Chapter Nineteen
One month later
Berwick Castle
W hoosh!
The ax was swinging.
Scots had managed to make their way into the village of Berwick and raid the fish market, of all things, and the garrison at Berwick Castle was on top of them.
That included Magnus. Given that he was commanding his father’s army at the moment alongside his youngest brother, Titus, he was the one leading the charge against the Scots, who were making a mess more than actually stealing things.
The entire village was in an uproar. Villagers were running and screaming, trying to hide from Clan Gordon, which was the usual tempest when it came to Berwick and the surrounding lands.
Astride his muscled warhorse, Magnus had his grandfather’s beloved ax in hand, using it as both a murder weapon and a battering ram, depending on the situation.
When he saw two big Scotsmen trying to wrest something from one of the fishwives, he charged after them and took out one man while the other fled behind the cottages.
Magnus went in pursuit.
It was like a game of cat and mouse, with the Scots running and the English pursuing, but it wasn’t unusual.
This kind of thing had been going on for decades, and certainly in the months that Magnus had been back at Berwick.
This was the fifth such raid he’d been forced to ride to, defending the prosperous village of Berwick from raiders.
Not even reivers, the wild outlaws that roamed the northern lands, but clansmen who had simply crossed the border.
It made for a wild morning.
Fortunately, it was only a morning and not an entire day or days when it came to this particular raid.
It had been a smaller group who infiltrated the city, and Titus had managed to capture one of the leaders.
While Magnus cleaned up the city and either killed or chased out any stragglers, Patrick de Wolfe, Earl of Berwick, interrogated the man to discover that the only reason they’d gone to the fishmongers was because his people were hungry.
Evidently, some kind of sickness had worked its way through their clan and many people were ill, while those who weren’t ill struggled to keep up with the sick.
Gathering and harvesting food, including fishing in the River Tweed, had been limited.
Magnus hadn’t known any of this, of course.
Once the village was cleared and he established a heavy soldier presence to make the villagers feel better, he headed back to the castle.
Night had fallen by this time, and he turned his horse over to the stable servants as he continued into the keep of Berwick, a massive thing that housed the large Patrick de Wolfe family.
He hadn’t taken two steps inside the door when he heard someone call his name.
“Magnus?”
It was his father. Magnus turned for the solar, with the open doors and the heat and light radiating from it because of the roaring fire in the hearth. Entering the long, rectangular chamber, he removed the ax from his shoulder and carefully propped it up by the door. Wearily, he removed his helm.
“Well?” Patrick said, standing near the hearth. “What is the final tally?”
Magnus rubbed his eyes wearily. “We did not lose any men,” he said. “I’ve got six wounded, one fairly severely. But I believe they’ll live.”
“Villagers?”
“We lost at least four,” Magnus said. “Fishermen who tried to prevent the Scots from stealing their catch.”
Patrick went to the table opposite the hearth, the one that held the wine, and poured his son a full measure.
Patrick was the tallest man in the de Wolfe family, having inherited his height from some monstrous ancestor, and all but one of his sons had inherited that height.
Magnus used to always feel inadequate because he was the short de Wolfe in his family, even though he was still taller than most men.
But he had a bulk and a breadth that his brothers didn’t have.
When Magnus fought, men ran.
That was what made him stand out, or so he thought.
That and the fact that he was perhaps more Northman than Englishman simply because he looked like his mother’s father’s side of the family.
Patrick, however, had the de Wolfe dark looks—his hair, almost black in his youth, was now streaked with gray, but the pale green eyes were just as sharp as they ever were.
So was the man the family called Atty.
“You did good work today, Magnus,” Patrick said as he handed his son the cup of wine. “You are to be commended. It could have been a lot worse had you not charged into the battle with your grandfather’s ax. It seems to terrify men at the mere sight.”
Magnus grinned, turning to glance at the four-foot-long ax leaning against the wall. “I am named for the man who bore that weapon,” he said. “Magnus the Law-Mender, the most powerful king to his people. Seeing that reminds men that the blood of the Northmen still resides in Berwick.”
“Indeed, it does,” Patrick said. “It resides in you. And in Markus and Cassius and Titus. They all have it to a certain degree, but you have it more than any of your brothers.”
