The White Lord of Wellesbourne (6 page)

She responded like a dolt. “Sit?”

He lifted his eyebrows at her.
“Aye, sit. Or do you want me to stand while you sew this gash?”

She suddenly grimaced, an
expression between agony and fear. “I… I have a confession, my lord. I pray
that you do not think badly of me because of it.”

“Think badly of you? I doubt it.
But what is it?”

She shoved her finger between her
teeth as if that would help bring forth the words. “Oooo…!” then she shook her
hands with frustration. “I cannot sew your gash. I have never been able to do
such things. My uncle said I was absolutely useless and he is correct. Such
things make me ill. I know it is foolish, but I cannot help it. I am truly
sorry, my lord. You deserve a wife that will be brave and tend your wounds. But
I… I cannot do it.”

He stood there a moment, staring
at her. The room filled with a great shock of silence. Then, he erupted in
snorts and giggles the likes of which Alixandrea had never heard from a man. He
put his hands over his face briefly and when he pulled them away, his eyes were
shining brightly at her.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “I was
feeling so completely inferior to you because I was convinced that you were
utterly perfect. From the top of your glorious head to the bottom of your feet,
you are an angel incarnate. But now I see that you have one flaw, just one, and
it pleases me like no other.”

She could not decide if she was
flattered or insulted.  She settled on flattery and smiled along with him. “I can
do anything else for you, my lord, and surely will, but don’t ever ask me to
sew a wound. I would rather die a thousands painful deaths.”

He was still snorting as he
walked over to her and placed his trencher-sized hands on her head, cupping it.
He gazed down into her lovely face, allowing himself to freely drink in the
sight of her.

“Have no fear, my lady,” he said
in a voice that sent chills racing up her spine. “I do not think any less of
you. In fact, I think more.”

They were grinning at each other.
Then, the grins slowly faded and something stronger took hold. Alixandrea’s
head began to swim again as his blue eyes bore into her. There was something in
the way they flickered.

Somehow, he seemed to be drifting
closer. She could feel his breath on her face. Her body began to tingle
painfully, anticipation of something she could not yet feel or taste or see. 
But just as he loomed in close, he suddenly pulled back. His thumbs stroked her
cheeks, once, and he dropped his hands.

“Caroline will sew the wound,” he
was walking way from her, leaving her weak and breathless. “In fact, she had
probably heard all of this conversation.”

He put his hand on the latch and
yanked the door open. Caroline almost fell into the room.  Her embarrassed gaze
moved between Matthew and Alixandrea, having been caught eavesdropping.

“All is well, my lady?” she asked
Alixandrea timidly.

Matthew lifted a blond eyebrow at
her. “You know that it is.” He gestured to his leg. “I require your assistance
in tending this wound.”

Caroline did not even look at it;
she was too busy trying to recover her composure. “I shall go and get my
things. Will you wait here?”

“Alone, with the lady? How
improper.”

Alixandrea hid a smile as
Caroline blushed furiously.

“Enough of your torment, Matthew
Wellesbourne,” she snapped weakly. “Another spiteful word and you can sew your
wound yourself.”

His blue eyes twinkled. “How do
you know that my lady will not tend it for me?”

Caroline opened her mouth,
knowing the answer, but just as quickly knowing that she should not reveal it.
To do so would be to admit she was listening to their conversation. In a huff,
she quit the room.  Matthew, smiling faintly, looked at Alixandrea and
shrugged.

“I suppose I shall wait with
here, if you do not object.”

“I do not.”

He watched her turn away from him
and move closer to the fire. For the first time, he could get a good look at
her figure without the layers of clothing and cloaks to hide it. He admitted
that he had been curious to inspect her with all of the interest of one
inspecting a new prize mare. 

