Suzanne Robinson (36 page)

He glanced back at the inner ward of Castle La Roche. The old, square keep rose high behind the inner battlements, its pennants signaling that he was in residence. The spires of the chapel could be seen just above the merlons. He had buried his father in the crypt below it this morning—and felt nothing.

For most of his life he’d longed for this day, and now the reality seemed far less satisfying. Only this morning had he understood that he hadn’t wanted his father to die. He’d wanted him to magically transform into a loving, gentle sire, a man like Christian de Rivers’s father. He had longed for such a father, and he would never have one. This need had left a flaw in his construction, as if masons had built a wall and left a gap that weakened the whole structure.

He walked between the rows of apple trees in the castle orchard and tried to throw off this mantle of gloom that had beset him since first confronting his father on the London docks. Useless. Oriel’s loss haunted him. He would never spend days with her reading Ovid and Thomas Wyatt, never laugh at her attempts to remember names, touch her hair.

Cursing, he muttered aloud. “But at least she’s safe—safe from me.”

He would give away all his father’s possessions. They reminded him of nothing but pain. His steward would protest. His distant relatives would protest more, for he had yet to inform them of Lord Fitzstephen’s death. No matter. They could do nothing but complain, for he was lord of Castle La Roche.

He left the orchard and walked across the inner ward, passing stables and the mews. The castle was built in two concentric circles of battlemented walls, each thicker than he was tall. He’d spent his childhood here in the new house beside the keep.

The former owners had built the fortress at the behest of Henry II to guard the border between England and Scotland, only to have it confiscated when they did more raiding than guarding. It had passed from family to family until Edward III handed it to Blade’s ancestor, in whose family it had remained for more than two hundred years. Now it was his turn to guard the border for his queen. Because of the tumult caused in the last
few months by the Queen of Scots, his task would be a perilous one.

Yet his greatest fear wasn’t the threat of the Queen of Scots. It was that his own sovereign, upon hearing that he’d succeeded to his father’s title, would insist upon his marriage to produce an heir. Elizabeth was a great one for insisting her lords do their duty, though she herself had yet to marry. He’d never be able to stomach looking at some inbred, pale and mincing maid when he only wanted Oriel.

He walked through the gate house of the inner ward and into the outer bailey. His head groom was training a new stallion in the art of keeping his rider alive in battle. Most of the gentlemen and boys of his household had gathered to observe. He left them behind, acknowledged the salutes of guards at the outer gate, and walked across the drawbridge over the moat, then down the steep slope of the hill upon which Castle La Roche was built.

He must try to prevent every thought from veering off course and leading to Oriel. After arriving from France he’d sent a letter to the Cardinal of Lorraine. He’d kept it a secret from Oriel, for he hadn’t wanted her to worry. He knew better than to expect the cardinal to give up hunting him simply because he’d crossed the channel.

That letter had contained a solution to this threat, one the cardinal wouldn’t like at all. He waited for a response. Meanwhile, he’d set a clerk to work on the button ciphers, The man was closeted in the Black Tower in the castle at this very moment, studying the papers.

“Mon seigneur!”

He turned to see René hurrying after him.

“Mon seigneur
, you must not leave without escort.”

“Go away. There is no need at the moment.”

“But my lord—”

“I forbid it,” he said, his voice rising. He threw his
cloak over one shoulder and patted the hilt of his sword. “I’ve protection enough, and my need for solitude is too great. Leave me.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and resumed his walk down the rocky hillside to the forested dale below. Here the trees grew thick. Their branches, fluttering with light green leaves, formed a dais overhead. Most wore a coat of lichen that contrasted with the blacks and greys of hazel and oak trunks. He could feel the evidence of spring in the warmth of the sun on his face.

He walked some way into the forest until the keep pennants were barely visible through the trees. His father and grandfather and great-grandfather had reserved the forests surrounding La Roche for game, and the nearest village was some leagues away in another valley. He picked up a dead branch and started breaking it into tiny pieces, which he discarded as he walked. When he moved, shadows cast by the branches above him crawled along his body.

