Chapter Twelve
It was the folly of youth.
The next morning following the small revolt of Roget’s loyal soldiers, Atlas was on the road for Mordrington.
Alone.
But he’d planned it this way.
He’d spent a good portion of the night in conference with Markus, Damien, Cassius, and Kieran about the Trastamara properties.
In addition to Mordrington and Kirkbank, there was another smaller manse closer to Berwick called Lamberton that was evidently lived in by an old man and his wife who were somehow related to Roget because their family name was de Sauque.
But Atlas didn’t have any idea who they were, and he didn’t care. He would deal with them later. At the moment, he was focused on Mordrington because he knew his father’s other family lived there.
Perhaps that was what had him so worked up.
He remembered when his mother told him about the births of his father’s two bastard sons, how jealous and inadequate he’d felt. He’d never admitted those feelings to anyone and, in truth, it was difficult for him to admit them to himself, but he’d been very jealous his father had other sons.
Brothers.
Brothers who took attention away from him, vying for the attention of a father who hardly gave anything to his legitimate children.
They might even try to lay claim to anything Roget had, but now that Atlas was the Lord of Trastamara, that wasn’t going to happen.
His jealousy had turned into rage; rage that his father had thought so little of his legitimate family that he should go and have a second one.
He’d heard the knights of Castle Questing speaking of his father once and they used words like careless… foolish… filth.
Those words had stuck in Atlas’ head.
The knights of Castle Questing, and his master in particular, had never treated Atlas any differently just because of his father. They’d always treated Atlas like any other pledge, but Atlas suspected that, at times, they’d treated him with some sympathy because of who his father was.
But Roget de Sauque’s legacy wasn’t going to be his son’s.
Atlas would see to that.
Last night’s lengthy discussion with Markus had spurred his determination to finally do something about his father’s indiscretions.
He’d hardly slept, tossing and turning, his mind whirling with the situation in general.
It was clear that he was threatened; his father’s legacy seemed to breed resentment towards him, not loyalty.
Shand’s removal had only aggravated it. Therefore, he had to clean out any remaining loyalists and he intended to start with Mordrington.
He was alone on the road, at the dawn of a cloudy day, heading towards the manse.
That was his folly; he’d come by himself because he felt he needed to.
Up until now, Markus had been by his side for every major issue, every problem, every victory.
Atlas knew it was necessary and he appreciated that the House of de Wolfe was determined to help him in his new lordship, but that was the problem – Atlas felt as if they were doing too much.
He was afraid of becoming dependent upon their strength and advice.
He wanted to do something by himself this time.
And that was Mordrington.
For all he knew, it was simply his father’s whore, her two sons, and just a few men.
That was the assumption from the documents they’d examined last night.
Strangely, there weren’t many records in his father’s solar of Mordrington other than an old list of inventory – sheep, foodstuffs, things like that.
Markus thought it was rather odd, and suspicious, but Atlas, in his impetuous youthfulness, was convinced that meant there wasn’t much going on there. He thought he knew everything about it.
Unfortunately, he was wrong.
He began to realize that as he came within sight of the manse, her gray walls emerging from the misty morning, a fine piece of country living that Atlas remembered being quite bucolic in his youth.
He remembered visiting with his mother and father as a small child, when Aleanor had been an infant.
But, as he neared the manse, he began to smell something. Pigs, animals, filth… something.
It was a horrific smell.
He realized the morning breeze was coming from the east, blowing westerly, and it was blowing the smell from Mordrington right into him.
Then, he saw it.
Men in leine tunics, the kind that the Scots wore. They were emerging from the lowered drawbridge, carrying what looked like a body between them. As Atlas slowed his horse to watch, they threw the body right into the moat and it was sucked down into the putrid mud.
Shocked, Atlas threw himself off his horse and quickly pulled the animal into the trees.
It was a cloudy morning, a fine fog hanging just above the treetops, and he was able to pull back into the shadows of the darkened forest that embraced the south side of the road.
In stealth, he made his way along the road, just inside the trees, keeping his eyes on Mordrington.
Atlas may have been impulsive and young, but he wasn’t stupid.
He could immediately see that something out of the ordinary was going on at the once-lovely manse.
For one thing, the smell permeated everything.
The moat had a least one body in it and from the stench that covered the land, he suspected there was more than one.
And there was the matter of Scots, everywhere.
