Lone Wolfe

by Barbara Devlin

  “I had hoped we would have received some word from Papa, by now.” And her father’s silence gnawed at her conscience. Had her defiance forever destroyed the once formidable paternal bonds? “It pains me to wonder if he is somehow involved in the York’s scheme, but I rebuke the mere suggestion. Yet, wherefore would Papa ignore thy missive?”

  “I know not, love. But he should have received it, by now. However, before Theron and Philocrates fell, both declared themselves allied with Hastings.” He scratched his chin. “It stands to reason they conspired on behalf of Edward, though I do not quite understand his treachery, given I have faithfully served His Majesty.”

  “Therein lies the fly in the ointment.” Naught made sense upon reflection, and Desi hugged her husband. “Wherefore would Edward strike at ye, when he already had use of thy loyalty, thy lands, thy position, and thy fighting prowess? What are the motives? What was to be gained by—”

  A loud rap cut off her circumspection and analysis of the events.

  “Thither who goes?” Titus asked with unveiled annoyance.

  “It is Richart, Sir Titus.” The steward set the door ajar, extended a hand, and held out a rolled parchment. “A message is just arrived for ye, sir. The evening watch found it nailed to the main gate.”

  “Thank ye.” Her husband set her on the bench and retrieved the correspondence. After breaking the seal, he unrolled and read the letter. When he met her stare, she spied distress.

  “What is it?” She clutched the folds of her robe. “What hath happened?”

  “I may have ensured our doom.” At the hearth, he again perused the missive. “The Yorks march on Braewood Castle, and that is not the worst of it.”

  As a dutiful wife, Desi sought to console her spouse. When she assumed her place at his side, he handed her the note, which she scanned. Her fingers shook, her ears pealed, and her knees buckled. “My God. Staatsrat has taken Papa prisoner.”

  _________________

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As a sentry watching for any signs of invasion, Titus remained on guard at the south tower of the main gatehouse. A blanket of ominous clouds rolled in from the east, heralding an advancing tempest. In the distance, the setting sun, once a revered sight he often shared with his wife, inspired naught but concern, as evil lurked in darkness.

  “Sir Titus, hither am I to relieve ye from thy post.” The young archer shuffled his feet. “And Lady Saint-Germain searches for thee.”

  Oh, he could have made a safe wager on that development. As he descended the narrow spiral stone staircase, he recalled his earlier conversation with her maids. Yea, his wife would be angry, of that he had no doubt, but he had to make an attempt to sway her. With an impending attack on the horizon, he had to protect Desi. Yet she had been blessed, or perchance cursed, with uncommon intelligence, and he suspected she saw through the ruse from the start.

  In the bailey, he found the steward. “Richart, how goes the reinforcement of the main gate?”

  “Completed ahead of schedule, Sir Titus.” Richart rubbed the back of his neck. “And Lady Saint-Germain seeks thy company.”

  “Thank ye.” Titus glanced at the primary ingress to the private accommodations and then at the barbican. “Mayhap I should check the progress of the additional fortifications.” Gazing at the portcullis, he located Bodwine and started in his direction. The De Wolfe knight had become indispensable since journeying to Braewood Castle.

  “Sir Titus, we have stocked the area with stones, in preparation for an assault. And the path is clear to deliver buckets of boiling oil to the murder holes.” Bodwine shifted his weight and averted his stare. “Also, Lady Saint-Germain—”

  “—Wishes to speak with me.” Venting a sigh of dread, Titus rolled his eyes. “So I gather.”

  “I beg thy pardon, but thy woman doth not seem happy.” Bodwine peered over either shoulder and then leaned near. “Take it from one who hath witnessed the difficulties a new husband faces with a strong-willed wife, thou must learn to manage her temper, and the sooner the better for thy sanity.”

  “Thou dost reference Atticus and Isobeau.” Titus mulled the situation, as never had he suffered cross words from Desi, and he would not develop a fresh trend if he could avoid it. “Dispense thy advice.”