His stride slowed as an unexpected memory tore at him. In his imagination he saw Oriel, tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth, bent over her catalog of Thomas Richmond’s books, her hair glinting in sunlight. She glanced up at him, and that enthralled expression came over her eyes. He’d seen women appraise him before, but never had he been so sure that the appraisal included his true self as well as his person.

The branch in his hand snapped, and he shook his head. There was another snap, and he whirled around, his cloak swinging, his sword already halfway out of its sheath. A man stepped from behind a thick tree trunk—a young man. Richly dressed in black patterned silk, gold chains, and an ornate rapier, he spread his arms wide to signal his peaceful intent. He smiled at Blade and propped one shoulder against the tree.

Blade looked from him to the surrounding forest and kept his sword trained on the stranger, who waited
patiently for him to finish his survey. Finally he returned his gaze to the stranger. He was smooth of face, with silken black hair and the smile of an angel confronted with a cherub. His cheeks bore a maiden’s rosy hue, yet he wore his sword with the ease of a mercenary.

“Sieur de Racine,” the young man said. “His Eminence is most displeased with you.”

Blade pointed his sword at the stranger’s heart. “And I with him. What do you want?”

The young man bowed gracefully. “I am Jean-Paul.”

“You bring an answer to my letter to the cardinal.”

“I am the answer.”

Blade lifted his brow and waited. Jean-Paul crossed his legs at the ankles and cocked his head to the side.

“I must say you don’t look the troublesome interloper, nor do you seem capable of eluding His Eminence.”

“What do you want?”

Jean-Paul gave an impatient sigh and straightened. Leaving the tree, he approached Blade, who kept his sword pointed at the stranger. Jean-Paul stopped two sword lengths from him.

“You’re half French, I am told. Surely you appreciate the refinements of courtesy, even between enemies.”

“I’m also half English, and therefore have no trust in Frenchmen. Speak or draw your sword.”

Jean-Paul sighed again, then made the sign of the cross before Blade in benediction. “Peace, my son.”

“God’s blood, he’s sent a priest.” Blade lowered his sword a few inches. “A worldly priest, as befits Charles de Guise.”

A lazy smile rippled over Jean-Paul’s lips. “I was raised in a monastery until the cardinal found me. He took me into his household, where I received a much more—thorough education. But, as you say, I must speak. His Eminence is most displeased at your letter.”

“Good,” Blade said. “Then he appreciated that the
Queen Mother of France would also be displeased if she were to learn of his dealings with English Catholics and his attempt to put his niece on the throne of England. You forget, Father, I’ve lived in France. The kingdom is torn apart by the struggle between Protestant and Catholic, and the Valois king and his mother are caught in the middle. They balance between the Catholic de Guises and the Protestant house of Orléans. The Queen Mother would be more than displeased to learn of the cardinal’s plots.”

“His Eminence is thinking of confiscating your French estates.”

“She might be so alarmed as to accuse the cardinal of treason.”

“He is also most concerned about your health.”

“The house of Orléans would dance a jig upon learning of his dealings with the English, and would no doubt send their armies to aid the Queen Mother in arresting His Eminence.”

“And the health of Mistress Oriel Richmond.”

Blade smiled at Jean-Paul. “No doubt the king of France would arrange an auto-da-fé with the cardinal as the chief entertainment. Has a cardinal ever been drawn and quartered?”

Bien touché
, Fitzstephen. Well hit.” Jean-Paul laughed and rested the palm of his hand on the top of his sword hilt. “He told me you wouldn’t respond to threats. His Eminence offers a truce. Your silence for his tolerance. You may live in peace, even keep your lands.”

“How generous, considering I’ve already told him that should harm befall me for any reason, there are five secret letters concerning his doings which will be posted to various interested persons.”

“His Eminence is always solicitous of the health of his friends.”

“Merde.”

Jean-Paul laughed, then his hand twitched, and five men emerged from the forest to surround them. “I had
to be sure,
mon seigneur
. As you see, I am a careful man.”

“You’re a strutting, overconfident boy.”

Blade whistled. Behind the Frenchmen appeared a company of his men, headed by René. Jean-Paul chuckled and signaled to his men to be still.

