Chapter Fifteen
The army from Trastamara moved out before dawn the next day.
The trek to Mordrington was a short one, all things considered, and Cassius and Atlas rode at the head of the army while Damien was positioned at the back of the column, watching their rear.
With one provisions wagon and four hundred heavily-armed soldiers, they moved with surprising speed on a morning that had dawned misty at first, but had soon cleared.
It had rained the night before, leaving the roads a bit muddy, but nothing that was impassable or particularly difficult.
The pace was quicker than normal because Cassius and Damien knew that any patrols from Mordrington would pick up the approach of an army and it was quite possible that they would run headlong into a shield wall of Scots before they could even get to the manse.
Therefore, they wanted to give the Scots less time to prepare for their arrival.
The men were moving swiftly.
The knights were in full battle gear, while Atlas’ mode of dress was a little different.
He was taller than his father, but not quite as heavy, so he was able to wear almost all of Roget’s mail and protection, including a beautiful broadsword that had once belonged to Amabella’s father.
It was Spanish, from the great metalworkers of Aragon, much as Shand’s broadsword had been.
But Shand’s broadsword was back at Trastamara, probably never to be used again, at least not by Atlas.
He couldn’t bring himself to touch the thing.
But he carried his grandfather’s sword quite proudly.
He was also wearing the old Trastamara colors of red and white, old tunics that had been stored when Roget had become the Lord of Trastamara and had commissioned tunics of red and blue, representing the House of de Sauque.
But Atlas refused to wear them or show tribute to his father in any way.
He and several old soldiers who had served under Alonzo Abril had hunted down the old tunics, and now many of the old guard were wearing their tunics proudly once again.
So was Atlas.
In fact, he rode at the head of the column as puffed up as a peacock, this young lord who now commanded his hereditary army.
Cassius and Damien kept passing amused glances because Atlas was singularly focused on the road ahead as if nothing else in the world existed.
Cassius had to remind him, twice, to keep his attention on the land surrounding the road so he wouldn’t be surprised by any marauders brave enough to take on an army. Sheepishly, Atlas did.
Nearly an hour into their march, Atlas had the army slow because they were approaching Mordrington.
They could smell it, even at this distance, but they hadn’t met any resistance so far, which they took as a hopeful sign that the Scots weren’t alerted to their presence.
Cassius asked for permission to disperse the army around Mordrington and Atlas agreed, so Cassius split the army into two factions.
A smaller group split off, with Damien at the helm, and headed into the trees to flank Mordrington on three sides while Cassius and Atlas took the bulk of the army to the front of the manse.
Having never seen the manse, Cassius wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but once it came into view, he could see that it wasn’t a very big structure.
Surely no more the fifty Scots could be inside because it simply didn’t have the size that a castle would.
As they approached, they could see that the drawbridge was down, but there didn’t seem to be anyone moving about, not like Atlas and Markus had seen the day before.
In fact, it appeared strangely deserted. Within full view of the manse, Cassius called a halt to the army, who began spreading out to form the front line. Cassius, next to Atlas, scratched his head.
“It does not look as if anyone is there,” he said, confused. “And you are sure you saw men here?”
Atlas nodded firmly. “Most definitely,” he said. “There were Scots and they threw a dead body into the moat. Shand came out to speak with them.”
Cassius thought on that. Then, he emitted a low whistle between his teeth, summoning a couple of men.
He gave them orders to send scouts out into the surrounding countryside to make sure there wasn’t a Scots army lying in wait for them, waiting to pounce and box them in between an attacking army and the castle walls.
As four men mounted steeds and charged off, Cassius returned his attention to the manse.
“The army will remain here and position archers,” he said. “You and I will approach. Bring your shield.”
Atlas nodded, sliding off his horse and collecting the shield that was strapped to the saddle.
Unlike most shields, which bore an animal like a bear or a boar or a falcon, or even a symbol of war, the old Trastamara shield bore the Archangel Michael.
It was the simple design of an angel with big wings and a sword in the right hand.
It had been the symbol of the House of Abril in battle for a century until Roget de Sauque used it, but the shield Atlas had in his hand had belonged to his grandfather.
