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“Damnation,” William growled. He rolled up the vellum and it went sailing into the wall. “Damnation!” He roared again, shooting from the bed.

“I shall assemble the men for London,” Ranulf said without being asked.

William didn’t respond to him. Instead, he did something so completely unexpected and so completely out of character, that Ranulf had to jump out of the way or risk serious injury.

Baron de Wolfe proceeded to demolish the entire room with his bare hands, breaking the huge support beams on the bed as if they were made of rotted wood and swinging the broken pieces against the walls, crumbling stone and mortar. He picked up his sword and slashed the mattress until nothing was left but feathers and tattered bits of cloth. The dressing table Jordan had used fell victim to his sword as he hacked it into kindling before tossing the sword away from him and nearly goring Ranulf with the blind launch.

He raged and he rampaged like a mad man, smashing and destroying and obliterating everything he could get his hands on until there was nothing left in the room but scattered, broken remnants of once fine furnishings.

As disturbing as it was for Ranulf to witness this kind of open fury, he found that the most disturbing thing of all was that William had not uttered a sound through the entire display. All of the release, all of the anger, was in his hands. It was as if he were trying to kill something, someone, with his bare hands and only then would he be sated.

But Ranulf knew the wisdom of his lord. By taking his blind rage out on the furniture, it prevented him murdering the focus of his fury, which could have indeed been Ranulf considering he was the bearer of some obviously devastating news. Thank God that even in his anger, the man had sense.

Ranulf caught someone coming into the antechamber from the corner of his eye. Paris was storming in, his face grim with concern. He had heard the noise clear down on the next floor. Ranulf put up a quieting hand, motioning for him not to speak. Paris looked greatly perplexed as he surveyed the destroyed room, with William now motionless near the demolished bed. Everything was in tatters.

William’s arms were braced against the wall and he was leaning into them, sweat and dust coating his naked back. His hands were bloodied and he looked as if he had seen the wrong end of a fight. But he was struggling to calm himself and to steady his breathing. He had never lost his control, as he just did, and found it hard to believe that he had allowed himself such a demonstration of his fury. Yet he was not ashamed, nor was he remorseful, for had de Troiu been in the room, he would have destroyed him.

“William,” Paris said with quiet firmness. “What is going on?”

William waited to answer until he was sure he could reply without flying into a rage again.

“Give him the missive, Ranulf,” he muttered.

Ranulf dug under a pile of bedding and retrieved the message for Paris, who read it with nearly the same reaction, except that he didn’t destroy the room. When Paris looked up at William in complete disbelief, Ranulf decided he’d had enough with guessing games and took the missive from Paris and read it.

“Damnation!” Ranulf shouted with more emotion than the man had ever exhibited. “That bastard of a man after Lady Jordan? I’ll skin the whoreskin myself and cut off the manhood he values so dear!” He stormed into the antechamber, still shouting uproarious threats for de Troiu. Somewhere in the midst of the raging they heard glass breaking.

Paris flinched as a piece of glass came sailing into the room, moving away from the door and over to William. Even with Ranulf’s tantrum, William was visibly calming.

“What now?” Paris asked of him.

William’s arms came down from the wall. “I will send someone to London to retrieve my wife.”

“What of de Troiu?” Paris asked warily.

William was almost too calm now. “I considered Daniel my friend once.”

Paris looked at him, aware that William would not meet his eye.

“The man signed his own death warrant the minute he laid eyes on your wife,” he said in a low voice. “Even at her wedding to de Longley, he seemed overly solicitous. But what of Henry? Surely he will have something to say about all of this?”

William shrugged. “Henry has too many other pressing problems to worry over two feuding barons.”

“I shall ride for London and retrieve Jordan myself,” Paris said.

“Nay, as captain of the forces you cannot,” William said, trying to right a broken chair and finally giving up. “Henry knows you and he would want to know why you are away from your province. Which is why I cannot go, he would not let me return to Northwood if he thought things were calm enough that I tend to a personal errand.”

“Who goes, then?” Paris demanded.

William looked at him. “Where is Payton-Forrester?”

Paris scowled. “Him? Why in the hell do you need him, with all of your loyal vassals here at Northwood?”

“That,” William jabbed a finger at him, “is precisely why. All of my vassals are too close to the situation, they would all have the exact same reaction as we did when we read the missive, and murder would be foremost on their minds. When de Troiu meets God, it will be by my hands alone. We need someone with a lesser interest to retrieve my wife.”

Paris nodded grimly, both men calm and steady again. Even Ranulf had stopped his raging and was calmly standing in the doorway.

“Ranulf, send a missive back with the messenger and address it to the knights guarding my wife, especially Sir Roan d’Vant.” William was wiping away the splintered wood from his knuckles. “Tell Roan that they are to prevent Baron de Troiu from contacting my wife at all costs. He is not to go near her. Also inform them that I will be sending someone to bring her back to Northwood shortly, and that I wish for the knights protecting Jordan to accompany her home as well.”