The Bride of Windermere Page 17

  The wedding feast was a lavish affair. All the nobility and gentry within riding distance had come to witness the marriage and to see the king once again before his departure for France. There were hundreds of guests present, most of whom neither Kit nor Wolf knew. The bride and groom sat together for the meal and drank a number of toasts that were made in their honor.

  Finally, before King Henry decided to leave the banquet, he offered his own toast to the Duke and Duchess and requested that they seal his good wishes with a kiss. Wolf obliged by giving Kit a quick peck on the lips.

  “My lord Duke,” Henry admonished, with a sly grin, “a pat such as this will not suffice. Give your wife a kiss. As a man would a woman.”

  Kit’s color deepened, knowing that she and Wolf would have to comply with Henry’s wishes, even though they were in the presence of hundreds of people. Yet she was very much aware of her husband’s appeal and she yearned for him to touch her, to amend the gap that existed between them. She easily remembered how it felt to be consumed by the fire of his touch, since thoughts of that time at Kendal had plagued her ever since reaching London. She wished he weren’t so repulsed by her now.

  Wolf touched her chin and turned her to face him. There was a heat, almost a fever in his eyes when she looked in them, and Kit had the strangest feeling that he felt some of the same yearnings she did. His lips met hers softly, almost gently. She moaned slightly, enough for him to hear, and he deepened the kiss.

  Neither of them heard the bawdy shouts of the crowd as Wolf moved his mouth hungrily over hers, and his arm went around her waist to draw her nearer. Her hands slid up to encircle his neck and she opened her lips willingly, desperately. The heat possessed her as their tongues met, and Kit felt herself melting into her husband.

  Just let it be real, she prayed, when Wolf suddenly pulled away. Her heart was beating so hard and so fast. She could hardly breathe. It was impossible to look away from Wolf, whose eyes still burned with the heat of their kiss. The cheers of the crowd gradually entered Kit’s consciousness. Embarrassed with their display, she took her arms from Wolf’s neck.

  But he didn’t release her. He was enthralled by her eyes and her swollen lips which gave promise of a sensuous onslaught to come.

  “There now!” the king shouted. “If you continue thus, you will likely have heirs for your fine estates!” The guests laughed and applauded appreciatively.

  One of Henry’s squires pushed through the crowd to the king and spoke quietly to him. Henry frowned, then nodded and stood.

  “I must be off,” he finally said. Two squires and three guards moved to accompany King Henry. Wolf arose from his place to walk with the king.

  “There may be trouble, Wolf,” Henry said, noting with satisfaction that Lady Kathryn came alongside her husband.

  “spire?”

  “Owen Tudor has information that Lollards have infiltrated the guards,” Henry said as they left the banquet hall and entered the gallery. “A few fanatics, wanting to demonstrate their...displeasure with my support of the Church. I’ll thwart what plans they’ve made by removing myself. I had intended to take my leave anyway.”

  “Hold, Your Majesty. Send a party ahead,” Wolf said, alarmed. Everything was moving too quickly, and the king was not exercising his usual caution. The gallery was uncharacteristically dark. “Where is the light? Aren’t the candles alwa—”

  The door to the banquet room slammed behind them, and Kit screamed as she saw the glint of metal swing from on high. They were left in almost complete darkness, but for the one candle that had been dropped by the squire, Owen Tudor. Kit heard swords slashing the air, meeting metal, and in some cases, flesh. In a panic, she picked up the fallen taper and lit the candelabra near the door as she searched the darkness for Wolf.

  Unable to see her husband, Kit tried to pull the door to the banquet hall open again, but it was jammed, or locked. She knew there were other entrances to the gallery, but it would take some time before anyone realized something was amiss. They could not expect help from the noisy crowd. She quickly turned back to see what was going on in the dimly lit gallery.

  Henry was without a weapon, though Wolf and a guard were defending him effectively. Everything was moving very fast, and there were so many shadows, it was difficult for Kit to determine the number of their attackers, who were conveniently dressed in black. She counted eleven, and knew her side was outnumbered. Again. And she had neither sling nor bow to help.

