Chapter Nine
Mordrington Manor
It had taken him five days.
Five days to return to what he knew best – the Trastamara properties.
Shand had ridden with his de Wolfe escorts south to Alnwick, where they had left him in an inn for a night he spent drinking and eating and fornicating with one of the serving wenches.
He’d had a night of it, getting drunk and enjoying himself for the most part.
But when he departed the next morning in a heavy mist, he could see the de Wolfe escort watching him from the north side of the city.
They had been waiting to see where he would go.
Therefore, he had to outsmart them. They were only soldiers, anyway, so in a battle of wits, Shand knew he had the advantage. He’d gone south, out of their line of sight, until he came to a road that went east.
He took it.
It was the beginning of doubling back and heading north again.
Only this time, he’d taken an inland road and not one that ran parallel to the coastline.
It had taken him three days to return to the border, whereupon he crossed the River Tweed in Coldstream and not terribly far from Castle Questing, and headed into Scotland, to the area he was familiar with.
He had a destination in mind.
Roget had been either heading to, or coming from, Mordrington Manor where he kept his long-time mistress at the time of his demise.
Shand didn’t know if Fenella Foulden Hume knew of Roget’s death, but if she didn’t, he intended to tell her.
He also intended to seek shelter at Mordrington for as long as he could remain.
Shand didn’t know what Atlas’ plans were for Mordrington, but he could guess. Atlas had been unabashed in his scorn for his father’s mistress, so he suspected that Atlas intended to banish the woman from the property.
Until that time, however, Shand needed a place to stay. To think. To plan.
Vengeance.
At the time of his removal from Trastamara, he’d presented the very model of a submissive and obedient knight.
He’d let Atlas humiliate him and order him away, because the truth was that he’d had little choice in the matter.
With Berwick and his hulking knights present, any show of resistance would have been painfully met. He knew that.
Shand may have lost the battle, but he’d not lost the war.
In fact, he intended to win it.
With his knowledge of the intimate workings of Trastamara Castle, he had a lot to offer the reivers and hostile clans of the borders.
Roget had his share of enemies, and Shand knew that he could very well sell his services to the highest bidder.
Knowing that Fenella Foulden Hume was Scottish, he was going to use her clan connections to get what he wanted.
There were rich outlaws and clan chiefs willing to pay for what he knew, and he had no qualms selling it.
He’d been loyal to the House of de Sauque for ten long years and he had nothing to show for it. Therefore, his loyalty to them was at an end. He’d been treated poorly and cast aside, and he wasn’t going to let that humiliation stand.
He was going to regain what had been so wrongfully taken from him.
Lady de Sauque and Trastamara Castle.
The ride to Mordrington was wrought with peril, however. Roget had paid the price for that. With that in mind, Shand used his knowledge of the area and kept to the trees and meadows, staying off the road, avoiding heavily forested areas where outlaws were known to congregate.
Traveling that way had taken him extra time, but towards the end of his fifth day since leaving Trastamara, the big walls of Mordrington finally came into view. He was very nearly to his destination.
But what he saw did not surprise him.
There were Scots, everywhere.
The manse itself had big, lovely walls to protect it and it was quite a fine home, but the drawbridge was wide open and men were milling in and out of it, men dressed in long tunics of traditional Scot’s dress.
There were no guards, no one up on the battlements to suggest there were any security measures in place, and nothing to suggest it was a Trastamara garrison.
The manse was simply open and there were dozens of Scots infesting it.
Knowing that Fenella was Scots, somewhere in the back of his mind, Shand could recall that she had a brother as well.
He remembered Roget mentioning a Baldwin Foulden in passing, who was a warrior with Clan Hume.
But given what he was seeing, it was clear that the Scots had all but moved into Mordrington.
Had Clan Hume taken over? Had Roget known about it?
It was all a bit of a mystery.
Given that Shand was evidently heading into a nest of the enemy, he dropped his weapons and money back along the road, hiding them all beneath a rock bridge over a bubbling brook to ensure that he could not be robbed of his possessions.
His life was another matter. He could only hope he didn’t fall to the same fate Roget had.
Carefully, he approached Mordrington astride his hairy, mediocre mount, his arms raised to show that he had no weapons on him.
