Lone Wolfe Read online

  “Do not stop on our account.” Atticus snickered. “As thou dost offer quite the entertainment.”

  “Hush, impossible man.” Isobeau smacked his chest. “I suspect thy nephew hath an announcement to make.”

  After setting Desi down, Titus hugged her from behind and rested a palm to her belly. “My beauteous wife hath just informed me that I am to be a father.”

  If she had thought the party raucous prior to their tender proclamation, the great hall flared into a rowdy skirmish, as well-wishers swamped the expectant couple. At one point, she lost sight of her husband, but it mattered not when Papa embraced her.

  “My dear daughter, never could a father be more delighted or proud.” Papa wiped a tear from his cheek. “Thou were correct to remain faithful to Titus, and I am sorry I relented and abandoned thy husband.”

  “It is blood under the bridge, Gerner.” Emerging from the flock, Titus slapped Papa on the back and chuckled. “But now I have come to claim my bride.”

  “Play an estampie,” Atticus bellowed at the musicians, as he grabbed Isobeau’s wrist.

  With the precision and haste of a troop movement, the guests divided into small groups and formed a sea of circles. When the first notes sounded, Atticus, Isobeau, Solomon, Desi, Titus, and Papa clasped hands and hopped to the left, laughing all the way. The swift change in tone signaled it was time to rotate in the opposite direction, and the assembly altered course.

  Warmed by the swell of familial love that invested each and every guise, De Wolfe and De Shera, alike, Desi peered at the ceiling and wondered about Margreit and her Titus. How sad it must have been for the young mother-to-be, forlorn, friendless, and unmarried in a world already unkind to females. And how tragic it must have been for Titus, unaware of his impending fatherhood, unable to wed the woman he cherished, and cut down in his prime.

  Isobeau was right.

  It was comforting to believe the star-crossed sweethearts, at last, had gained a measure of contentment in the next life, as so much joy permeated the present for those who remained. Then again, mayhap fate had won, as something of Margreit and Titus survived in the offspring born of their physical union. Indeed, Desi’s husband manifested the fruit of a passion, perchance, neither unremembered nor confined to oblivion.

  Impervious to the dusk and dawn that marked the passage of days, love remained constant, unshakable, defying the constraints of the mortal world. It was in the unfailing durability of commitment that the strength of the De Wolfe’s resided. For Desi, unutterable elation was to be had in the knowledge that, come what may, her Titus would never be alone, as he had found his way home.

  _________________

  EPILOGUE

  London

  The Year of Our Lord 1487

  The Wars of the Roses raged for another sixteen years, during which time Henry VI was murdered in the tower, Edward IV died at Westminster, and Richard III fell at the battle of Bosworth, whither Henry VII led the Lancasters to victory and ushered in the reign of the house of Tudor. But Yorkist loyalists regrouped and staged a last ditch attempt to retake the crown.

  Side by side, Atticus and Titus wore the De Wolfe ailettes into the storm at Stoke and successfully defended His Majesty, thus ending the longstanding, bloody campaign for control of England.

  In the midst of those violent days, Titus and Desiderata found refuge in each other’s arms and created their family of four sons and two daughters, one glorious night after another, to carry on a great legacy. Determined to retire to Braewood Castle, enjoy a simple life without conflict, and recover from serious injuries, he was vexed to receive the royal directive commanding him to journey to court.

  “Titus, stop fidgeting and pay attention.” Desi nudged him. “We are summoned.”

  Flanked on his left by a host of Lancaster luminaries, including Atticus and Isobeau, Titus and his wife strolled down the red carpet, whither the King sat on his magnificent throne. Whilst Desi portrayed an air of calm elegance, the squeeze of her hand at the crook of his elbow betrayed her nervousness.

  In a proper show of fealty they bowed their heads, as she curtseyed, and he knelt. When Henry stood and flagged his servant, standing at attention to the right and bearing a wooden box with its lid opened, Titus tensed his muscles. As the Monarch neared, from a plush velvet pillow he retrieved an opulent livery collar of Esses, fashioned from gold, with links in the form of its namesake from which the distinct Tudor rose pendant hung, and Titus swallowed hard, as he understood too well the significance.

