The White Lord of Wellesbourne (26 page)

It was apparent he did not want
to elaborate on what had him so distracted that he would put himself in
danger.  Matthew let it go, for now. Frankly, he was relieved on so many levels
that it was difficult to focus. “The physic says you will heal.”

“I shall heal if you two will
stop fighting in my chamber,” Adam muttered. “Get out of here, both of you.
When I am well enough, I shall beat you both severely.”

He drifted off to sleep without
another word.  With a lingering, hostile glare at his brother, Matthew quit the
room.  He found Caroline standing in the hall.

“Where is my wife?” he asked her.

The redhead shook her head. “I do
not know, Matt. I have been with Aunt Livia for some time.”

Unworried in the least, Matthew
set off to find his wife. In the doorway, Mark watched him go, now more than
ever determined not to tell him what he knew. The woman had been the cause of
too much misery in their lives. They were better off without her. Moreover,
there was some sick sense in Mark that did not want to see Matthew happy. Why
should Matthew be happy with his wife when Mark was, in fact, not? There was
too much jealousy and bitterness in Mark to be kind to Matthew at the moment. 
He wanted to see his brother suffer.

An hour later, Matthew still had
not found Alixandrea.  Mark got his wish; Matthew was indeed suffering.

***

When she awoke with her face
pressed against the wet grass, it was night. In the sky over head, a night bird
sang somewhere and all was still across the land. Unsteadily, she pushed
herself up, disoriented.  The moon cast some light on the landscape but she did
not recognize any of it. She remembered Adam’s accident and she remembered
walking in the rain, but little else.  

Her legs were weak and wobbly as
she stood up, wondering where to go. Off to her right were a few outbuildings
in the distance and what looked like a church. She could see the rise of the
bell tower.  Deciding that would be the best place to go, she staggered in the
general direction.

The field stopped and she ended
up on a road.  The church was further than she had thought and it took her some
time to reach it.  Her delicate slippers were not made for the water, dirt and
walking that she had forced upon them and they were nearly falling off her feet
by the time she reached the church.  She banged on the door, as much as her
strength would allow.

The door was a long time in
opening. The great iron hinges that held the oak door to the masonry structure
creaked and groaned as the panel opened slightly. A suspicious head appeared,
the crown shaved, indicating a monk.  He was small, pale, and dirty. 
Alixandrea opened her mouth to speak but ended up coughing instead.

“Brother,” she rasped. “I am in
need of shelter for the night. Will you help me?”

The monk peered at her. “We are
not an inn, my lady.”

“I am not looking for an inn. I
am in trouble and in need of your help.”

“What manner of trouble?”

“Please. I am lost.”

He took another look at her,
noticing she was wet, disheveled, and looked as if she had met with some
misfortune.  After a reluctant moment, he stepped back and opened the door
wider.

“Come in,” he said.

She stumbled in the door. The
sanctuary was cavernous and dark, smelling of mold.  The monk held the only
taper in the entire place.  After he bolted the door, he looked at her rather
curiously.  She was shivering and pale.

“Now what, lady?” he asked.

He was either very stupid or very
annoyed.  She guessed the latter. “A fire might be nice. And something to dry
myself with, if it is not too much trouble.”

If he heard the sarcasm in her
voice, he did not on and motioned for her to follow. There was an alcove on the
west end of the church that was apparently used for a common room of sorts. It
was very small, with a table in the middle, a weak fire in the hearth, and
clutter all around.  The monk indicated for her to sit, which she did so
gratefully, pulling the stool near the fire so that she could warm herself.

The monk just stood there,
staring at her.  Then he disappeared. Alixandrea coughed and shivered,
relishing the blissful warmth from the blaze. She almost did not care where the
monk went so long as she was out of the cold.  He was a bit of a snip, but it
was of no matter.  Her harsh thoughts were quelled when he returned shortly
with a massive pile of material, very course linen in a bunch. He held it out
to her.

“You need to get out of those wet
clothes, my lady, or you’ll catch your death,” he said. “You may wear this
while your clothes dry.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted to
take her clothes off, but upon reflection, decided he was correct. She was
already coughing. She accepted the garment from him.

“Thank you for your kindness,
Brother.”

She swore he blushed as he left
the room, closing the heavy door behind him. The door groaned in protest,
poorly hung, and jammed against the floor as he finally yanked it shut.   When
he was gone and she looked around to make sure there were no holes by which to
watch her, she gingerly unrolled the garment he had handed her.

It was a robe like the monks wore
with a hole for the head, long sleeves, and yards of course fabric. Very
quickly, she stripped off her wet garments and practically jumped into the
robe, more from modesty than from the chill of the room.  The rough material scratched
her skin, but it was warm and dry, and to the Devil with comfort. She hung her
heavy surcoat and under-things around the hearth so that the warmth would soon
dry them. Reclaiming her seat on the small stool, she huddled near the fire,
continuing the process of drying herself out.

With the heat, her exhaustion
magnified.  Her eyelids began to droop, her head to bob. She did not want to
fall asleep in this strange place, even if it was a church. She did not trust
her surroundings. She wanted to dry off, reclaim her clothes, and press on.
Where she was going, she hadn’t a clue yet. All she knew was that Matthew
surely did not want her now and her life with him was ruined. Perhaps her only
choice was a place like this, gloomy and depressing and dirty, as a servant of
God. She could imagine no other option.

