The White Lord of Wellesbourne (27 page)

Matthew shook his head sharply.
“That was a week or so ago. There hasn’t been enough time for Lord Ryesdale to
spread that word that the assassination attempt was thwarted.”

“So you think.”

Gaston did not agree with him;
that was clear, on many levels. Matthew did not have the stomach to argue with
the man at the moment. His agitation grew.

“Have it your way; they staked it
out and abducted her,” he growled. “We have searched the countryside for her
but the rain has conveniently washed away any trail we might have followed. I
would hazard to say that they have not killed her outright and in that I take
comfort. Knowing how they think, I am sure that they would rather use her
against me. A dead wife will gain them nothing.”

It was the same thought every man
in the room had. Gaston’s gaze moved between Matthew and Luke, sensing their
genuine distress. John was the same, only more naked in his display of sorrow.
Strangely, Mark was the only Wellesbourne brother that did not seem concerned
as the rest of them did. Sitting next to Matthew, he seemed, in fact, rather
detached from the whole thing.  It was odd behavior from the usually-loyal
Mark.

And with that realization, Gaston
began to suspect Mark knew more than he was telling. Though he could hardly
believe it, Mark’s body language said otherwise.

But he would not question him in
front of Matthew. The man hadn’t eaten since yesterday; he was edgy and
irritable, his face pale and unshaven. Any disruption might send him over the
edge, especially one involving Mark.  He would defend Mark to the death against
all accusations and then turn around and kill him all in the same breath.  Now
was not the time. But the time would come.

“If she has been abducted, then
she is well away from this place,” Gaston finally said. “Any further searching
would be in vain. It would be my suggestion that we contact the Bishop of Ely.”

Luke looked at him as if he had
completely lost his mind. “John Morton?” he repeated, incredulous. “Why would
you contact a man who virtually licks the soles of Henry’s feet?”

“Because he would know,” Matthew
answered before Gaston could reply. He looked pointedly at his brother, his
blue eyes somehow dimmer, void of the joy that he had so openly displayed over
the past few days. “John Morton is a man of the Church. Though he has chosen
his loyalties, he still must act within the guidelines of the Church and,
hopefully, provide us with honest answers. I would trust him over any other of
Henry’s dogs.”

“Exactly,” Gaston finished. “I
will ride for Ely immediately. It should take me a few days to reach him, but I
will find out what I can.”

Matthew shook his head. “You
shall not go, my friend.  We have enough brewing here to keep you more
importantly occupied. She is my wife. I shall go.”

Gaston would not stop him.
Matthew would be useless to him in his current state; it was better that he
take care of his personal matters and steady himself.  Without another word,
Matthew quit the room, presumably to prepare himself for the long journey to
Ely.  Gaston shot Arik, his second in command, a long look, suggesting that
Arik accompany Matthew. The big North man silently slipped from the room in
pursuit of the White Lord. Mark was the next one to quit the room in silence.
Gaston walked after him.

Mark went outside, heading for
the stables, when Gaston caught up to him.

“Mark,” he called quietly.

Mark stopped suddenly, turning to
face Gaston. By his expression, he was clearly surprised. “Gaston, you startled
me. What is it?”

Gaston stood head and shoulders
taller than Mark; the short, stocky Wellesbourne brother had to crane his neck
back to look him in the face.

“Matthew’s wife,” Gaston’s voice
was low. “What do you know about her disappearance?”

Mark’s dark eyes cooled.
“Nothing.”

“You are lying.”

Mark lifted an eyebrow. “Choose
to believe what you will. But I would be lying if I said that I was
distressed.”

Now it was Gaston’s turn to lift
an eyebrow. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I am not sorry, Gaston.
She is the reason why my father is lying on the edge of death.”

Gaston had heard the story of
Adam’s mishap from Matthew upon his arrival. It was one more horrific event in
a day that had been full of them.  But he was at a loss to understand Mark’s
point of view.

“Why would you say that?”

Mark’s ruddy face tightened. “You
know how father is, how he has never gotten over the death of my mother.
Matthew allowed that… that
woman
to intervene and the result was my
father throwing himself in front of a racing carriage.”

“Matthew said that your father
told him it was an accident.”

“Pah,” Mark waved his hands at
him and began to stomp off with Gaston trailing after him. “He can say that all
he wants, but I know the truth. She drove him to it. She tried to kill him.”

“Matthew said no such thing.”

“Of course he would not!” Mark
came to an abrupt halt, as did Gaston.  He glared at The Dark Knight. “He’s
hypnotized by her, de Russe. You have known Matthew for twenty years. Have you
ever seen him like this? He’s been completely seduced by that woman and doesn’t
have the clearness of thought to realize it.”

Gaston’s expression remained
cool. “You did not do anything with her, did you?”

Mark shook his head. “No matter
what I think or feel, I would not lay a hand on her. But I am not going to
pretend I am concerned when I am not. She can keep running for all I care.
We’ll be well rid of her and back to normal, as we were before she came.”

A twinkle came to Gaston’s eye. “
Keep
running? Why would you say that?”

Mark’s expression twitched.  He
seemed to lose his confidence as he averted his gaze. “A figure of speech.”

“You are a very bad liar.”

“Have it your way, then.”

There was something about Mark’s
change in manner that made Gaston believe very strongly that Mark was somehow
involved in the lady’s disappearance. “You know far more than what you are
telling me.”

Mark snorted. “You are mad.”

“I do not think so.”

The veins on Mark’s temple
throbbed as he struggled to reclaim some of his poise. “I am only concerned
with my father, and he is Matthew’s responsibility. Matthew’s head hasn’t been
in the right place since the day that woman arrived.”

