Chapter Two
Trastamara Castle
Five miles northwest of Berwick
“Ama? Do you think we can send someone into town for the honey puffs?”
The timid question came from a pale, frail girl who had seen thirteen years.
Seated in her mother’s small solar, the tiny one that her father had allowed the ladies to use, she was positioned in front of the hearth because, even on warm days, she had a chill to her bones.
Young Aleanor de Sauque had never been very strong.
But she liked her honey puffs.
The woman sitting across from her, on a cushioned chair with a footstool to prop up her feet, glanced up from the intricate sewing in her hand.
She was creating a cover for a pillow that would adorn her youngest son’s bed, a horse’s head because he liked horses so much.
She was also the young woman’s mother and although “ama” was another name for “mother” in the Spanish language, it also happened to be a nickname of her given name – Amabella.
Amabella Hemada Abril de Sauque smiled at her daughter.
“Is that what you would like, querida?” she asked softly. “The day is growing late, but mayhap tomorrow. Would you like it if we all went? That way, you could pick them out yourself.”
Aleanor appeared intrigued by the suggestion, if not downright interested.
But she was a fearful child; fearful of the world, of people in general, of nearly everything around her.
At her age, she had never fostered because she had been too terrified to leave Trastamara Castle.
Therefore, the question had her both frightened and curious.
“Will you go?” she asked.
“Of course,” her mother said. “We will bring Alfie and Ambra. Your brother and sister would like to go into town, too. There is a man there with dogs he has trained to jump on each other that they like to watch. Do you remember that from the last time we went? You liked them a great deal, too.”
Aleanor nodded, but the thought of venturing out was too intimidating, even with the lure of honey puff pastries, so she lowered her gaze and went back to her sewing.
She was very good at sewing, perhaps even better than her mother, and she was making a surcoat for herself modeled after one she had seen the last time she’d gone into the town of Berwick.
It wasn’t too far away and it was the largest town this far north.
There were many people in it, the town dominated by a massive castle that was perched over the River Tweed.
But Berwick frightened her and the only reason she had gone was because her father had forced her to. He’d bellowed at her when she started crying, so she was forced to huddle in a wagon with her mother so her father would not become overly angry.
But he was gone now.
Truth was… she wasn’t sorry.
“Allie?” her mother said gently. “Answer me, querida. Would you like to go get the honey puffs yourself?”
Aleanor glanced at her mother. “Mayhap,” she said. “Do you think we could learn to make them here? They do not look too difficult to make.”
Her mother smiled. “Why would you want to try when we can simply buy them and they are already wonderful?”
It was her mother’s way of encouraging Aleanor to go out into the world, but the young woman wasn’t convinced. She set her sewing back in her lap.
“Because you can do anything, Ama,” she said. “Dada said you have a great talent for the kitchen and you can prepare any dish he likes. Or liked. When he was here, I mean.”
Her head dipped down again, back to the sewing, but the gesture or the words didn’t go unnoticed by her mother.
Lady Amabella Hemada Abril de Sauque eyed her daughter.
These were difficult days following the death of Roget, the father of Amabella’s four children – Atlas, her strong and noble son who was fostering at an allied castle, Aleanor, who had such a timid view of the world, Alphonse, her young and bright and strong son, and then Ambra, her baby.
Four children who had been treated by their father like cast-offs.
Four children who had never known the love or gentleness of a father.
Four children who weren’t sorry that he was gone.
Truth be told, Amabella wasn’t sorry, either, and she had been struggling with that guilt.
When she should have felt sorrow, she felt relief.
As the man’s wife, she should have grieved his death, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Whatever she might have felt for the man had died a long time ago when he’d married her simply to gain her castle and her father’s wealth.
Once he had it, he showed her very little consideration.
None, in fact.
No, she wasn’t sorry he was gone in the least.
But his death didn’t improve her situation much.
Roget had made it clear to her from the outset of their marriage that the army of Trastamara Castle belonged to him.