  A guard near Kit ran his sword through one of the assailants, then turned to face another. The fallen man’s sword crashed to the floor under him and though Kit had never learned to use a sword, she intended to try it now. She knew it would be too heavy for her to wield as a soldier would, yet she thought other uses could be made if she put her mind to it.

  She struggled to push the dead man away in order to get to his sword and managed to get hold of it with both hands just as someone grabbed her from behind. Coming up swinging and yelling, Kit hurled the huge sword and struck her assailant across the side of his head, hard enough to stun him and knock him down. Kit looked over toward the king just then and saw Wolf take a blow to the chest. To Kit’s alarm, blood poured from the wound, though her husband didn’t fall. He managed to swing a fatal blow, and his attacker dropped before him, only to be replaced by another. Henry, who, like Kit, had grabbed a sword from one of the fallen men, was already fighting desperately and was unaware of Wolf’s circumstances.

  Kit, enraged and terrified for her weakened husband, circled around the fray and came at Wolf’s new attacker from behind. She cried out as she saw Wolf take another strike in the leg, which brought him to his knees. Close enough now, Kit struck with all her might, bringing down Wolf’s opponent. She dropped the sword and went to Wolf, who was sinking to the floor. Four black-clad men lay dead around him.

  Kit was now able to see the amount of blood flowing from the chest wound, and she was fearful for his life. She eased him down, then ripped her linen underskirts to make a bandage. She pressed the cloth to the wound to staunch the bleeding.

  “Kit,” Wolf rasped. “Move away. Don’t get...”

  “Hush, husband,” she replied tearfully. “I’ll see to your care.”

  “No—”

  She silenced him with a light kiss and tore another bandage for his leg. She would not let him perish before she understood the meaning of his kiss at the banquet.

  The battle raged on before them, with men falling before her eyes, yet the king and at least two of his guards continued to fight. Two men in black fell, then another one of Henry’s guards. Tears of fear and desperation streamed down Kit’s face as she realized that there was nothing more she could do, for there remained at least four enemies hacking at King Henry and the squire, Tudor.

  Then Kit heard noise. A lot of noise. Voices were surrounding them, and lights. She looked up to see a group of Henry’s men, perhaps twenty of them. Lord Kendal and his son were among them, as were Rupert Aires, Nicholas Becker, and several of Wolf’s men. Their strength was more than enough to dispatch the remaining black-clad men.

  As the battle concluded, the king made his way to where Kit sat with Wolfs head cradled in her lap. She held the cloth to his upper chest, having tied the other around the wound in his thigh. Wolfs color was pale, but his breathing was steady as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He was unaware of his wife’s tears.

  Henry motioned behind him for assistance, then ordered that litters be brought for the injured men.

  “Come, Kit,” Henry said. “We’ll have him taken to—”

  “Three of our men are dead, Sire,” said one of the newcomers.

  “And the attackers?”

  “All.”

  “No word of this ambush is to be taken from this hall,” Henry said vehemently. “If Lollards were responsible, they are not to know they had even the slightest measure of success. Dispose of the traitors’ bodies. Let no one hear of this.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

/>   “Kathryn, we’ll move Wolf to—to Kendal’s house,” Henry said. “Kendal?”

  The Marquess nodded his agreement. “Of course, Sire.”

  “My own physician will see to him,” the king continued. “He will be well again, I promise you.”

  “Your Majesty,” Kit said quietly, “he cannot be moved so far.”

  “I fear she’s right, Sire,” Nicholas agreed. He bent over Wolf and pulled away the bandage to reveal a gaping wound. “We should not risk jarring him over the roads. At least not until this gash is sewn. And the leg...”

  Henry gave a moment’s thought, then agreed. “There must be available apartments somewhere in the palace... Who would suspect newlyweds who do not emerge from their chambers for days?” he mused. “It can be carried off.”

  “My maids, Sire...?”

  “You will manage without,” the king said. “I trust you’ll not object to having a couple of palace guards to do your bidding?”

