Chapter Four
Thornton Tower
Northumberland
“Had we not had the help of Berwick, I am not entirely sure we could have fended them off, my lord.” A man with dark hair and a bushy white beard spoke with both exhaustion and gratitude. “Your assistance was more welcome than you know.”
The appreciation was aimed at the Earl of Berwick himself. Patrick de Wolfe, a massive knight with pale green eyes and dark hair that had great streaks of white in it, was watching his men help secure the rather large castle known as Thornton Tower.
The Scots had done a good job of beating on it.
But it had ended favorably when men from Berwick had routed Scots who had slipped over the River Tweed at one of the smaller crossings, past Northwood Castle, which was a massive bastion that covered a good deal of territory, and headed deep into Northumberland only to attack Thornton Tower.
No one was quite sure why, but speculation was that they were looking for an easy target.
Northwood, Berwick, and Castle Questing were far too large for a group of raiding Scots.
Thornton wasn’t exactly easy, but it certainly wasn’t built up like some of the bigger castles were.
The Scots took a chance that ended badly for them.
Fortunately, it hadn’t been the case for Thornton Tower.
It was sunset on a day that had hinted to the promise of a warm summer, with a crystal sky and gentle breezes as the English armies buttoned up the castle for the night and began to settle down to rest. It was a beautiful evening as the torches were lit, illuminating the sky against the coming night.
The smell of roasting meat was in the air.
For the moment, all was well.
“I feel as if we chased them to your doorstep,” Patrick said, trying not to sound as exhausted as he felt.
“Or at least I did until I realized the Scots we were chasing were reinforcements for the group that was trying to breach your gatehouse. You’ve got a pile of dead Scots to deal with now, de Allery. ”
Edmund de Allery, Lord of Thornton Tower, knew that. He’d been through hell. He looked like hell and smelled like hell. He wasn’t a warrior by choice, but rather, in this case, by necessity.
And he was damn sick of it.
“I’ll push them all into the moat and let them rot,” he said, running a hand through his dirty, dark hair.
“But please—let us not speak of the foolish Scots any longer. Come inside and let me show you and your men some hospitality. It has been a very long time since we last saw one another, my lord. I fear I’ve not been a good neighbor. ”
Patrick didn’t want to be rude to the man, but he also didn’t want to spend an over-amount of time with him.
It wasn’t that de Allery was just a bad neighbor—he was a selfish one.
Whenever the call for assistance went out across the border, de Allery bottled himself up in his castle and refused to help.
Patrick thought about leaving him to fend for himself when the reivers who had harassed some nearby farmers had led him to the gates of Thornton Tower, but then he started to think that if de Allery was indebted to him somehow, it would make him more apt to be a responsive ally.
But there were other reasons he didn’t want to spend an over-amount of time at Thornton.
It didn’t take him long to remember that one of them was heading in his direction as he entered the keep.
Lady Zora de Allery, Edmund’s only daughter, was not someone that Patrick had a fond memory of.
Truth be told, he’d completely forgotten about her until the moment he saw her.
She was tall, with dark, bushy hair like her father, pale skin, and a look about her that suggested she’d just crawled out of the grave.
There was something cold and intense about her, as he’d seen when she had fostered at Berwick years ago.
She’d spent a few years at Berwick before Patrick’s wife, Brighton, had enough of her and sent her off to Alnwick Castle without her father’s permission.
Patrick wondered if that incident was going to come up again tonight.
But he’d try to avoid that conversation for the sake of peace.
He’d done enough fighting today and didn’t want to include de Allery in that activity.
The man’s daughter was directing the servants into the great hall, located inside the keep of Thornton, when she caught sight of Patrick entering with her father.
A man as tall as Patrick was rather hard to miss.
“Lord Berwick,” she said, dipping into a practiced curtsy. “You honor our house, my lord. Welcome.”
All Patrick could remember about Zora was her knack for causing trouble.
Even at a young age, she gossiped and schemed and tried to manipulate those around her.
Patrick had really only heard about it from his wife, which was why Zora had been sent on her way.
But he did remember that Zora had sworn her undying love to his son, Magnus, for a time until he left Berwick, and then she’d fixated on Titus.