Magnus took a long drink of wine before replying. “I do,” he said. “When I was young, that always made me feel different. I remember some of the lads where I fostered used to tell me that the Northmen were going to kidnap me someday and force me to fight for them.”
Patrick laughed softly. “Boys of that age are always so cruel,” he said. “I wonder what has become of some of those little fools.”
“They grew up like their fathers,” Magnus muttered. “They grew into bigger fools. Well, not all of them. The de Shera boys didn’t. Nor did the de Lohr lads.”
“That reminds me,” Patrick said suddenly, turning for his table. “You have a missive from Morgen de Lohr.”
“For me?” Magnus said, not particularly interested. “Why?”
“I would not know.”
“When did it come?”
Patrick pushed missives around on his table until he came to what he was looking for. He picked it up. “Early this morning while you were off fighting Scots in the village,” he said. “Did you not see the messenger?”
Magnus shook his head. “I was occupied elsewhere,” he said, pointing out the obvious as he took the missive from his father. “I wonder what de Lohr wants?”
Patrick shrugged and sat back down at his table, looking over a map of the Scottish marches and the Gordon territory as Magnus broke the seal on the missive.
“Do you know what the Gordon man told me?” Patrick said. “He said their people are going hungry. That’s why they raided the fish market. Damn Scots are too proud to ask for help, but they’re not too proud to steal.”
Magnus unfolded the missive. “Do you have any contact with the clan chief these days?”
“Nay,” Patrick said. “Ever since old Angus Gordon died, the new clan chief does not wish to talk. He only wants to drive his men to war.”
Magnus set his cup down and took a seat, settling down to read. “Typical.”
“True,” Patrick said. “But if they are truly starving, I am not opposed to helping them.”
The conversation died, mostly because Patrick went back to his map and Magnus began to read the missive. They could hear the shouts of the men in the bailey outside, sealing up the castle as night approached.
Titus de Wolfe, tall and dark and handsome, entered the keep, shouting to the servants for food and drink as he entered his father’s solar with all of the grace and peace of a bull charging into a church.
His sword clattered to the ground and he completely missed the table where he went to set his helm.
He began stripping off belts and tunics, tossing them all around, as Patrick frowned at him.
“God’s Bones, Titus,” he said. “Could you possibly be any louder?”
Titus grinned brightly at his father. “I could,” he said. “Shall I?”
Patrick cocked an eyebrow. “Be still,” he said. “I have some questions about the battle. Your brother has already given me the casualty count.”
Titus looked over at Magnus, who was reading his missive.
His brother seemed so engrossed in it that he snuck over and stole the cup of wine, draining the entire thing and then belching loudly and victoriously.
He belched again for good measure, speaking the words fortis in arduis , the de Wolfe motto, as he ripped out a nice, juicy burp.
Disgusted, Patrick picked up the nearest thing he could find, which happened to be a sealed bag of sand for his missives, and threw it right at Titus. It hit his son in the chest, ending his triumphant belching.
“Why have you done such a thing, Papa?” Titus said, rubbing his chest. “Why would you hurt me so when I have just chased Scots off your doorstep?”
Patrick cast him a long, impatient look. “I told you to sit down and be still,” he said. “Be more like your brother and mayhap someday you, too, shall have a royal appointment.”
Titus frowned. “I am as good as Magnus ever was.”
“Magnus does not burp loudly enough for the Scots to hear.”
Titus curled his lip and turned to insult Magnus, but something stopped him cold.
His brother had tears running down his face.
“Magnus?” Titus said, suddenly quite serious. “What is the matter?”
Magnus was still looking at the missive, but when he heard Titus’ question, he looked up to see both his brother and father looking at him with concern. Patrick was up from his table, heading in his son’s direction.
“Magnus?” he said, concerned. “What has happened? What did de Lohr say to you?”
Realizing he was now the center of attention, Magnus quickly wiped his face. “It is nothing,” he said, standing up and heading straight for the door. “Papa, I will be leaving for London immediately.”
“Magnus, wait ,” Patrick said. “Stop this instant. What is the matter?”
Magnus paused at the door. He stood there a moment, unable to look at his father or his brother, but he knew they were behind him, waiting for an answer.
He wasn’t sure he could give them one.
“Something… unexpected,” he said tightly. “Please, Papa. Let me leave.”