“What goes on hither?” Folding his arms, Atticus glared at Titus and then Arsenius. “It appears a couple of braying asses have ventured into the great hall.”
“Mayhap a visit to the sanctuary and an afternoon spent in reflective prayer will do them some good.” Adopting a similar portentous stance, Uncle Titus bared his teeth. “But first my son will right his clothing and comb his hair, that he might greet his future wife in a manner befitting a De Wolfe, as her traveling party is just arrived.”
“Yes, Father.” Arsenius shuffled to his feet, turned, and extended a hand, which Titus accepted. “Apologies, cousin. I should not have charged you.”
“And, as the eldest, he should not have engaged you.” No, it did not surprise Titus that his father criticized him. “Thus my son owes you the apology.”
“That is not necessary.” Arsenius slapped Titus on the back. “After all, we are family.”
“But it is, according to the great Lion of the North.” Titus gritted his teeth and then bowed, with a flourish, to further irritate his father. “Dear cousin Arsenius, I humbly beg your forgiveness for my shameful behavior, good sirrah.”
“Enough.” Father folded his arms. “I will speak with you in the solar—now.”
“Of course.” With a swagger, Titus held high his chin and marched to the master’s chamber, whither he would endure another lecture on honor and duty. “Shall I save you the time and trouble and recite the usual oratory, to myself? I can use the long mirror in my quarters and adopt your stance.”
“You will hear what I have to say, and then you will present yourself in the bailey, to greet your cousin’s betrothed.” In the solar, Father slammed shut the door. “And you will do naught to embarrass the De Wolfe name.”
“Wherefore do you not admit that my very existence is an embarrassment to the De Wolfes?” Tired of games he no longer wished to play, Titus smacked a fist to a palm. “If you prefer, I will refuse the King’s command, and then you would never again have to look upon my face, as I have disappointed you so.”
“Wherefore do you speak such nonsense?” Whereas Titus thought his father would relish the opportunity to rid himself of his mistake, Papa seemed shocked. “You are my son, and I love you.”
Titus searched for a ribald reply, anything to break free of the invisible prison manifested by his father’s declaration, but he could form no response. Indeed, he simply stood there, as Papa wrapped his arms about Titus.
“Regardless of what I do, no matter how many battles I fight, I can never live up to your deeds.” As he did as a child, Titus rested his head to his father’s shoulder and found long absent comfort. “I am sorry that I failed you, but it is not easy being your son.”
“You think you tell me something I know not?” Father released Titus and retreated a step. “I am the son of Solomon De Wolfe, and we are all descended of the famed William De Wolfe. However, we cannot live in the shadow of great men, as they are gone and have passed into the annals of history. They benefit from human forgetfulness, as we only recall their triumphs and not their failures. As the living, we can only do our best, forge our own path, and be satisfied with the outcome. For you, I want naught but your happiness, which you must define, for yourself. Find that, and you will be a success, my son.”
“Wherefore have you never said these things to me, ere now?” Titus stretched tall and met his father’s stare. “Wherefore did you not talk to me?”
“Because I did not see you as a man, until now.” Papa grinned and shook his head. “I suppose it is because you are about to take a wife. But to me, you will always be my son, who used to cling to my legs whenever I returned to the Lair. There is much more I would say, but we must receive the Arscotts, so our discussion must wait, until the morrow, ere you take your vows. Today, you must prepare yourself to stand at my side, as my firstborn. As my heir. One day, all this will be yours, when you take my place as master of the Lair.”
“I will, Father.” With much to ponder, Titus wiped his brow and considered Arsenius’s advice, as well as Papa’s words of encouragement. “But I could only succeed you.”
~
It was dawn as the Burville traveling coach navigated the Scottish village, climbed the vast expanse, and crossed the bridge of the Lair, high atop Wolflee Hill, conveying Rosenwyn to her doom. At the massive, wrought iron portcullis, the equipage slowed, and from the barbican, several soldiers took up arms, as though the enemy advanced. So that was how the De Wolfe’s welcomed her.
“Who seeks passage?” a guard inquired.