Settling down on his haunches where he could watch the front of the place, Atlas watched the activity that seemed to be fairly busy so early in the morning.
The drawbridge remained open, as if there were no concern for safety.
Mordrington had an enclosed courtyard with battlements that encircled the manse and he could see men on the battlements who weren’t soldiers.
If he could guess, he would say that they were not his father’s men.
In fact, it appeared as if the Scots had taken over the place.
Clan Hume.
His mother told him that Fenella had come from Clan Hume and it occurred to Atlas that Clan Hume must have taken over Mordrington.
Had his father known? Or had he even encouraged it?
The Scots had tried to raze Trastamara many times since Atlas’ grandfather had built it, so was it possible that his father had given Mordrington to the Scots to keep them away from Trastamara?
If that was the case, then Atlas would need help getting them out.
Perhaps coming here alone hadn’t been the smartest idea.
He was beginning to rethink his impetuous action.
Suddenly, a hand clamped over his mouth. Terrified, Atlas grabbed at the dagger he kept on his belt, but a massive hand stilled it. He was trapped by an unearthly strength and when he strained to get a look at his accoster, Markus’ face came into view.
“If you scream, you will be very sorry,” Markus growled in his ear. “Shut your lips, you foolish whelp. I should beat you senseless for sneaking off as you have. When I remove my hand, you will be silent. Do you understand?”
Atlas nodded fearfully. The hand was removed and Atlas sucked in a ragged breath, lightheaded with relief to see that a Scot hadn’t gotten hold of him. From the furious expression on Markus’ face, however, a Scot might have been preferable.
“Markus, look,” he whispered, jabbing a finger in the direction of the manse. “There are Scots everywhere. They’ve taken Mordrington!”
Markus’ enraged gaze lingered on Atlas a moment before turning his attention to the wide-open manse. There were a couple of men on the drawbridge but those were the only men he saw at all. For the most part, the place seemed quiet. After a moment, he nodded his head.
“I saw them as I came up through the trees behind you,” he hissed.
“Atlas, I cannot tell you how foolish this was. Thank God Kieran was on the wall and saw you leave before sunrise. If you do not come back with me this very moment, I will bodily remove you and throw you in the vault when we reach Trastamara. Is this in any way unclear?”
Atlas was torn between blind obedience of Markus’ directive and the fact that there were Scots all over his family’s property.
“But… but the Scots have Mordrington,” he whispered urgently. “We must do something!”
Markus sighed heavily. “We will,” he said.
“But not with just the two of us. We have no way of knowing just how many there are. It would be suicide to charge in there now and try to evict your father’s mistress.
Clearly, she has permitted some of her clan to occupy the manse along with her.
We must return to Trastamara for the army. ”
Atlas knew that. He was embarrassed because he was so upset by what he saw that he wasn’t thinking entirely clearly.
“You are right, of course,” he said. “I suppose I’m too angry. I just want them out.”
Markus put an enormous hand on his head. “I know,” he said, his anger cooling. “And we will get them out. But with more than just you and me. I am a great knight, but even I do not think I can clear out an entire manse full of Scots.”
“Do you think there are many?”
Markus’ gaze moved over the manse in the distance. “Probably,” he said. “The only safe thing to do is return for the army and then we can…”
He suddenly trailed off, his eyes narrowing as something at Mordrington caught his attention. Atlas had been looking at Markus but when he saw the man’s jaw tighten, he quickly turned back to the manse to see what had the man so riled.
It didn’t take long for him to see it. Coming across the drawbridge and speaking to the two men who were pissing over the side was the very man they’d been looking for.
The devil had revealed himself.
“Shand,” Atlas hissed, his eyes wide with surprise. “It’s Shand!”
Markus could only nod. Shand Bexwell was at Mordrington and so were several Scots. The mystery of Shand’s whereabouts was solved, but that only threw more confusion into the mix. There were no English soldiers to be seen, Roget’s soldiers, but there were plenty of Scots.
What in the hell is going on?
Markus tugged on Atlas’ sleeve.
“Come,” he said in a tone that left no room for disobedience. “We must get out of here now.”
This time, Atlas didn’t argue. He followed Markus back to the trees where the man’s big-boned warhorse was tethered.
They led the animals out of the trees, towards the south and away from the manse before mounting.
Once on horseback, Markus and Atlas tore off through the forest, heading for the road that would lead them back to Trastamara in a hurry.
A strange situation just took on a rather sinister turn.