as thine should not draw attention to thyself.”

  “Then I suggest ye take thy own advice, and stick thy head in a barrel.” With a humph of unmasked impatience Desi knew too well, Grisel folded her arms. “Thou dost interrupt Lady Desiderata’s dinner, silk-snatcher.”

  “Enough.” With a none-too-gentle shove, Reolus pushed aside Grisel. “My lady, a messenger is just arrived with an important letter for ye, and he is instructed to deliver the correspondence into thy hands, alone.”

  The chair struck the floor with a resounding thud, as Desi leaped to her feet. “Whither hast ye put him?”

  “In the great hall, my lady.” Reolus bowed, as she ran past him.

  Descending the steps, two at a time, with the steward and the maid bickering in Desi’s wake, she ran to meet what she knew, without doubt, was Titus’s herald. When her feet hit the polished stone at the grand entry, she veered right and flew into the cavernous chamber, whereupon a regal knight awaited her arrival.

  Garbed in resplendent armor, but wearing no ailette, which she found odd, the stranger had doffed his great helm. When he spied her, he made his obedience. “Lady Desiderata, I am Sir Bodwine.” He held out a rolled parchment. “I have a missive from my master, which I am to deliver into thine hands.”

  “Gramercy, good sirrah.” She snatched the much-prayed-for letter and broke the wax seal. Anticipation simmered beneath her flesh, as she scanned the contents and discovered the sender’s name—Idaios Staatsrat. With a whimper, her heart sank to new depths of despair, but she quickly hid her distress behind a false façade of serenity, as if she welcomed the news. “It is from my future husband, and I would return to my quarters and read his sentiments in private.”

  “Of course, Lady Desiderata.” The courier sketched a salute. “But I am bound by my master to ensure thou wilt peruse the dispatch, with all due haste.”

  “How dare ye issue commands of my mistress, thou rude swine.” Grisel scowled. “Thou art neither her equal nor her better, and I demand ye apologize, at once, thou great mass of pond scum.”

  “Forgive me, Lady Desiderata, as it was not my intent to cause offense.” The guard dipped his chin. “If thou wilt give me thy word, I shall discharge my duty.”

  “Know thou dost have it, and I take no offense.” Tears beckoned, and Desi trudged to the confines of her sanctuary. Glancing at the table, and her full trencher, she blanched. With a sigh, she marched to the fireplace and prepared to dispose of the wounding message, but something stayed her.

  Upon closer inspection, she noted the handwriting, eerily familiar, and her fingers shook as she examined the information therein. While the ramblings consisted primarily of random sentiments in regard to their impending nuptials, and shocking references to the diminutive state of his man’s yard, the letter lent substantial credence to her supposition that Staatsrat possessed rather dim-witted intelligence.

  Until she happened upon the closing passage.

  How I ache to look upon thy sweet face and, mayhap, savor the sunset over the moor near thy home, as I have long savored cherished memories of such simple indulgences from days past. Given the fair weather and clear skies, this eventide should present a sight to behold, in celebration of the end of time apart and a happy reunion between two people who are as lifelong friends but would be so much more.

  Desi fell to her knees and again scrutinized the excerpt.

  Everything inside her screamed, as she recognized not only the script but also the tone of its author. Then she gazed at the signature and, upon additional intense perusal, realized the sender affixed the name invested with an unden
iable and telltale clue as to the genuine author: Idiot Staatsrat.

  Waving a fist in the air, she shouted her elation.

  “Lady Desiderata, art thou unwell?” Grisel helped Desi stand. “Oh, my dear child, hast thou not reconciled thyself to thy fate? Thou must surrender thy dream of Sir Titus’s rebirth, else thou mayest endure much misery in the possession of thy new husband-to-be.”

  “Quickly, Grisel.” She shoved aside the maid and opened her trunk. “Fetch my heavy cloak with the fur collar, whilst I change into a warmer kirtle and cotehardie.”

  “Wherefore?” Narrowing her stare, the servant, more a mother figure than a domestic, loomed with hands on hips. “Thou hast yet to eat thy supper.”

  “Thither is no time.” Desi sat at the edge of her bed and tugged on a thicker pair of hose. “I must away.”

  “Whither dost thou go?” Grisel bent and retrieved the discarded clothing.

  “To watch the sunset.” She slipped her feet into sturdy leather crackcowes, which had been dyed to match her burgundy attire, and which Titus declared her most complimentary shade. “Now, we must hurry.”

  “Not until thou dost finish thy meal.” Holding a napkin, Grisel arched a brow. “And I should collect my outwear.”

  “Thou canst use something of mine.” Desi checked her appearance in the long mirror. “Because the situation is urgent.”

  “Lady Desiderata, I am charged with thy well-being in thy father’s absence.” Grisel tapped her foot. “Thou wilt dine, or I shall summon that despicable Reolus to guard thy door.”

  “Oh, all right.” In violation of every feminine precept she had been taught, Desi plopped into her chair and scooped handfuls of food into her mouth.

  “Slow down, my lady, else thou wilt revisit thy sup as fast as ye dost swallow it.” Grisel poured a glass of wine. “Drink, else ye might choke.”

  Ignoring the caution, Desi polished off every scrap and morsel. Then she sat back and gave vent to an impressive belch. With a palm pressed to her belly, she gulped the wine and then slumped forward in a coughing fit. “My apologies, Grisel.” Desi tamped the fast rising nausea. “If I vomit, it is my fault, but we must go, before it is too late, so thou mayest scold me, anon.”