With the shock of the situation
wearing off, depression began to set in. If only she had kept her mouth shut,
if only she had done as Matthew had wished.  She should not have interfered.
But she was only trying to help.  She and Matthew had been building such an
amazing relationship, more than she had ever dared hope for. The White Lord of
Wellesbourne had been hers, if only for a brief moment until she dashed
everything to bits. She could not believe she had ruined it all because of her
arrogance.

Her exhaustion and distress
finally claimed her, for the next thing she realized, the door was opening and
she was startled awake.  The monk was standing just inside the doorway with a
cloth in his hand, filled with something she could not quite see.  Instead of
handing it to her, he timidly placed it on the table near her as one would
place food in the cage of a wild animal.  He remained standing by the door just
in case he needed to bolt.

“I thought you might need
something to eat,” he said. “There is cheese and some bread. It isn’t much, but
at least it is something.”

She gazed over at the yellow
cheese and crumbling brown bread. “My thanks,” she said. “You have been very
kind.”

He nodded his head, once, as if
he did not wish to discuss his kindness. Something about it made him
uncomfortable. He stood and fidgeted.

“What manner of trouble do you
have?” he suddenly blurted.

His uncouth manner almost made
her smile. He had changed from his earlier suspicious approach to something of
curiosity. Alixandrea picked up the cheese and took a grateful bite.

“Family trouble,” she said, her
mouth full.

The monk looked puzzled,
uncertain. “What did you do?”

She lifted an eyebrow at him,
insulted by his question, but that was until she realized that she really did
do
something. She shook her head, averting her gaze as she spoke. “Things I
should be ashamed of. I… I need sanctuary. I have no place to go.”

The monk looked stricken. “You
cannot stay here, my lady,” he said. “We cannot… that is to say, we do not have
a place for you.”

“Then where should I go?”

He took a step inside the room,
apparently not so concerned now that the lady was going to jump up and bite
him. “There is an abbey in Twyford,” he said. “Perhaps the Sisters of St.
Jerome would be able to help you.”

It sounded reasonable. “Where is
Twyford?” she asked.

“A few miles to the west. If you
take the road that cuts through this town, you will come upon it within a day.”

Alixandrea’s heart sank as she
realized where her destiny lay. Clearly, she had no other choice and, quite
clearly, she must spend the rest of her days doing penance for Adam
Wellesbourne’s death. It was her fault as surely as she had murdered him with
her own hands.

“Then to Twyford I will go,” she
said, the slight cough that had been plaguing her for the better part of the
morning again bubbling up. “When my clothes are dry, I shall depart.”

He nodded, still standing a few
feet away from her.  She resumed eating her cheese and bread, not looking at
him, wondering what he was doing. She could feel his curious eyes on her,
moving across her back, down to her feet, and sliding across her head. It was
an eerie feeling, like unseen bugs about her. She almost scratched herself out
of sheer discomfort.

“You can stay and rest if you
wish,” he finally said. All of the suspicion was gone from his tone. “The day
proves ugly. You should wait until the weather clears.”

“My thanks,” she said softly.

“Are you running away?”

She looked at him sharply; it was
as if he was thinking aloud, blurting out questions that were better left
unasked.  After a moment of staring him down with her piercing bronze eyes, she
turned back to the fire.

“That is none of your affair.”

It wasn’t; he knew that.
Awkwardly, he turned back for the door.  He was almost through the opening when
her soft voice stopped him.

“If any knights come to the door
inquiring for me, you will tell them that you have not seen me. Is that clear?”

“Knights?” he exclaimed
fearfully. “Are they after you?”

She shook her head at him as if
he was an imbecile. “They will not kill you or burn the place down around your
ears,” she said. “You will simply tell them that you have not seen me.”

The monk did not look entirely
clear or convinced in his actions, but he nodded anyway. Shutting the door
softly behind him, he left the lady to her bread and cheese.

The cough was gaining. By the
time she finished her food, a slight fever had started, though she did not
notice.  Laying her head down on the rough, worn table cluttered with old
bowls, an iron fork, and other implements, Alixandrea drifted off into a
fitful, dismal sleep.

CHAPTER TEN

“I cannot imagine that she
willingly left,” Gaston said. “Henry’s agents are well aware of our arrival and
they are also well aware of your custom of staying with your aunt when you
visit London. It is quite possible they staked out Rosehill and abducted your
wife.”

“How would they have even known I
was married?”

“You said yourself that
Terrington’s loyalties have shifted. It is quite possible that all of Henry’s
allies know of your marriage to her by now, long enough for plots to be in the
works, at any rate.”

A night and day of searching for
Alixandrea had left them no further along then they had been the moment they
had realized she was missing.

Matthew was positively
distraught; it had been Luke who had sent word to Gaston to return to Rosehill
at once, and upon his return, he found a man he’d known for twenty years to be
in a state he’d never before seen. Matthew might have been the more congenial
of the two, the more benevolent, and, Gaston was sure, the more deadly, and
based upon that experience, he’d never known the man to anything other than
perfectly controlled. This disheveled man before him now was a stranger. Matthew’s
countenance had the usually-composed Gaston unsteady, more in sympathy for his
friend than for his display of weakness.  It distressed him to realize that
emotions could do such a thing to a man, even one as strong as Matthew.

“But that would not make any
sense,” Matthew argued weakly. “Her manservant was supposed to kill me. For all
Henry’s people know, I am dead. Why would they stake out Rosehill and abduct my
wife to use against me if they are presuming I am dead?”

Gaston’s smoky eyes were hard.
“You sent her manservant home with a message. Did you not think that message
has been conveyed?”