Lone Wolfe

by Barbara Devlin

  “Then I shall see thee at dinner, in our room.” With that, he left her to her own ends.

  In the reception hall, Desi slowed as she strolled past Richart and whispered, “Come with me.”

  Mulling the circumstances, she did not stop until she gained the confines of the solar. On the side table, her husband’s parchment, inkhorn, seal, and quill rested. Writing with precision, she composed an argument she could only pray moved the recipient. Second-guessing her plan, she paused, and her fingers shook.

  Logic suggested her reasoning was sound, given the lengthy span between Braewood Castle and London, along with the fortuitous shorter distance to Waelmore. With luck on her side, she just might stem the tide. In keeping with her pledge, she resolved to advocate, with unshakable intent, on Titus’s behalf. Thither would be no attempt, as hers was no plea. Nay, she issued a command.

  Clearing his throat, Richart shuffled his feet. “Lady Saint-Germain, how may I be of service?”

  “I require thy utmost discretion, and no one must know of my endeavor, including Sir Titus.” After rolling and sealing the letter, with shoulders squared Desi stood. “Pick thy fastest, most dependable rider, and have this message delivered into the hands of Reolus, the steward of Waelmore Castle.”

  _________________

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The war horn reverberated in the air, as Staatsrat’s troops marched on Braewood Castle. As the enemy attempted to set up a row of trebuchets, Titus organized his attack from high on the curtain wall.

  “Archers at the ready.” A lull fell on the field below, and he waited for the most propitious moment. “Fire.”

  A wave of arrows soared overhead, suspended for a brief second, then descended and found their mark with lethal precision, and the survivors scattered like dust. It was the same tactic from which he had drawn for the past two days, since the hostile army appeared on the verge, and he prayed they could outlast the villainous assault until reinforcements arrived.

  “Shields.” Hoisting his defense, he shouted over his shoulder to the soldiers in the bailey. “Find cover.” An instant anon, the telltale whistle and hum signaled Staatsrat’s response, which played a morose melody as the metal tips struck earth, stone, and armor. “Is everyone all right? Have we any losses?”

  “I believe we escaped unscathed, Sir Titus.” Richart signaled a maid that it was clear to cross the courtyard. “How goes the progress?”

  “It will be nightfall in another few hours.” Titus calculated the distance traveled and frowned. “They may very well reach striking distance on the morrow.”

  “And then, Sir Titus?” The steward grimaced, as a small compliment carried an injured lancer to the physic.

  “God help us.” Just as Titus descended from the tower, another war horn, with a different tone, sounded. He bounded up the narrow spiral staircase and peered from the refuge of the rampart’s crenel. A large armed force occupied a fortuitous position at Staatsrat’s left flank, and even in the distance, he recognized the wolf’s head insignia emblazoned on the standard. “True to his word, Atticus hath journeyed hither.”

  A cheer erupted along the battlement, as a lone rider, bearing the flag of truce, approached from the west.

  “Open the gate.” He ran to greet his relation and almost knocked over Desi. “Woman, wherefore hast thou disobeyed my decree? Go back to our chambers—now.”

  “Nay, I will not.” With a frown, she shook her head. “I will not hide whilst ye doth venture yonder.”

  “Surrender, young nephew.” After dismounting his destrier, Atticus doffed his great helm and sketched bow. “Thou wilt lose that argument.”

  “How dost ye know?” Titus locked arms with his uncle. “It is good to see ye.”

  “I would say the same, but thou dost court a bit of trouble, not the least of which is posited by thy lovelier half.” The Lion of the North laughed and offered an ailette with the De Wolfe’s crest. “Hither, I brought thy new colors. And from that brief exchange, I surmise I married one just like her, thus that is one battle ye will never win.” Then Atticus studied Desi. “And thou would be Lady Desiderata Saint-Germain.”

  “Welcome, sirrah.” Desi curtseyed. “I have heard much about ye, and I owe ye a debt, as thou didst save my husband.”

  “Thank ye, for the warm reception, Lady Saint-Germain.” Atticus clutched her fingers and offered a chaste kiss. “Thou dost owe me naught but thy promise to enjoy a long and healthy life with my nephew, and the debt is discharged.”