Her family’s hereditary home, the place where she was born, became Roget’s when her father died a year into their marriage.
It was then she saw Roget’s true nature.
She had absolutely no say in anything about it and because he treated her as if she had little worth, most of the men did, too, including his captain of the guard, Sir Shand Bexwell.
Shand wasn’t an evil man, not really. He’d shown more respect to her than her husband had at times, but he treated her as if she was of little consequence, just like Roget had.
He only followed Roget’s lead. Even now, he had taken over Trastamara as if he’d inherited it from Roget.
He was making all of the decisions now, something Amabella had been forbidden to do.
The woman hadn’t made an important decision since her marriage to Roget twenty years earlier.
She lived like a prisoner in the home she’d been born in.
That was why she’d had to send one of her maids on a dangerous journey, alone, to Berwick Castle.
Shand hadn’t notified the allies yet of Roget’s death and Amabella was frankly afraid of what the man might do with her and her children now that he believed himself to be in command of Trastamara.
So, Amabella wrote a missive to Patrick de Wolfe, Earl of Berwick and Roget’s liege, notifying him of Roget’s death and asking for help.
She could only hope the man would respond.
Time would tell.
Meanwhile, she had to pretend that life was normal for the sake of her children.
Aleanor had no great love for her father and the two younger children had hardly even had any interaction with Roget, so they were indifferent.
Alphonse, known as Alfie to the family, had seen seven years while his sister, Ambra, had just seen her fifth birthday.
As bad off as the children had been when Roget had been alive, she could only pray that it didn’t get worse in his death for one very good reason – Atlas, her eldest son at seventeen years, was now the Lord of Trastamara.
That was exactly why Shand hadn’t notified the allies yet.
He didn’t want to relinquish the fortress to an inexperienced young man.
Unable to continue with her sewing, Amabella stood up and made her way over to one of two big lancet windows that overlooked the vast bailey.
It was well-organized, full of men who might as well have been her enemy for all of the regard they gave her.
She was trapped here, caged like an animal, with the title of Lady of the Castle and none of the rights that went with it.
She could only pray that Berwick changed that.
“Ama!”
The door to the solar slammed back on its hinges as a shout roused her from her thoughts.
Amabella turned to see her youngest son in the doorway.
Like her oldest boy, Alphonse Abril de Sauque had the dark personal traits of her Moorish ancestors, the Abrils from Aragon on her father’s side, and also from her mother, who had been born in Algiers.
He had inherited black hair and pale skin with the dark green eyes that were the purest shade, like an emerald.
Those eyes were lit up at the sight of his mother.
“Ama,” he said rather petulantly. “I want to ride my pony and Shand will not let me. I must ride. My guard is waiting!”
Amabella smiled faintly at her demanding, vivacious son as she came away from the window. “What did Shand tell you?”
Alfie frowned. “He told me that he could not be res… res… responsible for me and told me to go inside to you,” he said. “What does responsible mean?”
“It means that he cannot watch over you,” she said. “Where is Savia?”
That only deepened Alfie’s frown. “She is sleeping with Ambra,” he said, speaking of the old nurse the children had since birth. “Ambra is a babe and I am not. I want to ride my pony with my guard. Please, Ama, tell Shand that he must let me.”
Unlike the older children, who understood how Roget and Shand had treated Amabella, the younger children still weren’t entirely aware. He naively thought his mother had some control.
Amabella wished with all her heart that she did.
Were it up to her, he could ride with his “guard”, which was made up of eight children belonging to servants – the cook’s three young sons, two daughters belonging to the stablemaster, and three more boys belonging to various other household servants.
They were all under ten years of age and Alfie was their leader.
And what a leader he was.
Alfie positioned himself to be the King of Trastamara and his horse guard would ride sticks with pieces of cloth on one end, like reins, escorting their “king” around the compound.
Sometimes, they even used leaves or pieces of wood as “standards”, following him around as he rode his fat, brown pony that Roget had given him.
It was one of the only kind things the man had ever done for Alfie as a father.