The White Lord of Wellesbourne (20 page)

Gaston gazed at her a moment
longer as if his mere attention would force her into confessing.  Out of
respect for Matthew, however, he would not push the subject. It was obvious
that Wellesbourne was smitten with her. Perhaps he would believe whatever she
told him, but not de Russe.  He was different. He had never trusted women and
had never gotten along with them, so feminine wiles did not work with him.

Alixandrea met his gaze until he
looked away to refill his cup. He did not believe her; that much was clear. 
She would have been deeply insulted had she not had the prudence to realize
that these men’s lives depended upon whom they could trust and whom they could
not.  These men in the room were closer to the king than most, the core of
Richard’s defenses against Henry Tudor.  And she had brought the rebellion
right into their midst.

Before she could wallow in guilt,
John reappeared with Strode. The young manservant from Whitewell appeared
unruffled as he entered the solar, even after he saw all of the knights in the
room.  He focused curiously on Alixandrea.

“My lady,” he said. “You have
sent for me?”

Before she could answer, Matthew
put a hand on her shoulder to silence her and to indicate that he would do the
talking.  He took a step forward, placing himself between the lady and the
servant. It was a protective gesture, one not missed by de Russe.

“Tell me of your orders from
Terrington,” Matthew said with a hint of hazard in his tone. “I understand that
he instructed you to do something once the lady and I were married.”

Strode’s blue eyes flickered. His
gaze moved between Alixandrea and Matthew.  “My orders were to deliver the lady
to Wellesbourne, my lord.”

“And then what?”

“I do not understand, my lord.”

From the corner, silent John
suddenly found his mouth. “I heard you say that you were to kill my brother
when he wed the lady. I heard you say that you would give the order and the men
from Whitewell would attack!”

Strode’s expression morphed
queerly. He had been initially startled by the outburst, just as quickly put on
guard by the contents. 

“Who told you such thing?” he said.
“I would not.…”

“Your accomplice, the maid, is in
the vault and has admitted all,” Matthew told him. “We know what your orders
are.  She told us of your directive to kill me and to unleash your army within
my ranks.  My brother also heard you tell the maid of your plans. You may as
well confess and I may be merciful.”

The veins on Strode’s temples
bulged as he struggled for composure. “I do not know what that simple minded
woman has told you, but I am not a traitor. I would never,.…”

He never got the chance to
finish. Matthew’s massive hand shot out, grabbing him around the throat. Strode
struggled against him, but it was of no use. Matthew was twice his size, twice
as strong, and many times more deadly.

Alixandrea could not bear to
watch; she lowered her head, closing her eyes from the vision of Strode’s
purple face.

“Lies will not be tolerated,”
Matthew growled. “Confess the truth and we will show mercy. Continue along this
path of fabrication and your death with be a slow and painful one.”

“I did not…!”

Matthew’s grip tightened.  More
struggling went on as Strode’s life began to slip away. His face went from
purple to blue. He was coming to lose consciousness.  Not one man in the room
seemed uncomfortable, but Alixandrea was nearly sick.  She could hear him
gasping.  As the sounds of strained breathing filled the room, Matthew suddenly
let go of Strode long enough to clobber him on the side of the head with a
massive fist. Strode staggered against the wall.

“You have been ordered to unleash
a sleeper army within these walls,” Matthew rumbled. “Confess and I may show
mercy.”

Strode put up his hands to fight
back, but it was like watching a lamb against a lion. He had no chance at all.
Matthew reached down, grabbed him by the shoulders, and literally tossed him to
the middle of the floor. He bore down on Strode before the man could crawl
away, grabbing him around an ankle and hurling him against a wall.

“Tell me what I wish to know and
I will cease your agony,” he told him as he grabbed him by the arms. “What were
your orders from Terrington?”

He paused long enough to give the
man the chance to reply but when it was obvious that he refused to speak,
Matthew threw him into a chair. The furniture collapsed under the force.  Mark
and Luke, who happened to be standing nearby, simply took a casual step away as
if there was nothing to be concerned over.  Matthew reached down, this time
grabbing Strode by the hair. Pulling his bloodied head up, he looked him in the
eye.

“Next time, I shall toss you
through the window.”

There was no doubt that he meant
what he said, and they were two stories up.  Strode struggled weakly against
Matthew as the man heaved him toward the long lancet window. When he realized
he was about to end up twenty feet on the ground below, he let out a cry.

“As you
… say
!” he croaked.

Matthew immediately dropped his
hand. Strode fell to the floor, a horrible rasping coming from his throat.  He
rubbed his neck, looking up at Matthew, at Alixandrea. Her eyes were still
tightly closed, her face turned away.  Instead of fear, his expression was full
of surrender.

“It does not matter now if you
know or not,” he said, his voice hoarse. “My life is at an end in any case.”

“Tell me of your orders.”

He took a couple of deep breaths
before answering. “To… to kill you after you wed the lady. Then, as the church
bells rang in celebration of the wedding, my men were to attack Wellesbourne
from within in hopes of gaining control of the castle.”

“Is that all?”

“That is everything. I was to
hold the castle until reinforcements arrived.”

“Who were the reinforcements?”

“That was not made clear to me,
my lord. I was only told to hold the fortress.”

It was just as John had said,
plain and without misunderstanding. Meanwhile, Alixandrea had opened her eyes
when she realized that he was no longer being thrashed to death. 

“Why have you done this?” she
asked, almost painfully. “What have I done that you would try to harm me in
such a way?”

He shook his head, hand still on
his swollen neck. “This has nothing to do with you. Your uncle gave me orders.
It is my duty to carry them out.”