“The Burvilles.” Petroc cast a dour frown, mirroring her mood, which had only deteriorated since they departed Tharnham, given Mama constantly wept. “We bring Lady Rosenwyn to her wedding.”
“Of course, my lord.” The guard whistled, and the huge wood panel creaked and groaned. “The honorable Sir Atticus De Wolfe expects you. Welcome to the Lair.”
In the bailey, servants and soldiers rushed in all directions, and a line composed of elegantly dressed ladies and knights formed at the entry to the impressive residence. As she descended to the gravel surface, she swayed, and Petroc offered support.
“I do not think I can do this, brother.” Her knees buckled, as a mountainous figure of a man charged forth, to steady her, and she wanted to scream. Piercing blue eyes seemed to cut through her, when they touched, and she stumbled back, but he held fast. “I beg your pardon. Unhand me, sir.”
“Let go of my sister.” Petroc rose to her defense, but the mountain brushed aside her brother, as though he were naught but a feather.
“Easy, Burville, as I mean no offense.” The mountain gave her his full attention, and she admired his chiseled, patrician features and thick brown hair. “Lady Rosenwyn, I presume?” The scourge had the audacity to address her.
“Indeed.” She tried but failed to wrench free and pitied any woman who had to deal with the mountain on a regular basis. “And I do not believe we are acquainted.”
“Apologies, if I frightened you, but you appeared on the verge of fainting. Permit me to introduce my parents and the masters of the Lair.” He pointed to a distinguished couple. “I present my father, the Lion of the North, Sir Atticus de Wolfe, and my mother, Lady Isobeau.” Still clutching her fingers, the mountain clicked the heels of his boots and bowed. “And I am Sir Titus de Wolfe, your fiancé.”
In that instant, Rosenwyn yielded to a black veil of silence.
Floating in some strange yet comforting pall of darkness, she thought someone called her name, but she could not respond. Little by little, the fog cleared, and she discovered herself reclining in a bed, with Mama at one side and Lady Isobeau at the other.
“What happened?” When Rosenwyn attempted to sit upright, everything spun out of control, and she doubled over. “Prithee, tell me I did not embarrass myself and my family.”
“Have care, child.” Offering naught but kindness, Lady Isobeau pressed a cool cloth to Rosenwyn’s forehead. “My son gave you quite a shock, and I will have words with him, as he knows better.”
In a rapid assault on her senses, a series of images flashed before her, all centering on the mountain that was to be her husband, and the room seemed to spin ever faster, thus she clutched the bedclothes. “Oh.”
“Hither, my dear.” Mama held a goblet. “Have some water, as it will refresh you.”
“I do not want water, Mama.” Rosenwyn brushed aside the cloth, as Lady Isobeau fluffed a pillow. “I should like to replay our arrival, sans the swooning and my resulting shame. How can I show my face after this?”
“I am afraid there is no time to mull the question, as Lady Senara’s wedding to my nephew, Sir Arsenius, takes place before the noon meal, and you must dress for the ceremony.” Lady Isobeau inclined her head and smiled. “But I can assure you no one thinks ill of you, Lady Rosenwyn, so you need not fret. Shall I send my attendant to help you change?”
“Thank you, Lady Isobeau.” Rosenwyn nodded, as she scooted to the edge of the mattres
s.
Somehow, in the midst of the unsettling developments, she forgot about her childhood friend who shared the same fate. Regardless of her fears and hesitation, she had to support Senara.
After donning a black kirtle, with a V-neck, which she filled with a sheer linen partlet, to preserve her modesty, and a fur-trimmed, burgundy giornea bedecked in old gold, Rosenwyn sat before the long mirror, as the servant affixed a bejeweled wimple.
Satisfied with her appearance, she stood, smoothed her skirt, and inhaled a deep breath. Rolling her shoulders, she walked to the portal, grasped the iron ring, and opened the door.
In the hall, she found her mother and Lady Isobeau.
“Lady Rosenwyn, you are a vision, and I am certain my son will count himself fortunate to have you for a wife.” Lady Isobeau extended a hand and flicked her fingers. “Anon, let us away, as the wedding party has already departed for the chapel.”
“Am I to ride with Sir Titus?” Rosenwyn braced for the possibility, as her husband-to-be terrified her.
