Chapter Five
“When is the last time you were home?”
The question came from Hermes. He was shouting to his companion as they cantered down the road, the pale gray walls of Trastamara Castle in the distance, gleaming against the late morning sun.
His companion was a young man of seventeen years, tall and lanky, with a crown of dark hair and eyes as black as night.
Atlas de Sauque was fixed on the place of his birth.
“At least two years,” he said above the thunder of hooves.
“You would think I would visit my mother and sisters and brother more often, but the truth is that I could never stand to see Roget because he always wanted to get me drunk and press me for gossip from Castle Questing. At least I do not have to worry about that any longer.”
Hermes didn’t reply. He had been listening to a young man torn between jubilation over the death of his father he addressed as Roget and the shock that he had suddenly inherited an important border castle.
From what Hermes could see, there was guilt tempering that jubilation, making it a strange combination, indeed.
Atlas didn’t seem to know what to feel, but he did know one thing for certain – he wanted to make it home as fast as he possibly could.
There was a sense of urgency there.
So, they headed out when the sun had been in the sky for about an hour after daybreak.
Scott de Wolfe, the Earl of Warenton, had seen them off, sending them with an escort of about ten men considering Atlas was now the Lord of Trastamara and worthy of such protection.
But the knight that Atlas has been squiring for, one of Scott’s older knights by the name of Tobias de Bocage, had been very sorry to lose him.
He’d even pleaded for him to stay, promising that he would purchase his armor for him when he was fully knighted to ensure he was properly outfitted.
The offer had been made half in jest, half-seriously.
Atlas had grown from a timid, rather immature lad into an efficient squire who was the envy of most other knights.
He was bright, skilled, and could hold his own in a fight.
Both Scott and Tobias believed he had the makings of a great knight if they could get his reckless streak under control.
With his father’s death, however, those plans were somewhat blurred.
Atlas now had a lordship to deal with.
From what Hermes had seen, however, he wasn’t dealing with it very well.
Hermes had known Atlas since he first came to Castle Questing, and Hermes’ oldest son used to follow Atlas around like a puppy.
There was something strong and magnetic about Atlas.
But he had a clear hatred for his father that he wasn’t afraid to voice, and Hermes wondered how that was going to be viewed by an army that had been loyal to Roget.
They would soon find out.
It took a few hours to ride from Castle Questing to Trastamara because there was no easy way to get there.
Trastamara was close to Berwick, but the most direct route to the castle was up into Scotland and Scott had specifically forbidden them to go into Scotland and attract the attention of the Scots.
Therefore, they made their way to Trastamara on the English side of the border, traveling roads that were in some disrepair, before coming to the stout stone bridge of The Orchard crossing.
From there, it was a short journey.
Hermes could feel the tension mount as they drew near.
He was apprehensive, but he had his orders.
He had been told not to enter with Atlas unless Berwick had arrived.
But very quickly, he could see Patrick de Wolfe’s bright blue Berwick tunic with the wolf’s head emblazoned upon it on one of the men at the main gate.
Berwick had, indeed, arrived.
With that in mind, Hermes charged ahead and began shouting, demanding that the gate be opened for the Lord of Trastamara.
The men at the gate were so shocked at the sight of Atlas de Sauque that they automatically complied and the great gates began to swing open.
Hermes and Atlas didn’t even wait for them to fully open before they were storming through.
The bailey was full of Berwick men.
Feeling quite relieved that he was in the company of allies, Hermes dismounted his sweating steed, handing it off to a stable servant as Atlas did the same.
Only Atlas didn’t even pause to look around the bailey to get a good look at the situation.
He didn’t look at his father’s men, or the condition of the castle, or anything else.
His focus was on the keep and he immediately headed in that direction.
Hermes had to run to keep up with him.
Atlas had long legs and he covered a good deal of ground in his determination to get to the keep.
There was almost a panicked sense in his movements.
Taking the steps two at a time, he entered the cool, dark structure, hearing voices in the larger solar that was next to the entry.