  “My friend, I could tell ye stories that would make thy skin crawl, and never will I take the sacrament.” Bodwine winced. “The rule is simple, if thy lady is not satisfied, no one will be satisfied, and if she cries, thou art done for, so appease her. Keep her sated and content, and thou wilt remain an untroubled man.” To Titus’s surprise, the De Wolfe knight suddenly flinched. “God’s bones, but yonder lurks thy bride, and I would absent myself.”

  Titus turned in time to observe the garrison of battle-hardened soldiers clearing a wide path for Desi. With a chuckle, he made to thank Bodwine but discovered the heretofore-brave warrior gone. As Titus was no coward, he resolved to meet his angry spouse halfway, so he trudged into the courtyard.

  “Good eventide, sweetheart.” He extended a smile as an olive branch.

  “Do not ‘sweetheart’ me, Sir Titus, as I am aware of thy schemes.” Her blue eyes flared, as she addressed him, and how he loved her. “Is it true?”

  “Is what true, angel?” Could he escape the inescapable with subterfuge? Of course, even as he considered the possibility, his bride stomped the ground.

  “Didst thou or didst thou not conspire with Mabot and Grisel to send me away? Didst thou enlist the maids to usurp my position in our household, as though I am but a disinterested spectator?” In spite of her steely scowl, with her chin thrust ever so slightly and her cheeks flushed, he ached to kiss her. “Thou hast supplanted thy chatelaine and undermined my authority. Just try and deny it.”

  “I will not deny it.” As always, for him, with her, he had to tell the truth. “But I am justified, as I would not have ye within these walls when danger strikes.”

  What he had not counted on was the horrid sensation that overwhelmed him, when confronted with her pain, especially when he caused her discomfit. As her lower lip trembled, tears pooled in her usually shimmering gaze, and her distress cut him to the core. It was as if she wielded an invisible lance, and she had run him through.

  “We are not married a month, and thou art already longing to be rid of me?” With something between a sob and a sigh, she folded her arms and hugged herself. “Am I so lacking that thou wilt surrender me with such ease?”

  “Thou dost believe my actions reflect negatively on ye or represent a measure of my affection?” Now that gem of reasoning he could not have predicted. How had he made such a mess of the situation? “Desi, dost thou not understand? Thou art my heart.” Clutching her hand, he pressed her palm to his chest. “Dost thou feel that, as it beats for thee? Thou art my only love, and I would save ye, at any price. Is it not bad enough thy father’s neck hangs in the balance, as a result of my actions?”

  “Titus, under no circumstances will I leave ye to fight our battles, alone. Thou could have me tied up and driven from thy presence, but I will rebel and come back to thee. If thou dost wish it, thou mayest spank me, and I will bear thy discipline in the spirit it is intended, but I will not desert ye without protest.” Without care for propriety or prudence, she hugged him about the waist and wept softly, and the importance of Bodwine’s warning rang clear, as Titus damn near collapsed to his knees. “If I flee, as would the worst coward, our people would never respect me, and they would be right and true in their judgment. More than that, I would never forgive myself, and thou cannot condemn me to such shame, so I will stand my ground. Whatever Hastings and Staatsrat throw at us, we shall persevere. And if the unimaginable happens, then we will die as we have lived—together.”

  “Desi, I cannot bear the responsibility for thy death, as that would kill me. But our forces are inadequate, when Staatsrat enjoys Hastings’s patronage. Regardless of my preparations, we will be outnumbered.” How unfair it was that they had overcome so much to have so li
ttle joy. A gust of wind howled through the bailey, and a bolt of lightning pierced the darkening skies. “Come, sweetheart. Let us get inside.”

  “But I would have thee swear not to send me away and vow to cease thy schemes with our servants.” She dropped back her head and presented herself for his kiss, which he claimed without hesitation, and he clung to her as a drowning man, drawing salvation from the luscious enclave of her mouth. “My heroic knight, thou art not alone, as we are family, and family shall never falter.”

  Her simple statement, innocent in nature, brought him alert. In an instant, he transported to another time and place, whither the bonds of blood and kinship reigned supreme. A promise was made and an oath taken, which forever sealed his destiny. At the moment the words were spoken, Titus had not fully understood the significance.

  A dying declaration echoed in his ears: Seek thy heritage, my son, before it is too late.

