The White Lord of Wellesbourne (32 page)

She simply grinned at him, her
lips red from his furious kisses.  Matthew finally climbed out of the carriage
and mounted his charger.  He did not replace his left gauntlet; the hand and
the ring remained exposed to the world the entire way back to the Tower.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Tower of London was an
enormous complex with catacombs of chambers, passages, halls and towers.  A
concentric fortress, it had gone through several building renovations since its
original construction on the banks of the Thames beginning in the year 1066.

Alixandrea was overwhelmed with
the sheer size of the place as Matthew brought their party through the gaping
front gate, passing through the double-portcullis entry and then passing
through another gate that led to the vast inner ward.  Once through the second
gate, he made an immediate left and headed for one of the massive inner towers.
She would later learn that it was called the Wakefield Tower.

In the center of the courtyard
sat an enormous pale-stoned structure four stories to the sky.  Narrow,
cylindrical towers marked the four corners, topped with turrets that were
littered with black birds.  Sun glinted off the roof, creating flashes of
light. Matthew helped Alixandrea from the carriage and she nearly fell, not
paying attention to where her feet were placed as she absorbed the enormity of
the keep. It was mesmerizing. Matthew grinned as he helped Caroline from the
cab.

“The White Tower,” he told her
before she could ask.

Alixandrea poked a finger at it.
“That is the White Tower?”

“Aye.”

It was a struggle to keep her
mouth from hanging open. “It is colossal. I do not know what I had expected,
but surely there is nothing larger in the world.”

The men were moving around them,
gathering capcases and other materials from the carriage. Alixandrea had to
step out of the way or risk being run down by over-eager soldiers.

“I shall take you to it after
we’ve had a chance to settle,” Matthew said. “I would assume you would like to
rest a while before this eve.”

She turned to look at him. “What
is happening this eve that I will need my rest?”

“A feast, of course. And I am
sure that Richard will request an audience.”

Her eyes widened. “The king?”

The corners of his mouth twitched
as he pulled a small valise out of the cab and handed it to a waiting servant. 
It was as much of an answer as he would provide. Alixandrea had to remind
herself yet again that The White Lord of Wellesbourne was at the right hand of
the king.  Until this moment, none of that had seemed real. It was tales she
had simply heard of the man; now; however, she was about to become acquainted
with the reality of his station.  It was a heady awareness.

Mark suddenly rounded the corner
of the cab, ripping off a gauntlet in a sharp move. His visor was raised, his
dark eyes glaring like shards of obsidian. It was clear that he was still
boiling over his confrontation with Matthew earlier.

“Caroline,” he barked. “Come with
me.”

Matthew’s smile faded as he
watched Caroline meekly pursue her husband.  Alixandrea watched also, almost
daring Mark to make eye contact with her. He seemed to have an inordinate
amount of hostility and she did not understand why. 

“He is not angry with her, is
he?” she looked at Matthew. “What has she done?”

Matthew’s gaze lingered on his
brother until the man disappeared from view around the side of the cab. 

“She’s done nothing,” he said
simply. “Come along, love. Let us get you settled into our rooms.”

He took her hand and tucked it
into the crook of his elbow. Alixandrea followed him to the enormous tower and
into the stone-arched entry. It was cool and musty inside. They ascended the
steps to the second floor, took a turn, and opened up onto an enormous corridor.
It seemed to go on forever. They walked a nominal amount of time before coming
to a great carved door, which was already open. There were servants milling
around inside as Matthew ushered her into the room.

The chamber was done in the blue
and white colors of the Wellesbourne crest, with expensive chairs arranged
neatly in the center. A wide-mouth hearth blazed over to her left and a large
tapestry of a knight astride a white horse covered one wall.  There were all
manner of plush furnishings that were unknown in the more austere,
battle-oriented castles that Alixandrea had known. This place was made for
comfort. Properly awed, she gawked as she studied the room.

“It is beautiful,” she gasped.
“Do you truly warrant such richness?”

Matthew grinned.  “I am content
in the knight’s quarters, but somehow, I was issued these rooms at Richard’s
insistence. I rarely use them.”

She shook her head, once again
reviewing the opulence. “A pity,” she sighed. “I have never seen such luxury. I
fear I may become accustomed to it and grow irreversibly spoiled.”

Coming up to stand behind her, he
wrapped his arms around her, his face in the side of her head as he inhaled the
delicate scent of her hair. “You would be the one person to truly justify such
lavish attention,” he said. “I would like to spoil you.”

His hot breath against her head
sent chills bolting down her spine. “Careful what you say. You may regret it.”

“Never.”

They shared a moment, briefly,
before separating.  There were too many people about and the nature of their
relationship was still too new for blatant public displays of affection. 
Besides, Matthew did not want to create a spectacle for gossip-mongering
servants.

As he moved to retrieve a small
case that had been set on the floor, Luke and John were suddenly in the door,
making their presence known by kicking aside one of the chairs that was too
close to the entry. It crashed to the floor, taking a small table with it.
Alixandrea frowned at the brothers, moving to right the table as John steadied
the chair.

“You two are a pair of wild
bulls,” she said. “You must be more careful.”

John grinned contritely while
Luke, oblivious, went straight for Matthew.

“Much is going on, Matt,” he
said, his tone laced with quiet urgency. “The king would see you now. Gaston is
already with him.”

Matthew handed the case over to
his wife. “You have been here a matter of minutes and already you know this?”

“Richard saw you come in through
the gate,” Luke replied.

At that moment, Mark’s head
popped into the doorway. “Matt,” he said. “We’ve been summoned.”

Matthew glanced over at his
dark-haired brother; they were back in professional mode, the disturbances of
earlier in the day forgotten.