“It is your duty to kill my
husband?”

Strode wiped the blood trickling
out of his mouth. “It is my duty to serve your uncle.”

“And who does he serve?” Matthew
asked.

Strode knew better than to lie.
“Henry Tudor.”

If there had been any doubt
lingering in her mind about the truth of Strode’s involvement, it was dashed in
that moment.  “I trusted you,” she whispered, her anguish evident. “You were
like family to me. How could you do this?”

Strode did not have an answer. It
was apparent that he wasn’t particularly spiteful or hostile towards her; he
was simply doing as he was told.  Mark picked him up roughly, shoving him at
Luke with the order to take him to the vault. Patrick de Russe followed Luke
and the prisoner from the solar, leaving a somber group behind.

De Russe was nursing his wine
while the others stood around, not knowing what to say. It was clear what had
happened, and even more clear what needed to happen.  Matthew leaned down next
to his wife, taking her hand gently.

“Perhaps you would like to go and
rest now,” he said softly.

She was shaken but not senseless.
She felt more anger than anything. But she appreciated his kindness, marveling
that the hands that so tenderly held her could have been so brutal against
Strode.

“I… I still need to collect my
cases for London,” she tried to focus on something else, anything but what she
had just witnessed. “Perhaps you can send a few servants to carry them down.
Strode usually.…”

She trailed off, rolling her eyes
as she realized that Strode would no longer help her with anything. She put her
hand on his arm.

“What are you going to do with
him? And with Jezebel?”

He patted her hand, leading her
towards the door. “I am going to send them back to your uncle with a message.”

“What message?”

“That is for me to determine.” He
pushed the door open for her, the stairs to the third floor a few feet away. 
“Go and rest now, love. I shall be up shortly.”

She did not argue. Her mind was
rather full of things at the moment and she needed time to reflect. The moment
she set foot in the foyer, the dogs in the hall came rushing towards her,
encircling her with their happy, hairy wagging. 

Matthew watched with a grin on
his face; he’d not given much notice to how much the dogs liked her, but he was
starting to.  And she was becoming more accustomed to them; at least she wasn’t
kicking them away as she’d done in the past.  She even reached down to gingerly
pet the giant wolfhound on the top of the head. Tongues began licking at her
and she pulled back.  As she ascended the stairs, the wriggling pack followed.

When Matthew went to her chamber
an hour later to see how she was faring, he found seven dogs sleeping
contentedly outside of her door.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rather than invite an uprising as
de Russe had suggested, Matthew took his own advice and separated the Whitewell
men from his army, corralled them in an area of the bailey that was heavily
watched by Wellesbourne men, and announced that he was aware of the orders from
Lord Ryesdale. 

He further informed them that
their leader was in the vault and there was no other option for them but to
swear fealty to the White Lord or die. With Gaston de Russe and his army of
cutthroats hovering nearby, there wasn’t one man from Whitewell that did not
believe him.

Fealty during this time to the
foot soldier was nothing more than swearing loyalty to the man who provided
ample food and shelter. It wasn’t a conviction as much as it was with the
nobility; therefore, the decision was fairly simple. The seasoned soldiers of
Whitewell knew when they were defeated; they could see it all around them, in
the faces of de Russe’s men, and in the faces of the brothers from
Wellesbourne. 

When Matthew promised them new
weapons should they join his army, it was a decision made all the more
uncomplicated.  Most swore their allegiance without further prodding. Those
that refused were put in the vault with Strode and with that, Matthew
considered the situation peacefully resolved.  It was a much better state of
affairs than it could have been.

Settling the situation and
putting closure on it allowed him to focus on the task at hand. He’d been
trying to get to London for quite some time and would be put off no longer.
Unlike some, Matthew had no problem traveling after dark. No one in their right
mind would dare attack the army of the White Lord, made even more powerful now
that the Dark Knight rode with him. It was therefore an unconcerned task to
have the army and ancillary units readied by early afternoon for departure.

Loading up his wife, however, had
been something of a process. She was convinced that she needed at least six
trunks out of the nine she had brought with her to Wellesbourne. Nothing
Matthew could say could dissuade her.  Moreover, she insisted that Caroline go
to London as well when it was Mark’s practice to leave his wife behind.

It created something of a stir;
Mark did not want Caroline along, probably because he could not openly pursue
the ladies as he liked to do. But Matthew did not tell Alixandrea that; it
wasn’t his way of doing things and furthermore he did not think she needed to
hear it. What his brother did was his own business, so long as it did not
affect his performance as a knight.

Early afternoon was passing into
mid afternoon as Alixandrea finished packing her last two cases. These were the
ones that held her undergarments, belts and jewels and were most important.
Matthew stood by the door with Luke and Patrick, waiting with increasing
impatience for his wife to finish. Mark, Caroline, John, Adam and Gaston were
already down in the ward, waiting. Everyone was ready to go but Alixandrea. 
Matthew finally sent Patrick down to tell Gaston to move out; by the time the
wagons moved at the end of the column, they would be in the ward with the cases
loaded on board.

“My lady,” Matthew said with more
patience than he felt. “We are out of time. Close the cases so we can load
them.”

Dressed in a cardinal red surcoat
with a gold kirtle and dual-color sash around her slender waist, her lovely
hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck to keep it out of her way.  She
fussed with a twisted belt, finally giving up and tucking it back in the case.
Around her, the dogs had somehow made it into the chamber and they lay in various
positions around her feet and on the bed.  Alixandrea moved around them as if
she did not even notice them.