  “No, Sire,” she replied, relieved but still worried. Wolf was so pale, so cold. “But I would prefer that my husband’s men remain close.”

  When the duke and his bride were finally missed, no one was surprised. At least a hundred of the guests had witnessed the kiss at the wedding feast, and a number of ribald remarks were made regarding the newlyweds’ whereabouts.

  Kit watched as Wolf was gently placed on the bed in a large, comfortable chamber. While Kendal saw to it that the physician was brought, his son Robert returned to the banquet to quell any rumors which may have arisen regarding the incident in the gallery.

  Rupert and Nicholas remained to help Kit undress Wolf. When Chester appeared with a basin of water and cloths, the two men stayed to assist as Kit bathed his wounds. Wolf still drifted in and out of consciousness. His injuries were serious but did not appear to be mortal, and Nicholas assured Kit that all would be well.

  Kit’s tears were barely contained. The emotional upheaval of the last few days was nearly too much for her, but she knew she had to muster the inner strength necessary to deal with it. It was terribly disconcerting to see this man who was her husband, so huge, so powerful, lying so close to death. She couldn’t bear to lose Wolf...now that she knew she loved him.

  “I have seen many a wound such as this on the field of battle,” Nicholas said. “Look. The lung is not punctured.” Kit looked and saw that it was true. Her husband’s breathing was steady and noiseless, but the expression on Nicholas’ usually lighthearted face was grave. “And see the leg...only the first layer of muscle is cut. It will mend.”

  She was much more reassured when the physician, Lord Blackmore, arrived and agreed with Nicholas’ prognosis. The bleeding had stopped, so he packed the wounds with some foul-smelling concoction and dressed them, showing Kit what to use and how to replace them if they should come off during the night. “’Tis best not to sew such wounds, for then they tend to fester,” the doctor said, “and that’s what often kills the man, not the injury itself.”

  Kendal removed himself once he was satisfied of Wolf’s condition. “You have only to send for me if you have need of assistance, my lady,” Kendal said to Kit before taking his leave. “Your husband and I have strong family ties—I will tell you about them some day.”

  Kit smiled wearily at the Marquess.

  “I also knew your father—I will tell you about him one day as well.”

  Kit had barely heard what the Marquess had said until his last words. She blanched and looked up at him, realizing now that he also knew of her parentage.

  “Don’t fret, Kit,” he said. “No one will learn of it from me. Least of all, Lady Kendal.” He smiled at Kit, wishing that his attempt at levity could help to raise her spirits.

  Nicholas took the first watch, only to be sent out of the room when some of Kit’s clothes arrived from her chambers. She changed out of her soiled and bloodied marriage gown to wash quickly and put on more comfortable sleeping clothes.

  Kit sat up for hours, watching Wolf for any signs of distress. She stayed at his bedside and often bathed his forehead and neck. He still felt cool to the touch, so she didn’t worry about fever yet, but he was so pale that looking at him made her weep.

  “Wolf Colston, don’t you dare leave me now.” She lay her cheek aside his as she cried.

  “I’ll try not to, Kit,” his whisper was rasping. He raised one hand to stroke her head, then it dropped back weakly.

  Later, when it was Nicholas’ turn to watch, he insisted that Kit sleep. Reminding her that the following day was likely to be a long one and she would need her strength, he finally prevailed. Hardly able to keep her eyes open any longer anyway, Kit lay down on the bed next to Wolf and slept until early morning when it was Rupert’s watch. Then she got up and sat next to a window overlooking the east, and thought about the morning Bridget had died. She had sat with Wolf then, watching the sun rise, and thinking that all she wanted was to be with Rupert.

  If only Wolf recovered, she’d tell him she hadn’t needed Rupert at all. Wolf Colston had been the one all along.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Wolf had only intermittent awareness of his surroundings. At times he thought someone had taken a hot poker to his chest, and his leg throbbed interminably. He knew Kit was with him though, and that was all he really cared about. He felt her tears dampen his face once, and tried to comfort her, but he was too weak. He wanted to assure her that all would be well, but didn’t have the breath or strength to do it.