  “For services rendered to the realm, We are grateful.” Henry draped the heavy chain about Titus’s shoulders and then stretched upright, as a murmur of astonishment swept the chamber. “We create thee His Grace, the Duke of Ausborn, and bequeath a substantial livelihood and additional holdings, the papers for which my steward holds in safekeeping, until thou dost affix thy signature, in appreciation of thy bravery and dedication to duty.” The King moved to Desi and pinned an exquisite broach, the badge of office, encrusted with precious gems, to the bodice of her burgundy gown. “Rise, Ausborn, and enjoy the festivities.”

  “Majesty, I am humbled.” As he backed away, Titus bowed, until he turned on a heel and ushered Desi from the prying stares of the audience.

  “Did that just happen?” She swayed, and he kept her upright. “Or did I dream it?”

  “Oh, it happened, Thy Grace.” In an alcove, he signaled Atticus, and they veered into the arched ingress.

  “Prithee, do not refer to me as such, as I prefer thy unembellished address, with which thou dost call me to our bed. But thou dost know the new rank will necessitate additional responsibilities, for which we would do well to prepare.” With a visage of worry, Desi inched closer. “Titus, I love ye, and I am so honored to be thy wife, but I want to go home, as Criseida hath a nasty fever, and I am concerned. More than that, I am not comfortable hither, among those who, infected with poisonous envy but too cowardly to compete with thy achievements and courage, would speak sweetly to our face but besmirch us when we are distracted. Pray, let us return to Braewood and strategize our course of action prior to engaging in the political intrigues at court, that we might meet the challenge on our own terms.”

  “My angel, thy uncommon intelligence and shrewd assessment of character are but a couple of reasons I love ye more than life.” He nodded an acknowledgement to a passing noble. “And we shall depart on the morrow, at first light, as I share thy sentiments, especially in regard to our youngest child.”

  Beneath an intricate hammerbeam roof, a sea of elegantly dressed lords and ladies strolled into the cavernous hall, which boasted lavish tapestries, magnificent paintings of monarchs past, marble-topped tables decorated with swan and lion figurines molded from jelly or pastry, and a massive dais at one end. A huge fountain, from which wine and spiced pimento flowed, held pride of place at the center of the sideboard, a collection of musicians occupied a back corner, and the mouthwatering aroma of roasted beef and pork hung in the air. After filling their plates with a succulent array, Titus and Desi joined Atticus and Isobeau at a small table far away from the King.

  “I gather, from the look on thy face, thou didst possess no prior knowledge of the rank?” With a smile, Atticus shook his head. “Thou hadst no idea what His Majesty intended?”

  “Nay.” Titus flinched, as the import of the office penetrated his brain, and he grimaced at his plate and pushed a morsel of beef to one side. “If I had, I might not have come to London.”

  “Humble to a fault, so much like thy father.” Isobeau smiled and reached for Desi’s hand. “It is too bad Solomon and Gerner are no longer with us, as they would have been so proud of this moment.”

  “Aye, it is a shame they are not hither to witness a De Wolfe of such estimable station.” Wiping his eyes, Atticus cleared his throat and then raised his flagon. “To my nephew and his beauteous bride, the duke and duchess of Ausborn.”

  “Praise, indeed.” After consuming a healthy amount of wine, Titus
held his stoup aloft. “And let us drink to my father, the first Titus de Wolfe, a great warrior long dead but not forgotten, as I think of him often and lament that I never met him. Wherever he is, I hope he is pleased with his son.”

  “Well, I knew him very well, and I am certain he would be more than pleased with ye.” Again Atticus daubed the moisture that streamed his cheeks. “It is dusty hither, is it not? And I do not understand wherefore my prowess was neither recognized nor rewarded.”

  “Perchance, because thou didst not suffer a grievous wound to thy neck, as we led the final charge at Stoke and took Simnel prisoner.” Titus scratched his cheek. “Thou art still as pretty as ever.”

  “Mayhap I escaped unharmed because I know how to duck.” Atticus arched a brow. “Yet thou didst ride like ye had the devil on thy tail.”

  “I did.” Titus shrugged. “When the line closed in, thou were right behind me.”