  Nay, he was not so isolated or forsaken as he thought, because his heritage manifested an incomparable combination of affinity and power, and naught Staatsrat possessed could defeat Titus’s legacy. Thither was hope to be found in the unlikeliest of allies, and unwavering certainty swelled in his muscles and charged his nerves.

  A raindrop struck him between the eyes, and it was as if he had been doused in a torrential downpour. How had he overlooked the obvious?

  “Hurry, love.” Before she could protest, he bent, swept her into his embrace, and carried her into the main entry, whither he found Richart. “Bring Bodwine to the solar, now.”

  “Aye, Sir Titus.” The steward rushed to the garrison.

  “What are ye doing?” Desi nuzzled his temple. “Whither art thou taking me?”

  “Whither dost thou think?” In the passageway, Titus came across Grisel. “Deliver supper for Lady Saint-Germain and I to our chamber, and my bride will have no need of thy services, tonight.”

  “Yea, Sir Titus.” The maid curtseyed and chuckled.

  As a man on a mission, he trod into their inner sanctum and flung his wife on their bed. “Undress, as I want ye naked and tucked between the sheets when I return, whereupon I shall feed thee dinner with my own hands, and make love to ye until the morrow, as I must make amends for our first quarrel.”

  “So thou wilt not dispatch me to Waelmore Castle?” she asked in a low voice. “I can stay?”

  “Nay, I shall not send ye away, as thou hast rightfully asserted thy place is at my side.” Then he winked. “Now remove thy clothing, else I will destroy what remains when I join ye.” With that, Titus closed the doors, gathered some necessary items, sat at the table, and composed a hasty plea for assistance, which if answered in his favor could level the terms of engagement.

  “Thou didst summon me, Sir Titus?” Bodwine appeared in the entry.

  “Aye.” In rapid succession, he rolled the parchment, deposited a good amount of candle wax on the edge, and pounded the seal that bore his crest. “Take the fastest horse, and ride hard, else all is lost, and we will perish. Make hast and deliver this message to Atticus de Wolfe.”

  ~

  A low fog cast a mournful pall over Braewood Castle, as Desiderata stood at the window of her bedchamber. Glancing over her shoulder, she noted the empty side of the mattress and frowned. For the past two morrows, she woke alone, and she was not happy about it, yet her nights remained consistent, excepting a minor, albeit remarkable, transformation.

  Every eventide, when they retired to their private quarters, Titus took her in his arms and made love to her. But the tenor of his passion had changed, and he had grown aggressive, almost desperate, in his ardor. It was as though he expected each glorious joining to be their last. An underlying current of disquietude permeated their every interaction, and she had not a clue how to set it right.

  Somewhere beyond the curtain walls the enemy advanced, their steady approach marked in time as the sun’s shadows traveled the earth. Frustrated by her apparent helplessness, she assessed her attire, in the long mirror, and marched through the solar and into the main passageway.

  Given she lacked knowledge of military strategy, and possessed no proficiency with weapons, she searched for ways to support her husband’s cause. Since his most trusted advisors recommended Titus remain within the confines of the castle and force Staatsrat and Hastings to attack, she tried to fortify the household defenses in preparation for what could be a lengthy suspension of hostilities. But thither remained one complication she had yet to set right, and she would do so, without further delay.

  “Lady Saint-Germain.” Standing at his post in the grand ingress, Richart bowed. “May I be of service?”

  “Whither might I find Mabot and Grisel?” she inquired, as she nodded an acknowledgment to a passing archer.

  “In the kitchen, my lady.” The steward smiled. “Shall I escort ye?” Just as quick, he snapped his fingers. “Sorry, my lady, as I forget ye art no longer a guest.”

  “No apologies necessary, as we are all a trifle out of sorts in these infelicitous days.” Adopting the poise and elegance required of the lady of the manor, a role she coveted and refused to relinquish in the face of battle, she navigated the great hall, strolled the screened passage, and entered what she considered the heart of the large residence. While the cooks pounded beef to be salted and dried, other servants chopped various vegetables or guarded boiling pots.

  In the scullery, she discovered the elder maids. “Grisel, Mabot, I would have a word with ye, in private.”

