Chapter Eight #3
Howard was nearly beside himself with fury. His first instinct was to take it out on Strode, the man who had failed him, but for some reason he refrained. His anger took the form of twitching and shaking, directed inward until his heart pulsed wildly and his head swam.
“Ten years,” he growled, shaking his fists. “We have waited ten years for these plans to come to fruition and at the critical moment, you fail me. Ten years of planning wasted.”
“It was not my fault, my lord,” Strode slowly got up from the floor. “I swear that I did everything you told me, up until the last. Somehow, Wellesbourne discovered our plans, but I swear to you that I did not tell him. I never gave us away.”
Howard clenched his fists so hard that his jagged nails cut into his palms. “Ten years,” he muttered again. “My God, we waited so long and now…”
He went off into a corner, muttering to himself.
Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill of the room.
It was a large room, well appointed, fitting for Howard Terrington’s arrogance.
Strode backed himself up near the door as if preparing to run out should Howard strike at him again.
He watched his liege mumble and hiss, frightening sounds that dribbled of madness.
“What would you have me do, my lord?” he asked. “Please. All you need do is ask and it will be done.”
Howard acted as if he did not hear him. He muttered a moment longer before coming to an abrupt halt. Then, his head came up and he looked at Strode as if something fantastic had suddenly occurred to him.
“La Londe,” he hissed. “I’d nearly forgotten.”
Strode wasn’t following him. “My lord?”
Howard threw up his hands. “Dennis la Londe!” he roared.
Hastily, he staggered from the hall to the alcove just off the main chamber.
He moved to the enormous desk that nearly filled the room, toppling a chair as he did so.
He grabbed at the inkwell and quill, scrambling for a sheet of vellum. Strode watched him curiously.
“What are you doing, my lord?”
Howard began fiendishly scratching on a small piece of vellum. “I am fixing your mistake,” he hissed. “Dennis la Londe left for London four days ago. He should be arriving within the next day or so.”
Strode still did not understand. “My lord?”
Howard slopped spots of ink all over the table as he wrote. “God’s Bones, Strode, you know la Londe. We must send word to him that your attempt on Wellesbourne’s life was unsuccessful. With The White Lord in London, and la Londe in London, the possibilities are staggering.”
Strode was beginning to come clear now. “You will have Sir Dennis assassinate him?”
“That is an ugly word,” Howard scribbled.
“Let us say that where you failed, la Londe will not. I do not know what we shall do about the rest of our plan, for there is no diversion now to distract Richard while Henry lands upon England’s shores.
But I will let la Londe worry about that.
He must know that Matthew Wellesbourne is in London and that Wellesbourne Castle remains intact. Get this message to him.”
“I shall take it myself, my lord,” Strode said, eager to be of service and reclaim his liege’s good graces. “I shall not fail.”
Strode did not fail in delivering the message.
He caught up to Dennis la Londe on the northern outskirts of London and faithfully delivered the missive.
What he did not know, however, was that the vellum from Terrington also contained his death warrant.
Once he completed his task, la Londe was to kill him in punishment for his failure.
Strode suspected, as he lay bleeding to death on the open road, that his liege and the world had indeed turned against him.
*
Rosehill
Near Windsor, England
Livia Wellesbourne St. James had never had any children of her own, which is why she nearly went into seizures at the sight of her four nephews.
Though Adam was her only brother, the two had never gotten along particularly, but she loved his sons.
As she squealed in delight, men in armor invaded her well-tended house and tracked dirt over her hall.
Matthew had already met his aunt, as he had told Alixandrea he would. He always had to be the first to greet her, otherwise she would throw fits. With Matthew properly kissed and embraced, he could leave his brothers to the domineering attention of their only aunt and go about his business.
While John and Luke were on the receiving end of liquor-smelling kisses, Matthew went back for Alixandrea.
As Caroline wait for Mark, Matthew helped his wife from the cab so that she could get a good look at the manor house.
Alixandrea could not help but be awed at the sight of it; the place was enormous, far larger than the castles she had been accustomed to.
She stood for a moment just outside the door, her gaze falling upon the well-manicured grounds, lush garden, and masonry walls.
The manor house was fortified, sitting on the opposite side of the Thames and about a mile to the east of Windsor Castle.
