Chapter Three
“What do you know about Trastamara Castle, Damien?”
The question came from Kieran Hage, proposed to a knight who had been at Berwick for twenty-five years.
Sir Damien d’Vant from Cornwall was as far away from the home of his birth as he could possibly get, but he’d come to the House of de Wolfe as a pledge and ended up staying.
As he told the story, there was excitement in the north that never happened in Cornwall.
He rather liked the thrill of the edgy northern borders.
Damien glanced at Kieran, a smile playing on his lips. “How long have you been at Berwick, young Kieran?”
“I’ve was born at Berwick,” Kieran said, reminding Damien of what he already knew. “It is my home.”
Damien would not be schooled by an arrogant young knight.
He held up a finger. “You were born at Berwick, but you left when you were seven years of age and sent south to Norwich Castle with your older brothers for several years. Then you served at Ramsbury Castle in Wiltshire before returning home last year. Just because you were born at Berwick does not mean you know it, or the area, as well as I do. Otherwise, you would not be asking me the question you just asked.”
Properly put in his place, Kieran wasn’t pleased that he’d just been publicly humiliated.
He was riding at the head of a five-hundred-man army from Berwick Castle along with his Uncle Patrick and his cousins, Markus and Cassius.
Titus had remained behind with his eldest brother, Edward, but another Berwick knight had accompanied them, an old knight who had served his Uncle Patrick for as long as Damien had.
Sir Anson du Bonne heard Damien’s answer and snorted.
A cocky young knight wasn’t going to find any sympathy here.
“Very well,” Kieran said, listening to the older knights snicker at his expense. “I concede to your extreme old age and knowledge. I have heard of Trastamara, but I do not know the history behind it. Would you enlighten me?”
He was respecting Damien and insulting him at the same time, which had Damien fighting off a genuine laugh. He looked at Anson.
“Please, tell me we were not like this one when we were his age,” he said.
Anson started to laugh but Patrick, riding behind them, heard the comment.
“Must you seriously ask that question?” he said.
“Damien, you and Anson were the worst. My father used to laugh at you two because of it. Papa used to say that he found it amazing you could walk without effort considering your pride had the weight of an anchor. It was an awesome burden to bear.”
That brought Damien’s smile full-bore. “Ah, the great Wolfe of the Border,” he said. “I miss the man, Atty. I miss his wisdom, his sheer presence. God, to bask in that man’s aura was truly something to behold.”
Patrick was riding without his helm, his graying dark hair exposed to the weak sunlight of a mild day.
Damien’s comment had him reflecting on his father, who had inarguably been the greatest knight of his generation.
The name William de Wolfe meant something in England and in Scotland.
It stood for strength and honor, and a type of magic that can only be found in men who had achieved something extraordinary in life.
That was the aura Damien spoke of – the inherent quality of a legend.
The pain of William’s passing was as fresh to Patrick as if it had only happened yesterday.
It was like a weight, pressing on him, threatening to crush him, though over time, the weight had lessened.
He and his father had been so close, in every way, and like most children, he viewed his father as immortal.
Surely such a man could never die. But one winter’s night, after a brief illness when William seemed to be on the mend, he went to sleep and never woke up.
The old knight died warm and safe in his bed, with his wife beside him.
It still brought Patrick to tears to think about it.
“It was,” he agreed, fighting off the familiar grief. “It still is. I can still feel it, every time I go to Castle Questing, only now it’s coming from my mother. She was his heart and that heart is still beating.”
Damien turned to look at him, smiling. “That she is,” he said quietly. Then he gestured to Kieran. “Would you care to educate your nephew on Trastamara Castle? Beyond the oddness of Roget de Sauque, I mean.”
Torn from sad thoughts of his father, Patrick looked at the host of knightly faces around him and realized the younger men might not know everything, as Kieran had said.
Berwick had many allies, and the scope of their influence was dotted by many small castles and pele towers, each one with a particular story.
But none so unique as Trastamara. They were riding to aid an ally and that was all they knew, so a little background would be helpful.
Just so they knew what they were getting into.
Patrick spurred his horse forward so everyone riding on point could hear him.
“Trastamara Castle, first and foremost, guards the only crossing over the River Tweed between Berwick and Northwood Castle,” he said.
“When you hear men speak of The Orchard crossing, that’s the one.
It is an old stone bridge that was built many years ago, using a sandbar as support and built where the river narrows.
The Scots cannot burn the bridge, but they’ve tried to gain control of it.
Several times. If that happens, the Scots will have an easy way to invade our part of England, so it is imperative that Trastamara maintains control of that bridge. ”
Everyone had heard of The Orchard crossing, but Patrick had clarified the importance of it.
“What about Roget de Sauque?” Kieran asked. “I’ve heard men say he married for his property.”
Patrick nodded. “He did,” he said. “But many men marry for their property, so that is nothing new. Trastamara was built by the House of Abril, a family from Aragon who fought for Henry the Third. Henry granted them the lands north of the River Tweed and they built Trastamara Castle, named for the Trastamara family of Aragon. They are part of the nobility of Aragon. Some say the family will produce kings someday.”
