Chapter Fourteen
Cole found Alastor in his solar.
That dusty, cold room that still smelled of seared human flesh.
He was burning something in a pewter bowl, incense to cover up the fact that a man had burned to death in that chamber and the stench still hadn’t left.
The incense was an earthy scent, something he could smell far back in his nose, like cold dirt.
It almost smelled like a grave. He stood at the door, seeing Alastor as the man sat with his back to him, gazing out over the bailey in a rare quiet moment.
Quietly, he rapped on the panel.
“Who is it?” Alastor asked without turning around.
“Cole, my lord,” Cole replied. “May I enter?”
Alastor turned his chair around, facing him. “How may I be of service, Cole?”
He sounded weary and Cole thought that it was a rather direct question, one that he didn’t want to answer right away.
He thought that he might need to gently ease Alastor into the true purpose for his visit, so he started out with something unrelated to his real reason.
As he’d told Corisande, he wasn’t a liar by nature, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t dance around the subject a little.
Besides… he had to build up his courage.
“I was curious if you’ve heard from my father,” he said. “Addax and Essien have been in Berwick for at least a month. We have no word?”
Alastor shook his head. “None,” he said. “It takes time to produce results sometimes, but I do not have to tell you that. You know it all too well.”
Cole nodded. “That is true,” he said. When the conversation threatened to die, he pointed to the smoking bowl. “What is that? I have smelled it before, I think.”
Alastor’s attention moved to the bowl and its ribbons of blue smoke. “It is called olibanum,” he said. “It is harvested in lands as far away as The Levant from a thorny tree that grows in the deserts. My wife loved the smell and it reminds me of her, so I burn it.”
Cole understood. “I see,” he said. “It must be precious and rare.”
“It is. Like my wife – precious and rare.”
He said it like a prayer, reverent and wistful. Cole thought it might be a good time to lead into the real reason for his visit.
“What was her name?” he asked.
Alastor fanned the smoke a little, inhaling it when it blew in his direction.
“Thalassa,” he said. “Thalassa de Ryes. Very old family, south in Hampshire. It has been a few years since I last saw my wife and this resin reminds me so much of her. My children hate it, but I do not care. I suppose we all have our own ways of remembering. But I digress; forgive me. Is there anything else you need from me, Cole?”
Cole didn’t give him a straight answer. “It is true we all have our own ways of remembering,” he said, sticking to the subject of dead wives. “Whenever I see a thistle, I remember my wife. She loved them.”
Alastor’s brow furrowed. “You were married?” he said, surprised. “I did not know that, Cole. When were you married?”
Cole smiled weakly. “Years ago,” he said. “I was very young, newly knighted. Her name was Mary and she was from a fine family also. As my father’s heir, my parents were most anxious to find me a good wife. Truthfully, I’m not sure I had a choice. They chose her for me.”
Alastor was warming to something they had in common. “As did mine,” he said. “As the descendent of the Bloodaxe, I had no choice in the matter. What was an arranged marriage turned out to be a love match, however. I was fortunate. Yours was not a love match?”
Cole shrugged. “I would not say that it wasn’t,” he said.
“Mary was sweet and obedient, but I simply did not want a wife. I was young and there were things I wanted to do with my life. But the situation improved when she bore my daughter, Lucy. I think that was when I realized what it means to be a husband and father. I was just coming to like it when she and my daughter passed away suddenly from a fever.”
“Oh, Cole,” Alastor said, grieved. “I am so sorry, lad. What a tragedy.”
“It was.”
“How long ago?”
“Two years now.”
Alastor reached out and grasped Cole around the wrist, giving him a supportive squeeze before releasing him. “You have my sympathy,” he said. “But you are young still. Any lady would be lucky to have you as a husband, I am sure.”
Cole was hoping the conversation might reach this point. Now, he had a perfect opportunity to bring up Corisande.
He took a deep breath.
“Would you consider me for your daughter, then?” he said. “Corisande, I mean. I would make her an excellent husband and I swear upon my oath that I would love her for the rest of my life. My lord… I would like to ask your permission to marry her.”
Alastor looked at Cole in shock. In fact, his mouth even popped open. “Cori?” he asked, incredulous. “My Cori?”