“Well played, Fitzstephen.” He met Blade’s gaze coolly. “Have I your word upon our contract?”

“You have it. As long as the cardinal keeps his fingers out of English pies, his guilt will not be published on the church steps of France.”

“Then I will take leave of you.”

Jean-Paul glanced around at Blade’s men. Blade nodded to René, and the Englishmen fell back to allow the Frenchmen to leave. Jean-Paul bowed to him, and returned the courtesy.

“My men will escort you to London, priest, and see you safely aboard a ship.”

“Your care for my safety is generous, but unnecessary.”

“God’s blood, sirrah, I consider your departure from England of great portent to me and to my queen. Fare you well.”

He watched Jean-Paul stride off surrounded by his men, who in turn were surrounded by his. René joined him, sheathing his sword.

“You followed me despite my command.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“No doubt you will castigate me for my carelessness from now until Judgment Day.”

“God forbid, my lord.”

“You’d better send word to Inigo. He should double the number of men watching Mistress Oriel. I won’t rest well until I’m sure the cardinal means to honor our bargain.”

He began walking back toward the castle with René at his side. He wasn’t surprised that the man cast censorious looks at him and finally spoke.

“Before, you wouldn’t have been taken by surprise—before you left Mistress Oriel. Since you parted from her you’re like a pup that’s lost its dame.”

Blade halted and faced René. “Keep your place, man, or I’ll send you back to France.”

“Brooding,” René continued undaunted, “and roaming about the castle like a besotted lover in a play.”

Hurling himself away from his tormentor, Blade marched up the steep slope toward the castle. “I’ll not listen to this mawkish prattling. I told you. I’ve no desire to saddle myself with any woman. Women need protecting, and they can do nothing for themselves. They must be guided and advised, and they’re helpless. I despise being burdened forever with a whining, frail, dependent maid.”

“Are we speaking of Mistress Oriel Richmond?”

He glared at the skeptical tone René used and stomped across the drawbridge. Clearing the gate house, he turned on René, hissing at him.

“Sacré Dieu
, you know why I must not have her. You know why. Saints give me peace, and you as well.”

René stuck his thumbs in his belt. “Will you keep men about her for the rest of her life? What will you do when she marries?”

“Marries?” Blade gaped at his servant as if he’d spoken Arabic. “Marries?”

“Marries,” René repeated firmly. “Her cousin won’t allow her to remain a maid, especially now that, well, especially now that she’s—especially now. He will find a complaisant husband for her, one who will be glad to overlook certain points of honor for her dowry.”

“He won’t if he wants to live,” Blade said. “And don’t leer at me.”

He swore and flung himself away from René and his mirthful visage, only to encounter his steward hurrying toward him.

“My lord, you have a guest.”

“God’s bones, not another Frenchman.”

“Lord Braithwaite, my lord.” The steward nearly danced with excitement. “Of the queen’s household.”

Suppressing a groan, he headed for the inner ward and the great hall. No doubt the queen had heard of his father’s death and sent Braithwaite with her condolences. He must summon his courtly manners, though his temper had been sorely tried. He entered the hall, a chamber built to hold several hundred retainers, and greeted Lord Braithwaite.

An older man with a head shaped like a quince, Braithwaite bowed stiffly to him and presented a letter to him from the queen. In it she expressed her sympathy upon the loss of his father, and her good wishes to him upon his succession to the barony.

Braithwaite snapped his fingers at a servant. The man came forward with a long, gilded box set on a velvet pillow.

“Her Majesty sends this token of her good will and thanks Lord Fitzstephen for his service to her, and those good offices she is sure he will perform in the future.”

Braithwaite took the box and held it out to Blade. Opening the lid, he revealed a quillon dagger. It was a ceremonial one of gold, and its hilt was set with emeralds and diamonds symbolizing the queen’s colors of green and white. Just below the hilt, engraved on the blade, were the queen’s initials, ER—Elizabeth Regina. Blade picked up the weapon, unable to speak.

“Her Majesty sent this letter and instructed me to tell you that henceforth she names you her Dagger.”