The Wolfe (77 page)

“This will be a whole new world for
you,” he commented.

“Aye,” William replied. “I was quite
content with my world here. Paris, should you require me for any reason, do not
hesitate to send a missive. I will be at your call.”

“So noted,” Paris said. “Let us hope
the Scots back down from their plans and I will not be needing reinforcements
from the crown.”

“Agreed,” William said fervently,
then sat back in his chair and put his booted feet up on the table. “Wales.
What a Godforsaken country. I do not relish spending a winter campaign there.”

Paris shrugged. “Just do what Henry
wants done and get it over with.”

William contemplated his boots. “What
if Henry wants me with him in London for a long time to come? I will not leave
Jordan any longer than I have to.”

“Henry is fickle in his old age,”
Paris commented. “Mayhap you will fall out of favor quickly if the campaigns
are not successful.”

“I will not deliberately loose a
battle,” William told him. “I do not even think I would know how to. Besides, if
I did he might take away my lands and titles. Jordan deserves to be chatelaine
over her own household. And our children deserve a keep to inherit.”

The men sat in silence for a long
time. It was a comfortable silence; the last of many. Finally, William rose
stiffly.

“I am going to take a bath,” he
announced wearily. “Find Luke for me, if you would, and have him pack my
things.”

“Aye, my lord,” Paris answered as if
he were still William’s second.

With a sigh, William headed for his
chamber, bellowing for hot water as he went.

***

The king, his entourage, and three
hundred soldiers waited in the outer bailey of Northwood. The entire castle
population had gathered to see William off; the haunting chant of ‘Wolfe’
filling the air as it had for the past half-hour. Women and children were
crying, and men looked sad to know that their beloved Wolf was leaving them.

William was in Jordan’s apartments.
He stood by the window, gazing out into the bailey, hearing his name being
called. He was bathed, shaved and combed, dressed in his battle armor. Jordan
was in the other room; he could hear her banging around.

“What are you doing, love?” he
called out to her. “I have to leave.”

She bustled back into the room,
carrying something in her hand. She smiled up at him as he turned to her.

“I was getting something for ye,”
she said. “Something to remind ye of me while yer in London.”

His brow furrowed. “What is it?”

She extended her hand and he saw immediately
that it was a lock of her hair tied with a strand of pale green silk from his
favorite dress. His heart softened as he took it from her, lifting it to his
nose and inhaling her Lavender scent. The smell brought tears to his eyes but
he chased them away sternly.

“‘Tis wonderful, my lady,” he said
softly, lifting up her hair to see that she had taken the bunch from the very
nape of her neck. There was a large section gouged out unevenly.

“No one will see it,” she knew what
he was thinking. “Besides, my hair grows quickly. If I cannot go with ye, then
this is a part of me that ye can take.”

He kissed her softly, lingeringly,
before tucking the strands into his glove. “I shall place it in my vest and
always wear it next to my heart. Thank you.”

There was a knock at the door and
William answered it. Kieran stood in the hall, his face somewhat drawn and
Jordan knew he had just come from Jemma.

“The king awaits, William,” he said.

“I am coming,” he told him.

He turned to Jordan, standing alone
and still in the center of the room. They had already said everything that
needed saying and done everything that needed doing. To say anything at all
would be rehashing a fine good-bye. If he took her in his arms one more time he
was afraid he would never let her go.

Jordan saw the indecision and grief
in his eyes and took charge. She marched over to him and kissed him on the lips
firmly.

“Be off with ye,” she said briskly. “Send
me word when ye reach London. And ye, Sir Kieran, “ she reached up and pecked
him on the cheek, “I shall watch out for Jemma until ye return. Dunna worry
about her.”

They looked at her and each other.
Jordan gave William a little shove. “Well, get going. Ye shouldna keep the king
waiting.”

Without a word, William left with
Kieran and the door closed softly behind them.

Jordan stood there, staring at the
closed door, feeling all of the grief and loneliness she had suppressed welling
dangerously within her. She fought off the emotions, knowing that if she gave
in she would be destroyed.

She was already dying inside but did
not want to admit it. Her pain was manifesting itself into an aching in her
heart that was tearing her apart. She clutched at her chest as if to grab the
pain and rip it from her.

The door suddenly opened again. She
startled and stepped back, only to see William standing before her once again.

He drew her against him, kissing her
ferociously. All of her resolve broke then and she began to cry, returning his
kisses and tasting him one last time.

“I love you with all of my heart,”
he said between kisses.

“I love ye, English,” she whispered
in return. “Return to me safe, I beg ye.”

He pulled away from her and was gone
again, this time for good.   

Jordan’s sobs overtook her and she let
them. She had given up the fight. She crumpled to the floor, letting the cold
stone wash with her tears of pain as she prayed to God to protect her husband.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Dunbar McKenna received a missive
from Langton shortly before dawn. Awakened, he kicked the serving girl out of
his bed and yanked the vellum from his son’s hand. Somewhere behind Abner
hovered Malcolm, and Dunbar silently waved the lads in as he broke the seal and
read the message. It was no time at all before he exploded in a fit of anger.

Abner and Malcolm pressed themselves
against the wall, hoping for invisibility as Dunbar kicked over a table and
smashed a chair into a wall.

