Chapter Two
“My heartiest prayers for success, Pat.”
Tristan had walked into an ambush.
A friendly ambush, anyway. He’d just entered the damaged great hall of Wrexham, which was full of men as the damp evening turned into a cold night, and there were men all around congratulating him for his new command of Wrexham Castle before he’d even officially been told of it by the Marshal himself.
If the rumors weren’t true, he was in for a big disappointment.
Men were shaking his hand and clapping him on the shoulder.
He walked headlong into Caius d’Avignon and Gart Forbes, men who didn’t normally show much emotion, but men who were smiling at him.
He almost found it off-putting. Caius was enormous, with dark hair and eyes, and a terrifying man if there ever was one.
But Gart was even worse—big and muscular and bald, with piercing eyes and hands the size of trenchers, his bad humor and fierceness in battle was legendary.
But here he was… smiling. Or at least as close as Gart could get to the gesture.
It looked like a grimace. The fact remained that the men Tristan served with weren’t a smiling bunch, but when he thought about it, this was indeed a cause for celebration.
One of their own was being elevated in the ranks, no longer a follower but now a leader, and that was most definitely a celebratory event.
Tristan didn’t even realize how much he’d coveted a position like this until he had it.
Now… it felt good.
“Thank you,” Tristan said, cocking an eyebrow. “I think. I’ve not heard anything officially, so time will tell if the rumors are true.”
Gart put a ham-sized hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “I heard it from the Marshal himself,” he said. “The command is yours. You have nothing to worry over.”
Beside him, Caius snorted. “Nothing?” he said, incredulous. “He has the Welsh to worry over. I have the Welsh to worry over because my holdings aren’t far from here. You do not understand that, Forbes, living in the south as you do. All you have to worry over are wild animals and pirates.”
Gart’s castle was on the coast of Devon, so what Caius said was true, but Gart didn’t like the insinuation that he led an easy life.
“You should be so lucky that the Welsh are all you have to worry over,” he said, pointing a finger at both Caius and Tristan. “If you want real trouble, I’ll send the pirates your way. Men by the name of Kraken and Malcolm One-Hand. That one hand can do a good deal of damage, I assure you.”
Caius was trying not to laugh at him. “And you think the pirates do more damage than the Welsh?”
Gart lifted an eyebrow at him. “Careful, Viper,” he said, referring to the nickname Caius earned in the Levant as the Britannia Viper.
“I must pass your holdings on my way home. If I’m feeling petulant enough, I might harass your castle, and your wife might even weep in terror at the mere sight of me. ”
Caius burst out laughing. “My darling wife will take a club to you,” he said. “No one tries to frighten Emelisse and lives to tell the tale.”
“Then she has saved you this time, but insult me no more or I will be forced to challenge her to get to you.”
Even Tristan was grinning by now. “And these are the allies I have to look forward to?” he muttered. “I’ll take my chances with the Welsh.”
He clapped Caius on the shoulder as he pushed past the bickering pair, trying to make his way to the dais to find the Marshal, whom he’d caught a glimpse of upon entering the hall.
But through the smoke and broken furniture and clutter of men relaxing after a long battle, he was having difficulty pushing his way through the masses.
That went double when he was suddenly cornered by Gareth de Llion and Bric.
“Why you should be given command of Wrexham and not me is appalling,” Gareth said with feigned outrage.
He threw a thumb into his own chest. “I am the one who was born and raised on the marches. I am the one who knows everyone and everything on the marches. Why on earth they put a knight from Northumberland in command of Wrexham is a mystery.”
Tristan genuinely liked Gareth. A grandson of Ajax de Velt through his eldest daughter, he had the de Velt size and talent. He also had the pride and arrogance that his uncles, Jax’s sons, had.
Tristan cocked an eyebrow.
“I do not think I like your tone, Gareth,” he said.
“Are you intimating that I am unworthy for such a post? Be cautious when you answer, because you know I have served your grandfather. Much of my training comes from him. If you insult me, you insult him, and I shall make sure your uncles know of this.”
