Sin and Surrender (29 page)

“Your what? Your concubine?” she asked dryly.

“You’re my lover, and I will protect you.”

His lover,
she thought, knowing that even those words were a concession from a man who guarded his emotions as Paul did.

“I am not your lover, not anymore.”

Seeing Timothy bloodied had upset them both. Paul wanted to protect her, as she wanted to protect him. Surely he was reminded, as she was, of the fragileness of life, of the rare moments of pleasure they’d found in each other.

But they were finished now. Over. And she’d known when she’d seduced him that this was how it would end. But she was a mature woman—she would learn to live with it.

The love she felt for him had opened her eyes. She’d held herself back from real life, from being a woman, out of fear, but she needn’t have feared love. Even such brief happiness had been worth the risk.

And as she contemplated what she was losing, it was as if she had been blind, and now could see again.

“Paul, everything we had together is slipping away, and do you know why?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I am certain you’re about to tell me.”

“Your parents were murdered, and you were helpless to do anything about it. It colored your whole childhood, put you in the path of the League—something you wish had never happened.”

He said nothing.

“And then the murder was solved in your absence, a point of family honor that you had nothing to do with.”

His frown grew even more forbidding. “Why do you keep bringing this up?”

“Because you cannot let it go! You’re trying to avenge my father because you couldn’t avenge your own.”

“Because I know the regrets you’ll face.”

“As much as I understand this, I don’t feel the same
way. If the name of the traitor comes out, children will suffer as I did, for even though they’re innocent, all will believe them guilty by blood, another generation that the king cannot risk trusting. I don’t want that. ‘Tis over. Enough people have been hurt, including both of us.”

Paul watched her stride away, telling himself that he was in the right, and she in the wrong. Whatever the mixing of his motives, the League needed to be reformed, so they would stop trampling innocents to reach their goals.

Innocents like his brothers and him, like Juliana and her family.

But wanting to be proved right, to have the truth aired, was only setting him apart from Juliana, the one person who mattered most. He’d thought avenging her father would make her happy, give her peace, but he himself seemed to be making things worse. He felt alone in his righteousness.

“Juliana, come look!”

She turned when she heard Margaret’s voice and tried to smile at her friend. Margaret was sunshine itself, lightening her depressing day. Juliana had been standing alone in the shade of the outer curtain wall of the castle, watching the lance-throwing competition from a distance. She’d wanted to be alone, to accept
that having a purpose would make up for never having Paul’s love.

But she didn’t want to wallow in it anymore, and was glad Margaret had found her.

“Did you see them?” Margaret asked.

“See who?”

“Sir Paul and my little brother. They’re behind the viewing stands at the lists.”

Where Juliana had left Paul alone. She shaded her eyes as Margaret pointed, and to her surprise, she saw Paul on his knees beside Edward, showing the little boy how to hold a light training lance in preparation to hurl it.

She wanted to stay angry, but was he helping the boy just for her?

“I never would have believed it,” Margaret said, shaking her head in wonder. “Somehow, Sir Paul has won him over.”

Juliana felt a lump in her throat. She never cried, and wouldn’t do so now, even though Paul had won her love and was now trying to help a little boy for her sake. Yet he didn’t deem their relationship important enough to do as she asked.

“He is a good man,” Margaret said softly.

Juliana realized her friend was studying her. “Aye, he is. I was lucky.”

“‘Tis a shame he can’t marry you.”

“Won’t,” Juliana heard herself say, then realized she’d revealed too much.

Margaret’s gaze focused on her. “I know there is the tragedy of what has happened to you, but … it doesn’t seem enough of a reason for a man who feels so deeply.”

He was a man who had wanted to succeed at everything he tried. But when he’d first emerged from the League cocoon, he hadn’t been able to be as other young men. Had those insecurities followed him these last several years even though he’d proved himself a successful knight?

He was focusing on what he thought would help her, even though it was driving them apart. And the more she explained herself, the less he wanted to hear.

Because he was trying to do right by her the only way he thought he could.

“Juliana, you’ve become very quiet,” Margaret said softly.