  “A soldier advances.” An archer grimaced, as he dipped his chin. “Sorry to interrupt, Sir Titus.”

  “Staatsrat is willing to negotiate, now that he no longer outnumbers ye.” Atticus wiped his face. “Let us meet him on our terms, as no one oppresses a De Wolfe.”

  “And I should come with ye.” Desi’s proclamation was enough to strike terror in his heart. “As thy wife, it is my duty to confront thy troubles, at thy side.”

  “Thou wilt do no such thing.” Titus pulled on his chain mail coif. “Return to our chambers, and lock the door.”

  “Nay.” When she turned her tear-filled gaze on him, Titus damn near dropped to his knees.

  Until Atticus burst into laughter.

  “What dost thou deem so amusing?” Casting his uncle a wicked glare, Titus groaned, as he hugged his bride.

  “Having found myself in similar situations, it is rather satisfying to witness another in such miserable circumstances.” With a smirk, Atticus jumped into the saddle and donned his great helm.

  “Thou art not helping.” Titus huffed a breath in frustration. “Desi, thou must remain within the castle walls, for thy safety.”

  “But I wish to stay with ye.” Despite his armor plate, she squeezed him about the waist. “Hast thou not declared, on numerous occasions, I am quite skilled at negotiations?”

  “I have, but this is another matter, altogether.” He could not stifle a smile, as her conciliations revolved around a particular aspect of their marriage, and in that arena he yielded without complaint. “Go to our room.”

  “I will not.” She vented a whimper. “Rather, I will honor our vows.”

  “Precisely, which is wherefore ye will obey.” Then he seized on her vulnerability. “Else I will banish ye from our bed.”

  “I shall remain hither,” Desi replied, without hesitation.

  In the face of such acquiescence, he could only chuckle. “Have care for thy person, which is most precious to me, and I shall return to thee.”

  “I will never forgive ye if ye do not.” She claimed another kiss. “I love ye.”

  “And I love ye.” With that, he winked, tugged on his helm and gauntlets, and rode beyond the haven of his home.

  “Commiserations.” To Titus’s left, Atticus snorted. “I believe thy woman is far more willful than mine.”

  “Very funny.” Titus reined in as he neared the enemy knights. “Wherefore dost thou occupy my lands?”

  “Thy properties have been reallocated to me, by Hastings.” The bastard sneered. “And I demand ye surrender thy holdings, including Lady Desiderata.”

  “Thou would be Idiot Staatsrat?” Titus bared his teeth.

  “The name is Idaios.” He grasped the hilt of his sword.

  “Evidence to the contrary.” Titus shifted in his saddle. “In any case, thou wilt use the proper address when referencing my wife, Lady Saint-Germain, as she hath been wedded and bedded per the sacrament, thus our union is irreproachable. And Hastings hath no authority to reassign ownership of my estate, so I reject thy petition.”

  At that instant, to his horror, a third war horn echoed, and a massive company of soldiers emerged on the opposite flank, which benefitted from high ground. As Idaios smiled, conveying a countenance of self-satisfied smugness, Titus glanced at Atticus, who arched a brow.

  “Might I suggest thou reconsider?” asked Staatsrat, as he gloated.

  “Well, thou didst know this would not be a fair fight.” Atticus unsheathed his we
apon and nodded, as a single rider, bearing a familiar standard, and with an additional horse in tow, charged the gate. “And I hate to think I traveled all this way to spend a peaceful night in thy accommodations.”

  “It is De Mandeviel’s army.” And Titus’s first thought was that his father-in-law’s troops, whose larger numbers tipped the balance of the engagement in the enemy’s favor, had been commissioned by Staatsrat.

  “Thou art correct, Saint-Germain.” With an air of unmistakable confidence, Staatsrat chortled. “My soon-to-be-in-law’s garrison yields to my orders, and thou cannot triumph, even with the Lancastrian reinforcements. Thus thy head on a pike shall decorate my wedding reception.”

  The lone knight neared and slowed his stallion to a trot, and it was at that very moment Titus noted the second mount bore a bound and gagged prisoner, of sorts. When the fighter lifted his visor, Titus knew not what to expect, but he braced for the worst.

