The White Lord of Wellesbourne (3 page)

He was babbling. Alixandrea cast
him a long look, silently ordering him to shut his mouth. Matthew apparently
did not notice. He was looking over the troops.

“Do you still have the full
contingent of four hundred?” he asked. “None have run off or fallen ill during
the trip?”

“We’ve lost none, my lord,”
Strode replied. “Would you inspect them?”

“Not now,” Matthew said.
“Wellesbourne is a little more than a mile to the south. I shall inspect them
once we’re in the fortress.”

Alixandrea listened to the
conversation, noting the interest in her betrothed’s voice. It reminded her,
yet again, of the truth of this marriage contract; he was marrying her for the
money and manpower, nothing more. She was so foolish in that she had hoped he
would have seen some value in her. She was no more than the soldiers and valuables
she carried; she was a commodity. She would have to accept that.

She removed her hand from his.
“If there will be nothing else, my lord, perhaps we should continue to the
castle. The hour grows late.”

He gazed down at her, watching
the sunlight play off of her bronze hair. Gold, brown and copper glistened like
a shower of light. 

“A wise suggestion, my lady.” He
looked at Strode. “What is your name, man?”

“Strode, my lord.”

“Very well,” he nodded shortly.
“Take the lady down this road, through the village, until you come to
Wellesbourne. Stop for no one and make all due haste. These parts are not safe
after dark, even to me.”

 Reaching over, he took
Alixandrea’s hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow.  She tried not to
look surprised by the bold action; it was a claiming gesture.  Silently, he led
her over to the carriage, opened the door, and very kindly helped her inside.

All the while, Alixandrea kept
feeling that same innate gentleness she first sensed in him.  The man was
fearsome by size alone, but deep down, she felt there was more.  Perhaps it was
something he did not like anyone to see.

Their eyes met briefly as she
took her seat and the corners of his eyes crinkled, as close to a smile as she
had so far seen. He’d remained stoic and emotionless to this point, and she
thanked him with a dip of her head.  As soon as Matthew removed himself from
the doorway, Jezebel leapt into the carriage and the door slammed tightly.
Outside, she heard a few barked orders and the carriage lurched, once again to
reel and roll that last terrible mile to Wellesbourne.

As the carriage gained a
sickening rhythm on the road, she was aware of her disappointment that he had
not asked her to ride with him that last mile. Or she could have ridden her
paltry in stride with his great warhorse, and all of the inhabitants of
Wellesbourne would have seen that Matthew was indeed accepting this wife he had
been expecting for ten years.

She could only imagine what all
of Wellesbourne thought of her, the great chain of doom out to attach herself
to Matthew and ruin his life.  But he had not asked her, indicative of the
level of enthusiasm he had for this marriage.  She sank back into her seat,
disenchanted and moody.

The horses were just gaining
their stride when the carriage suddenly lurched to a halt. Unprepared,
Alixandrea went skidding across the cab and hit her head on the boxy wooden
headrest on the opposite seat.  Stars burst in her vision and the blood began
to flow.

“Oh, m’lady,” Jezebel saw what
had happened and rushed to her aid. “Here, take this kerchief. Press it on the
wound or ye’ll get blood all over yer dress.”

The cut was on the right side of
her forehead and stung. Alixandrea tried to put the cloth over the wound and
steady herself at the same time. The world was still rocking even though the
carriage had come to a halt.  Trying to keep the blood out of her eye, she
heard a voice from the cab door.

“What happened?” It was Matthew.

“The cab stopped too quickly,
m’lord,” Jezebel told him, trying to help her lady. “She hit her head.”

The cab door opened and gentle
hands were on her. Between Jezebel and Matthew, they managed to turn her around
so that she was seated on the floor of the cab, her legs hanging from the open
door.  Though the kerchief covered most of her vision, Alixandrea could see
Matthew’s face looming close.

“Let me see.”

His voice was low, full of
serenity and reassurance. It disarmed Alixandrea so much that she actually
obeyed him, allowing him to remove the kerchief so that he could see her head. 
He wiped her forehead a couple of times to keep blood from running into her eye
as he inspected the injury.

His ripped off one of his leather
gloves, tossing it aside. His big, warm fingers danced over her forehead and
scalp, inspecting, but to Alixandrea, the sensation was something else
altogether.  Every time he touched her, some strange occurrence happened that
sent bolts of heat racing through her body. She almost pulled away from him,
but something inside her could not muster the will.

“It is not so bad, my lady,” he
finally assured her. “Just a little cut inside your hairline. Unfortunately,
head wounds bleed heavily no matter how large or small. I am afraid you may
have a bit of a bump.”

Jezebel had produced a clean
handkerchief, which she handed to Matthew and he pressed back over the wound. 
Their eyes finally met and his expression relaxed into something pleasant and
humane. She thought she might actually detect warmth.

“This is my fault, I fear,” he
said. “I ordered Strode to halt the carriage. It occurred to me to have you
ride into Wellesbourne with me. Had I known my clever plan would see you come
to harm, I would have never acted upon it.”

He seemed genuinely contrite and
she smiled. “’Twas not your fault, my lord,” she said. “But I fear Strode is in
for a beating.”

She said the last part loud
enough so her man servant could hear her. He was standing beside Matthew,
blocked out of her view by Matthew’s bulk.

“Forgive, my lady,” he said.
“’Twas an accident.”

“Accident, my eye,” she said
snappishly. “You always stop this carriage as if the Devil has just planted
himself right in your path. I have many bruises to attest to this.”

Matthew glanced over at the
beleaguered man servant. “Perhaps Strode requires some coaching in this area to
perfect his skills.”

While the man servant cowered,
Alixandrea removed the kerchief from her head. It was spotted with blood, but
the oozing had stopped for the most part. Matthew examined it again, realizing
he was eager for another chance to run his fingers over her face. There was
nothing about her skin and hair that wasn’t soft and supple and utterly
beautiful.