“Damn them!” he raged. “Damn Thomas
and his bastard brothers!” He whirled to the young men. “Do ye know what they
have gone and done? Do ye?”

Abner shook his head as his father
came over and slugged him in the face with a beefy fist, turning rapidly to
Malcolm and driving his knuckles into the lad’s stomach. Gasping and aching,
the young men tried to regain their feet.

“They have gone and defied the clans,”
Dunbar ranted. “Northwood and her allies have pledged to support Langton agin
us. Can ye believe it? The Goddamn Sassenachs are supporting Langton.”

He broke a few more things but didn’t
punch them anymore. They regained their senses and watched him as he calmed
moment by moment, pacing and cursing until he finally came to rest on his bed.
The twisted, torn message was still clutched in one hand, but he was shaking
and white with fury.

Abner and Malcolm watched him
warily, wishing they could run from the room but not daring to move.

“Send missives, lad,” Dunbar said
hoarsely. “Send them to all of the clan chiefs and tell them to ride for
McKenna Keep as soon as they can. We must respond to the traitors that are
among us.”

Abner nodded and, gratefully, left
the room. Malcolm was terrified when Dunbar looked up at him, knowing that it
was his kin who were the traitors.

“The Scotts will be destroyed,”
Dunbar promised confidently. “We will descend on them like a plague of locust
and wipe out every one of them. We will stand for no traitors on the border,
lad. And then and then when they are gone, we will move to mighty Northwood and
raze her as well. Then the Sassenachs will see that our clans are not to be
trifled with, and the border will be ours.”

Malcolm watched the big, smelly man
in his rage. Uncle Thomas was not a man to be bullied, but bully they did until
they virtually gave him no choice. Even Malcolm knew Thomas was a man of
principles. The attempted attack had failed, Jordan’s murder had failed, and
now Dunbar had the excuse he needed to completely wipe out the Scotts and there
alliance with the English. The refusal of Thomas to break the English alliance
was certainly not an event to be taken lightly, but by refusing the clans, he
had played right into Dunbar’s hand.

It was odd, Malcolm thought as he
watched the heavy man, that Dunbar seemed so intent on destroying Uncle Thomas.
And it seemed that there was no particular reason for it; he was looking for
any excuse to desolate the man, and when one failed he simply invented another.
There was so much hatred in Dunbar for Thomas Scott and Malcolm wondered why.

This wasn’t just about the English
alliance and he was sure of that. And the plan about controlling the border was
just a convenient excuse to back Thomas into a corner so that he would have to
come out fighting. True, Dunbar liked the growing power he governed now that
the clans were listening to him and not to Thomas, but there was more to it
than that. The bottom line seemed to be that he wanted Thomas and Langton
destroyed at any cost, for any reason.

None of that much mattered to
Malcolm. He had virtually no use for his kin anyway and was pleased to be able
to assist Dunbar. The man may have cursed at him and hit him, but he still paid
Malcolm more attention than his own father. And acceptance and attention was
the very thing Malcolm lacked within his own family, although his conscience,
deep-down, was reluctant to help Dunbar wipe out his kin.

But no matter. Malcolm squared his
shoulders and bravely approached Dunbar.

“What would ye have me do, my lord?”
he asked.

Dunbar looked up at him for a
moment. “Go back to Langton, lad,” he said. “I shall need ye there.”

“Why?” Malcolm asked, disappointed.

“Because someone needs to open the
gates when the army approaches,” Dunbar explained with limited patience. “Ye do
me more good inside the fortress than wi’ me, lad. I am depending on ye.”

Malcolm nodded hesitantly, realizing
that he would be the man to deliver the fate of Langton into the clan’s waiting
arms. Dunbar had this all thought out already, he could see it was as if he already
knew what Thomas’ answer would be. Or he had been planning it all along,
regardless.

Stomach twisting with nerves, he
fled McKenna Keep and into the black Scot night.

Part 2:

London

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

January, Year of our
Lord 1233 A.D.

It had been six months since William
had left Northwood to join the king’s service. Six long months. As he sat in
his opulent rooms in Windsor Castle, he found he had never been so lonely.

Henry had not been jesting when he
said he wanted William to lead his armies into Wales. Since the day of his
arrival William had been doing just that, subduing border skirmishes. He would
come back to London only to be forced back into service again. He had probably
spent a total of two whole weeks in London and he was exhausted for home and
his wife. Although being the king’s champion had its perks, it definitely had
its drawbacks as well.

When English border barons requested
military assistance from the crown, William was again whipped into action. He
led the king’s three thousand man force when and where needed, and that was as
of late to Hereford and Worcester. Since his brother’s fortress was near
Worcester, he had seen Robert three times.

William had written Jordan only once
a month since his arrival, something he apologized to her profusely for. He, on
the other hand, had only received one carefully worded missive from de Longley.
The man spoke of a tentatively calm border, a little of Jordan, and naught much
else. William had been hungry for news of his wife and burned the missive in
anger.

Not all news was good. It had been
difficult to write de Longley of Kieran’s accident. The third month into
service and in the midst of a horrific battle, Kieran had received a terrible
blow to his neck that had nearly killed him. Had his neck not been so muscular
or had he been any less healthy, it would have been a mortal wound. Kieran was
fully recovered, except for some numbness in his shoulder, but William and
Deinwald had been terrified that they were going to lose him.