The Wolfe (94 page)

William had left four of the king’s
knights who had served with him in Wales at her disposal, but she had avoided
becoming friendly with them. They weren’t her knights, the knights she had left
at Northwood. The men in the hall were strangers.       When she appeared in
the corridor demanding a messenger, at once a man rushed to find her a proper
carrier.

Her missive was off within the hour,
tearing at high speed for the northern wilds of England.

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

William was actually enjoying the
first real sleep he’d had in weeks. He was sleeping in the bedchamber that had
been Jordan’s for so long, sleeping in the bed that had once cradled her supple
body. He was sleeping deeply, without dreaming, when a loud rap on the door
startled him awake. Habitually, he reached for the sword beside him.

“Do not bother.” It was Ranulf. “I
have not come to gut you; I simply bear a message. From your wife.”

“Jordan?” William was instantly
awake, snatching the parchment from Ranulf’s hand. He tore at the seal. “God, I
hope everything is all right. I haven’t had the time to send her a message
yet….”

He began to read. Immediately, his
face darkened and the veins at his temples began to throb. Ranulf had never
seen such an instantaneous reaction on his lord and wondered what in the hell the
message said. Whatever it was, it was not good. He instinctively stepped back
from him.

“Damnation,” William growled. He
rolled up the vellum and it went sailing into the wall. “
Damnation!”
He
roared again, shooting from the bed.

“I shall assemble the men for London,”
Ranulf said without being asked.

William didn’t respond to him.
Instead, he did something so completely unexpected, so completely out of
character, that Ranulf had to jump out of the way or risk serious injury.

Baron de Wolfe proceeded to demolish
the entire room with his bare hands, breaking the huge support beams on the bed
as if they were made of rotted wood and swinging the broken pieces against the
walls, crumbling stone and mortar. He picked up his sword and slashed the
mattress until nothing was left but feathers and tattered bits of cloth. The
dressing table Jordan had used fell victim to his sword as he hacked it into
kindling before tossing the sword away from him and nearly goring Ranulf with
the blind launch.

He raged and he rampaged like a mad
man, smashing and destroying and obliterating everything he could get his hands
on until there was nothing left in the room but scattered, broken remnants of
once fine furnishings.

As disturbing as it was for Ranulf
to witness this kind of open fury, he found that the most disturbing thing of
all was that William had not uttered a sound through the entire display. All of
the release, all of the anger, was in his hands. It was as if he were trying to
kill something, someone, with his bare hands and only then would he be sated.

But Ranulf knew the wisdom of his
lord. By taking his blind rage out on the furniture, it prevented him murdering
the focus of his fury, which could have indeed been Ranulf considering he was
the bearer of some obviously devastating news. Thank God that even in his
anger, the man had sense.

Ranulf caught someone coming into
the antechamber from the corner of his eye. Paris was storming in, his face
grim with concern. He had heard the noise clear down on the next floor. Ranulf
put up a quieting hand, motioning for him not to speak. Paris looked greatly
perplexed as he surveyed the destroyed room with William now motionless near
the demolished bed.  Everything was in tatters.

William’s arms were braced against
the wall and he was leaning into them, sweat and dust coating his naked back.
His hands were bloodied and he looked as if he had seen the wrong end of a
fight. But he was struggling to calm himself, steady his breathing. He had
never lost his control as he just did and found it hard to believe that he had
allowed himself such a demonstration of his fury. Yet he was not ashamed nor
was he remorseful, for had de Troiu been in the room, he would have destroyed
him.

“William,” Paris said with quiet
firmness. “What is going on?”

William waited to answer until he
was sure he could reply without flying into a rage again.

“Give him the missive, Ranulf,” he
muttered.

Ranulf dug under a pile of bedding
and retrieved the message for Paris, who read it with nearly the same reaction
except that he didn’t destroy the room. When Paris looked up at William in
complete disbelief, Ranulf decided he’d had enough with guessing games and took
the missive from Paris and read it.

“Damnation!” Ranulf shouted with
more emotion than the man had ever exhibited. “That bastard of a man after Lady
Jordan? I’ll skin the whoreskin myself and cut off the manhood he values so
dear!” He stormed into the antechamber, still shouting uproarious threats for
de Troiu. Somewhere in the midst of the raging they heard glass breaking.

Paris flinched as a piece of glass
came sailing into the room, moving away from the door and over to William. Even
with Ranulf’s tantrum, William was visibly calming.

“What now?” Paris asked of him.

William’s arms came down from the
wall. “I will send someone to London to retrieve my wife.”

“What of de Troiu?” Paris asked
warily.

William was almost too calm now. “I
considered Daniel my friend once.”

Paris looked at him, aware that
William would not meet his eye.

“The man signed his own death
warrant the minute he laid eyes on your wife,” he said in a low voice. “Even at
her wedding to de Longley, he seemed overly solicitous. But what of Henry?
Surely he will have something to say about all of this?”

William shrugged. “Henry has too
many other pressing problems to worry over two feuding barons.”

“I shall ride for London and
retrieve Jordan myself,” Paris said.

“Nay, as captain of the forces you
cannot,” William said, trying to right a broken chair and finally giving up. “Henry
knows you and he would want to know why you are away from your providence.
Which is why I cannot go, he would not let me return to Northwood if he thought
things were calm enough that I tend to a personal errand.”

“Who goes, then?” Paris demanded.

William looked at him. “Where is
Payton-Forrester?”

Paris scowled. “Him? Why in the hell
him with all of your loyal vassals here at Northwood?”

