Alixandrea was about to ask another question when shouting from the ward caught Matthew’s attention. Her window faced the main gate of the castle and the sounds easily traveled, even four stories up. He released her and went to the window, peering into the void below.
“What is it?” she asked.
His blue eyes were focused, like ice. In fact, his entire body seemed frozen as he viewed the scene below. Then, he suddenly shifted on his big legs and made haste for the chamber door.
“Visitors,” he held out a hand to her. “Come along, love.”
She jumped to do his bidding. “Who is it?”
The corner of his lips flickered. “An old friend.”
He did not say any more and she did not ask.
*
Gaston de Russewas known as The Dark Knight. Along with Matthew as his “white” counterpart, he was the most legendary knight in the realm during these ominous times of royal turmoil.
Whereas Matthew had been given his name in reference to his widely known benevolent character, The Dark Knight was aptly named for a demeanor that sparked nothing short of blind terror. The man wasn’t cruel; he had never crossed that line into such darkness that men feared him for his brutality and vile conduct. But he had been known to rip a man apart with his bare hands on the battlefield and other horrific tales that were fit only for the heartiest of soldiers. The name Gaston de Russe struck fear into the hearts of all men, Lancastrian or York.
Alixandrea knew of him only by reputation. As she’d heard tales of The White Lord all her life, so had she heard tales of his dark counterpart. Matthew had mentioned Gaston’s name as they had quit the keep and entered the bailey, but she truly had no idea what to expect. When the mighty gates of Wellesbourne swung wide to receive her guests, the first thing that caught Alixandrea’s attention was a knight astride a coal black charger.
But it wasn’t just any knight; as large as Matthew was, and he was enormously large, the knight astride the black beast was even larger. He wore well-made, horrendously heavy platearmor and a helm that sported massive spikes jutting from the sides of it to not only intimidate the enemy, but to prevent them from grasping him about the head. He had hands that were easily twice the size as a normal man’s, wrestling the fire-breathing charger with one hand while directing his men into the keep with the other.
She watched him with something of morbid fascination, this extraordinarily massive man who spoke no words yet ordered his troops about more efficiently than most. All he did was point and his men leapt to do his bidding.
There were two more knights accompanying him, one man astride a large gray charger and the other aboard a roan. They were knights of the highest caliber, their weapons expensive and their armor well used. The knight on the roan headed straight for Matthew, flipping his visor up as he approached. Alixandrea could see that the very handsome young man was smiling at her husband.
“Wellesbourne,” the knight boomed. “Tis good to see your ugly face again.”
Matthew grinned. “Your cousin should have drowned you at birth,” he growled. “Who let you out of your cage?”
The young knight snorted. “We received your urgent missive. Gaston thought it was important enough to ride at full speed from Kidlington.”
“That is a forty mile trek since last night. Your men must be exhausted.”
Sir Patrick de Russe, the young and dashing cousin of Gaston, passed a glance over the troop of men that was pouring into the bailey. “You forget that these are de Russe men,” he said. “They have been driven harder than most. Forty miles over several hours is not unusual for them.”
The knight on the gray charger rode up, dismounting. He was tall and slender, with an indefinable elegance in the wayhe moved. He unsheathed a gauntlet, used the free hand to unlatch his visor, and then pulled the helm off. His blond hair was flowing to his shoulders, his hawk-like face bordering on unhandsome, though not unkind. He looked right at Alixandrea; she swore the man’s eyes were so blue that they were white. But his gaze just as swiftly moved to Matthew.
“My lord Wellesbourne,” he greeted; his accent was heavy and Nordic. “We came as fast as we could.”
Matthew put out a hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “’Tis good to see you, Arik.” He indicated Alixandrea, standing next to him. “Meet my betrothed, the Lady Alixandrea Terrington St. Ave. My lady, this is Sir Arik Magnesson, de Russe’s right hand.”
Arik’s gaze was an appraising one. The man missed nothing. He bowed elegantly. “My lady. Sir Matthew is indeed fortunate.”
She smiled, somewhat timidly. “A pleasure, my lord.”
Patrick was still nearby on his roan. Hearing the introductions, he dismounted swiftly and approached Alixandrea.
“I am Patrick de Russe,” he took her hand boldly and oh-so-gallantly kissed it. “If I can be of any service, lovely lady, do not hesitate to call upon me.”
Matthew lifted an eyebrow at him. “Hands off, whelp. The lady is spoken for.”
Patrick dropped her hand and grinned. He was excruciatingly handsome when he smiled. “Of course, my lord Wellesbourne. I meant no disrespect.”
Matthew simply grunted at him, a manner or mood that Alixandrea had only seen from him once before. He’d displayed the same behavior when she had been introduced to his men on the first day of her arrival. He had made clear his territory, and he was doing it again now with Patrick. The thought made her take a step closer to Matthew, just to put some distance betweenherself and the brash young knight. Perhaps Matthew knew something sinister of him that she did not.
The man on the coal black charger was suddenly before them. Like a shadow, he had just appeared and now he hovered before them on the dancing destrier. He dismounted his beast and passed him to a waiting groom, removing one of the heavy mail gloves he wore and, like Arik had done, unlatching his three-point visor.
