Epilogue

Ashendon

Eight months later

“A rider, Christy!”

Christelle had been staring morosely at a garment she’d been trying to sew for the better part of a month. She had never had serious training when it came to creative sewing, and although Phillipa had tried to teach her, it seemed that she really didn’t have any talent for it. Stitching up a man’s wound, yes. Stitching together a tunic, no. Her garment looked like a blind man had put it together. However, Catherine’s excited words had her leaping up from her chair.

“Where?” she demanded. “And if you go running down those stairs again, Catherine de Cottingham de Shera, I will personally tie you to your bed until your husband returns. Do you hear me?”

Catherine grinned. At almost nine months pregnant with her first child, she was round and rosy and happier than anyone had ever seen her, in sharp contrast to Christelle, who was almost seven months pregnant and feeling every twitch, every pain.

Well, almost.

Their husbands had gone off with Edward to subdue Roger Mortimer once and for all, but that had been six months ago. Six months of waiting for word, of trying to keep busy, and of enduring what had been a rather harsh winter so far. Lots of rain and storms, and Christelle was ready to sell her soul to the devil for a bit of sunshine. On this very day, in fact, they’d had a little, and now Catherine was declaring that a messenger was on the approach. It was a good day, indeed.

Perhaps it was what they had been waiting for.

News.

News of their husbands, of Mortimer, and of England in general. Perhaps it was even news from Phillipa, who had delivered a healthy son during the summer months, and his name was Edward. That was the same name Christelle was considering for her firstborn because it was Leonidas’ father’s name and she rather liked it. Not that Leonidas even knew he had a child coming, because she’d been reluctant to tell him, fearful that it would distract him from the very serious task of subduing Roger Mortimer. But she knew she couldn’t wait much longer to tell him or the child would be his own introduction.

Hopefully the messenger was coming with news that her husband was on his way home.

She could only hope.

“I will not run down the stairs,” Catherine said, breaking into her train of thought. “And the messenger could just as easily be about Gabriel.”

Christelle moved over to the window that overlooked the gatehouse, spying a tiny speck, a rider, on the road beyond. “Why would Castle Questing be sending news about Gabriel?” she said. “He has only been there for a few months.”

Catherine’s smile faded. “I still think he was a little young to go,” she said. “It seems cruel to send him away.”

Christelle turned toward her. “I know,” she said, coming to the door. “But Leo explained that he would be well taken care of, surrounded by other pages, and it would give him something to focus on other than the loss of his sister. The last missive we did receive about him said that he was settling in nicely.”

“Do you think he’ll even remember me?”

Christelle put her arm around the young woman’s shoulders and led her toward the stairwell. “I think he’ll remember you and love you,” she said. “Come along—let us go and meet the messenger.”

With renewed vigor, Catherine went down the stairs, a little too fast for Christelle’s liking, and the two of them headed out of the keep. By the time they crossed the muddy bailey to the gatehouse, the messenger had arrived and Zander was there to greet them. He was the only knight that had been left behind when Leonidas took his army to Nottingham, a gentle knight who did very well in a command position. When he saw the ladies, he handed the missive right over to Christelle.

“Lady de Wolfe,” he said, smiling. “From your husband.”

Christelle couldn’t help but let out a little squeal of delight. “I pray that it is news they are coming home,” she said as she quickly popped the wax seal and carefully unfolded it. Whereas most warlords had clerks or scribes who wrote their correspondence, Leonidas preferred to write his own. That was great comfort for Christelle, who ran her fingers lovingly over the careful letters before she began to read. Realizing she had an audience standing around, waiting for the news, she read aloud.

My dearest wife,

I hope this message finds you well. I miss you more than all the poets in all the world can describe, but I take comfort in knowing we will soon be together. I am sorry we could not make it home for Christmas mass, but our task against Mortimer was successful. Isabelle was true to her word. We captured them both in October and Mortimer was tried and hanged on 29 November. Edward is now king, by God and by right, and Parliament is convening. I shall remain until it is disbanded, at which time I will rush home faster than is probably safe or necessary, but my want to see you is so great that if I had wings, I would fly to you this very moment.

Talan wishes to tell Catie that he will see her soon and to not have his son before he returns home. I would also ask the same of you, seeing as you have not seen fit to mention something that Catie told Talan. I will continue to pretend I do not know about my son, but know that I would like to name him after my father if you are agreeable. A lad that will go on to do great, courageous things. I could not be prouder of him or of you. You are my world, Lady de Wolfe, and I love you more with each breath I take.

Faithfully yours,

L

Christelle was wiping away tears by the time she was finished, but they were tears of joy. She was, however, greatly perturbed with Catherine, and when she looked up from the letter, Catherine put her hands up in surrender.

“It is Talan’s fault,” she insisted. “I told him not to tell.”

Christelle rolled her eyes. “Of course it is his fault,” she said. “You had nothing to do with it.”

Catherine didn’t have an answer for her. She shrugged sheepishly, and Christelle was angry for a few seconds more before she simply gave up and put her arm around the young woman’s shoulders again. She handed the missive off to Zander so he could read it for himself, but not before telling the young knight that she wanted it back. It would be something she read, and reread, until her husband was safe in her arms once more.

A man who helped shape the direction of a nation.

These were days of solace and hope, days in which a new future was promised with a strong, young king to guide them. A king shaped by men who were forged by honor and driven by steel, who helped make a fine country for their children and their children’s children.

Men like Leonidas de Wolfe.

Tate de Lara.

Kenneth St. Hever.

Stephen of Pembury.

That generation of men who lived by the sword in the hopes of something greater.

Christelle had been honored enough to know those men and deeply humbled to have married one of them. The man they called Le Morsure , the Bite, was the man who had become her everything and then some.

Stitching that red cross on his forehead was the best thing she’d ever done.

La protecteur de la reine had found her true calling in love…

The best calling of all.

* THE END *