Chapter Four
Wales
The weather was typically Welsh.
At least, that was the way Tristan felt. He’d been in command of Wrexham Castle for twelve months and, to his recollection, it had rained every one of those days. Every damn one.
He was sick of it.
But he wasn’t sick of Wrexham, or his garrison, or anything that had to do with it.
Frankly, he was in his element. He’d taken to commanding one of the largest castles on the marches with shocking ease.
As if he’d been born to it, which, of course, he had.
It was in his blood. As a man who had spent the majority of his career following the orders of others, and doing it efficiently, to finally have a command was something that fulfilled him more than he realized it could have.
And it showed.
Ever diligent and focused, Tristan had put everyone to work within a day of taking command of Wrexham.
He’d utilized the armies that had remained for a few days before heading home, using the manpower to repair walls and fix roofs.
Though the Marshal headed back to Pembroke Castle almost immediately, leaving about two thousand men with Tristan, and Bretton de Llion headed back to Cloryn Castle with Gareth, the other armies weren’t so quick to depart.
They lingered, helping repair the castle.
When Bric and Christopher and Peter wanted to return home, however, Tristan asked for a few more days so their soldiers could help with the workload.
With thousands of men working on the grounds, the repairs were being completed quite quickly, but the few more days that Tristan had asked for turned into more days, and then weeks, and finally Christopher and Bric had to sneak out before dawn one rainy morning, unable to stomach more of Tristan’s begging.
Tristan had stood on the battlements and shouted insults at them as they passed through the gates.
Cowards was a word used frequently.
Bric had laughed at him; Christopher had ignored him.
Gart, Maxton, Peter, and Caius were the last remaining men with armies, which ended up being a good thing, because a month after the Welsh had been chased away, a small buildup was reported off to the southwest, near a village called Ruabon.
Maxton and Gart took their soldiers into the village, destroying the countryside as they went, and the small force of Welsh scattered.
That led the English to believe it had been an isolated incident of rebels, nothing organized by Llywelyn.
And that had been the last gathering they’d seen.
So far.
But eventually, the English warlords had to return home.
Gart, Maxton, and Peter all departed, leaving Caius as the last man.
Caius was closer, geographically, than almost anyone else, so he could make it home in just a few days.
When Addax al-Kort finally arrived from Lioncross Abbey, Caius went home, leaving Tristan with his men to manage Wrexham Castle.
It was nearly fully repaired by the time Caius departed—there were still a few things that needed to be fixed, but most of the major work had been done, including the great hall ceiling and the gatehouse with its twisted portcullis.
These days, not quite a year after the siege that saw Wrexham return to the English, everything was quiet, for the most part.
Tristan was learning to put his senior knights in charge of things like patrols and duty assignments for the men, but it was difficult for him.
He was used to doing those things, and to stay out of a patrol…
well, he was struggling with it. The man who had always been the obedient knight was still adjusting to delegating.
Sometimes, he simply gave up.
Like today.
Wrexham had six patrols out at any given time, and today, simply because he couldn’t stay out of it, Tristan was riding patrol with Addax and de Wolfe, leaving Carr in command of Wrexham as Dermot took a patrol to the north.
Tristan, Addax, and William headed west, sweeping south throughout the day, and ending up in the village of Ruabon.
Tristan hadn’t been to the village in a few months, but his patrols made a regular habit of sweeping through it because this was the last place they’d seen any manner of rebel activity.
The land was gently rolling here, rather bland in appearance, with trees that were barren from a particularly cold winter.
Even though it was spring, it was still cold, and although the knights were dressed accordingly, a six-hour patrol had seen the iciness seep into their hands and face.
Moving into the town, the first business they came across was a tavern with a great amount of smoke pouring from the chimney.
“They must have quite a blaze going,” William said. “That means a big fire. Much heat. Flame. Warmth. Comfort.”
Addax, who positively hated icy temperatures, glanced over at the young knight. “Are you trying to tell us something, de Wolfe?”
William gestured to the gray-stoned tavern with the heavily thatched roof. “Unless you are dead, you should understand me,” he said. “I can no longer feel my fingers. A warm fire and some warmed wine would save my life at this point.”
Tristan was cold as well, but he frowned at the dark-haired knight. “You spent all of that time in the north where it is well known to be cold much of the year?” he said. “How did you survive?”
William flashed a brilliant smile. “I can survive anything,” he said. “But even us immortals need a fire and hot wine. In fact, I will pay for it if you will let us stop for a while.”
That was an offer Tristan couldn’t pass up.
He looked at Addax, and they shrugged at one another, which was an approval as far as William was concerned.
He immediately reined his horse toward the tavern, moving down an alley on his way to the livery behind it.
The others followed because no one wanted to leave their horse out in such cold weather, so once the horses were settled in a warm stable with plenty of oats, the knights and soldiers headed into the tavern from the rear entrance.
Opening the door, the stale warmth hit them in the face like a slap.
It was a big tavern, two stories, with rented rooms on the top floor and a big common room on the ground floor.
It was half-full at this time of day, not terribly busy, but as William had guessed, there was an enormous fire spitting heat and clouds of smoke into the common room.
The eight men immediately headed for the hearth, with the knights taking the table closest to it while the five soldiers were left to drag another table over to it.
The knights sat down at their table, the soldiers at theirs, and the call for drink went out.
Those back in the kitchens began to scramble.
“I think this is the first time I’ve seen de Wolfe spend his money on something other than horses and more games,” Addax said as he removed his helm. “This is something of an event. I think I want something to eat, also.”
Tristan removed his gloves, but it was taking some effort because his hands were chilled. “As do I,” he said. “We’ve been on patrol for several hours. We deserve something to eat at de Wolfe’s expense.”
William’s lips twisted wryly. “I said I’d pay for drink,” he said. “I never said I’d pay for a meal.”
Addax turned his head, shouting over his shoulder for food, as he peeled back the damp linen hood he wore beneath his helm to protect his head. “It is the least you can do,” he said. “I’ve had to pay the last two times you and I have been to a tavern, so it’s your turn.”
“You’ve had to pay because I won our wager.”
“What wager?” Tristan said, finally able to remove his right glove and going to work on the left. “Christ, Addax, don’t tell me you’ve been gambling with him. What have I told you about that?”
“I have not been gambling with him,” Addax said. “Except to see who will pay for drink. That is not gambling.”
Tristan looked at William, who lifted his hands in surrender. “When you assumed command at Wrexham, I made you a promise that I would not gamble with the soldiers,” he said. “I have kept that promise. You never said anything about the knights.”
That was true. Tristan remembered that conversation well, one of the first real conversations he’d ever had with William. He grunted at the recollection.
“You are correct,” he said. “I said nothing about the knights because they have sense enough not to engage with you. But what else did I say?”
William took his helm and gloves, which had been on the table, and put them on a chair as serving wenches began setting steaming pitchers on the tables. He waited until the women walked away before replying.
“I remember everything you said,” he said, reaching for a pitcher and a cup. “There is no need to repeat it.”
Tristan was rather surprised that William gave him the first cup he poured. He took it, sipping at the hot and spicy wine, before speaking.
“I told you that great men lead by example,” he said. “I told you that you would never truly be great until you could set an example for men to follow.”
William passed another cup to Addax. “You did.”
“I told you that all eyes are turned to you,” Tristan continued.
“I told you that you were failing the expectations of everyone—the Marshal, de Lohr… everyone, because you set a terrible example by gambling with the soldiers and taking their hard-earned wages. Noble knights do not behave in such a fashion.”
It was clear that William didn’t want to be lectured yet again. “I know,” he said. “Do we have to talk about this now?”