Titus had been young, and he’d only been at Berwick a short while before moving on to Wark Castle, but Patrick remembered the trouble Zora stirred up with his sons, declaring to all who would listen that she would marry one of them.
Troublemaker, indeed.
“My lady,” he greeted her with polite reserve. “It is agreeable to see you again.”
Zora smiled, showing off big teeth. “I am flattered that you would remember me,” she said. “You have so many young pages and wards at Berwick. I’m honored that you would know me at all.”
“I never forget a face, my lady.”
That seemed to please Zora. She indicated a table that was already set up with a good deal of food.
“Please sit,” she said. “My father sent word that you were coming, so we have prepared a feast in your honor. We have wine from Spain and a cook that trained in Lisbon. We have the finest food on the border, and I’m sure you will enjoy it. ”
Patrick nodded, sitting down to a fleet of servants falling over themselves to make sure he had enough wine and food.
As he leaned back while servants made sure his trencher was full, more knights came in from the bailey, including the ones he’d brought with him from Berwick.
Rian de Llion and Espen de Tracy were two of his warriors, young men who had taken the place of older knights who had retired or moved to other, easier, posts.
They were followed by a knight who wasn’t actually a knight in the literal sense, though he was a warrior.
He was a cousin of Patrick’s wife, a distant cousin from the land of the Northmen, sent by her father, who happened to be king of the Northmen.
His name was Krister Grimsson, and he couldn’t have looked more like a Northman if he tried.
He was tall and big, with a cascade of white-blond hair that tumbled down his back.
His father was a cousin of the king of the Northmen, a man known as Magnus the Law Mender, and Magnus, feeling that Krister was the finest warrior in all the land, had gifted him to Patrick.
Some men gave their relatives cattle, some gave horses or money, but Magnus gave men.
Patrick couldn’t send him back.
Not that he wanted to, because he and Krister got along famously, but the man was essentially a slave.
Or a spy. Patrick couldn’t figure out which, even a few years after Krister had arrived.
But the man was hell in battle, especially against the Scots, whom he detested, and Patrick was grateful for him.
As Rian and Espen took a seat across from Patrick and Krister joined them, the only de Allery knight came in through the entry.
Patrick didn’t know anything about Ansel de Edington beyond the name and the fact that the man’s father was a warlord in the north.
He seemed to remember that he had fostered at one of the de Wolfe properties, but no more than that.
Ansel wasn’t particularly big, but he was broad, with pockmarked skin and shaggy brown hair.
He swung a sword like a madman and had personally cut down several Scots.
Patrick was just sampling his wine when Ansel plopped down at the table and bellowed for food in a tone that shook the entire table.
“We’ve started the funeral pyres, my lord,” Ansel said to de Ellery. “We’ll have nothing but ashes come the dawn, enough of a deterrent to keep the Scots away.”
Patrick’s eyes flicked over to him. “You’re burning them?”
Ansel fixed on him. “Aye, my lord.”
Patrick pondered that news, but it was clear he wasn’t happy with it. “Do you know the clan?”
Ansel shrugged. “One clan is like another,” he said, grabbing the cup of wine that a servant set in front of him. “They’re all savages and deserve to be burned like dogs.”
That didn’t sit well with Patrick. Both his mother and wife were Scots.
“If you have been on the border any length of time, you know that is not a true statement,” he said.
Then he turned to Edmund. “I suggest that you not burn the bodies and discover which clan they’re from.
If they’re Gordon or Elliot, you may have real trouble on your hands if you do not return their dead.
They will not appreciate the bodies being burned. ”
Edmund’s brow furrowed. “This is the first trouble we’ve had in some time,” he said. “I think we should burn the bodies and throw the remains into the moat as a message of what we will do to anyone who attacks us again.”
Patrick collected his wine. “You know that living on the border is a balance,” he said. “If you show their dead such blatant disregard, they’ll not take kindly to it. They will perceive it as a slight, and you will have more trouble than you can handle.”
“Then what should we do?”
Patrick took a big drink of wine, smacking his lips before answering. “Pile them in a field to the north and let them come for them,” he said. “That will show them you have some mercy. It may do more for you than burning the corpses.”