  “A pleasant eventide, sirrahs.” Reolus, the warrior steward from Waelmore Castle grinned and adopted a position to Titus’s right. “Sorry I am late to the battle, but I pushed the men as fast as I could, given the short notice.” Then Reolus glanced at Staatsrat and slapped the rear of the additional horse. “My lord, I return thy unharmed messenger into thy safe keeping, as I do not answer to ye.”

  “What notice?” Confused, Titus accepted a rolled parchment from Reolus. As he scanned the missive, he recognized the script and its exaggerated flourishes. In a flash, he peered over his shoulder and witnessed his errant bride ducking behind the battlement. Yea, he would beat her. “Thou cannot be serious. ‘I hereby command ye to report for duty.’ And thou didst answer the call, without any assurances of its legitimacy?”

  “I beg thy pardon, Sir Titus, as I mean no offense.” Reolus snorted. “But the tone of the letter convinced me of its authenticity, and I did not doubt the author’s personage, thus I am hither.”

  Once again, Atticus rumbled with mirth, and Titus gazed heavenward and sighed. “Staatsrat, thou should thank me, as I saved ye a world of trouble and headaches.” Crumpling the paper, he groaned. “Now, thou wilt concede defeat, relinquish all claims on my property, including my wife, produce Lord de Mandeviel, alive and well, and vacate the Saint-Germain lands, else my allies and I will destroy ye and thy forces. The choice is thine.”

  “Thou dost want naught more?” Staatsrat compressed his lips.

  “Thou hast naught more that I want.” Titus inclined his head and uttered a silent prayer. “Have we an agreement?”

  “We have, Sir Titus.” Staatsrat grasped the rein of the pack-bearing mount, heeled the flanks of his stallion, and returned to his army.

  Exhaling in relief, he turned his destrier. “My friends, I thank ye.”

  Together, they ventured beneath the portcullis, through the barbican, and into the courtyard, whereupon Titus yielded his destrier to the master of the horse and removed his great helm and gauntlets, just as Desi emerged from the garrison.

  “My lord, I know thou art vexed with me.” Standing at attention, she lifted her chin in an affectation of unflinching determination he had come to adore. “Thus I present myself for thy discipline.”

  Without a word, he grasped her arm and led her into their home. In silence, he navigated the corridors until they gained the seclusion of the solar. Only then did he confront her. “Thou didst deliberately disobey my directive, when I asked that ye make no attempt to interfere. Wherefore should I not spank ye?”

  “Because I did no such thing.” Pointing for emphasis, she narrowed her stare. “I issued an unmistakable edict commanding my father’s troops to aid ye, and I submit that was no attempt but, instead, outright action. I will not stand idle whilst ye art threatened, when I might do something to prevent it. If thou didst favor a biddable spouse, thou should not have married me.”

  Titus opened his mouth and then closed it.

  In the face of such reasoning, he had no argument, and he sought one, truly he did, but could devise no counter. So what was a man to do? He spread wide his arms, and his lady ran right into his ready embrace. “Ah, Desi, how I love ye.”

  “And I love ye.” Framing his cheeks, she bit his chin and launched a sensuous assault from which he had no defense. As she suckled his tongue, she moaned, and in the blink of an eye, Titus was aroused.

  Resting his forehead to hers, he cupped her arse, thrust his hips, and rued the armor that functioned as a barrier to his lusty games. “How wonderful is it that I do not begrudge thy uncommon intelligence?”

  “I am quite grateful.” With a telltale gasp, she yanked off his chain mail coif and scored her nails to the nape of his neck. “And my bottom thanks ye, too.” Hungry for something other than food, he bent and swept her off her feet, and she shrieked. “My amorous knight, we have guests, and I should check on Papa.”

  “Let the servants do their work, as thou hast other business, which requires thy urgent attention.” After kicking open the doors to the inner chamber, he flung her to the bed, without ceremony, and ripped off his plate, a piece at a time. “Right now, I wish to celebrate our victory by making love to my wife.”

  ~

  May yielded to June with a blustery gale, and the skies painted a visual tapestry of watercolors, as though even the heavens took note of the historic occasion and signaled its blessings, whilst the large extended family gathered at Braewood Castle for a consequential event of epic proportions.

  For Desi, the chance to meet the De Wolfe’s and the De Shera’s proved a momentous experience for more than one reason, as her new kinsmen presented larger than life characters, and she had joyous news to share, which she suspected would compound the already boisterous celebrations. But she resolved to bide her time, as it was her husband’s hour to shine.