  With a sheepish expression, Grisel elbowed her partner in nefarious enterprises. “The buttery is empty, my lady.”

  “Perfect.” In the quiet of the small room, Desiderata shut the door and leashed her temper. Amid the distinct aroma of sweet cream, she confronted her once staunchest ally. To Grisel, Desi said, “From conception, I was promised to Sir Titus, and I was born and bred to fulfill a position at his side. While I am his property, to do with as he sees fit, and I am subject to his authority, what I enjoy with him extends beyond the bonds of the sacrament and the law. Titus is not just my husband, he is my friend. Most important of all, we are family.” Desi swallowed hard. “For almost as much time, I have counted ye as such, and I have afforded ye the courtesy essential to that estimable stature, nursing ye whence ye caught a fever last Christmastide.” She clenched her fists. “How dare ye conspire with my husband to flout my rank as chatelaine?”

  “But we did it to preserve ye, my lady.” Grisel stared at the floor. “Anyone who knows ye could guess ye would not be swayed by a plea for thy personal safety, as thou dost always think of others.”

  “If thou didst believe Grisel and I were afraid, thou might vacate the castle, on our behalf.” Mabot bit her lower lip. “We did it for thy own good, as thou art precious to us.”

  “And that is the only reason I have not discharged ye.” How their duplicity hurt Desi, as she relied on their unfailing loyalty. “Given the depth of my ire, I delayed this moment of consternation, as I would not injure ye as thou hast injured me, but if thou dost ever again insert thyself between Sir Titus and I, for any reason, regardless of thy well-intended motives, I shall dismiss ye, as I will not tolerate another betrayal. Dost thou understand me?”

  “Aye, my lady.” Grisel gulped. “I am so sorry, but my designs were honorable, as thou art as kin to me, too. I could not love ye more if ye were my own child, and I am not alone, as everyone at Waelmore viewed ye as such, even that miserable Reolus, though he is not much older than thy husband.”

  It was as if Grisel had just struck Desi, because she jolted and stumbled backwards. As Grisel’s words echoed, and the significance of the sentiment sank in, Desi wiped her brow. She needed to return to her chamber. “Then let this be the end of the unpleasantness, and we shall never again mention it.”

  “Thank ye, my lady,” Grisel and Mabot said in unison.

  When Desi strode into the great hall, she located her husband. “Hello, my brave knight. Shall I have supper served in our solar?”

  “My
beauteous bride, I like the way ye dost think.” He pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Thou art stunning in thy gown of blue. Then again, thou art even more stunning out of it, and I may feast on thy supple flesh before I dine.”

  “I look forward to it, master of my heart.” As she made to depart, he caught her about the waist and pulled her close.

  “Sweet Desi, I love ye.” Thither it was on full display, the raw vulnerability, the anguished need, and the desolate torment, and she ached to console him as he gripped her. “What will I do if something happens to ye?”

  “Oh, Titus, I love ye, too.” She brushed a lock of hair from his face and nipped his nose in play. “Prithee, waste not thy worry, as naught shall harm me, because thou wilt not allow it, so what have I to fear?”

  “Dost thou believe in me so much?” He cupped her cheek and claimed the briefest kiss. “Am I worthy of thy faith?”

  “Aye, thou art most worthy, and we have plans for our future, which do not include the idiot.” With a chuckle, she waved a fist. “Hastings shall rue our wrath, and we will triumph. Be that as it may, I have an idea—”

  “Nay, Desi.” With a mighty scowl, he set her apart. “I forbid ye to involve thyself in the barbarous business of war.”

  “But I can aid thy cause.” In supplication, she spread wide her arms. “If thou wilt permit me to—”

  “My lady wife, if thou dost make any attempt to intervene in my affairs, I shall heat thy delicious round arse.” He rested fists on hips. “Now tell me ye dost comprehend and accept my sentiments on the matter, so thou hast no escape should ye claim otherwise.”

  “Despite what thou dost contend, thou wilt never strike me, my lord husband.” Yet she would not mince words with him, as that might be her salvation should he uncover her foray into new territory, anon. “But thou hast my solemn promise, I shall make no attempts to intervene in thy affairs.”