The White Lord of Wellesbourne by Kathryn Le Veque Page A

from him, weeping. “I
know,” she sobbed. “But this is the first chance I have had. M’lady needed me
and I could not get away.”
    He still had her by the hair,
pulling the faded brown strands.  He had a wild look to his eye.  “I must get
to the men,” he muttered. “Key soldiers, those in command of the rest. They
must be prepared to strike at the very moment the church bell’s peal. It will
be their signal to erupt from within. And then, we shall have such chaos…”
    He let go of her hair as he
trailed off.  Jezebel rubbed her face where he had struck her.  “What are you
going to do?”
    Strode’s initial sense of panic
at the thought of his orders coming to fruition so quickly died into a slow
burn. He calmed himself; he was a good soldier and used to quick decision making.
That is why Lord Terrington put him in command. He would not fail at this most
important task no matter of the wench’s incompetence. It would not cost him his
glorious showing.
    “Go back to the lady,” he told
her. “I will do what needs to be done.”
    Jezebel was still rubbing her
face.  “Are ye going to be in the church?”
    “My direct orders are to kill The
White Lord; therefore, I must be in the church. As the lady’s attendant, it is
my right and no one will be the wiser to my purpose unless you open your trap
and levy suspicion against me.”
    “I shall not say a word.”
    “You’d better not.” He glared at
her. “What about Lady Alixandrea? Have you spilled anything to her? The two of
you do an awful lot of chattering.”
    “I have never said a word. She
knows nothing.”
    He continued to glare at her as
if trying to intimidate her into changing her story. But the woman stood firm.
“Well and good for you, then. Traitors are dealt with in such ways and I’d have
no hesitation in slitting your skinny throat.”
    Jezebel knew he spoke the truth.
She thought she was being clever in hiding her fear, but she wasn’t. He could
read it in her eyes. “Ye won’t hurt m’lady, will ye?” she asked timidly. “She
doesn’t deserve to be hurt. She hasn’t done anything.”
    He snorted. “Foolish woman.  I
would sooner kill myself than harm a hair on her head. But she must stay out of
my way when I move on Wellesbourne. I will not have time to pick and choose my
targets.”
    Jezebel’s weeping had faded. She
wasn’t particularly comforted by his declaration not to hurt the lady, but then
again, she was a single-focused creature. All she knew was that she had
completed her task as Strode had asked of her when he had pulled her deep into
the circle of intrigue that seemed to flow throughout Whitewell like a disease. You will tell me when this wedding is to happen so that we may confiscate
Wellesbourne Castle in the name of Henry . Everything about Whitewell stank
of hatred against Richard, of the fall of the Red Rose. Aye, she had completed
her task. Her reward was marriage to Strode, an elevation of her station. All
would look more favorably upon her now.  She had done what he had asked.
    Hand still to her red-welted
face, she slipped past him.  Strode watched her disappear into the approaching
dusk, a waif of a thing that did not matter much to him. She could die tomorrow
and he would not be heart broken. But for the moment, she served a purpose. And
that purpose was to feed him information. He left the stables in her wake,
heading for the Whitewell troops housed in temporary quarters just inside the
main gate.
    The stable was left still and
silent but for the snorting of a horse now and again. They were becoming
increasingly impatient for their evening meal. In the growing darkness, a head
suddenly popped up in one of the stalls that housed a big blond charger. It was
difficult to make out who it was until the shape came from behind the horse and
stepped out into the fading light. Straw stuck out from the figure’s pale blond
head, the blue eyes reflecting shock in the twilight.
    John Wellesbourne had