The White Lord of Wellesbourne

Copyright 2006 by Kathryn Le Veque
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Printed by Dragonblade Publishing in the United States of America

Text copyright 2006 by Kathryn Le Veque
Cover copyright 2006 by Kathryn Le Veque

To a tall, blond hero
in his own right, my brother, Bill

‘
One meets his destiny often in
the road he takes to avoid it.’

- Gaul Proverb

CHAPTER ONE

Early July, 1485 A.D.

England

The carriage had a bad axel and
held a worse gait than that of a lame horse. For days she had put up with the
rocking and lurching. Whenever the carriage came to a halt, she continued to
rock and lurch long after it had stopped. Sometimes she thought her brains were
about to come sloshing out of her ears.

Her patience had lasted nearly
nine days. But it was eight days too many. Nearing a town nestled in the soft
green landscape of Warwickshire, she could no longer stand the torture and she
smacked the roof of the carriage several times until the driver pulled the
horses to a stop.

The woman with the sloshing
brains stuck her head out of the window. “What town is this?”

“Newbold, my lady.”

“Thank God,” she muttered. Then
louder: “I will stop here. I must stretch my legs.”

“But we are almost to
Wellesbourne,” the driver told her.

She ignored him. The door to the
carriage was already open and the lady climbed out. Behind her, a contingent of
four hundred soldiers had come to a halt, including three mounted officers. The
shuffling of their feet kicked up clouds of dust from the dry road and the
breeze, once so delightful, now brought the dust in the lady’s direction. She
fanned a hand in front of her face to be rid of the dirt.

“Look at me,” she glanced down at
her clothes, of the latest fashion. “I shall be a dirty, dusty mess by the time
we reach Wellesbourne. What will my new husband think of me?”

From the carriage door, a small
covered head appeared. The lady’s serving woman was an unusual shade of green
as her feet gingerly found their way out of the carriage

“He shall think ye the most
beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on, m’lady.” She nearly fell out of the
door and would have done so had her mistress not prevented it. She straightened
her girdle and looked at her surroundings. “My, ‘tis warm in these parts.”

The lady looked up from brushing
the dust off her seamless surcoat, the ruby color peppered with brown specks.
The land this far south was defined by rolling hills interspersed with flat
plains now and again. Clusters of forests dotted the area. It wasn’t nearly as
lush or colorful as York, but there was charm to it.

“Whatever it is, I shall have to
become used to it,” she said, resignation in her voice.

Finished with the dust off, she
refocused on the tavern she had seen as they had entered the outskirts of the
settlement.  It was a large establishment, surprising for such a small berg,
and she thought it to be perfect place to refresh herself before proceeding to
Wellesbourne. She did not want her future husband’s first impression of her to
be road-weary and famished. She would ease herself now to be presentable later.
At least it seemed like a good idea.

“In there,” she jabbed her finger
towards the inn as she marched past the soldier who was her coachman. “Tell the
men to rest while I am occupied. I shall not be long.”

“In there?” he repeated,
chagrined. “But that’s a
tavern
.”

“Brilliant assessment, Strode.”

He ignored her acerbic reply.
“God only knows what kinds of creatures inhabit that place, my lady. ‘Tis no
place for you.”

“If it does not have wheels on it
and I can sit peacefully for a few moments, it is indeed a place for me.”

He nearly sneered at her. “Do you
have any money? They’re going to want coinage, you know. How do you expect to
pay?”

She puckered her bow-shaped
mouth, a snide retort coming to her lips but wisely refraining. Strode had been
entrusted with the cash her uncle had given her and it would not do well to
insult the man with the money.

“I will pay with the coin you so
kindly give to me,” she held out her hand. “A few pences, please? I promise
that I shall be wise and thrifty.”

“And if I do not give you the money?”

“I am sure there will be a man or
two in that tavern who will gladly supply me with the money I need.”

It was apparent she was going
whether or not there were any objections. Strode leapt from the carriage and
emitted a piercing whistle to several mounted soldiers to the rear of the
carriage.   Then he glared at the young woman he had known since birth.

“You shall go nowhere without
escort, Lady Alixandrea,” he said sternly. “Your uncle would have my hide if
anything happened to you so close to your destination.”

The Lady Alixandrea Terrington
St. Ave lifted a well-shaped eyebrow at him. “God forbid.”

It was a sarcastic remark, softly
uttered. The mounted soldiers arrived and the coachman gave them instructions
to stick close to the lady while she found rest at the inn.  The men raised
their eyebrows at the thought of the lady in a rough, untamed tavern, but as
they all knew that once Lady Alixandrea set her mind to something, there was no
dissuading her.  They had no choice but to follow or be left behind.

Gathering her skirt, Alixandrea
set forth across the dusty road towards the timber and mortar tavern. Above
her, the sky was unnaturally blue in the unseasonably dry weather and she
thought perhaps that may have something to do with her unsettled stomach. Heat
and travel could be an uncomfortable situation. Behind her, the maid shuffled
like an old woman, kicking up more dust onto her new garment.