“Your hair should cover it
adequately,” he said, then looked her in the eye. “Do you feel well enough to
ride with me?”

There was something in his tone
that made her believe he might actually want her to. She handed the kerchief
back to Jezebel.

“I am well enough, my lord.”

He helped her from the carriage
and led her over to his big dappled warhorse. The animal was muzzled to prevent
it from biting everything that moved and Matthew made sure to keep his body
between her and the horse.  Luke stood at the animal’s head, still reluctant to
speak to the lady, fearful she’d not yet forgiven him for his behavior at the
tavern.  Their eyes met and he quickly lowered them, too fast to see the smile
that played on her lips.

His hands went about her waist,
completely encircling her.  There was something to his touch that made her feel
strangely giddy, but she attributed that to the bump on her head. He could feel
the heat of his hands through her clothes, burning her.  She did not dare turn
to look at him, fearful that he would read her expression.  He took a good grip
of her and lifted her effortlessly towards the saddle.

That was when all hell broke
loose.

CHAPTER TWO

The first hint that something was
amiss was when the arrow hit Luke in the arm. At the horse’s head, he grunted
and pitched backwards.

Startled, Matthew lowered
Alixandrea to the ground, knowing exactly what that arrow strike meant. He
cursed himself for being stupid enough to find himself caught outside the gates
of Wellesbourne in a vulnerable position. Their neighbor and Tudor ally, Lord
Dorset, had been threatening them for weeks and he knew better than to allow
himself to be caught in the open. But he just as quickly remembered that he had
four hundred men at his disposal.  Throwing his arms around the lady to shield
her, he made haste for the carriage.

Even as he deposited her inside
the cab, he was bellowing orders to the men at the rear. They responded to him
quickly, confirming his initial observations that this was a seasoned crew. 
Strode clamored up onto the cab.

“Make haste for the castle,”
Matthew ordered in a tone that would have frightened God himself. “Stop for
nothing.”

Alixandrea did not have time to
say a word to him before the carriage charged forward. Matthew was gone,
preparing for battle. But she remembered Luke, lying on the ground with an
arrow in him, and she stuck her head from the cab door.

“Strode!” she hollered. “Sir Luke
is hit!”

She was gesturing to the knight,
several feet away.  Strode directed the carriage wildly in that direction, so
hastily that a wheel caught in a hole near the road and ripped it right off the
axel. The carriage collapsed onto one side, narrowly missing falling on Luke.

Strode was pitched off, rolling
several feet away. But he was unharmed and called frantically to the women.

“My lady!” he cried. “Are you
hurt?”

Her voice was muffled, annoyed. 
“No thanks to your driving.”

If she was insulting him, then
she must be well indeed. Strode crawled to the downed knight, listening to the
howl of war around him as an unknown army emerged from the grove of trees to
the northeast of the road.  Metal hit upon metal as men met in battle. The
peace of dusk quickly turned to chaos.

“My lord,” Strode crawled up on
Luke, helping him to sit. “Are you badly injured?”

Luke grimaced. “Not too,” he
said. “It is lodged in my arm. If you can get it out, I can still fight.”

Neither one of them saw
Alixandrea climb from the top of the wagon, exposing herself to flying arrows
as she leapt to the ground. She fell to her belly, completely ruining her
kirtle, and crawled to the men.  She was horrified to see the arrow sticking
out of the young knight.

“Dear God,” she breathed, wanting
to examine him but not wanting to hurt him. “Is it bad?”

“Not bad,” Luke said as an arrow
zinged overhead. “Remove this thing so that I may help my brother.”

As if hearing his name, Matthew
rounded the carriage astride his massive war beast. The creature’s muzzle had
been removed for the battle and Matthew weapon was drawn.  He was hardly
recognizable through the menacing three-point helm that he wore.

“Get inside the carriage,” he
roared. “Luke, for God’s sake, get her back inside where it is safe.”

Luke nodded, acting as if he was
still a fully functional knight and not an injured one. “Go,” he said to
Alixandrea. “Go before he becomes angry. Hurry.”

The tone in his voice alone was
enough to spur her back towards the carriage. They crawled through the grass
and dirt, eventually reaching the carriage. Just as they did, a barrage of
arrows peppered the underbelly and Alixandrea shrieked, instinctively putting
her hands over her head to protect herself.  Inside the cab, she could hear
Jezebel scream in terror.

“We cannot chance trying to crawl
in,” she said. “They will surely shoot us down the moment we try.”

Luke had to agree. Much of the
arrows seemed to be focused on the carriage. “Pull this arrow out of me,” he
half-grunted, half-demanded.  “My brother needs my help.”

Alixandrea and Strode looked at
each other. There was reluctance in their faces, but they simply could not
leave it there.  While Strode held Luke by the shoulders, Alixandrea took a
good grip on the arrow and yanked it straight back, straight out.

The ugly projectile fortunately
came free in one pull, much to everyone’s relief.  Alixandrea wasn’t sure if
she could pull something like that from a man’s flesh again.  Though she’d been
exposed to some manner of war her entire life, she had always been kept fairly
removed from the horrors of it.

Taking the handkerchief that she
had used to ease her own injury, she pressed it against the muscle of Luke’s
upper arm to stop the bleeding where the arrow had managed to wedge itself in
through the mail and joint. He let her hold the cloth against him for about
five seconds before rebelling.

“Enough,” he pushed his way onto
his feet. “My brother needs me.”

With that, he was gone, racing
around the side of the carriage, mounting his steed and galloping out of sight.
Alixandrea and Strode sat in stunned silence, huddling against the cab for
protection while the battle raged on. There was naught to do but sit and wait.