He immediately pushed into the chamber, only to be met by the Earl of Berwick and his father’s captain.
Shand Bexwell’s eyes widened at the sight.
“Atlas?” he gasped. Then, he suddenly looked at Patrick accusingly, his features stiffening in rage, but he was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. His focus returned to Atlas. “Atlas… you have come. Your mother will be pleased.”
Atlas was tired from the ride, but he’d also had time to build up a substantial rage.
He knew very well that it was his mother who had sent word to Berwick about his father’s death and that Shand Bexwell hadn’t, as of yet, sent any word to Castle Questing to notify him that he was now Lord of Trastamara. It was his right to know.
But the captain of his father’s army hadn’t sent him a bloody thing.
“Aye, I have come,” he growled. “No thanks to you. How long has Roget been dead?”
Shand blinked in surprise at the harsh question. “His body was discovered four days ago, but…”
Atlas cut him off. “And when did you think to send me word? I heard it from Berwick, not from you. Just when did you think to tell me, Bexwell?”
Atlas had grown a great deal since the last time Shand had seen him.
The lad was tall and he had filled out, with broad shoulders and a booming voice.
In truth, it was a tremendous shock to Shand, who only remembered the skinny young man with the dark hair and oily skin.
Now, Atlas’ voice was deep, his tone commanding, and somewhere in the time since he’d last made an appearance at Trastamara, the lad had grown up.
Two years had made a huge difference. He was a man now.
A man who was burning with rage.
Shand kept calm.
“I was going to send you word as soon as your mother decided upon a time and place for burial,” he said evenly. “As you can imagine, the situation has been… chaotic. I am sorry if you think I was withholding information.”
“But you were,” Atlas practically shouted at him. “You were withholding it. Had my mother not sent word to Berwick, I still would not know of Roget’s passing and neither would anyone else. By what right do you withhold information about my rightful inheritance? Who gave you this power, Shand?”’
As Shand struggled for an answer, Patrick watched the situation carefully.
It was clear that Shand was cornered. He could see it.
The man didn’t have an excuse good enough to give to a rightfully furious Atlas and Patrick was curious to see how things were going to transpire.
He wouldn’t be at all surprised if Atlas attacked the man in his rage, but if that happened, Patrick would be forced to step in.
Nothing would be solved by a physical fight, but most definitely, Shand was in a precarious position.
But there was something more that Atlas had divulged in his rage – he had mentioned who had sent the information regarding Roget’s death, something Patrick had hoped to keep from Shand.
But now it was out, which put Lady de Sauque in a potentially precarious position, too.
If Shand thought the woman had betrayed him, there could be trouble.
Not that there wasn’t trouble enough already.
“I told you that the situation has been chaotic,” Shand said after a moment, though his poise was slipping.
“Your father left Trastamara four days ago, but we only discovered his body two days ago. Your mother should not have sent word of his passing to Berwick, not before we had all of the facts and a time and place for his burial.”
Atlas jabbed a finger in his face. “You do not make the decisions here,” he seethed.
“My mother is the Lady of Trastamara. With Roget’s death, you serve her, but I realize the example Roget set for you over the years including shunning my mother and treating her like a ghost. That ends today, Shand.
Do you understand me? I am in command now and you are not.
If I am not here to give the orders, then my mother shall. Is this in any way unclear?”
Shand was beginning to twitch, his composure chipping off piece by piece. “You have been away a long time, Atlas,” he said through clenched teeth. “You do not know the trouble that goes on here. I have had to do what is necessary to…”
Atlas cut him off. “Save your excuses, for I do not want to hear them,” he said. “All I know is that I should have heard this from you, yet you have deliberately withheld information from me, as your liege. It was not your right.”
Something in Shand’s self-control fractured.
“Of course it is my right,” he snapped. “I have served your father faithfully all the time you were away. I know more about Trastamara than you could ever hope to. While you were off serving de Wolfe, I was here with your father. Unlike you, I never left him.”