“Jezebel, pick up your feet,” she
admonished sternly. “And when we enter, I will do the talking, is that clear?”

The dark-eyed, dark-haired maid
nodded. “Does ye want a bath, too?”

“A bath? In this place?’
Alixandrea looked up at the hand-hewn sign that now hung above their heads. 
Head
O’Bucket
. “Would you look at the name of this establishment? I think I shall
faint.”

“Steady, m’lady.”

“Steady it is.”

The words were lightly spoken,
lightly given. Alixandrea St. Ave was the last woman on the earth to give in to
fits of fainting. She pushed the door open, giving it a good shove as it stuck
on the hinges. 

But her bravery was instantly
tempered by the stench that immediately struck her; it was like walking into a
garderobe. It was also quite dark, in stark contrast to the bright sunlight
outside, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust.  Between the smell and
the darkness, she was coming to reconsider her desire to visit this abysmal
place. But one of the soldiers escorting her pushed the door open wider,
thinking it was jammed, and she was forced to move forward.

There was one great room and
little more. And it was surprisingly full. Alixandrea and her maid, followed by
the soldiers, looked for the least obtrusive place to sit and quickly located a
table near the door that was suitable.  She noticed that all eyes in the place
had somehow found her in the darkness. She wondered what they were thinking and
how shortly her life would be in danger. In spite of what she had told her
maid, she sent the woman in search of the barkeep in a hurry.  She wanted to
obtain her refreshment and get out.

As she sat and waited, with her
soldiers close behind for protection, a great collective mass of appreciation
was forming in that stuffy little tavern.  When the door had opened and she
stood there, illuminated by the bright sunlight, there were a few in the room
that swore Heaven itself had opened up the door and an angel now stood in their
midst.

Clad in a ruby-colored cloak with
her glorious bronze-colored curls spilling over one shoulder, the angel in the
doorway could only be described as magnificent.  Her oval-shaped face was sweet
and her eyes were the most amazing color of bronze, just like her hair;
somewhere between brown and gold that flowed like sultry molten liquid.  When
she moved, she swished, as angel’s wings would have. And when she sat, it was
with the aura of a queen.

There wasn’t one man or woman in
that room that wasn’t instantly enchanted with her. She was obviously
well-born, well-bred, and just this side of paradise. It wasn’t long before
someone approached the table.

“My lady,” a soft, deep voice
addressed her. “May I buy your meal for you?”

Alixandrea looked up into the
face of a young man, perhaps a little older than her, with very short,
golden-red hair. He had blue eyes and a square-jaw, handsome appearance.  And
he was a big lad, which intimidated her a bit, but he seemed mannered.

“I am not eating, good sir,” she
said, avoiding eye contact with him. “I have merely come in to rest before
continuing on my journey.”

“Then allow me to provide you
with your refreshment.”

Before she could protest, he was
whistling to the barkeep and motioning to the table. Alixandrea shook her head.

“No, good sir, I implore you,”
she said, more forcefully. “It is my wish to enjoy my rest without company, if
you don’t mind.”

He looked at her as if he did not
comprehend a word she was saying. Was it possible that there was a woman who
did not want his company? His lips broke out in an easy smile.

“It is only because you do not
know me,” he said confidently. “I am Sir Luke Wellesbourne of Wellesbourne
Castle.  My father is lord over this fiefdom.”

She looked at him, intently. It
was a struggle not to give away the surprise she felt.  “Wellesbourne?”

He sat heavily next to her,
taking the big earthenware cup from the barkeep as the man drew near the table.

 “Aye,” he jabbed his finger
towards the smoking, sloppy hearth. “And that is my unsociable brother over
there, brooding like a bear.”

Her bronze eyes drifted in the
direction he was pointing, noticing an enormous man sitting by himself, hunched
over a cup. He was partially hidden in the shadows, enough so that she could
not get a good look at him.  Alixandrea’s eyes lingered on the silent, hulking
figure, a feeling in the pit of her stomach that she could not begin to
describe.  All she knew was that it disturbed her greatly.

“Who is your brother?”

Luke took a long drink from his
mug. “The great and mighty Matthew Wellesbourne, favored of the king.” He
leaned near her, enough so that she instinctively tilted away from him. “Have
you heard of The White Lord of Wellesbourne? Well, that would be him. But if
you are thinking of inviting him to our table, do not bother. He is greatly
troubled today. He would be horrible company.”

The White Lord of Wellesbourne
. She’d known that name for half
of her life and the realization took her breath away. But how was it possible
that he was here,
now
? He was supposed to be at Wellesbourne Castle; but
then again, so was she.

Alixandrea stared at the dark
figure, trying to get a better look. Although she thought she may have an
inkling of the answer to her question, she asked anyway. “What is his trouble?”

“His wife is coming to
Wellesbourne.”