The Bride Of Windermere. Margo Maguire

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СКАЧАТЬ He never frowned or scowled the way this Gerhart-Wolf did. Rupert had known her for so many years, he’d be satisfied with her, even though she lacked the sophistication of court. Besides, Kit had loved Rupert for years and as soon as she arrived in London, she would find him and marry him. This marriage was what she’d planned, what had kept her sane while she waited for him to come for her at Somerton. And nothing could change that.

      It was some time later, as she sat in front of the fire drying her hair, that Bridget awoke. “How do you feel, old friend?” Kit asked.

      “As though Edmond Grindcob’s huge cow Mathilda had sat on my chest.”

      Kit laughed. “And well you should. You have a terrible hack and a wheeze as well. But we shall have you cured before long.”

      “What did those old goats give me?”

      “Nothing I wouldn’t have given you myself.”

      “Good. Don’t let ‘em near me without ye,” she wheezed.

      “I wouldn’t, ever.”

      “Sure and I know ye wouldn’t, Kitty. Come sit by me.” Bridget patted the mattress and coughed. “I fear it will be some time afore I’m cured.”

      Kit got up and sat on the edge of the bed. “Nonsense. You’ll be fine soon enough. And ready to go on to London.”

      “Ye must dress for dinner with the earl.”

      “I suppose,” Kit replied. She knew Bridget was going to insist she wear something presentable and Kit didn’t have the heart to argue with her now, while her cousin was so pale and weak.

      “Wear the deep green velvet, Kit,” the nurse said, “along with the cream wimple. It does suit ye so.”

      “What? And not the white?” The white gown with its delicately embroidered bliaut had been her mother’s, saved all these years by faithful Bridget. Kit was surprised her cousin hadn’t suggested wearing her finest tonight.

      “Ye must save the white and gold until ye are presented to King Henry. Promise me.”

      “All right, old mother,” Kit laughed as she began to dress herself, “I pledge to you that I will wear the white and gold only as you wish.”

      “And behave yerself,” Bridget exhorted.

      “You know me, my dear,” Kit said in an attempt at reassurance.

      Bridget merely rolled her eyes.

      

      Wolf remembered Philip Colston well. Though his cousin was in his late thirties, Philip had not changed much over the years. The same mustache was thicker now, and neatly trimmed, as was the small pointed brown beard which covered the end of his chin. There were hints of gray at his temples and a deep crease between his brows.

      He still had a cruel twist about his lips.

      It was difficult for Wolf to sit peacefully in the great hall over which his father had presided so long ago. He remembered every detail, down to the last dingy pane of stained glass in the windows and the banners, now tattered, hanging from the huge oaken beams of the ceiling. He could almost envision his brothers, John and Martin, coming in with the earl after a hunt or a trip into the village, Wolf being too young yet to accompany them.

      Most vivid in his memory was Martin’s coffin being carried out of the main doors, and his mother’s weeping form supported by his father as they followed the body of their middle son to the family crypt. It was the last time he saw his mother with any expression.

      Wolf painfully recalled the summons from Germany in the fall of 1401. Margrethe, Wolf’s mother, had been on an extended visit to her parents after Martin’s death. The messenger informed Bartholomew that his wife was lying ill at Bremen, perhaps even dying, and that the Earl was to come at once and bring her two remaining sons to her.

      En route to Bremen, highwaymen overtook them, viciously attacking, butchering, hacking; leaving them all for dead.

      Wolfs injuries were massive, and he survived only because of his brother’s last heroic act to protect him—an act that cost John his life—and the quick thinking of a page not much older than Wolf.

      The page was a youthful Hugh Dryden who managed to patch Wolf sufficiently after the attack and get him to a nearby abbey. There, the monks healed his wounds, all but the terrible one that left a scar across his forehead and eye. Weeks later, the two boys were taken to Bremen and reunited with Margrethe and her parents. But Margrethe Gerhart Colston, already in despair due to Martin’s death, never recovered from her losses. She sat in her solar, day after day, staring out into the courtyard, straining towards death. The fact that one son remained to her made no difference at all.

      His father and elder brothers now dead, Wolfram was the new Earl of Windermere, though unable to claim his title. His family name had been completely discredited in England, and it was up to Wolf now to find the proof he needed to restore his family’s honor. It had been necessary for Wolf to assume his grandfather’s name in order to return to England. Only Nicholas Becker and the page, Hugh Dryden, knew his true identity. Wolf had no intention of allowing his identity to be discovered until the evidence he needed was safe in hand. Only then would he reveal himself to Philip and personally see to it that justice was served.

      Wolf knew that Philip inherited his treacherous nature from his father, Clarence, but there was a perverse aspect to the cousin’s nature that the uncle had lacked. Wolf felt his bile rise as he recalled Philip’s acts of cruelty—always perpetrated on someone smaller and weaker than himself, and always in secret. Only the children knew, and a few of the smaller servant girls, and none of them ever dared tell their elders. Yes, Wolf well knew of Philip’s penchant for inflicting pain. He still bore faint marks from a few painful encounters—until he’d learned to stay clear of the older boy.

      Tables were set up, and servants began to bring the food into the great hall under the direction of Mistress Hanchaw. All of Wolfram’s men were assembled in the hall, as well as Philip’s retainers and many local noblemen with their ladies. Wolf recalled hearing of the recent death of Philip’s young wife. It seemed a tasteless blunder for Philip to be hosting such a festive gathering so soon after young Clarisse’s death.

      Yet Wolf knew Philip’s true character. The man and his father had been responsible for butchering his family. Philip was capable of any abomination, and Wolf girded himself against the surge of anger that threatened to disintegrate his calm facade.

      “It is interesting—and unusual—for King Henry to send emissaries far and wide throughout the land, is it not?” Philip asked.

      “You mean to say you have not been visited before?” Nicholas countered, answering for Wolf. He sensed his cousin’s seething anger and gave Wolf the opportunity to master it.

      Philip looked suspiciously at the two huge men sent by the king. There was something vaguely familiar about the silvery-gray eyes of the one called Gerhart. “Should I have been?”

      “Why, of course,” Nicholas replied. “It is merely a courtesy extended by our sovereign. His majesty has long been abroad. How can he know how you fare without—”

      At this juncture, Lady Kathryn was escorted into the hall by a gangly footman. Nicholas finished whatever it was he was saying to Lord Philip, but Wolf СКАЧАТЬ