The White Lord of Wellesbourne (40 page)

“What about your ribs?” she could
hardly speak. “We must find a physic.”

“We will,” he said. “I have had
enough broken ribs to know that it is not serious. Perhaps just a crack or
two.”

“What about Dennis?” Luke asked
no one in particular. “Did anyone see how he fared?”

Gaston cast a glance back toward
the field. Dennis had long since been removed. “He was walking unassisted when
I last saw him, so it could not have been too bad.”

“Bastard,” John snarled. “He
deliberately drove his lance into Matthew’s charger. Instead of going for the
knight, he killed the horse. I saw everything clearly.”

“And he shall be disqualified for
it,” Gaston said steadily; he suspected that Lady Wellesbourne did not want to
hear all of this. “But for now, Matthew is in one piece and we can all be
thankful.”

Matthew suddenly faltered and he
pitched onto his knees before anyone could grab him. Mark and Luke held him
steady as Gaston began unlatching his armor.

“Help me get this off of him,” he
said to Alixandrea. “He cannot breathe with this heavy armor restricting him.”

Alixandrea unstrapped the stays
on his dented breastplate as Gaston pulled it free. She wasn’t very good with
armor and Gaston and John ended up taking off most of it. She simply stayed
next to her husband, holding his arm steady as if to support his weight. He
smiled at her, wearily, as his brother and friend yanked off pieces of metal.

“Forgive me for giving you such
an exciting end,” he said. “It did not go exactly as I had planned.”

She returned his smile, reaching
out to stroke a rough cheek. “It does not matter. You did as I asked. You
finished whole and in one piece.”

He lifted an eyebrow, not saying
what he was thinking; when the charger went down, he was positive that he was
about to break his neck.  He was, in truth, astonished that he hadn’t. The last
piece of armor came off and he signaled the group that he was ready to stand
again.

“Someone take my wife and I back
to our apartment,” he said. “I have an overwhelming desire to lie down.”

Luke and John went off in search
of a carriage. Mark, holding on to Matthew’s right arm, noticed that the field
marshals were attempting to get Gaston’s attention.  He nudged the big knight.

“Gaston,” he said. “They’ve
cleared the field. Your bout is up.”

Gaston had almost forgotten.
“Will you be able to handle Matthew?”

Mark nodded. “I have for
thirty-four years.”

Gaston lifted a dark eyebrow.
“Take him, then.  And take care of the lady, too. Mind that she does not run
off somewhere in the chaos.”

Mark looked at him, puzzled and
defensive at the same time. Gaston met his gaze steadily, silent implications
in the smoky eyes.  He did not even have to say Rosehill for Mark to know what
he had meant. They both knew. Mark wondered if Matthew knew, also.

“You needn’t worry about the
lady,” Mark finally said, collecting Matthew’s dented helm as Luke and John
brought around a flat-bed wagon they had borrowed from another competing
knight. “Nothing will happen to her.”

“I will take you on your word,”
Gaston replied, hoping that was enough. “Get Matthew settled and find a physic
to tend his ribs. I will see him when I am finished destroying Caernarfon.”

“What about Dennis?”

Gaston’s smoky eyes took on a
distant look as if he could see things the others could not.  He was The Dark
Knight, after all, and there were those who said he conjured. Perhaps he was
conjuring now, divining the future as he would have it.

“Rest assured, his time will come
when he least expects it.”

Mark did not doubt Gaston for a
minute.  In the mêlée the next day, Dennis la Londe met with an unfortunate
accident at the hands of Gaston de Russe that rendered him forever unable to
father a child.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

August 4, 1485 A.D.

London in August was filled with
sticky heat, day and night. Alixandrea was not sleeping well these days,
miserable with humidity she was not used to.  She tossed and turned so much
that she kept Matthew awake, and he was miserable enough with four cracked ribs
from his bout with la Londe.

Never one to be selfish, however,
he was more concerned with Alixandrea’s discomfort and had taken to rubbing her
back when she could not sleep in the hope that it would relax her enough to
doze. The trick usually worked, but then he was left wide-awake staring at the
ceiling, his mind working over the increasing movements of Henry Tudor.

He had met with the king several
times a day over the past week, going over a surfeit of information that was
sometimes clear, sometimes not. Even so, it all pointed to one thing;
everything that Matthew had predicted seemed to be happening and the tension
within Richard’s ranks was mounting.

It was early in the morning on
the fourth day of August. Alixandrea had been up most of the night and was now
sleeping soundly in the cool early dawn. Matthew, however, was awake, his hand
still on her back where he had left it after massaging her skin for what seemed
like hours. She was sticky to the touch, as the humidity from the river was
heavy even in the early morning and it promised to be another sultry day.

He rose slowly, partially so as
not to disturb her but also because he wasn’t able to move very quickly with
his healing ribs.  He removed his hand from her back carefully but could not
resist touching her head in an affectionate gesture.  She was so beautiful when
she slept.

Quietly, he found his breeches
and went into the sitting room, closing the bed chamber door softly behind
him.  Mary Joan was already stoking the fire to warm some water for her lady’s
morning toilette. Matthew sent the woman for fruit and cheese as he walked over
to one of the massive lancet windows that faced into the courtyard of the
Tower.

There was little activity outside
at this time of the morning, mostly wild creatures scrounging for a meal.  He
gazed up at the blue sky, cloudless, thinking of his father. He’d not heard
from him since they had left Rosehill and he wondered on his health. He was
still standing at the window, gazing into the dawn, when someone knocked softly
on the chamber door and, without prompting, entered.

Matthew turned around to see
Gaston. He looked as if he hadn’t slept all night and Matthew sensed
immediately that something was amiss.