She gave a start, realizing she’d forgotten her friend was there.

Margaret touched her arm. “I am sorry if I brought you pain by mentioning marriage.”

“Nay, you did not,” Juliana said with a smile, “but might I ask a favor? Paul has withdrawn from the lance-throwing competition. Will you and Edward convince him otherwise?”

Margaret smiled hesitantly. “We can try … if you need us to.”

“I do. But I’ll remain here.”

Margaret walked away, leaving Juliana to question everything that had happened to her recently. She’d misjudged Paul—had she misjudged other things? She’d told him she didn’t want the traitor’s children to suffer, but perhaps she was too quickly deflecting her own buried neediness. Paul had once questioned whether she felt she needed to prove herself to the League. Had he been right? Was she so desperate to have a home, a place to belong, that she was still trying to prove her loyalty, regardless of what the League had done to her family?

She put her face in her hands, wondering if she’d ever feel at peace again.

They came for Paul again in the night, and he was relieved. He wanted this mission to move forward, he needed it done. He needed to prove to Juliana that he was right and she was wrong—she’d thank him for it in the end.

When the blindfold was removed from him, he was in the same underground chamber hewn from rock—but the four men he faced seemed drastically different. Gone was the confidence, the superiority. They were whispering to one another, barely glancing at Paul.

“Are you going to listen to what I have to say?” Paul
demanded plaintively. “I was attacked again, and if it weren’t for my own soldiers, I would be dead, and your plans ruined.”

“Our plans are already ruined,” the earl of Redesdale said between gritted teeth.

Paul narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”

“The king is on his way,” Lord Byrd said, hands flat on the table as if he’d push himself to his feet. “He has sent word to Kilborn that he will be attending the grand melee, the final event of the tournament.”

“He wishes to see the north’s finest knights,” Lord Gerard said. Rising to his feet, he began to pace, betraying his restlessness, his eyes darting about as if he looked for escape.

Paul had known the king was coming, of course, but not when. He’d thought they were supposed to clear the path for him, make the way safe. But the king had evidently grown tired of waiting, regardless of the danger. His Majesty knew the north was still in turmoil, and meant to settle it.

Paul played up his confusion. “I do not understand. You said the Scots and the Irish are coming—you want a battle. Surely ‘tis time to reveal my presence and rally your supporters.”

Redesdale and Byrd exchanged a glance. Sir Hugh Burton, the captain of the guard, folded his arms across his chest and looked inscrutable, as if he would put his
trust in a battle. But apparently his lords didn’t feel the same way.

“The will of the Lancastrians and Tudors was supposed to be broken before the battle,” Redesdale said in frustration. “The king would have been dead before we met, and the battle merely to stamp out the last resistance to the inevitable.”

“You intended to assassinate the king?” Paul asked in a bewildered voice. “Then why did you even need me?” He knew they still wanted to rule through a puppet on the throne.

Gerard picked up the story, even as he paced faster. “Our assassin was already hidden within the king’s household.”

Though Paul let himself appear confused, inside he knew that this changed everything, that he had to get word to the League.

“You were to be a distraction from the real plot,” Byrd said dismissively. “The king would send his forces north, anticipating your threat, letting down his guard to an attack from nearby.”

“Instead, he’s come himself,” Redesdale said bitterly.

“But … your assassin can—”

“Attack him here, right where we all are?” Gerard’s voice rose shrilly. “We’ll be implicated, beheaded!”

“Then stop him,” Paul said, throwing his arms wide.

“We have tried,” Redesdale said, glaring at Gerard,
who sank into a chair and hid his face in his hands. “We reached him yesterday on the march with the king’s army. He believes himself called by God to bring England to its rightful place. He will not back down. He means to see the king dead, even if he himself loses his life. He killed one of our men, sent the other back to us wounded.”

“‘Tis finished—we are finished.” Byrd seemed to sink into his chair, a prisoner of his bulk.

“You know who he is. You can stop him.”

“We will try,” Redesdale said. He sounded as if he were convincing himself.