  Isobeau and Desi giggled but said naught.

  “Thou art correct.” Then Atticus paused. After a few minutes, he met Titus’s stare and grinned. “It was the same when I fought with my brother, and I would follow ye to the gates of hell, just as I would him.”

  From across the table, Titus and Atticus locked forearms. To the uninformed spectator, theirs might have been viewed as a haphazard expression of endearment, neither facetious nor serious, but a wealth of meaning passed between the two warrior relations, which their wives comprehended without explanation.

  The legacy of the De Wolfe’s boasted a colorful collection of mythical knights and the fiery women who claimed their hearts, along with an unyielding love independent of romance, which spanned the distance of time and place, never waning.

  Reliable as the rising sun, the bonds of kinship knew no price and made no demands. For such devotion existed in a realm unfettered by petty jealousy or other human imperfections. Yea, it burned as an eternal flame, to comfort and inspire future generations. It gratified Titus to know the fierce spirit would persist in De Wolfes yet born, long after he was gone, and his remains had turned to dust. Mayhap that was the ultimate homage to his father, and his father before him.

  At that very instant, Atticus glanced at Isobeau, who peered at Desi, who gazed at Titus. In unison, the foursome smiled. Together, without ceremony, the family toasted the singular man who united them. “To Titus de Wolfe.”

  _________________

  EXCERPT OF THE BIG BAD DE WOLFE

  London

  June 17

  The Year of Our Lord, 1497

  A bloody business, war knew no limits, as the mortal distinctions of rank, privilege, and power meant naught in the heat of battle, and death struck with indiscriminate and arbitrary abandon. Beneath a clear blue sky, the Cornish soldiers approached, and enemies clashed. It was in the center of the action that Arsenius Titus De Wolfe, sitting tall atop his destrier, charged an unfortunate foe.

  A lancer like his father, a legendary warrior and one of the fiercest knights in the kingdom, Arsenius leveled his weapon and heeled the flanks of his mighty stallion, and he caught his adversary in the cuirass, which knocked the rebel to the ground. In truth, theirs was not a fair fight, as His Majesty’s troops exceeded the opposition in numbers, skill, and armaments.

  After King Henry VII penalized the Stanneries, in relation to a conflict regarding tin-mining regulations, and levied a tax to pay for the costs associated with the war against the Scots, for which the Cornish assumed a disproportionate share given the border incursions did not impact Cornwall, tempers flared and an uprising was born. What no one expected was that some fifteen thousand combatants would band together and march, for all intents and purposes, unopposed from Taunton to the King’s threshold at the Deptford Strand Bridge.

  Thither would be hell to pay for that.

  But his immediate concern focused on the forward assault up the middle, under the command of Lord Daubeney, as two other royal compliments directed by Lords Suffolk, Oxford, and Essex flanked either side, and Arsenius waved to his armiger. “Follow me.”

  Just then, a hulking figure of a knight advanced in Arsenius’s wake, and he flicked the reins of his destrier and set a blazing pace, with the impressive soldier, which harkened a comparison to one of Alaric’s Visigoth mercenaries who brought the Roman Empire to its knees, bringing up the rear. Given so many enemy combatants lacked a horse, he dropped his lance, slid from the saddle, and drew his sword. Likewise, the huge fighter halted his steed, leaped to the ground, and unsheathed two lightweight blades forged of Damascus steel.

  “Must you always make such a grand entrance?” Arsenius snickered. “As you appear better suited for the stage, cousin.”

  “You are one to talk.” Titus De Wolfe, son of Atticus, the Lion of the North and the patriarch of the estimable family descended of the great William De Wolfe, and Isobeau, adopted a defensive posture. “And why do you not bare your face, as that alone would scare off half of them?”

  “Are we not the witty sort? And your lady declared otherwise when I rode her this morrow.” As was their way, Arsenius turned on his cousin, more a brother in light of their years, and back-to-back, they confronted the enemy hoard. “How many would you estimate?”

  “Perchance, two to three hundred souls in our immediate vicinity. Hardly seems fair.” Wearing the signature De Wolfe ailette attached to his pauldron, in much the same fashion as Arsenius, Titus nudged Arsenius’s shoulder. “Are you ready?”