“Nay, child.” Lady Isobeau giggled. “He accompanied his cousin to the chapel, so you need not worry about another exchange.”
“I am so sorry, if I offended your family, Lady Isobeau.” Rosenwyn trailed in the noblewoman’s wake. “But I know not what to make of him, and he can be rather provoking.”
“That is putting it mildly.” As Lady Isobeau descended the stairs, she peered over her shoulder. “My dear, De Wolfe men are no real mystery. For all their size, bluster, and aggression, the great warrior knights are but simple creatures in possession of two elementary needs, which define them, through and through.” The emphasis in Lady Isobeau’s voice gave Rosenwyn pause, and she yielded to nervous laughter. “The first resides in their bellies. The second…well, I gather your mother has discussed the requisite duties associated with the marriage bed. Satisfy both demands, and you will have no difficulties managing my son.”
“Indeed?” Given Isobeau’s bold statement, Rosenwyn feared she might faint, again. The only problem was Mama neglected to enlighten Rosenwyn on that particular aspect of the marital relationship. To her chagrin and mortification, she knew naught of her future husband’s expectations, in that respect, and her mind ran wild with all manner of torturous assumptions, which wreaked havoc on her composure, and she tripped, as they walked into the bailey.
“Rosenwyn, are you all right?” Mama frowned and then drew near. “In our haste to depart Cornwall, I did not consider the intimate details of your impending wedding. Mayhap this eventide, we can explore the more delicate aspects of your future union and the services you must render.”
“Gramercy, Mama.” On the outside, Rosenwyn fought to convey an air of confidence, but on the inside she trembled, as she stepped into the coach.
Her father promised that, when the time came to select a match for his only daughter, he would allow her some influence. His Majesty honored no such pledge, and her desires factored not, in the end. One thing was certain; she never would have picked a man like Titus de Wolfe.
The mountain, as she thought of him, posed danger unlike any she had ever confronted, and she knew not how to handle him, despite Lady Isobeau’s assurances. As Rosenwyn joined the family, in the chapel, she craned her neck to gain sight of Lady Senara.
To Rosenwyn’s horror, her friend confronted another enormous male specimen, who stood at equal height to Sir Titus. As the couple clasped hands, and the ceremony commenced, she could not contain her tears. When she surveyed the crowd, she met Titus’s stare and almost shrieked. Wherefore did he watch her? Slowly, he smiled, and she leaped to her feet.
Ere she disrupted the event; she retreated to the rear and fled to a narrow corridor, which led to a second smaller sanctuary. At the tiny altar, she collapsed to her knees and bit the fleshy underside of her hand to stifle her sobs of misery.
“Lady Rosenwyn, are you unwell?” At Titus’s prompt, she sat on her ankles and wiped her cheeks, with the back of her hand. “Shall I escort you to your chambers?”
“Wherefore do you want me?” Without care for her person, she challenged her adversary. “Wherefore does Sir Arsenius want Lady Senara? She is my friend. I have known her all my life. We grew up together. She was to marry my brother and become my sister, in truth, and now it is all gone. Wherefore, I ask you?”
“Because His Majesty decrees otherwise, my lady.” To her shock, which seemed the usual state with her fiancé, he squatted beside her, which only emphasized the difference in their sizes. “And as the King’s knight, I am honor bound to obey.”
“Is that how you go about your life?” Regardless of his beauteous face, she longed to hate him, and she summoned ire at the unfairness of her betrothal. “You obey the King’s edicts, without protest? Have you no will of your own? What manner of man are you?”
“One that understands duty, my lady.” When Titus reached for her, she flinched. “You fear me.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“Of course, I fear you.” Recalling the nuptials taking place in the nave, she lowered her voice. “For all I know, you killed my beloved father. You stood against a group of nobles, farmers, and miners, when their cause was right and true, and you slaughtered them.”
“Lady Rosenwyn, as you are to be my wife, I am no threat to you.” When guests lingered in the hall, he caught her about the waist, lifted her as he stood, and carried her to the corner, shielded from view. As she made to object, he pressed a finger to her lips. “Shh. Unless you want an audience.”