“So I have been told,” he said.
He looked at Alixandrea, standing a few feet away with the case in her hand.
She had been listening to the conversation. “I am afraid that I will have to
leave you alone for a little while. Will you be all right?”

She nodded. “Of course. I have
much unpacking to do.”

“Good.” His easy smile returned,
briefly, and he gave her a wink. “Make sure that you do not leave this chamber
until I return for you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I ask this. Please.”

There was something in his tone
that precluded further argument. Alixandrea nodded her head, watching as her
husband and Luke quit the chamber. John followed them out, giving her a small
wave as he did so. She waved back and the door closed, leaving the chamber
oddly still. There had been so much commotion just a few moments before that
the sudden stillness was unsettling.

It took her a moment to get
herself moving, realizing there was a lot of work to be done and no Jezebel to
assist her. She had no idea where Caroline was.  But standing just to the left
of the chamber door were two female servants, workers at the Tower. They stood
there, uncertainly, obviously waiting for direction. She put her hands on her
hips.

“Who are you?”

The first maid, a tiny woman with
gray hair and very few teeth, bowed sharply. “Ann, m’lady.”

The second woman, not quite so
old and a little plumper, did the same. “Mary Joan, m’lady.”

“Are you responsible for these
chambers?”

“These and the three other
Wellesbourne chambers when the lords are in residence, m’lady.”

“Very well,” Alixandrea said
crisply. “As Lady Wellesbourne, you now take directives from me.  Help me to
get unpacked, and quickly, for I have a busy night ahead.”

The women flew into action, an
organized assault on the cases still left in the main chamber. They picked up
what they could and disappeared into the door adjacent to the hearth. Alixandrea
followed them into the smaller chamber beyond; there was a massive bed frame
with only a mattress, a large wardrobe against the wall, and little else. 
Compared to the sitting chamber, the room was fairly plain but comfortable
enough.

“We’ve not yet had the chance to
make your bed, m’lady,” Mary Joan said. “We only learned of your arrival a
short time ago.”

Alixandrea waved her hand at her,
unconcerned. “I have no need for the bed at the moment. It can wait. But I do
need to unpack and find my gold brocade surcoat.”

The women nodded, throwing open
the trunks and cases and beginning to lay forth garments to be put away. 
Alixandrea moved to help, but realized they were efficient in what they were
doing. They did not need her help. In fact, they looked rather confused when
she made the attempt. Not the least bit offended, Alixandrea wandered back out
into the sitting chamber.

After a few minutes of drifting
around, inspecting every piece of new-found furniture, she poured herself a
measure of sweet red wine from the decanter in the corner and planted herself
in one of those magnificent chairs. Feeling somewhat like the Lady of the
Manor, deposited into affluence she had never before imagined, she settled down
with her wine and her chair to enjoy the rest. It was just coming to dawn on
her what being the wife of The White Lord of Wellesbourne would truly mean. And
the thought was overpowering.

The next she realized, the sun
was set, the room dark, and Mary Joan was waking her from a deep sleep.

***

“Henry has not yet left the
shores of France, though all intelligence tells us that it is imminent. I fear
what this summer will bring.”

The voice was soft and somber. 
It also happened to come from the King of England.  Richard III sat in his
small solar, just off his bedchamber, a place that was both comforting and
convenient and safe for him. He did not travel the halls of the Tower too
often, for it had become a dangerous place with rival factions vying for
control. Sometimes it was more dangerous than even the most violent parts of
the city.  These days, he tended to stay to his well-guarded chambers, but when
he did go out in public, it was surrounded by a host of knights.  He would take
no chances.

The king had called his most
powerful knights to his side as soon as they arrived at the Tower. Like an
eager child, he was determined to see them and after the usual social
pleasantries, he delved straight into business. 

Much was at stake and there was
no time to waste.  Matthew leaned against the wall near the hearth while Gaston
stood on the opposite side of the room, arms crossed and massive legs braced.
Luke, John and Mark stood somewhat in the shadows, as did Patrick and Arik. 
Also present was Francis Lovell, Lord Chamberlain of the Royal household and
one of Richard’s closest advisors.  He was young, intelligent, and loyal to the
bone. But he was more a politician than a warrior, with sage advice for those
who would actually see the field of battle. And as a ward of the Earl of
Warwick, he had connections that were unsurpassed, making him an invaluable
ally.

“When Henry does sail, we shall
be ready for him, Your Grace,” Matthew said quietly. “He has a sufficient build
up in Gloucester, as we discussed earlier. And you have received our earlier
intelligence, so you know as much as we do at this time.”

“Something is building,” Richard
said quietly.

“Agreed,” Matthew said. “But we
are unsure what, exactly, it might be.”

“Surely you have an opinion, Sir
Matthew,” Lovell spoke, moving to stand next to the king. It was an almost
protective gesture. “Your military expertise is beyond question. Surely you
have formed a judgment.”

Matthew was silent a moment, his
attention moving to Gaston.  De Russe met his gaze steadily, and Matthew was
fairly certain that, based upon all intelligence given at this time, they had
come to the same conclusion.  He felt confident speaking for them both.

“Henry will not land upon the
shores of England,” his voice was low and steady. “To do so would be foolish
since the country is so blatantly divided. He cannot be guaranteed the support
he requires. But Wales is not divided in the least; it is Beaufort’s country
and it is my estimation that he will make landfall in Wales, move east to his
mother’s property to gather her armies, and then sweep into England through the
Marches and on to Gloucester to collect the mercenaries there. By that time, he
will have acquired a substantial force and in perfect position to strike the
heart of England.”