Gareth turned his nose up at him. “They do not frighten me,” he said, though it was a lie. The sons of Jax de Velt frightened everybody if they had any sense. “Tell them what you must. But I suppose you are better than some of the other fools around here because you are de Velt trained.”
“How generous of you.”
Gareth couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. “I know,” he said, reaching out to take Tristan’s hand. “If you must know, I think it is marvelous. My grandfather would have been very proud of you.”
Since Jax had been killed in battle against King John a few years earlier, it was a bittersweet moment between two men who had loved him.
Worse still, Tristan had been involved in the battle on that terrible day, and it still resonated with him.
As Jax’s family went into mourning, in the middle of the battle, it had been Tristan and his younger brother, Ashton, who had kept John from taking Jax’s castle.
Echoes of that awful day would probably always be with him.
“Thank you,” Tristan said with uncharacteristic softness in his voice. “I am equally sure he would have had a great deal of advice on how to handle the Welsh. He has six castles along the marches, doesn’t he?”
“Four,” Gareth said. “He gave Cloryn and Rhayder to my father, but his men still command the others. At some point, my Uncle Cole will probably give them over to my father because he has no real interest in maintaining a presence on the Welsh marches.”
They were speaking of Jax’s eldest son, Cole de Velt, also Baron Blackadder, who was now the head of the de Velt empire.
Tristan knew Cole quite well, and knew the man’s inclinations on the Welsh marches.
“He has his hands full with the properties on the Scots border,” he said.
“He is more concerned with the two main castle de Velt castles, Pelinom and Berwick, than the four smaller ones in the wilds of Wales.”
“Very true.”
Abruptly, there were cups of ale being shoved at them, courtesy of Bric, who had grabbed them from a serving wench’s tray. “Drink,” Bric commanded. “No more talk of Welsh castles. Let us drink to Tristan’s new post and to Jax de Velt, whose absence is sorely felt.”
That was much appreciated by both Gareth and Tristan, who lifted their cups in salute before downing the entire contents. Tristan, who oddly enough didn’t have much of a tolerance for strong drink, ended up sputtering as he handed the cup back to Bric.
“Good God,” he said hoarsely, clutching his throat. “What is that swill?”
Bric grinned. “That swill is what we found in the vault of Wrexham,” he said. “It all belongs to you. I wish you luck drinking down that rancid liquid.”
“If I am dead in a week, you shall know why.”
Bric and Gareth started to laugh, but another presence joined their group. The Marshal had made an appearance, reaching out to grasp Tristan by the arm. He pulled the man away from his colleagues with a manner that seemed both firm and irritated.
Tristan would quickly find out why.
“I had hoped to tell you of my decision for Wrexham personally,” the Marshal said. “But I know that you’ve already been told by men who keep secrets that forge nations, yet cannot keep their mouths shut when it comes to one of their own.”
Tristan found himself fighting off a grin at the Marshal’s disgruntled statement.
“I do not know much, truthfully,” he said. “Only rumors and drunken cheers.”
“Good,” the Marshal said as he continued to pull Tristan through the crowd of knights and soldiers so he could get the man alone.
“Since you already know of my plans, let me elaborate on my decision. Wrexham is a very important and strategic castle, Pat. You know this. You have spent two months trying to wrest it back from the Welsh, and we were able to do that, in large part, due to your strategies with the siege engines. But it is not only that—you have served me flawlessly for many years. You served Jax de Velt flawlessly, as well, and your father, though understandably biased, has only praise for you.”
Tristan was modest. “I have only been doing my duty, my lord.”
The Marshal nodded. “I realize that,” he said. “And you are not the ambitious sort. I’ve seen too many of those over the years. You would not step on one man to achieve your end, and that is an admirable trait, especially for a Plantagenet. It is shocking, truthfully.”
Tristan didn’t like being reminded of his true bloodlines. They’d all discovered that over the past few years when Tristan would stiffen up the moment the subject was introduced. He did it even now, his jaw twitching faintly, as William watched him carefully.
In his opinion, it was an understandable reaction.