“De Wolfe?” he repeated. “Castle Questing?”
Tor shook his head. “Blackpool,” he said. “It is north of here.”
Fraser nodded. “I know,” he said. “We heard that de Wolfe now occupies it.”
“For eight years now.”
Fraser dipped his head politely. “Then it is an honor to finally make your acquaintance,” he said, but his attention returned to Gilbert. “My lord, I have just been told that Lady Isalyn has returned. How long has she been here?”
Gilbert held up a weary hand. He didn’t want to deal with his headstrong daughter’s behavior at the moment but was forced to by necessity.
“Not long,” he said. “She was in Haltwhistle. These good knights escorted her home.”
Fraser looked between Tor and Nat again, and it was apparent that he was fighting off a wicked surge of annoyance. But to his credit, he remained calm even though he had been out for hours, searching for the errant daughter of his liege. With a heavy sigh, he set his helm onto the table near Nat and began to remove his heavy gloves.
“I see,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I have been all over the countryside looking for her and she was in Haltwhistle all along?”
Gilbert nodded. “At least she did not go far this time.”
“It seems that all I have done since she arrived is chase her all over this valley, my lord.”
Gilbert had no energy to show any concern for that situation. “She will return to London soon and we shall no longer be concerned for her,” he said. “But, Fraser… these knights have come bearing news of Steffan.”
“What of him?”
“He is dead.”
Fraser’s eyes widened for a brief moment, but he controlled himself. His attention moved to Tor, sitting across from Gilbert.
“What happened?” he asked steadily.
Tor simply repeated what he’d told Gilbert. “He entered into a betrothal with a de Wolfe daughter,” he said. “He chose to flee the day of the wedding and when we caught up to him, he chose to fight rather than be forced into honoring his word. He lost the fight.”
Fraser didn’t seem surprised by that statement in the least, but he was shocked by the news. He ended up sitting in the nearest chair, trying not to appear as stunned as he felt. After a few moments, he finally shook his head.
“Far be it for me to speak ill of the dead, but this is not shocking news,” he said. “Steffan did as Steffan pleased.”
Gilbert looked over him. “Not now, Fraser.”
But Fraser ignored his plea. “My lord, Steffan made no secret of that fact,” he said. “He has shamed the de Featherstone name time and time again, now with the House of de Wolfe. God’s Bones, do you realize how powerful they are? They could destroy us with very little effort. And your son has affronted the house? Have you asked them what they wish for compensation?”
He wasn’t being belligerent, simply forthright. Tor took his question seriously.
“We have asked for no compensation,” he said. “We have not come to demand it. We have come to inform Lord de Featherstone that his son has been killed and that we have brought him home.”
Both Gilbert and Fraser looked at him sharply. “Home?” Gilbert said sharply. “Where is he?”
“On my horse.”
Gilbert’s mouth popped open again. “God’s Bones,” he muttered. “I came out into the bailey… I came because my daughter had been brought home… are you telling me that Steffan is on the back of your horse?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“I was that close to him?”
“Aye, my lord.”
He bolted up from his chair. “Then I must retrieve him at once. At once!”
Fraser was on his feet, as were Tor and Nat. Gilbert was muttering to himself, something about collecting his son, and began to scurry from the hall. Fraser was on his heels and because they were nearly running, Tor and Nat were nearly running as well. Everyone was nearly running at that point.
By the time they reached the entry door, they began to hear the screams.
CHAPTER FIVE
Damn the man for chasing her out of his hall.
True to form, Isalyn did not go to the kitchens or to her chamber as her father had instructed. She had spent many years away from her father and his commands, so she wasn’t going to start listening to him now. Instead, she had gone back the way she had come, out into the bailey with a blustery storm gathering overhead.
Even as she stood there, she could feel raindrops falling inconsistently and thunder rolled in the distance. She glanced up into the sky, watching the pewter-colored clouds as they collected, and the wind was beginning to pick up.
It was going to be a good storm.
But it was nothing like the storm in her heart. The moment in the hall with her father was so typical of so many moments with him. It seemed to her that when her mother was alive, he had been far more congenial and sweet. She remembered the affection between her parents, something that had changed so drastically in what seemed to be such a short amount of time. She had such memories of her parents’ affection and then, suddenly, it was gone.
Even though her father had summoned her from London under the pretense of an illness, something that would indicate he wanted her with him, he still had no ability to behave towards her as a father should. Affectionately, kindly. It was as if he didn’t know how to behave with her at all and considering how much time she had spent with her mother in London, she was virtually a stranger to him.
And he was a stranger to her.
Isalyn had always wished that she had asked her mother what had happened between her and her father, but the woman had been so sick in the last few years of her life that Isalyn didn’t want to bring up the past. Her mother never spoke of Gilbert, as if he were dead to her somehow, but perhaps if she had asked about the situation, she might understand him a little better. As it was, she knew nothing.
He never even tried to get to know her, not even when she appeared a month ago at his summons. It was as if her coming had been enough for him, because there had been no grateful reunion or meaningful conversations.