But with his first inspection, he
got more than he bargained for; the firelight passed through the fine linen of
the robe and silhouetted her body against the sheer fabric. Matthew knew he
shouldn’t look, as a gallant man would not have. But as a man who had just
acquired something he had never imagined he would have, he could not stop
himself; her legs were lovely and shapely, her torso slender.  She put her arms
up to comb her hair and in doing so turned slightly, and he could see the
outline of her breasts and buttocks against the backdrop of flame.

He’d never seen anything so
luscious or pleasing.  To think that he would soon be claiming this woman
bodily as his wife brought heat to his loins and he forced himself to turn
away, fearful of his physical reaction to her. It was the most sweeping,
instantaneous reaction he’d ever had in his entire life and the
uncontrollability of it startled him.

“Are you going to have my
servants bring up my possessions, my lord?” she interrupted his thoughts.

He was too embroiled in visions
of her ripe body. “What’s that?” he caught himself. “Aye, of course. Right
away.”

He left the chamber, perhaps too
quickly, and descended the narrow stairs to the third floor.  He did not go any
further but shouted down the stairwell to the soldier on the floor below.  When
the soldier went to do his bidding, he remounted the steps, more slowly this
time, and took a deep breath to steady himself.

He’d never known himself to be
nervous, but he realized that was exactly what he was feeling. Something about
the lady in the chamber upstairs unnerved him as no one else ever had.  He had
never wanted her, much less wanted to feel anything for her, but feel he did. 
It was something new and strange and unsettling, and he could not decide if he
liked it or not.

Mounting the top step, he shook
himself imperceptibly;
get hold of yourself, man
. She was a woman, like
any other. Perhaps he was feeling this way because it had been so long since
he’d found a woman attractive. It had easily been years and she was affecting
him with her mere presence. 

Matthew had faced battles since
he had been seventeen years of age as a full-fledged knight; nothing frightened
him and certainly nothing unnerved him. But the introduction of this lovely
lady had quickly circumvented the personal defenses he had practiced all his
life. He had no defense against a beautiful woman.  And he wasn’t sure how to
aptly deal with it.

He re-entered the room, mildly
fortified, only to find her still standing in front of the fire with her
delectable body delineated through the semi-transparent fabric.

He thought it best to wait at the
top of the stairs.

CHAPTER THREE

Howard Terrington, Lord Ryesdale,
had come from a long line of those who supported the White Rose of the House of
York.  His father and his fathers before him had battled beside Edward the
Third, his son and grandson.  In fact, Edward had granted William Terrington
the charter at Whitewell to build a castle.  Though it was more a fortified
manor house, it was still formidable and anchored the main road across the
Pennines from Lancaster, making it particularly strategic.

 Whitewell had seen more than its
share of action over the years, more skirmishes than actual battles. It wasn’t
preferential to move an army over the narrow, hazardous road that crossed the
Pennines and straight into a battle, so most armies tended to travel far to the
north or to the south to bypass them.

Whitewell’s greatest threat came
from the mighty Richmond Castle to the northwest, held by Edmund Tudor, Earl of
Richmond. Since both castles were fairly isolated, they took no real part in
the major battles in the war between the Roses, but Whitewell spent a good deal
of time fending off raids and other forms of harassment.  Here in the northern
wilds, the Houses of Lancaster and York butted against each other, intertwined,
and territories tended to blend like oil and water.

Howard was well aware of the
rivalries, old, new, imagined and otherwise. But he considered himself far more
shrewd than his ancestors in that he fully understood the power of his
location. Since nearly the moment he took possession of the castle when his
father died fifteen years ago, he only had his own betterment in mind. His
ambition had started a few years ago when he had first been approached by an
ally of the late Sir John Grey, a Lancastrian and relation to the Woodvilles. 
John Sutton, Lord Dudley, had been very clear in his mission; he was to secure
Whitewell at any cost and when Henry Tudor sat up on the throne, he would make
it well worth Howard’s efforts.  The Red Rose of Lancaster needed to secure the
mountain pass, a short-cut from Lancaster to the Honour of Richmond, and they
were willing to prostitute themselves in that effort.