  With the chapel filled to overflow, and the doors open to permit those assembled on the steps a view, Titus, garbed in his most resplendent black velvet doublet trimmed in gold embroidery, mantle, and matching chausses, knelt at the altar, before Vicar Veldkamp. After a prayer and silent reflection, the vicar dipped his fingers in holy water and set his hand to her husband’s head.

  “By the power of canonical law, I hereby administer the sacrament and re-baptize thee, Titus de Wolfe, the legitimate heir of thy namesake, and son of Lady Margreit Saint-Germain, as recognized by thy grandfather, Solomon de Wolfe, and thy uncle, Atticus de Wolfe, with all rights and privileges therein.” Veldkamp held high the cross. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

  In unison, the crowd replied, “Amen.”

  Fighting happy tears, Desi sniffed, and a similarly affected Solomon, whose generous contribution to the church’s coffers made the event possible, wrapped an arm about her shoulders and smiled. To her left, Papa, recovered from his captivity, looked on with pride. It was then she discovered not a dry eye in the chamber. When Titus stood and faced the throng, a thunderous roar of applause, hoots, and hollers cut the tension and ushered in the fledgling addition to the estimable lineage descended from the great William de Wolfe.

  “May I have thy attention?” Desi clapped her hands. “My friends, guests, and recently acquainted relations, prithee, join us in the great hall for food, drink, dance, and merriment.”

  Soon, the music commenced, and the servants rushed to tend the revelers, as Titus and Desi assumed their stations at the dais. While her suddenly shy spouse was toasted and roasted, all in good fun, Desi pressed a palm to her flat belly and wondered when to impart the blessed revelation to her husband.

  “Desi, thou hast outdone thyself with the feast, and I must have thy recipe for pykes in brasey, as the sauce is delicious.” Isobeau, Atticus’s wife, leaned near. “And I cannot remark enough how glad I am to meet ye.”

  “Oh, I feel the same.” She clutched Isobeau’s hand. “As thou art the sister I have always wanted.”

  “I could not agree more, but I still cannot reconcile myself with thy husband’s likeness.” Isobeau cast a melancholy expression. “It i
s as though I have seen a ghost.”

  “Do I sadden ye?” Titus asked.

  “Aye, all the time,” Atticus asserted, with a hearty guffaw. “As thou dost resemble a lost pup.”

  “Nay, and ignore him.” Isobeau inhaled a shaky breath. “Rather, thou dost give me hope that thy father and mother found a measure of happiness together, in the hereafter, as they were so cruelly denied in this world.”

  “Thou art a kind and generous lady.” Desi hugged her aunt, and they indulged in a lighthearted bit of laughter. “I am honored to know ye.”

  “Enough of the sentimental drivel.” Atticus stood and wrenched his bride’s chair from the table. “Woman, dance with me.”

  As the impressive couple traded barbs, all in jest, Desi peered at the pile of offerings bestowed in commemoration of Titus’s naming ceremony, which had been stacked against the front wall. “My lord, hast thou enjoyed thy special day?”

  “Very much.” After kissing her temple, he whispered, “But I wager I shall enjoy the night much more.”

  “Indeed, as I shall present ye with one of thy two gifts from me.” Beneath the tablecloth, she walked her fingers to his thigh and squeezed him, and his muscles flexed. “And I shall make ye howl with pleasure, my naughty knight.”

  “Ah, my lady, thou dost make me tremble with anticipation.” With a growl, he nuzzled the curve of her neck, and she giggled. “What of my second boon, as thou hast piqued my curiosity?”

  “For that thou must wait approximately seven months, according to the physic.” Suddenly nervous, Desi held still and waited for his reaction. When none came, she chanced a glance at her uncharacteristically quiet spouse and started, given his misty gaze. “Oh, Titus, art thou happy? Pray, say something.”

  Without warning, he bounded out of his seat, bent, and swept her into his arms, whereupon he circled and then halted. A hush fell over the chasmal chamber, as Titus covered her mouth with his. As always, his expressions of intimacy employed his entire body, and that time was no different, despite the crowd and the bawdy comments of approval, which at last brought them up short.