The White Lord of Wellesbourne by Kathryn Le Veque Page A

moving
between the lady and his son.  He almost did not answer her, but saw that he
had little choice. She was about to take off Matthew’s head if the situation
was not quickly clarified.
    “I have moments of madness, my
lady,” he said with quiet humiliation. “Matthew does this to prevent me from
harming myself. My son does it to protect a foolish old man.”
    He began to weep, softly. It took
Alixandrea a moment to realize that the situation was not as it had appeared,
though there was no way she could have known differently given her initial
impression. Slowly, she lowered the shovel. As she watched Adam sob, she
suddenly felt very foolish.
    “My God,” she whispered, setting
the shovel down. She looked at Matthew helplessly. “I did not know, my lord. I
came in and found him tied up and assumed.…”
    She could not finish. It sounded
stupid, even to her. Matthew came into the room when he was sure she was not
going to whack him with the shovel and gently took her hand, kissing the palm
sweetly. From shame to thrill all in a brief moment, Alixandrea’s cheeks
flushed warm at his touch.  He simply smiled at her, dropped her hand, and went
over to his father.
    “Come, Father,” he put his big
arm across his father’s shoulders. “Let us escort Lady Alixandrea down to the
hall and break our fast. You will feel better when you have some food in your
belly.”
    Alixandrea watched the
interaction, sensing that there was a good amount of compassion from son to
father. She suddenly felt doubly foolish that she had believed the worst out of
the situation.  As Matthew walked past her with his father, he reached out and
took her arm.
    “Come along, lady,” he said. “Let
us all become better acquainted.”
    Meekly, she followed them down to
the hall.  It was still strewn with bodies, men sleeping off the overindulgence
of ale from the night before. The dogs snoring in the corner sudden awoke with
the introduction of new people and they rose stiffly, wandering over to the
group as they entered the room.  Not particularly fond of dogs, Alixandrea
shoved one of the beasts away when it came too close.  The others closed in on
her, wagging their tails furiously.
    They took a seat at the corner of
the dais. A kitchen servant brought out a warm loaf of bread, dark brown on the
outside and a soft, creamy color on the inside.  Matthew took his knife and cut
off a piece for Alixandrea and his father, and one for himself.  More kitchen servants
emerged a few moments later with drink, cheese, cold beef, and little cakes
made from flour, raisins, eggs, and seasoning known as blaunchpoudre , a
mixture of ginger, valuable sugar and other ingredients that gave it a bright
yellow color. Alixandrea could taste the ginger in the cakes; it was her
favorite.
    “I must say, you eat very well at
Wellesbourne,” she said, anxious to change the subject from the events up in
the chamber. “The meal last night was also exquisite.”
    “We spend a lot of time on campaign
or out on the road one way or the other, eating only what we can carry with us
or hunt,” Matthew replied. “When we are home, we like excellent food. It has
become a vice.”
    “I wish I’d learned the finer
arts of cooking,” Alixandrea said. “Our cook at Whitewell was nothing more than
an expert on mutton. She could cook it twenty different ways, but it was always
still the same – mutton.”
    “So you do not know the culinary
arts,” Matthew shrugged. “I am sure that you have other talents. Sewing,
perhaps?”
    “Nay, not sewing.” She finished
the last of her cake and bit into another. “I can draw a little. And I had the
best garden in all of Yorkshire. It was a lovely place with an acre of
beautiful flowers. I was very sad to leave it.”
    Matthew’s warm expression faded
and Alixandrea had no idea why. His blue eyes moved to his father; the man’s
face was buried in a knuckle of beef. Matthew watched, waited a few seconds
more, and finally