But there had been some consternation on his part.
Isalyn wasn’t a calm, obedient girl. She had a mind of her own. Consequently, her behavior confused and upset him, but he never once tried to talk to her about it. The more she did as she pleased, the more he seemed to distance himself. Isalyn’s mother had given her so much freedom and so much encouragement to do what she wanted to do, and that was the way Isalyn lived her life. Her mother had known about the plays she had written and she had even read a couple of them until her illness consumed her. She had been proud of her daughter’s creativity and had never tried to discourage her, something that was rare for a parent to do with a female child.
The rain began to come down a little more steadily as Isalyn reflected on her relationship with her father. It had been embarrassing when he’d spoken so condescendingly to her in front of Tor, but rather than snapping back, she had kept her mouth shut. When every cell in her body was demanding she resist, there was a part of her that didn’t want Tor to see that. She had already impressed upon the man just how independent and strong she was, and she was certain that he was intimidated by that. Any man would have been. Being independent was one thing, but being sassy and disobedient was quite another.
She just didn’t want Tor to think badly of her.
Why on earth that should matter to her, she didn’t know. But it did.
In fact, even thinking about him made her smile. Perhaps it was the patience he had shown her since the very beginning of their association. She’d never seen a man with more patience. He had saved her life and how had she thanked him? She had been rude. And nasty. But she had apologized for it, bought him a meal, and he had forgiven her. Their conversation at the Crown and Sword had been one of the better ones she’d ever had.
Or perhaps it wasn’t the conversation as much as it was the company.
Curious, she made her way across the courtyard, pelted by occasional fat raindrops and thinking that perhaps she should find some shelter because she didn’t want to ruin the red damask she was wearing. Across the courtyard, where the horses were tethered, was a doorway that led inside and she headed in that direction.
But that path took her by Tor’s fat horse and something made her pause next to the animal. Maybe she simply wanted to get a good look at the horse, an animal he would have undoubtedly taken into battle. In London, she wasn’t exposed much to the warlords or knights, so battle to her was more of a concept than something she had any experience with. Bloodthirsty knights who fought with barbaric Scotsman or uncivilized Welsh were about all she knew of the fighting class. Her world had always been a somewhat sheltered and civilized existence, where things like that didn’t much exist.
She had never shown much interest in that world but, suddenly, she was.
That world had Tor in it.
At that point, Isalyn was standing at the horse’s head and the animal noticed her, lifting its muzzle out of the water. It was a very pretty horse, even if he was big and hairy and strange-looking. There was something in his eyes that looked almost gentle and, on impulse, she reached out to pet him.
It was the wrong move.
The horse, startled by the hand in its face, jumped back and reared up. It was enough of a jolt to knock that enormous bundle on its hindquarters onto the ground and as Isalyn watched, the bundle became undone and part of an arm was exposed. Curiosity turned to horror as she realized that the wet blanket concealed a corpse, but that wasn’t the worst of it. A big gust of wind lifted up part of the horse blanket that the corpse was wrapped in, revealing its head.
She recognized the hair and the somewhat distorted features. Even though she hadn’t seen him in a few years, still, she never forgot a face.
Isalyn found herself looking at her very dead brother.
Her screams filled the air.
By the time Tor hit the bailey along with Gilbert, Nat, and Fraser, everyone seemed to be in an uproar and it all seemed to be centered around Enbarr. There was more screaming going on and, quickly, Tor pushed through a crowd of soldiers to see what they were looking at.
Then, he could instantly see what happened.
Somehow, some way, Steffan’s body had been dislodged from the back of his horse. It now lay up on the ground, in the mud, and the horse blanket that had been tightly wrapped around it had partially come off. But that wasn’t the worst part – Enbarr, startled by the surge of the crowd and the screams that seemed to be echoing off the walls of the manse, was dancing around in a jittery fashion. In the process, he had stepped on Steffan’s body repeatedly.
What they had was a mess.
“God,” Tor groaned, shoving some soldiers aside as he hastened to calm his panicking steed. He grasped the horse’s head, struggling to calm the beast. “Easy, Enbarr. Be easy, lad.”
Quickly, he untied the reins that had the animal tethered to a post, pulling the animal away from the body on the ground. There were horrified stable servants standing around, watching the spectacle, and he grabbed the nearest man by the collar and yanked him over to the horse.
“You will tend my horse,” he growled. “Your life depends on how well you tend him. See that he is calmed and fed and watered. Is this in any way unclear?”
The petrified servant nodded, quickly taking Enbarr and leading him off towards the stables. Tor would have liked to have tended his horse personally, but he had a bigger matter on his hands. He made his way back to the trampled body on the ground, now as Gilbert bent over it, trying not to weep.
“My son,” the man said tightly, looking at the rotting remains. “My poor boy.”
He didn’t seem to know what to do other than stand there and grieve, so Tor swung into action. He snapped his fingers at Nat and motioned to the body. Taking the hint, Nat bent over and flipped the blanket back over the body to cover it, as least as much as he was able. The blanket was matted and filthy from having been stepped on. Both Tor and Nat lifted the edges of the horse blanket and used it like a litter.