“What is it?” he asked.

Gaston’s smoky eyes were
shadowed. “Henry Tudor sailed from Harfleur two days ago,” he said. “We just
intercepted a message he sent to one of his supporters asking to meet him at
Shrewsbury. As you predicted, he’s expected to make landfall in Wales in a few
days. Richard has ordered the army to Nottingham to anticipate his arrival.”

“When do we leave?”

“Today. And Matt… he’s riding
with us.”

Matthew’s eyebrows lifted. “The
king is going Nottingham?”

“Indeed. It seems that he has
determined that he will take command of the forces to repel Henry. He even
intends to go into battle with us.”

Matthew looked at him a long
moment before letting out an agitated hiss. “This only complicates matters,
Gaston. The man is
not
a warrior.”

“But he
is
the king and by
rights has command of his army.” The last exchange was strongly spoken between
the two of them. Gaston finally shook his head. “We cannot stop him. He rides
with us whether or not we like it.”

So it had come. The hammer had
finally sounded. Matthew wasn’t surprised, but he must have looked in the
direction of the bed chamber because Gaston’s next words to him were swift and
quiet.

“Send her back to Wellesbourne
immediately,” he said. “She must not stay here. ‘Tis not safe.  Norfolk was set
upon this morning in the Deveraux Tower and barely escaped with his life. His
wife was injured.”

Matthew cast him a long look.
“Wellesbourne is not far from Nottingham. ‘Twill be in the line of fire between
Richard’s base and Henry’s army.”

“You have no choice. You cannot
leave her here.  Besides, Wellesbourne is well fortified and should not be of
particular interest to Henry. Warwick to the north would be of more interest to
him.”

Matthew sighed heavily, calming
now that the reality of the day’s expectations were settling. Moreover, he knew
that Gaston was correct, about most things.  He was able to think more clearly.

 “I knew this time would come,”
he said softly. “My wife will be on her way to Rosehill before the morning is
out. I will have my father and John take her home and stay there should the
castle need defending.”

“Johnny will not want to go.”

“I know. But he will if I ask it
of him.”  He glanced up at his friend. “What of Mari-Elle and Trenton? Where
will they go?”

“Back to France,” Gaston replied,
trying not to think on how long it would be before he saw his son again.  “They
will be safe there.”

Matthew nodded in agreement.
“Indeed.” He paused, seemingly prepared to say something further. He faltered
twice before finally bringing forth the words. “Lady Mena is in London these
days.”

Gaston wasn’t stupid; he’d known
that all along although they had never spoken of it. He knew that Matthew would
talk about it when he was ready.  Gaston had been around those years ago when
Matthew fancied himself in love with the petite auburn-haired lady.

“I have seen her,” Gaston said
casually. “With a lovely blond girl child, too.”

Matthew looked at him, a thousand
unspoken words between them. Although Matthew did not have to verbally
acknowledge what they both knew, he did so anyway.  “She looks a good deal like
me, doesn’t she?” he

“A perfect image. Trenton is
quite taken with her, by the way.”

“Keep your son away from her,”
Matthew jabbed a finger at him. “I shall kill him, I swear it. And I do not
care if he is only seven years old.”

Gaston just laughed.  Matthew
did, too, breaking the tension that had been so prevalent since Gaston’s
arrival. It felt good to laugh, if only for a brief moment.

“I would like for you to arrange
for Mena and Audrey’s travel back to Bath,” Matthew continued his original
train of thought. “I do not want either of them in London at this time. ‘Tis
far safer for them at home.”

“It will be my pleasure. Anything
else?”

“Have you told my brothers of
Richard’s plans?”

“Nay. But we should,
immediately.”

Matthew pushed himself off the
windowsill and headed for the bed chamber. “Rouse my brothers and have them
meet here in fifteen minutes,” he said. “For my part, I must break the news to
my wife.”

“That could take longer than
fifteen minutes.”

Matthew cocked an eyebrow at him,
his hand on the door latch. “If you hear screaming, pay no attention,” he
deadpanned.

Gaston smirked as he quit the
room. Matthew took a deep breath before opening the door. It was dark inside,
the oilcloths hanging heavy over the windows.  He went to the bed where
Alixandrea was still sleeping soundly. He was loath to wake her but he had
little choice if she was going to pack and leave the Tower by noon. 

He sat down on the bed next to
her and began stroking the bronze head gently. After the third or fourth
stroke, she inhaled deeply and her eyes open.  Rolling onto her back, her
sleepy gaze found Matthew.

He smiled at her. “Good morn.”

She smiled in return, stretching.
“Good morn,” she sighed. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to get up and start
packing,” he said. “You have a long day ahead of you.”

She looked at him curiously.
Matthew decided in that moment he was going to make this discussion as easy as
possible; no heavy emotions, no serious going-to-battle last words. He would,
of course, tell her everything he needed to say, but he would do it in a way
that left her comforted rather than rattled.  At least, it sounded good in
theory.

“Why am I packing?” she asked.
“Where am I going?”

He leaned over and kissed her.
“The answer to both of those questions is Wellesbourne.”

“Wellesbourne?” she sat up, eyes
wide. “Why are we going back home?”

He stood up and went to the
wardrobe where some of her smaller capcases were stored.

“You are going back home with my
father and Caroline,” he said. “As for me, it would seem that I am required to
head up the welcome committee for Henry Tudor.”

Her expression darkened. “What
does that mean, Matt?”

He took out a capcase and set it
on the floor. “It means that Richard is moving his army to Nottingham today.
Henry Tudor sailed from France two days ago and is expected in Wales in a
matter of days. We must be there to greet him.”