Cole nodded. “Aye,” he said, unsure if Alastor was appalled or pleased with the request. “As I said, I learned a great deal about being a husband in those years that I was married. I would be devoted and true, I swear it. Cori would never want for anything. I realize the de Velt name is either feared or hated in England, and mayhap not the most prestigious, but I promise you that I would make a worthy husband. She would have a good life.”
He sounded like he was begging and Alastor put up a hand to ease him. “Cole, I do not doubt your character,” he said. “But…”
He was cut off when Ares suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Papa,” he said, interrupting. “The army from the south is growing closer. You must come.”
Alastor was on his feet, but he wasn’t so preoccupied that he didn’t realize that Cole was expecting an answer. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder as he walked past him.
“I am sorry, Cole,” he said. “We shall continue this conversation later.”
“Cole, you come as well,” Ares said. “If it is The Marshal, I am sure he will want to see you.”
So much for a most opportune discussion.
Cole could have throttled Ares for coming when he did.
With a heavy sigh, he stood up, slowly dying on the inside because Alastor had been cut off mid-thought.
Was the man opposed to a marriage and simply wanted to let him down easy?
If he had been agreeable, surely he would have said so right away.
But he hadn’t.
Or he hadn’t been able to.
Feeling frustrated and disappointed, Cole followed Alastor and Ares from the keep.
“There was a battle here,” Bric said in his heavy Irish brogue. “Look at how half of the village as been burned. They’re only now rebuilding. I wonder what happened?”
No one had an answer, least of all Christopher de Lohr.
Riding at the head of a contingent of six thousand men, he was focused on Castle Keld in the distance, rising like a jewel above the darkening landscape as the sun sank low in the west. In fact, the pale-stoned castle was bathed in pink, giving it an ethereal appearance.
They’d arrive at their destination.
Unfortunately, the village surrounding their destination had clearly seen some destructive activity.
The village hugged the hill that the castle sat upon, with cottages stacked about a quarter of the way up the rise and then again dotting the surrounding countryside.
There was a business district in the village that surrounded the communal well, and those cottages as well as some on the north side of the village had been damaged or burned.
“Something has happened, indeed,” Christopher said, looking around. “Had it been a fire that had spread from one house to the next, there would have been continuity in the damage, but there’s none at all. It’s in clusters, which tells me someone took a torch to the village.”
“Does de Bourne have enemies we did not know about?” Dashiell asked.
“None that I am aware of.”
The reply came from William Marshal.
Riding behind Christopher, his three-point shield was slung over his left knee, perhaps the most recognizable standard in England – the Scarlet Lion.
The Marshal was fairly old to be going on a battle march, but he was determined.
If there was a war to be managed, he intended to do the managing first-hand, and in a case like this with the Scots threatening to invade Northumberland, he wasn’t going to stay home and leave the heavy fighting to men like Christopher and David de Lohr, Alexander de Sherrington, Bric MacRohan, Dashiell du Reims, Maxton of Loxbeare, Kress de Rhydian, or even Achilles de Dere.
He was going to come personally.
These were the men whose armies had been gathered the fastest, armies ready to move on short order.
Christopher and Maxton had moved their armies from the Welsh Marches with the help of Alexander, Peter, Kress, and Achilles, while Bric brought the de Winter war machine from Norfolk and Dashiell came up from Wiltshire.
David was riding with his brother and he was still expecting his army from Canterbury to catch up with them at some point, but that was at least a week away, as were the de Nerra and Forbes armies.
They were far to the west and in Gart Forbes’ case, nearly to Cornwall, so there were still pieces of the mighty army moving to rendezvous at The Keld, including The Marshal’s own army from Pembroke Castle in Wales.
Pembroke’s army was to join with the de Lara army at Welshpool and then they would make their way north.
Lastly, they were still expecting troops from Richmond Castle, led by Caius d’Avignon, and those troops should be arriving in a day or two.
Caius was under orders to go straight to The Keld, so it was only a matter of time before they appeared on the horizon.
The six thousand men that were arriving today wasn’t nearly the end of all of the men that would eventually join.
And The Marshal was counting on it.
“Bric, Dash,” The Marshal said as he turned to the men closest to him. “We must set up an encampment for the night, so send out men to find the best ground before it gets too dark. Somewhere near the castle. Be quick about it.”