The sun wassetting over the green hills and valleys of Wrexham and the sky was awash in shades of pink and lavender as the Beresford carriage bounced and squeaked its way into the quaint market town. Brynne drew his cloak more firmly about his shoulders, for the night chill penetrated the thick wool while he rode beside the carriage.
After their repast at the Towton Inn, he’d assisted Lettie into the carriage but had decided to ride alongside on Valiant rather than risk more time alone in that enclosed compartment with Lettie. The skittish gelding had managed the journey with ease, but suddenly developed a limp as they turned up the drive to Wolverton Grange which was Lady Frances’ house. “Bloody hell,” he muttered into the wind, hoping the injury was minor. “Not far now, Valiant.”
Lady Frances lived in a stately manor house on a quiet street in the bustling town. They’d passed lots of shops and several fashionable residences, keeping to the better part of town although Wrexham was fairly prosperous and even the lower classes seemed to live comfortably, Brynne noted.
When Valiant’s limp became more pronounced, he dismounted and walked his trusted mount the short distance to the portico. Within moments, grooms rushed forward to tend to the horses and footmen attended to Lettie and her trunks. One of the older grooms came up to him. “I see he’s limping, sir. May I take a look at him?”
“It would be most appreciated.” Brynne had intended to examine Valiant’s foreleg himself, but there was somethingin the way this older man handled the horse that spoke of experience far greater than his own.
It took the man, an Irishman by the name of Seamus, no time to determine Valiant’s injury was a bruised foreleg that would heal nicely with a few days’ rest. “Three days, sir. He’ll be galloping across the fields like a colt by then. I have a liniment that ought to soothe him.”
“Three days?”
Seamus nodded. “Funny how these things happen. One can never tell with these horses. Ye think ye have a sturdy beast and find he’s as delicate as a society debutante.”
Brynne stared after the groom as he walked Valiant to the stables. His massive beast did not look at all like a delicate young woman. “Three days,” he muttered to himself, trudging into the house to greet Lady Frances.
Lettie obviously hadn’t heard the remark. She stared at him while wringing her gloved hands. “Brynne, you don’t need to rush off right away.”
He ran a hand roughly through his hair, knowing by her quickening breaths and the utter desolation on her face that she thought this was to be their farewell. He saw the tears already forming in her eyes, their usually vibrant green depths devoid of mirth or brilliance. “Valiant’s leg is bruised.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Then her eyes widened. “What does that mean exactly?”
“I can’t leave yet.” He turned to Frances. “Your head groom is taking care of him as we speak. May I impose upon your generosity to permit Valiant to remain here until he recovers? I will, of course, arrange for accommodations for myself at one of the local inns.”
“Nonsense,” Frances retorted. “You’ll stay right here with us. I won’t hear of you staying anywhere else. Indeed, I’ll take it as a personal affront.”
“So will I,” Lettie said, tipping her chin up and now smiling as though she’d just bested Napoleon at Waterloo.
He raised his hands in resignation. “Very well. I know when I’m defeated.”
Lettie closed her eyes and clasped her hands together as though in prayer. “What are you doing, Lettie?”
“Thanking… you know who… for answering my prayers.”
Frances cast her a benevolent smile, no doubt believing Lettie was referring to a much higher authority than a wayward guardian angel by the name of Jeremiah. “You’ll stay for the holidays, I hope. We celebrate quietly with several of the local families at Lord de Wolfe’s home. His family history is most interesting.”
Brynne quirked an eyebrow. “I know the name. Where have I heard it before?”
“No doubt in your history lessons.” Frances led them into her parlor and rang for refreshments which were quickly brought in and set out. “Lord de Wolfe’s family fought for the Lancastrian kings. They were highly regarded knights who battled bravely against the Yorkist forces. The de Wolfe men, the Le Becs, and–”
Lettie gasped. “The wolf! And the roses, as in the War of the Roses. There was a terrible battle. The de Wolfes were a part of it and… and…” She arched an eyebrow and stared at Brynne urging him to acknowledge that her guardian angel was making a connection between him and the de Wolfe family. “Aunt Frances, please tell us more.”
Frances nodded as she poured tea into their cups and offered them scones and cakes. “They fought not far from here. The battle of Towton. Thousands of men died, their blood turning the fields into streams of red.” She shook her head and sighed, setting down the slice of cake she’d just cut for herself. “A terrible tragedy.”
She was about to explain more, but her housekeeper begged forgiveness for the interruption and sought advice from Frances. “Excuse me,” she said and momentarily left to attend to the domestic crisis.
Brynne groaned as Lettie began to squirm in her chair excitedly and then turned to him in expectation. “Isn’t it wonderful, Brynne?”
“No.” She was going to lead him on a useless chase to track down his family, a family that obviously didn’t wish to be found.
“They’re here,” she said softly. “The wolf. The roses. That’s what Jeremiah was trying to tell me.”
“It’s all coincidental,” he insisted. “Hundreds of battles took place all over England during the War of the Roses.”
“And what of the wolf?”
“Need I remind you of your aunt’s name? Wolverton.” He sighed and rolled his eyes.