All of this, of course, was
unknown to the common man. Though Howard Terrington willingly climbed into bed
with the Lancastrians at the promise of assuming some of Richmond’s territories
upon Henry’s ascension to the throne, his Yorkist allies were none the wiser. 
No one questioned why armies of men were given passage over the Pennine road,
mostly because the troops stationed at Whitewell were loyal to Terrington and
simply did as they were told. If their lord ordered the road left unprotected,
then they would oblige.   

But there was more to Howard’s
greed. He not only wanted the wealth promised him, he wanted honor and glory,
too. He was not a fighting man. He was a politician. When his only sister
passed away and he became guardian of his niece, one look at the nine year old
Alixandrea St. Ave and he knew that he had something to broker. He could see a
beneficial marriage on the horizon, something to bring him the recognition he
sought. So he brokered Alixandrea’s hand like an auctioneer selling prize livestock. 

Many prominent families had vied
for the honor. John Sutton had made the final selection; Matthew Wellesbourne,
son of Sir Adam Wellesbourne. The Wellesbournes had passed to Richard through
his marriage to Anne Neville and were the prime forces in the king’s arsenal.
It was all the Lancastrian camp could have ever hoped for. They had planted a
seed in the heart of Richard’s strength. And that seed was Alixandrea
Terrington St. Ave.

Not that she knew anything about
it. She was a female and untrustworthy as most women were. Howard spent many
years trying to set a marriage date so that he could move his niece and his
contingent of four hundred highly trained Lancastrian-loyal men into the heart
of the Plantagenet arena, but the House of Wellesbourne had continually put him
off. It had taken ten years to place Alixandrea, and the sleeper army, where
they belonged.  Now that the deed was done, it was time to set the plan in
motion.

It was rainy this day, the first
rain in quite some time, as he sat in his opulent solar at Whitewell. A fire
smoked in the hearth and warmed wine ran aplenty. But he was not alone.

“She should be at Wellesbourne in
a day or two,” he said. “I anticipate her travel should take nearly two weeks,
probably less.”

He spoke to a man standing near
the fire. He was a big man, attractive, a mercenary knight from Brittany who
had served Henry Tudor for years.  Sir Dennis La Londe was a feared assassin
and a shrewd warrior, a volatile combination. Today, he was on an errand as a
catalyst to greater things.  

“I would agree,” he said in his
heavy French accent. “And your man; what was his name? Strode? He is aware of
our intent, is he not?”

Howard nodded, studying the red
liquid in his cup. “Very much aware. He has been instructed to unleash the
troops the very moment the marriage takes place.”

La Londe moved away from the
fire, moving to the lancet windows. Rain dripped down on the sill, trickling
down onto the floor.  “Excellent,” he said. “The time is upon us, Terrington. 
All that we have planned and hoped for is finally coming to fruition. Your
niece’s marriage could not have come at a better time.”

La Londe often knew things that
Howard did not. He was far more into Henry Tudor’s inner circle than Terrington
was.

“What do you mean?” Howard asked
leadingly.

Dennis turned from the window. “I
mean exactly what I said. There will be no long wait for our plans to come to
pass.  What will happen at Wellesbourne will happen with deliberate purpose to
coincide with Henry’s imminent arrival.”

Although Howard had been hearing
rumors about this for quite some time, it was the first confirmation he had
received. It was what every Tudor ally had been waiting for.  “Henry is finally
coming? When?”

“Soon,” La Londe said vaguely.
Howard Terrington was not someone he wanted to divulge everything to, at least
not all at once. “Within the month we will unleash our army inside the walls of
Wellesbourne and effectively cripple a great deal of the king’s support. By the
time Henry reaches England’s shores, Richard’s strength will be compromised. 
This is exact as Lord Sutton had intended, Howard. Bring down Wellesbourne and
you cut off Richard’s right hand.”