  “Aye.” In anticipation of the fight, Arsenius bent at the knees. “Let us play, cousin.”

  And so it began. Moving as a single entity, given they stood at equal height; Arsenius and Titus launched a brutal offensive against their foes, more farmers than professional soldiers. Each manifested an imposing adversary on his own merit, but combined the larger-than-life relatives presented an infallible example of human prowess no opponent could challenge with any semblance of hope for success. When Arsenius moved right, his brash relation veered left in a savage but precise dance of death that spared no rebel, and one by one the enemy fell to the devastating De Wolfe duo.

  Joined at the hip for as long as he could remember, Arsenius and Titus were evenly matched in every way, excepting their technique. Trained in Cypress, where he served alongside le Dauphin, Titus executed a singular, lethal style he mastered in tutelage by the Turks, whereas Arsenius deployed the traditional botta-in-tempo and coup de main, but the result was the same as they ravaged the Cornish troops.

  Beneath a brilliant golden blanket, as the sun continued its journey across the sky, body after body hit the ground with a thud until the Cornish signaled their surrender. By dusk, countless casualties littered the landscape, and Arsenius doffed his bassinet and rubbed his eyes.

  “This was no battle.” He choked on the familiar stench of damp earth mixed with blood, sweat, and tears of the injured and the dying. “It was a massacre.”

  “I agree.” After yanking off his helm, Titus wiped his forehead and spat. “Thither is no honor in such foul work.”

  “Sirs Arsenius and Titus, His Majesty summons you.” The armiger peered toward the verge. “The King bade you appear with haste.”

  “Now what have you done?” Arsenius chucked Titus’s chin.

  “I have been with you the entire time.” With a snort of unveiled disgust, Titus shifted his weight. “How do you know the fault is mine?”

  “Past experience.” Shaking his head, Arsenius sifted through brief recollections of their shared history. “Were you not the one who seduced the Queen’s favored consort on Shrove Tuesday, no less, which almost landed us a date with His Majesty’s executioner?”

  “You neglect to mention Lady Margaret, in the heat of passion, confessed a nefarious plot to overthrow the Crown, for which you and I were later knighted. How did the King put it?” Narrowing his stare, Titus snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes. We are most right and true men in dedicated service to England, and who am I to argue the Sovereign’s assessment?”

  Arsenius reflected on h
er sword-wielding, curse-spitting spouse and grimaced. “And when it came to Lady Margaret, you were quite dedicated to service.”

  With a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, Titus winked and climbed into the saddle of his destrier. “Indeed, I was, as I pursued her for months, but you are one to talk, after your bare-arsed jaunt through the royal stables, whither Lord Tabarant caught you grinding his wife’s corn.”

  “That was a momentary lapse in judgment for which I have endeavored to atone.” Yet Arsenius savored the recollection, and despite his best attempts, he yielded to mirth as he reclaimed his steed. “Who knew that old, gotch-gutted, cream-faced loon could run so fast?”

  “Well, in all fairness, you had your breeches and chausses gathered about your knees, which slowed your escape.” Slapping his thighs, Titus howled with laughter. “That was a sight I shall never forget, and I must say I feared for your future heirs, when you fled through the topiary garden with the thorny hedgerows.”

  “Cousin, believe me, I scared myself.” Wincing, he revisited the vicious wounds in odd places, which he could not quite explain to the physic, and tried but failed to erase the painful memory from his brain, as he returned to his saddle. “Yet we always manage to survive, because we support each other in our adventures.”

  “And just what manner of adventure do you have in mind?” As they galloped toward the royal tent, Titus cast a glance at Arsenius. “Ah, but I know you too well. What is her name?”

  “Does it matter?” He shrugged, as his stallion soared up the hillside. “What say we celebrate our victory with some of our favorite ale and fare?”

  “Blonde, brown, raven, or redhead?” Titus urged his mount faster. “Or does it matter?”

  “One should never rush such an important decision.” The King’s guards stood at attention, as Arsenius and Titus neared. “But I believe I shall let Fate make that decision for me.”

  “Ah, a gambling man.” Mid-chuckle, Titus sobered. “Look yonder. Your father awaits.”