“Nay.” In such close confines, she could not help but study her fiancé. Under other circumstances, she might have found him a suitable husband, but not when she was forced to the altar. “Neither do I welcome your company.”
“I cannot blame you, as I felt the same way, when I was informed of what His Majesty considers my good fortune.” With tenderness of which she thought him incapable, he caressed her cheek. “But I am not ignorant to the fact that my reward comes at your expense, and I would make amends, if you permit it.”
“How?” What he proposed struck her as impossible. “Sir Titus, at the risk of offending you, I do not trust you.”
“That is understandable, and I bear no ill will, my lady.” Even though they eluded discovery, he held her in his unrelenting embrace. “While I am sure you never could have anticipated the outcome of the battle, I have always known that my bride would be chosen for me, not by me, as I serve at the King’s leisure. I wed by his commission.”
“Do you wish to marry me?” Wherefore she posed the query she knew not, but his answer would determine her course of action.
“Aye.” When she gasped, he chuckled. “My lady, let me assure you, I did not harbor such sentiment when I first learned of my fate.”
“Oh?” Perchance they shared more in common than Rosenwyn realized. “What swayed your thinking?”
“You.” In that moment, he lifted her higher, bringing them nose-to-nose, and she pressed her palms to his chest. “As I said, I never expected my wishes to factor in the Crown’s selection of my bride, but I am grateful for His Majesty’s choice, because you are quite beauteous, Lady Rosenwyn, if I may be so bold. But more than your appearance, I value your spirit, which you evidence in your undeniable honesty. In short, a De Wolfe has no need of a simple wife. Rather, he wants a partner, and I believe you more than capable, thus you fulfill my standards, in every way.”
“But you hardly know me.” Yet, she could not argue his position, when they aligned so perfectly with hers. “And as I said, how can I trust you?”
“Dear lady, that will come in time, as I get to know you, and you get to know me.” Something in his demeanor told her that he referred to more than everyday habits and favorite foods, and she shivered. “For now, let us join the wedding celebration, as the ceremony is ended. And I suggest you rest, this eventide, as we marry, on the morrow, and begin our life, together.”
_________________
CHAPTER THREE
The sun peeked above the horizon, on his wedding day, as Titus stood before the lancet window in the solar and tugged at his black tunic, which matched his mood, as so much remained unsettled between him and his bride-to-be. As he pondered Lady Rosenwyn’s response to his proposal, he also reflected on the advice given by his mother and Aunt Desi, none of which inspired confidence.
How was he to make sense of the nonsensical?
“Nervous, cousin?” When Titus peered over his shoulder, he discovered Arsenius standing in the doorway. That was just what he needed, a thorn in his side, to distract him, as he prepared to take his vows. “Planning to flee the ceremony?”
“I am still surprised you made it to yours, and what are you doing hither?” Titus snickered, as he honed a rapier retort. “I thought you would be busy with your new wife, but you look rather rested for a fledgling husband. Bored so soon, or did she banish you from her bed, already?”
“Not that it is any of your affair, but I granted my nervous young bride a deferment, as our mothers suggested, that Senara and I might know each other before we know each other, and she was grateful.” Folding his arms, Arsenius arched a brow and appeared a little too pleased with himself. “It is called consideration. You should try it, you abyss of unknowing.”
“What is this?” Father entered the solar, along with Uncle Titus. “Must we separate you, as we would two mischievous children?”
“Nay, Father.” In play, Titus punched his cousin in the shoulder, which harkened to cherished days of old. “Arsenius was just offering his usual, unfailing support.”
“Is that so?” Uncle Titus cast an expression of pure skepticism. “And wherefore is my son imparting unsolicited advice, when he should be tending his bride, given his young tenure as a spouse?”
“Especially since your last suggestion yielded naught but an upset belly and visions I may never erase from my mind, which haunted me in slumber.” Titus recalled the conversation with their mothers, on the eve of Arsenius’s wedding, concerning the deflowering, which failed miserably, and he swallowed hard. “You should be whipped for that gem of insanity.”
World of De Wolfe Pack: Tall, Dark & De Wolfe (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 3) Page 3