Chapter Twenty-Two
Whiteside had once been the home of a Scottish clan many years ago.
It was centuries-old structure that wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it was strong and sturdy.
A squat, three-storied tower with tiny windows for light and ventilation sat amongst stone walls that had been covered by thorny vines over the years.
No one had ever bothered to clear them away because the nasty thorns were enough to deter anyone from trying to climb them.
It was an intimidating place.
Sunk back in the woods, in the shade most of the time, Whiteside was an odd name for a place that was almost always in the dark.
But it had a clear view of the valley to the south and any approaching riders or armies unless they wanted to take the time to go all the way around and come in through woods that were thick and overgrown.
That was part of what made Whiteside such a good hiding place.
On this day, two riders approached Whiteside in full view from the south, men in armor. One of them lobbed off a bolt that planted itself in the ground of Whiteside’s small bailey. As the riders tore off down the hill, Boothe and his followers emerged from the structure.
“Look!” the old archer said. “There’s something on the bolt!”
Boothe, reeling from a bad night of sleep and a headache from the cheap wine they’d stolen in the village of Redburn, could see that for himself.
He staggered out of the stone keep, slipping on the moss-slick steps, before rushing into the bailey and yanking the bolt free of the ground.
There was indeed a missive tied to the bolt and he quickly pulled it free, opening it with great curiosity.
His men were watching him anxiously.
“God’s bones,” he finally hissed. “It’s from Ashington. He wants me to come to Ashleven right away.”
“Are you certain it is from Ashington?” the old archer said fearfully. “How would he know to find you here?”
Boothe wasn’t concerned that it might be a ruse. To him, it was the answer to his prayers. He held up the missive, shaking it in the man’s face.
“Because the man is an ally,” he snapped. “He knows of the hunting lodge. He knows that I would come here. He wants to help me, do your hear? He has changed his mind. We must go to Ashleven!”
The last word was punctuated by a shove to the old archer, who stumbled back as Boothe ran off towards the keep to collect what meager possessions he had.
Anything in the keep had been stolen or brought with them when they fled Septentrion and it wasn’t much.
Whiteside sat vacant most of the time, hardly used at all except by occasional outlaws or a wild animal or two.
Now it had become the haven for the remnants of Lord Stagshaw’s army, all of which could be classified as both outlaws and wild animals.
But all of that changed today.
Ashington had come to his senses.
Boothe was so glad that John de Thorington has summoned him that he went about shouting orders to his men to prepare the horses.
There were eleven men and six horses, so Boothe ordered a few of the older men to remain at Whiteside until the army could be moved towards Septentrion.
He made plans as if there were great plans to be made, plans that would see him reclaim what was rightfully his.
Septentrion Castle.
Gone was the fear that random patrols would find them.
They had seen a few of those over the past several days, but they’d had time to escape before the patrols were upon them.
They knew the woods and the places they could hide and they had done just that while the enemy patrols wandered around looking for any sign of them.
It didn’t occur to Boothe that the men bearing a missive from Ashington hadn’t delivered it personally.
In truth, he didn’t care. He’d been summoned and he was going to go.
As he mounted his horse, a shaggy animal, he vowed to make a better ally to Ashington, as his father had been.
If the Earl of Ashington was willing to help him regain his castle, then the least he could do was become a better ally. For a while, anyway.
But who knew what the future held after he got what he wanted.
He and a few of his men were racing towards Ashleven Castle within the hour.
*
Wynter found her mother in the chapel of Ashleven.
Maryann was in the small, stone-floored chapel by herself and according to Dirk, she’d been there since John was killed.
In fact, her father’s body was lying at the altar in a box that had been hastily built for him by the same carpenters that had been repairing the gatehouse.
Hasty or not, it was a beautiful box built with some of the wood they’d removed from the gatehouse.
Even though there had been some rot on it, they’d cut it away and it blended beautifully with the rest of the wood.
Someone had brought Maryann a chair and a blanket at some point and she sat next to her husband, her head lowered and a rosary clutched in her right hand.