  The dawn light in the room was faint and he had some difficulty seeing who was there, but once, he recognized the voice of Rupert Aires, speaking to Kit.

  “I’ll wager you’re sorry now you didn’t marry me instead,” he said quietly.

  “You, Rupert?” A bitter laugh escaped her. “It’s been some time since I realized you’d make a terrible husband.” Fatigue was audible in her voice. “Nay, I’ve never been so well satisfied of my choice before. If only God will spare him...”

  Wolf had very few lucid moments as he battled fever and infection, and Kit worried that it would ultimately overcome him. The wounds were grave and Kit was not igno rant of the worried looks exchanged between the men who attended her husband, in spite of the physician’s optimism.

  On the fourth afternoon., as Kit knelt next to Wolf’s bed, she nearly despaired. She closed her eyes and prayed to God for his recovery. Though she had a long history of unanswered prayers, Kit still pleaded for Wolfs delivery. Deeply immersed in prayer, she heard a strange, distant voice.

  “You look like the wrath of God,” it said.

  She looked up to see who had spoken, but she and Wolf were alone in the room. Kit sniffled, brushed the tears from her face and sat up, puzzled. Certain that someone had spoken, Kit glanced around the room to see if someone had entered without her knowledge.

  “Wrath of God, indeed,” she muttered, seeing no one. It had to be her imagination, what with the fatigue and worry—

  “It’s true, Kit. What ails you?”

  She snapped her head back toward the sound and found herself looking at Wolf. His eyes were open and focused, and he was frowning at her. It was his first conscious act in over three days.

  “What ails me?” she gasped.

  “You’ve been weeping.” His voice was weak, his eyes gentle.

  Using the backs of her hands, she brushed away the new tears that had sprung from her eyes. Yes, by God, she’d been weeping. It had become a normal state of affairs for her ever since she’d met him.

  “Weeping?” she cried. “I’ve been terrified, not knowing if you’d live—”

  Nicholas and Edward, having heard voices in Wolf’s chamber, hurried in and stopped short when Wolf cast a dark look at them. He had thought to pursue the moment with Kit to find out what was wrong and why she was terrified that he’d live.

  “Nicholas!” She turned to see Wolfs cousin approaching anxiously with Sir Edward alongside. Alfred and Ranulf were not far behind. Kit assumed they all must have heard her startle
d voice.

  “What is it, Kit? Is—”

  “He’s conscious!” She knelt back at his side and took his hand in hers.

  “What’s wrong with my wife?” Wolf asked the men. “And why does my chest pain me so?”

  “Do you not remember, Your Grace?” Edward asked. Several more of Wolf’s men appeared.

  “You were injured five nights ago,” Nicholas replied to Wolfs question. “The king was attacked as he left your wedding feast. You and several others were trapped with the king outside the hall...”

  Wolf tried to recall it, but his memory was faulty. He remembered the wedding feast... beautiful Kathryn...an attack on the king...Kit weeping...Kit lying with him, holding him?

  He tried to sit up but Kit prevented him by holding his shoulders. She’d seen the wounds that morning when the physician dressed them, and they had a long way to go before being healed. “Get off my chest, woman,” Wolf protested, annoyed and dismayed that his wife possessed the greater strength. “I’ll not stay abed any longer.”

  “You will stay here until your strength has returned.”

  He gave a grim smile at the determined look on her face. Her fresh-flower scent and the fragile transparency of her skin belied her underlying strength. “Do you dare command a duke of the realm?”

  “’Tis a wife’s right and duty, Your Grace,” Alfred joked, “perhaps even her purpose.”

  “I see,” Wolf said suspiciously, looking around at his knights. They obviously supported Kit in this. Wondering how she had managed to get them all on her side, he turned back to Alfred. “And when did the likes of you—a single man—become an authority on wives?”

  “Not ‘wives,’ Your Grace,” Alfred laughed.

  “Your wife. Cousin,” Nicholas said. “She has not left this—”