“They’re royalty, then?” Kieran wanted to know.
Patrick shrugged. “They are old Spanish nobility,” he said.
“The lord who served Henry received the grant of land and built his castle, and acquired other properties through marriage. There are at least three that I know of. Roget de Sauque acquired Trastamara when he married the heiress, Lady Amabella Hemada Abril.”
“Her mother was born in Algiers,” Damien interjected. When Patrick looked at him, he nodded. “That is what I was told by a soldier who served de Sauque. I’ve never seen the woman, but they say she has the look of the Berbers.”
“I have seen her and she looks like an Englishwoman to me,” Patrick said. “She’s quite beautiful from what I remember, but it has been a few years. That may have changed.”
“How old is she?” Kieran asked.
Patrick lifted an eyebrow. “Too old for you if you’ve got any ambitions to be the next Lord of Trastamara,” he said, watching Kieran flush.
“She has been married to Roget for twenty years, so that should give you an idea of her age. In any event, it does not matter. Trastamara has lost its liege, Lady de Sauque is fearful that her husband’s army may try to wrest the place from the rightful heir, and we are going to ensure that none of that happens. ”
“Papa,” Markus said from behind him. He’d remained mostly quiet through all of the chatter, listening.
“If the army is threatening to take control of the castle, and they do not know Lady de Sauque sent us the missive of her husband’s death, then how are we to approach this?
We have five hundred men with us. Do we just march up to Trastamara’s gatehouse and demand entry? ”
Patrick scratched his head. “I am their liege,” he said simply. “They will open their gates to me or suffer the consequences. Trastamara does not carry more than two hundred men. I have brought five hundred with me. They would be foolish to resist.”
“But if they are trying to wrest power from Lady de Sauque?”
“It is power she does not have,” Anson du Bonne spoke up.
“If you have lived in Berwick as long as we have, you have heard the rumors. Roget de Sauque treated his wife no better than the cattle in his fields or the horses in his stable. All you have to do is ask her son, Atlas, to hear that. If you ever want to hear a lad spew hate about his father, then talk to Atlas de Sauque. There is no love there.”
Patrick held up a hand to silence Anson from speaking ill of the dead or of the bitter young man who was now the Lord of Trastamara.
“Atlas should already be on his way to Trastamara,” he said.
“Hermes went to fetch him and he knows to wait for us before entering. I do not want Atlas walking into a group of men who would take his inheritance from him by force.”
It didn’t seem like an ideal situation all the way around, but at least they all knew what was happening. There was the potential for trouble, but it was clear Patrick was hoping there wasn’t any.
“Papa.” Markus reined his massive, dappled warhorse next to his father. “Let me ride ahead and announce our approach. Let me give them time to politely open their gates before we show up with five hundred men to overwhelm them.”
Patrick looked at his son. He’d inherited the gift of diplomacy from his great-grandfather, Edward de Wolfe, who had been a diplomat for Richard the Lionheart and subsequently his brother, John.
But he had also inherited it from his grandfather, Magnus.
The man wasn’t called the Law-Mender without reason.
Markus was clever and silver-tongued, and coupled with his size and skill made him a formidable man, indeed.
Enough of a man that the king himself had noticed.
Markus was the perfect candidate for Lord Protector, a position that Patrick very much wanted for his brilliant son.
“I do not think that is a good idea,” he said after a moment. “You would be a lone knight and it might put you in a precarious position, especially if they are intent on keeping control of Trastamara. Nay, lad, it would be best if we approach them as an army. They’ll have to take us seriously.”
Markus lifted his eyebrows. “It may also put the Lady of Trastamara in danger.”
Patrick knew that. In fact, he’d had that very same thought.
“Not if we do not tell them how we know of Roget’s death,” he said.
“News travels fast. We will tell them that we have arrived before the Scots caught wind of Roget’s death to help protect Trastamara from any potential attacks until the new Lord of Trastamara can be established. ”
“The new lord is a lad who has seen seventeen years,” Markus reminded him quietly. “I know Atlas; he’s bright and he’s powerful, and he learns quickly. But is he man enough to hold a strategic post like Trastamara?”
Patrick sighed heavily. It was yet another thought that had crossed his mind. “What would you suggest?”
Markus turned his gaze to the road. They would soon be seeing the great towers of Trastamara Castle.
“That you leave a de Wolfe knight in charge,” he said.
“Cassius or Anson or Damien. I cannot remain, of course, as I am due to join Edward when he comes north very soon, but if Atlas is fighting off a coup, then we cannot let him fight it alone unless you plan to remain at Trastamara until the threat has passed.”
“I do not intend to remain there longer than necessary.”
“Then leave a de Wolfe knight there. You are going to have to unless you want to worry about The Orchard bridge when you go to sleep at night.
Patrick didn’t want to. He looked at his son, nodding in agreement. It wasn’t ten minutes later that the gray-stoned bastion of Trastamara Castle into view.
Now, the crisis would begin in earnest.