John had given her the rosary at their marriage, with seventy-two beads on the strand.
As Wynter approached, she could see her mother’s lips moving in prayer.
Silently, she knelt next to her mother and put her head on the woman’s lap.
“Mama,” she whispered, feeling the tears because she knew her father was in the box next to her mother. “I have come home. I’m so sorry for what has happened.”
Maryann was almost in a stupor because she’d been praying so long. She was startled when her daughter put her head in her lap.
“Wynnie?” she said weakly, blinking her eyes. “When did you come home, lass?”
Wynter raised her head, tears in her eyes as she kissed her mother on the cheek. “Just now,” she said. “We have only just arrived. I came as soon as I heard.”
Maryann gazed at her daughter, a woman who looked a good deal like her grandmother. But Maryann seemed muddled, confused even, as she looked at Wynter.
“Where have you been?” she said. “Your father was going to look for you and… and he had an accident.”
That was as close as she could bring herself to speaking of what had happened. Seeing her clear distress, Wynter’s tears spilled over.
“I know,” she said. “Mama, I am so sorry this happened. I am home now and I will never leave again, I swear it.”
Maryann continued to stare at her before shaking her head, quickly, as if she were trying to clear her vision and her mind. She blinked her eyes, coming around a bit.
“Wynnie, where have you been?” she said, more strongly now. “More importantly, why did you leave? Why did your father have to go looking for you?”
Her voice was a little louder and Wynter could see that she was becoming more lucid.
She’d spent the entire ride back to Ashleven through an insultingly beautiful day wondering what she was going to say to her mother.
Insulting because it didn’t seem right for a day to be so lovely when her father had only just died.
On a day like that, the entire world should be dreary and miserable.
Not beautiful and clear. Now that the moment was upon her, all she could seem to do was apologize.
But Maryann wanted answers.
“Mama, I want you to listen carefully,” Wynter said. “Can you do that, please? I know you are shattered, but you must listen. Much has happened.”
Maryann grew serious. “What has happened?”
Wynter took a deep breath. “Brian came for me three nights ago,” she said. “He did not want to tell Papa, but Gage had been badly wounded in the battle at Septentrion and he came to fetch me. Brian thought Gage was dying and he knew I would want to be with him.”
Maryann’s expression darkened. “I should have known,” she said. “If someone merely speaks the name Gage, you go running like a foolish wench. So it was Brian, was it? He spoke the name and you went running. Well? Did Gage die?”
Wynter didn’t like the way her mother was speaking about Gage. “He did not,” she said, feeling wounded. “But Brian did.”
Maryann faltered, shocked. “De Luci is dead?”
Wynter nodded. “Killed by an ambush,” she said. “But Gage did not die. He is recovering.”
Maryann struggled to digest all of that. That was not what she had expected, nor wanted, to hear. After a moment, her jaw flexed.
“I see,” she finally said. “And now that de Luci is dead, I suppose your attention is on Gage again.”
“It never left him.”
Maryann sighed sharply. “I do not want to have this conversation with you, but it seems that I must,” she said. “Do you understand that Gage is to blame for your father’s death?”
Wynter pulled away from her mother and stood up. “How on earth did you come up with that conclusion?”
Maryann was building a head of steam. “He sent Brian to fetch you,” she said. “Your father went to retrieve you and it cost him his life. Now I see how this has all happened – it is Gage de Reyne’s fault!”
Wynter could feel her anger building. “You will not blame him,” she said. “I do not know what you have against him, but you have no reason. He is not responsible for Papa’s death. If you must blame anyone, blame me. I am the one who ran off.”
“Because of Gage!” Maryann nearly shouted. “And now Brian is dead? My God, Wynter. He was your best hope for a good husband and a happy life. I cannot believe what horrible fortune we are having. First Brian, now your father. I do not know what I am going to do.”
Wynter looked at her mother. The woman was emotional and flighty at times, but she’d never been nasty or vengeful. Still, it seemed she was very much against Gage and Wynter wanted to know why.