“Your father is the concern of
all of his sons, including you. Do not place such a heavy burden on Matt’s
shoulders. It is unfair. And it shows how unwilling you are to accept any
responsibility, yet you are more than willing to blame others for their
failings.”

Mark’s response was to turn on
his heel and continue to the stables. Gaston allowed him to go, watching the
man until he disappeared from view.  He had known Mark Wellesbourne for many
years and had never known him to be a liar. Still, he was convinced the man
knew something he wasn’t telling. His attitude toward Matthew’s wife bore
watching. He wondered if Matthew was aware of it.

He thought one more perusal of
the area was in order before returning to Windsor. Even though he had told
Matthew it was futile, still, he would do it for his own peace of mind.

***

The lady was very ill.

The monk watched her sleeping
fitfully, her head on the old table, and wondered what he should do. His
superior was on a trip to Bracknell and would not return for several days.
Meanwhile, it was the monk and a couple of orphans to take care of the small
church. Now he was faced with the added burden of an ill woman.

The sun was starting to set,
signaling the onset of Vespers. He would soon open the sanctuary for the
faithful that would come for their evening prayers. The lady was in the small
alcove directly off the main sanctuary and he did not wish for her to be seen.

Uncertain and fidgety bordering
on panic, he closed the door to the alcove and was horrified when he could
still hear her coughing through the closed door. He wondered if any of the
faithful would hear her and report to his superior that he had allowed a woman
in the place during his absence. He would be whipped for sure.

 The two orphans, boys around ten
and twelve years of age, had begun to light the tapers around the small, barren
sanctuary.  The weak light from the setting sun permeated the think lancet
windows carved all around the top of the sanctuary.  Even with the glow of the
candles, it was a gloomy place. A crude wooden altar served as the divine
brokerage for God’s holy blessings.

The monk donned his crude service
robe and went to stand in the sanctuary as the faithful began to trickle in. It
was mostly elderly, crossing themselves at the door before wandering further
into the chapel for their prayers.  They were the poor, the servants of the nobles
that comprised the congregation of his poverty-ridden church.

The monk had dreams long ago of
being a great bishop in a great cathedral, but his dreams had only brought him
here.  Sometimes he was angry at God for placing him in this destitute place,
but in truth, he had become fond of his parishioners.  He stood next to the
door, watching them filter in, hearing the faint coughing of the lady in the
room behind him. It got to the point when she would cough, he would cough,
hoping to cover up her sounds.

More people began to enter as the
sun finally dipped below the horizon.  When he was sure most of the faithful
had arrived, he moved to close the door. But blocking his path was an armored
man so massive, so terrifying, that he filled up the entire entry. 

The monk screamed like a woman. 
Then he slapped a hand over his mouth to silence himself as the helmed head
turned in his direction.

“You.” A massive gloved finger
was beckoning to him. “Come here.”

The monk forced his quaking legs
to move. “Yes, my lord?”

The knight’s armor creaked and
groaned as he moved towards him. He sounded, and looked, like the Devil
himself.

“I am looking for a woman,” he
said. “She may have passed through this church, or possibly this town. Have you
seen any strange women about, well dressed and fine?”

The monk thought of the lady’s
orders to him earlier:
tell no one you have seen me
. But even as he
mulled over her command, thoughts of the massive knight snapping his skinny
neck came on far more strongly.  He had no intention of dying for a woman he
did not know.  With a squeak in his voice, he threw his arm in the general
direction of the alcove.

“In there,” he croaked.

The enormous knight blew past
him, practically kicking open the door. The small, cramped room displayed the
lady in the middle of it as if a light shined directly down on her, pointing
her out.  The knight threw back his visor as he went down on one knee beside
her.

Alixandrea’s face was flushed,
beads of sweat on her forehead. Gaston could see that she was gravely ill. He
ripped off a gauntlet and put a hand to her face.

“Christ,” he hissed.

“Yes?” The monk replied, hovering
back in the doorway.

Gaston shot him an irritated
glare. “Not you,” he hissed. “I meant her; she’s burning up. How long has she
been like this?”

The monk was wringing his hands.
The faithful, having seen the knight enter, now began to crowd up behind the
monk.  It was a nervous little group.

“I… I do not know, my lord,” he
said truthfully. “She came to me early this morning and told me that she was in
trouble. I allowed her to come in and dry herself.”

Gaston had heard enough.  Looking
around, he spied some manner of blanket thrown in a heap in the corner. It was
filthy but it would have to do. He grabbed the material and tossed it around the
lady’s shoulders. Gently pulling her up into a seated position, he tried to
wrap her in it but she awoke, groggy and disoriented.

“Hands off me,” she did not
recognize Gaston and slapped him straight across the face. “Unhand me this
moment!”

Her strike stung, but he did not
flinch. He knew she wasn’t thinking clearly.

“’Tis all right, Lady
Wellesbourne,” he said quietly. “I am taking you home to your husband.”

Her eyes were wide, unfocused, as
he swept her up into his arms. “Husband?” she repeated as if she did not
recognize the word. But the time Gaston had her out into the sanctuary, she
began to struggle. “I cannot go home. No! Put me down!”

“You must go home,” Gaston said
calmly. “Matthew is worried sick.”

“No,” she gasped. “Please do not
take me home. I cannot go!”

The monk found his voice, and for
some reason, his courage. He tagged after them. “Where are you taking her?”

“Home,” Gaston ducked a hand that
came at his face. “To Rosehill.”

“You… you will not punish her,
will you?”

Gaston merely cocked an eyebrow
at the monk, as if the man was insane. It was enough to stop the monk in his
tracks, watching as the massive knight took the struggling lady from the
church. He was going to follow but thought better of it. His guilt began to
grow; as a man of God, he should have stopped this. But as a mortal man, he
valued his life more and had no wish to tangle with the enormous warrior. He
let them go.