“What does he look like?” Paul demanded. “My men can help with the search.”

“Why would you do that?” Gerard demanded in a querulous voice.

“Because I am implicated just as you are. I wanted to be part of a great battle—and instead you’ve all made us into cowards who sneak in the dark of night.”

They said nothing for a moment, glancing among each other again.

“He is called Colfe,” Sir Hugh said coolly, speaking for his lord. “He has no identifying marks, is so average in looks and height that you will not be able to find him. He is a dark Celt in coloring, but he is not fool enough to be so easily recognized. He is a fanatic, chosen because he does his work well.”

“Then we will find him, and live to challenge the king in battle another day,” Paul said.

He saw their disregard of him, but strode boldly out into the corridor. Since no one tried to blindfold him now, it was easy enough to remember how he’d gotten there in the dark. Even though one of his Bladesmen was probably following, he moved through the castle, flitting from shadow to shadow, remaining unseen. At last he reached Timothy’s chamber and gave the right knock before he went inside. One man was always awake, and it was Theobald this time, sitting beside the small fire, his mask a dark shadow upon his face.

“Urgent news,” Paul said, as the other men awoke on their pallets. “Alert the others and come to my bedchamber.”

He knew Juliana hadn’t slept since the traitors had taken him away. She wore her dressing gown, and she hugged herself when they stared at each other.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“The others are coming. I will tell you all.”

She poured him a tankard of ale from a pitcher.

“Do I look like I need strong sustenance?” he asked wryly.

She poured another. “I do.”

“Aye, the news is bad enough,” he said.

When all seven of them were assembled, Joseph
standing near the door to listen for unwelcome guests, Paul calmly explained what he’d just learned.

Tiredly, Timothy said, “I was concerned that the king would not heed the League’s advice to remain south until the threat was over. And now he is in far worse trouble than he knows.”

The stubble on his foster father’s face made him look even older, Paul thought, and wondered how long Timothy would continue accepting assignments. There was always the Council of Elders, whom Timothy had advised. The Council needed a voice of reason, someone who’d seen the harm that had been done when thoughtlessly focused on only the end result.

“The League will stop him,” old Roger said. “We will see to that.”

“Meanwhile, we will guard the king with our very lives,” Timothy added. “We will fortify ourselves by requesting more Bladesmen. I have established myself among the servants both indoors and out. They will help us be on guard for the king’s sake.”

“Do not count on Redesdale and his retinue,” Paul said.

“But they cannot depart, not without revealing their cowardice and the reason behind it,” Michael added with satisfaction.

“I would offer to become close to the king,” Juliana
said, “but I understand he is a moral man with a wife and babe in London.”

Paul clenched his hands behind his back, keeping his expression impassive. The League had cost her father his life—and with her loyalty and duty, it could very well cost her her own. The ache in his chest was raw and painful, and at last, he understood the depth of his feelings for Juliana.

T
he king arrived late the next afternoon, announced by trumpeters. Surely a thousand soldiers traveled with him, spreading across the fields surrounding Castle Kilborn to set up camp. Minstrels followed the trumpeters, moving among the guests who gathered along the edges of the road, anxious for a glimpse of the king.

Juliana stood at Paul’s side, taking in the spectacle of the royal arrival. Lord Kilborn had seen banners of velvet and silk hung from the castle walls, and his own pennant now hung below that of the king, the red dragon of the Tudors, high above the battlements.

Somewhere in that sea of arriving men was an assassin.

But there were surely Bladesmen as well, to fight at their sides, to help protect the king.

At the banquet that evening, she was impressed by King Henry’s cloak lined with white fur. He wore a simple gold crown upon his head. His face was long beneath his blond hair, with regular features except for a
red wart upon his cheek. He could be any man, yet he’d persevered and made himself king—with the help of supporters. He would have to reign knowing that others believed him not the next in line to the throne. Perhaps that was why he had not allowed his wife’s coronation yet—her father had been king, after all, not his. But he was descendant of kings through his mother. He had enough claim to satisfy those who’d backed him.