“Where do you want him, my lord?” Tor asked.
Gilbert was clearly shaken, now being forced to process Tor’s question. “To… to the vault, I suppose,” he said hoarsely. “I have nowhere else to put him. We must take him to the vault.”
With that, he put his hand over his mouth, perhaps to hold back the horror of what he had witnessed, and turned for the door that led down into the storage vaults. Tor and Nat started to follow, but Fraser put his hand on Tor’s arm.
“I will take him,” he said quietly. “He has already been enough of a burden to you, my lord.”
It was a soft, polite statement. Tor didn’t sense anything hostile from the man, simply an offer to help. Fraser seemed to be quite on edge about a potential conflict with the House of de Wolfe, so he was on his best behavior. Therefore, Tor turned over his ends of the blanket to Gilbert’s knight, who assumed the load. Along with Nat, they followed Gilbert’s trail to the vault. Tor began to follow as well until he caught sight of Isalyn, standing over near a small animal pen.
His attention shifted.
Isalyn had her back turned and even from where he stood, Tor could see her shoulders heaving. It took him a moment to realize that she was weeping and it occurred to him just where those horrified screams had come from.
Her.
With regret, he made his way over to her. As he drew closer, he could hear her sniffling.
“My lady?” he said gently.
Startled by his voice, Isalyn whirled to see who it was and just as quickly turned away. “I… I do not need assistance,” she said, wiping her face. “I am well enough.”
Tor wasn’t a man immune to emotion but, truth be told, he was good at keeping it bottled up. He wasn’t one to take on someone else’s grief or even show much sympathy but, at the moment, he felt a good deal of pity for Isalyn. She had witnessed something that would have turned the stomach of the strongest man, so he felt sorry for her. She may have been brave and bold, but she wasn’t hardened.
Perhaps he felt a little more concern than he should have.
“I am sorry that you had to see that,” he said. “Had your father permitted you to remain in the hall, you would have known of your brother’s passing and you certainly would not have seen… that.”
Isalyn wiped furiously at her face, struggling to compose herself and pretend as if she were completely unscathed. “It is of no consequence,” she said. “Steffan is dead.”
“He is.”
“Then the business you had with my father was to bring his body home.”
“It was.”
She turned to look at him, watery-eyed. “It has occurred to me that my brother was that horrible smell you said was coming off the meadows.”
Tor couldn’t very well lie to her. “It was,” he said. “I apologize for lying to you, but I was trying to spare your delicate senses.”
Isalyn understood that but her manner suggested she was perturbed by his attempt to shield her. “I know,” she said. “But I am not a weakling. You could have told me the truth.”
Tor tried not to look contrite, as if he’d done something wrong. “You are definitely not a weakling,” he said. “But what I did, I did to protect you, my lady. It will not happen again.”
She looked at him. “Of course it will not happen again,” she said. “I only have one brother. You have many, but I only have one and he was not a very good brother at that. Mayhap I should not have said that, but it is true. I hardly knew him. Steffan and I lived apart for so many years that I never really knew the man.”
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br /> She was trying so very hard to pretend that none of this mattered, but her chin was still trembling, as if she were going to break down in tears at any moment. Tor wasn’t sure what to say to her, so he fell back on the obvious.
“I am sorry for your loss, my lady,” he said. “I hope you will forgive me my… mistake of trying to protect you from the truth.”
Her gaze lingered on him a moment before drifting out over the bailey, catching a glimpse of her father and Fraser and Nat as they ducked into the stairwell that led down to the vaults, carting that putrid mess between them. The rain was falling a little harder now, thunder rippling overhead.
“How did my father take the news?” she asked. “He did not seem particularly hysterical when he saw my brother’s body lying there.”
“He took it bravely,” Tor said. “But I am sure that he is quite troubled by it. It is his son, after all.”
Isalyn’s attention was on the manse, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Her dark blue eyes reflected both turmoil and truth.
“Steffan was a disgrace,” she said quietly. “He always did as he pleased and my father never stopped him. Even before my parents decided to live separately, Steffan would do naughty things to me and he was never punished.”
Tor found himself watching her lush mouth as she spoke. “What did he do to you?”
She sighed faintly, thinking back to that time of youth, those days she didn’t like to think about. “Pull my hair,” she said. “He was always pulling my hair. Once, he tied my braids in a knot and my mother had to cut my hair to get the knot out. He would catch flies and pull the wings off of them just to see them suffer. He had a dog that he would kick constantly. I finally took the dog and hid it. It became my dog, but I had to keep it in my room always so Steffan would not find it. It became a very spoiled dog who slept in my bed and ate from my plate, but someone told Steffan I had the dog and, one day, the dog just disappeared. I never saw it again. When I asked Steffan where the dog was, he told me the animal got what it deserved and would not tell me more. I loved that dog.”
WolfeStrike (de Wolfe Pack Generations Book 2) Page 9