“That,” William jabbed a finger at
him, “is precisely why. All of my vassals are too close to the situation, they
would all have the exact same reaction as we did when we read the missive, and
murder would be foremost on their minds. When de Troiu meets God, it will be by
my hands alone. We need someone with a lesser interest to retrieve my wife.”

Paris nodded grimly, both men calm
and steady again. Even Ranulf had stopped his raging and was calmly standing in
the doorway.

“Ranulf, send a missive back with
the messenger and address it to the knights guarding my wife, especially Sir Roan
d’Vant.” William was wiping away the splintered wood from his knuckles. “Tell
Roan that they are to prevent Baron de Troiu from contacting my wife at all
costs. He is not to go near her. Also inform them that I will be sending
someone to bring her back to Northwood shortly, and that I wish for the knights
protecting Jordan to accompany her home as well.”

“As you command, my lord.”

Paris turned to his friend when the
knight was gone. “You do not blame her, do you?”

William shook his head. “Nay, Paris,
I think I know my wife well enough to know that whatever she might have done to
encourage him, she was completely innocent. Hell, you said yourself he was
after her at the wedding. Even Michael commented on it.” He shook the dust and
splinters from his hair. “Jordan is so damn trusting. She sees only the good in
people and overlooks their flaws, which in de Troiu’s case is the fact that he
is a rake. She probably just enjoyed having someone she knew to talk to.”

“And de Troiu took advantage of her
trusting nature,” Paris growled. “The man is a goddamn vulture.”

William went into the antechamber,
pouring water in the basin to clean the cuts on his hands. Paris followed him,
pouring himself a cup of wine.

“I suppose what made me the most
angry is that I am not there to defend my wife,” William said after a few
moments. “She is living in Sodom and I am not there to protect her from people
like de Troiu. Now everyone, including the king, most likely thinks ill of her
when it simply isn’t true.”

Paris sipped his wine. “I have no
doubt that you will set them all straight when you return,” he said. “But you
had absolutely no choice whether or not to leave her in London. She had just
given birth and could not be moved, and you were mobilizing an army. ‘Twas bad
circumstances.”

William looked up at his friend,
pain deep in the hazel-gold depths. “I want her back here with me,” he said
quietly. “I miss her, Paris. I miss my children. De Troiu is going to die for
the slander he has caused, I swear it.”

Paris set down the cup. “I know,” he
said, then brushed at the dirt on William’s shoulder. “Hell, man, you’d better
take a bath. You look like a peasant with all of that dirt. And you smell bad,
too.”

William cocked an eyebrow at him. “I
am surprised you can smell me over yourself,” he quipped, once again feeling in
control of himself.

He took the longest bath he could
ever remember taking.

***

Nearly two weeks after the first
attack was launched, Northwood finally began digging out from beneath the
rubble. The weather actually cleared a bit, but it was still freezing and
blustery as soldiers and knights and peasants worked side by side to repair
their once-proud fortress.

William had spent the morning in
conference with William Payton-Forrester and Captain Brockenhurst, relaying the
contents of the missive from his wife and listening to their varied advice.
With the Scots subdued for the moment, Payton-Forrester insisted William should
ride to London himself with the full complement of Northwood knights to
retrieve his wife. He and Brockenhurst could remain until they returned, but
William was reluctant.

“If I return myself, Henry will
demand I stay,” William told the men.

Payton-Forrester sat on the edge of
the huge oak table, tossing his long blond hair over his shoulders. “Tell old
Henry that you must return your wife safely to Northwood and remain there
should the Scots act up again.”

“That’s right,” Brockenhurst put in.
“Simply tell Henry that the battle is not over yet. Northwood must be protected
until she can be rebuilt, which could take months.”

William glanced at his friends,
mulling over their words. “Then what would justify me bringing my wife and
children back to a compromised fortress when they could just as easily remain
within the safety of Windsor?” he asked softly. “Do I tell Henry that I fear
for my wife’s reputation? That I must have her with me at all costs, even if it
jeopardizes her life? If the battle with the Scots is not over, then she should
not be here. It is logical that she remain in London.”

“Henry has heard the rumors,
William,” Payton-Forrester said pointedly. “He would not fault you for wanting
to remove your wife for your own peace of mind.”

The man had a valid point. The more
he thought about it, the more convinced he was that he should take all of his
knights and retrieve his wife.

Yet his only real concern was the
words of Thomas Scott - the attacking army had been using Jordan as a whipping
post for their hate. If indeed the battle was not over yet, then could he truly
risk her safety by bringing her here? God help him, what if the worst happened
and the Scots overran Northwood on their second attempt and got a hold of his
wife? He shook himself; that simply would not happen. Jordan was as safe here
as if God himself protected her.

He stood up. “Very well,” he said. “You
gentle men have convinced me that only I should withdraw my wife. ‘Tis my duty
as her husband. I think I will take my knights, as well as Northwood’s,
including Paris. William, can you spare me your second?”

Payton-Forrester nodded. “Gainsborough?
Of course. Steven and I can hold Northwood until you return.”

“I shall leave de Moray here and the
entire army, so I doubt you will have any problems while I am gone,” William
said. “I will, however, take one hundred men-at-arms with me as well, and with
John Gainsborough I will have ten knights. With Lewis dead and Adam the new earl,
I am down two.”

He walked from the room flanked by
his two friends.

“I should like to go with you as
well, William,” Payton-Forrester grinned. “To see de Troiu’s face when he sees
you have come for Jordan would be worth the hard ride tenfold.”

“As would I,” Brockenhurst agreed
solemnly. De Troiu was his liege. “William, I do not know what to say about the
earl’s actions except he is a man with little morals and even less subtlety. I
am deeply ashamed by his actions.”