The men in the front of the manse were digging a hole of some kind, passing a jug of drink between them, and when they saw Shand approach with his hands up, they immediately came to a halt.
They pointed at him, looking at each other curiously, before heading towards him with their shovels wielded like clubs.
Shand slid off his horse, hands held high.
“My name is Shand Bexwell,” he said. “I have come seeking Lady Fenella.”
The men paused momentarily, looking at each other with confusion, before suddenly rushing him.
“Kill me and you will not know how I can make you rich!” he shouted quickly. “I have come to make Lady Fenella rich!”
All but two of the men slowed down as his words registered, but those two who didn’t slow down ended up throwing Shand to the ground. He landed heavily on his back as one man jumped on his chest, holding the shaft of his shovel across Shand’s neck.
“Who are ye, Shand Bexwell?” he demanded, sweat and spittle flicking onto Shand’s face and neck. “Where did ye come from?”
Shand had the wind knocked out of him by being thrown onto his back and he coughed a couple of times before speaking.
“Roget de Sauque is dead,” he said, avoiding the questions. “Did you know that?”
That seemed to bring some pause from the men. Someone reached down to yank the burly Scotsman off Shand while still another man hauled Shand to his feet. He continued to cough, rubbing his ribs where they’d hit the ground.
“We know he’s dead,” one man said. “What do ye want here, Sassenach?”
Shand faced the man because he seemed to speak succinctly. He didn’t sound like a crazed animal, like some of the others did.
“I have come to speak with Lady Fenella,” he said evenly. “I have a business proposition for her. Will you please announce me?”
The Scots weren’t sure what to think. They eyed him and each other until the same man who had pounced on him took another swipe at him. He grabbed Shand by the arm and spun him around, grabbing at his waist, his tunic, looking for his purse or weapons or anything else of value.
Shand let them poke.
Finally, the Scotsman realized that there wasn’t anything on Shand other than tunics, a mail coat, a belt, shoes, and little else. Nothing of value. With that awareness, he released him.
“What business proposition do ye have for her?” the rational Scotsman asked. “How did ye know tae come here?”
Shand debated about how much to tell him.
He was still facing away from the group and he slowly turned around, thinking to perhaps tell them the truth.
At least, as much as he dared. They were starting to attract a crowd because more dirty Scots were spilling from the manse, heading in their direction.
Shand put down the hands he’d been holding aloft.
“I told you that my name was Shand Bexwell,” he said.
“I served Roget de Sauque until his death. Then, his son, the new Lord of Trastamara, exiled me from my home of ten years. I was dismissed as if I was the filth of the earth and not a loyal warrior. If you want money, and if you want to overrun Trastamara Castle and regain her Scottish lands, then I can help you. I have come to present my services to Lady Fenella because I have valuable information on how this can be accomplished. Now will you tell her I have arrived?”
As he’d hoped, his explanation brought a positive reaction from the men. Not strangely, they seemed very interested.
“Is it vengeance ye seek, then?” someone asked.
Shand lifted his eyebrows as if it were a ridiculous question. “Clearly.”
“And ye need us?”
“I need men willing to fight for great reward.”
The sane Scotsman reached out and grabbed him by the arm. “Then come inside,” he said. “I think Fenella will want tae hear this. But God help ye, Sassenach, if ye’re lying.”
“I would not have come all the way here just to lie to you.”
The man’s gaze lingered on him. “For yer sake, I hope not.”
“Aye… I know the name. I know who ye are.”
Fenella seemed wary. Confused, even. She kept looking at the sane Scotsman who had dragged Shand into the manse, puzzled by what was going on.
He’d told her, briefly, why the Sassenach had come, but she needed more of an explanation.
She finally returned her focus to Shand, waiting for him to fully explain his presence.
A most baffling presence.
Shand didn’t explain himself immediately.
He was still looking at his surroundings.
He remembered, years ago, coming to Mordrington before Fenella had taken up residence.
It had been a favored home of the Lords of Trastamara with a beautiful garden, a small lake, and a hall that was draped with tapestries and fine furniture.
It had been a lovely place and most definitely a woman’s place.
Shand seemed to remember hearing that Lady de Sauque’s mother had been quite fond of it.
But now, it was a shadow of its former self.