It had vast lawns behind the high walls and the house itself had a main house plus two massive wings.
She studied the structure, oblivious to the dark clouds littering the sky above.
As rain drops began to pelt the dirt, Matthew tried to coax her inside.
But she stood for a moment as the wind whipped up, smelling the fresh air and observing the awesome surroundings.
“This place is enormous, Matthew,” she commented. “What on earth did your uncle do to acquire all of this?”
“He was a nobleman by birth and had a gift for trade,” he replied, looking up at the threatening sky.
“He had a fleet of ships that sailed the known world, trading goods from all ports. It would be fair to say that he was successful at it and it would be furthermore fair to say that he was probably one of the richest men in England.”
“I take it that he has passed away?”
“Six years ago. But he left all of this,” he swept his arms out over the expanse of yard, “to my aunt, who in turn has willed it to me upon her death.”
Alixandrea realized that it meant it would be hers, too. But it was too overwhelming a thought and she had not the mind at the moment to ponder it. She was exhausted from her trip. As she turned for the entry, she noticed that the vast majority of the army was still beyond the gates.
“Are they going to camp out there?” she asked.
Matthew had her by the elbow, glad she had decided to move out of the increasingly foul weather. “London is still several miles away and de Russe is taking the army on to the city limits.”
“He is not staying here with us?”
“Nay.”
“A pity. He seems like a lonely man. I was hoping to get to know him better.”
Matthew almost smiled at the irony of the statement. “I would be surprised if he let you. He is not one to make friends easily, especially with women.”
“I sensed that. But it has not deterred me.”
Matthew did smile, then. They entered into the dark, cool entry hall, a massive two-story chamber with an enormous iron chandelier hanging above their heads.
At first glance, she could see that it was a far different place from anything she had ever known.
Where rushes and dogs littered the floor of the fortresses, fine carpets that had been brought all the way from Persia covered the polished wood floor of the entry.
She could see muddy boot prints on it, knowing it had to come from the messy Wellesbourne men.
Crystal candle sets spread throughout the entry hall gave off an enormous amount of refractive light.
Alixandrea was understandably overwhelmed.
“God’s Bones,” she gasped. “I have never seen anything like this.”
Matthew had seen it before, too many times to count, and was immune to the wonderment. But he agreed with her.
“I doubt you ever will,” he said. “My aunt maintains a level of living that God himself is envious of.”
She lifted an eyebrow at him. “After the filth of Wellesbourne Castle, how is it you manage to stay here and not ruin the place?”
He laughed softly. “My aunt would beat me.” He pointed at the dirty rug. “Even that will not escape her wrath once the joy of our arrival wears thin.”
A squeal suddenly filled the air. Alixandrea looked over to see a round, rosy woman rushing towards her, arms outstretched.
Livia Wellesbourne St. James was an enormous woman with wobbling chins and painted cheeks.
She wore a garment of layers upon layers of the finest silks, with studs and embroidery to a gaudy degree.
She threw her fat arms around Alixandrea and nearly strangled her.
“So this is your lovely bride, Matthew?” Aunt Livia held Alixandrea at arm’s length, inspecting her closely. “She is exquisite, darling. Absolutely exquisite!”
Matthew felt a pride he’d never before experienced. It was strangely fulfilling. “Aye, that she is,” he agreed. “The Lady Alixandrea Wellesbourne, this is the Lady Livia St. James.”
“Psh,” Livia hushed him. “We need no introductions. I can see that she belongs to the House of Wellesbourne. Welcome to Rosehill, dearest girl. What is your name again?”
Alixandrea fought off a smile; the woman was giddy, dramatic, and scatterbrained. “Alixandrea, my lady.”
“Darling,” she hugged her again, releasing her from her stifling embrace but not quite letting go. She put an arm around her shoulders. “You have married the crème de la crème of Wellesbournes, my dear. Matthew is our shining star. We will expect many strong babies from you.”
Alixandrea smiled weakly, looking to Matthew and silently pleading for his help. She could hardly believe the old woman had jumped into such a delicate subject. Matthew just grinned a moment before taking pity on her.
“Auntie, we’ve only been married a few days,” he said. “You must give us time.”