Other than the armor, which he wore only because it fit, he didn’t intend to carry on anything his father brought to Trastamara.
The House of Abril would shine again.
Beside him, Cassius carried his de Wolfe shield, with the recognizable wolf’s head. It was the same design that he had tattooed on his left shoulder, a symbol of the grandsons of William de Wolfe. Like Markus and the rest of the extended male cousins, he wore the stigmata proudly.
Shields in-hand, the two of them cautiously made their way to the lowered drawbridge.
There was a sense of concern since the place appeared deserted.
It didn’t seem natural. The drawbridge was open and they could see into what appeared to be a courtyard with a roof overhead, or even a hall of sorts.
It was difficult to tell. The shadowed light of whatever was beyond told them there was something overhead and they could both clearly see that there was someone standing in the hall, waiting for them.
Cassius and Atlas came to within ten feet of the drawbridge before Cassius called a halt. Shield lifted, he called to the figure inside.
“Show yourself,” he boomed. “I bring four hundred men, so any resistance will be strongly met.”
The figure moved immediately, coming out of the shadows towards him.
As it came through the doorway, Cassius and Atlas could immediately see that it was a well-dressed woman with two small boys, one in each hand.
The three of them emerged from the manse without hesitation, coming out onto the drawbridge.
Atlas knew immediately who they were.
“The whore,” he hissed. “That is my father’s whore.”
Cassius didn’t take his eyes off her, but he could hear the loathing in Atlas’ tone.
The woman was not unattractive, with red hair and a rather round body, and both boys were dark-haired, like Atlas was.
In fact, they looked a little like Atlas, but Cassius didn’t comment.
He could already sense how tense Atlas was at the sight of them.
“Stop,” he commanded the woman. “Who are you?”
The woman looked between the two men. “My name is Fenella Foulden Hume,” she said. “These are my sons, Edmund and Emrys. Why do ye bring yer army here? Who are ye?”
Cassius regarded the woman for a moment. “You were standing inside, waiting for us with the drawbridge open. Surely you know.”
“I saw ye coming from the battlements. I wanted tae show ye we posed no threat.”
Cassius considered that, glancing at Atlas to see the young man’s reaction. There was none. He returned his focus to the woman.
“Where are the Scots who fill this place?” he asked.
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“I dunna know,” she said. “And ye have not identified yourself.”
“I am Atlas de Sauque,” Atlas said, suddenly moving in her direction. “You are my father’s whore, but now that he is dead, Mordrington belongs to me. You will pack your bags and your bastards and get out today. If you are still here when the sun sets, I will have the army remove you.”
Fenella’s eyes widened as she stared at him. “Atlas,” she breathed. “Is… is it true?”
“Of course it is. I would not lie.”
She looked him up and down, almost proudly. “I can see that it is because ye have the look of yer father about ye,” she said. “He spoke of ye often and fondly and said that ye…”
Atlas cut her off rudely. “Shut your lips,” he said. “I do not want to hear your voice. I do not care about you or what my father told you about me. All I care about is that you pack your things and leave.”
Fenella acted as if she didn’t hear him. She bent over, speaking to the boys beside her. “Look,” she said, pointing at Atlas. “That is yer brother. Ye must greet him properly.”
Atlas moved closer to her. “Lady, are you deaf?” he said. “I told you to pack your bags and get out. If you do not, I will turn this army loose on you.”
Fenella looked at him, finally forced to address his demand. “I have nowhere tae go.”
“That is not my concern,” he said. “I want you out, and out you shall go. And where is Shand Bexwell? Why was he here yesterday?”
Fenella cocked her head. “I dunna know what ye mean.”
Atlas marched up to her, posturing angrily over her.
“Aye, you do,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Stop playing stupid. I know he was here yesterday and I want to know why. And where are all of the Scots that were here yesterday? I want answers and you’d better give them to me, or I will separate you from your sons and you will never see them again. Do you understand me?”
That seemed to strike some fear into Fenella. She clutched the older boy but before she could grab the younger one, he pulled away from her and would have run off had Atlas not grabbed him. The child screamed, Fenella screamed, and Cassius came forward to take the screaming child from Atlas.