Chapter Four #3
It was Krister who took the cue.
“Titus would make a terrible husband,” he said in his thick accent. “He is married to England. What woman would want to be married to a man who puts country above everything else?”
“That is true,” Rian said, pouring himself more wine because he, too, thought the food was terrible, and he wanted to wash the taste out of his mouth. “He is never in one place long enough to grow roots. When was the last time he was in Berwick?”
“Some time ago,” Krister said.
“Months,” Espen piped up, overlapping him.
“I would forget about Titus, my lord,” Krister said to de Allery. “He would make your daughter miserable. Surely she has better prospects if it is a husband you seek.”
De Allery wasn’t particularly thrilled with the direction the conversation had taken, and his brow rippled as he looked at the big Northman.
“She has many,” he said. “But like Lord Berwick, I must be selective. She has a great dowry and a great inheritance. A marriage into the House of de Wolfe would be most attractive because Thornton Tower could become part of the de Wolfe lands. They have so many in the north, but that would mean it was staffed with de Wolfe men. It would be protected, and my daughter would be well regarded. It would be an honor.”
He stressed the last five words, making sure Patrick knew where he stood on the matter, but Patrick was still in the midst of wanting desperately to be off the subject.
“We should return home soon,” he said, avoiding answering de Allery altogether. “It is less than an hour’s ride home, and the moon is full tonight. We can make excellent time.”
“You will not stay?” de Allery said, suddenly anxious. “But… but you must let us show our gratitude for your assistance, Lord Berwick. We would be greatly shamed should you flee so quickly.”
Patrick could hear desperation in the man’s voice.
He’d been inclined to try and make the man more of a compliable ally, but he didn’t like how de Allery had steered the conversation right into marriage with his daughter.
Patrick knew for a fact that his wife would go to war against de Allery personally before she’d allow Zora to marry one of her sons, so it was really out of the question.
But he wasn’t quite sure how to tell de Allery that.
He was walking a fine line.
“When we left this morning to chase Scots, I told my wife that I would return shortly,” he said. “If I do not return soon, she will think something has happened and will come to find me herself. I do not wish to worry her, and I am certain you can understand that.”
De Allery nodded meekly, unhappy that he would not have Patrick as his guest. “Nay, we would not want Lady Berwick to be frightened,” he said.
“But… but will you return, as my guest? And bring your lady wife? As I said, I fear I’ve been a terrible ally, and I should like to make amends. Will you come?”
Come back so you can bully me more about a marriage? Patrick thought grimly. But he forced a smile as he set his wine down.
“We shall,” he said. “My wife would be quite agreeable to do so. I am certain she will enjoy the visit.”
“I hope so,” Zora answered before her father could. “Lady Berwick taught me nearly everything I know. I would like to show her how well I learned her lessons.”
Patrick eyed the woman. Either she’d completely forgotten about Brighton sending her away or she was lying through her teeth.
He suspected the latter. In any case, he stood up and indicated for his men to do so as well.
They began moving away from the table, toward the door, as Patrick faced de Allery.
“If you do as I tell you and put the Scots in a pile to the north, I do not think you will have further trouble,” he said.
“At least for a while. But you should find out who attacked you and why. Though I suspect you were a target of convenience, it would be prudent to know if some clan has suddenly decided you are their enemy.”
He moved away from the table as de Allery followed. “I will do what I can,” he said, still clearly distressed that his guests were leaving. “We live a peaceful existence here, and I’ve never had a great need for spies or scouts, so if you hear of anything, I would be grateful for the information.”
Patrick nodded. “I will do what I can,” he said. “But I would be careful for the next few days. Keep your gates secured. Do not go outside of the castle unnecessarily.”
“We will not, my lord,” de Allery said. “You have my thanks.”
They were at the entry door. The bailey of Thornton Tower was in front of them, lit up with enough torches to harness the light of the sun.
Rian, Espen, and Krister were already shouting to the Berwick men, who had settled down for a meal and were now on their feet again.
Horses were being brought forth. Patrick put his helm on and headed out into the bailey just as his horse was brought out from the stable yard.
The big, dappled beast had been his trusted companion for years.
Mounting up, Patrick waited impatiently for his men to mount their horses also.
He was fully aware that they were leaving in a hurry.
A great hurry. He knew it looked as if they were running from de Allery, but he honestly didn’t care.
Hopefully the man would figure out that it was because he’d tried to trap him into committing his youngest son to a marriage, a tactic that was, in the end, unseemly and asinine.
Perhaps it was because de Allery didn’t have a lot of visitors and lived like a hermit, so he wasn’t polished on his social skills.
Or perhaps it was because he didn’t care if he tried to bully the Earl of Berwick to get what he wanted.
Dumping his daughter on a de Wolfe son.
Not as long as Patrick had breath in his body was that going to happen.
The gates of Thornton Tower opened wide, and Patrick led his contingent of about eighty men out into the night.
But almost immediately after coming through the gates, they began to smell smoke.
Not just any smoke, but sickly-sweet, acrid smoke.
As they headed northeast, they could see the reason for the stench—off to the southeast, near the eastern wall of Thornton Tower, they could see what looked like a bonfire.
Only wood wasn’t the fuel. Patrick, and the others, knew that they were looking at a funeral pyre.
And he suspected who had given the order to start it.
Ansel de Edington, evidently, would have the last laugh.
But Patrick knew that only meant trouble.