The Pleasures of Sin (28 page)

A cannon shot rang out, causing more dust and splinters of wood to flow down the walls and ceiling. A panting man came barreling down the stairs. Blood stained his tunic.

“Master! The main sail has been hit and men under the British flag are boarding the ship.”

At that moment, soldiers stomped down the steps. They carried swords and crossbows and wore a motley of different uniform pieces. One lugged a hand-cannon, nearly staggering under its weight.

“I’ve found him!” a crossbowman called to the others, motioning them further down into the already cramped hull.

James whirled on them.

“Take him!”

They rushed at James.

“Get back, Brenna!” James commanded, pushing her behind him and facing off the herd of armed men rushing down the steps.

Brenna screamed as she was pushed aside, crowded by bodies. James fought, his sword swinging this way and that. But there were too many. They flowed down into the hallway like a flood, shoving her and Nathan to one side and surrounding Montgomery. Swirling arms and legs, seemingly disconnected from their bodies, crowded the hull. The scents of sweat and battle burned rancid in her nostrils. Loud shouting, clashing swords and hard thunks filled the air.

Montgomery fell.

“James!” she screamed as he was pushed to the floor and shackled.

He grunted as one of the men he had cut kicked him in the side.
L’occhio del diavolo
skittered across the floor planking toward her. “Get back, Brenna! Take the knife and use it if any of these dogs attacks you!”

“Cease!” she screamed at the men. Picking up the dagger, she tried to push her way past the soldiers to get to her husband. “You don’t want him! It’s me you want!”

None of the men even turned around. Their sweaty bodies formed a wall around James.

Tears stung her eyes as she realized that even though he believed she’d betrayed him, he had tossed her his weapon so that she could defend herself if she needed to. “Cease! I’m the painter!”

Nathan slid beside her, sheathing his own sword. “They are soldiers on a mission. They know naught about
The King’s Mistresses
or the reasons he is being taken. They follow orders and that is all.”

A feeling of helplessness flowed through Brenna. “Do something!” she screamed at her brother.

“The king wanted him alive,” said one who appeared to be the commander. “Haul him to his feet and make haste to London.”

“Nay! You can’t take him. He’s done naught wrong!” She grabbed the commander by the arm.

He gave Brenna a cursory glance and tugged down his tunic. “That is for the king to determine. Sorry for the disturbance, my lady. To the ship, men.”

“Then take me with you!” she gasped. “Take me so I can explain to the king.”

“No women on board my ship,” the commander said, motioning the soldiers forward. The crew gave her little consideration as they made their way past her and headed up the stairs. The dim light of the ship’s hull flickered across their faces and seaworn clothing.

Brenna gazed wildly at her brother. “Nathan, you must stop them!”

Nathan shrugged. “He wanted to feed me to the sharks.”

Dragging Montgomery roughly behind them, two of the soldiers hauled him up the stairs. His legs bounced lifelessly against the steps making a loud thump with each step.

Brenna grasped the wall to hold herself upright as she tried to determine what she should do. Fighting the men physically would do her no good. She had to follow their ship and somehow convince the king of her husband’s innocence in this matter.

Trembling, she climbed the stairs after the soldiers and watched with a fearful heart as they loaded James onto the British Naval ship. Nathan followed the men, his cape pulled close around his tall body. From the deck, her father glared at her, his expression smug.

She turned away.

“I’m sorry, miss,” James’s ship captain said when she approached. His bristly beard fluttered in the mild ocean breeze and he looked genuinely downtrodden. “There were too many of them.”

She nodded numbly. “We have to rescue him.”

“We don’t have enough men for that, miss. We’ll have to get his brother’s fleet first.” The captain scratched his head and looked out at the British Naval ship, which was already getting smaller as it headed away. “Don’t even understand what this is about. Master James always had good relationships with the crown. He even acted as a privateer from time to time. They called him The Enforcer.”

She blew out a breath, looking out over the waves lapping against the two ships. The sun cast red and orange shadows on the water. It would do her no good to confess her crime to the captain. “Just follow them to London and find me a courier to reach Brother Giffard; he’s a traveling monk who spends a lot of time at court. I have to gain private audience with the king.”

The captain gave her a little dip. “As wife to Master James, we are here at your command.” Turning, he shrugged and made his way to the stern of the ship. “Ne’er did understand them blue bloods,” he muttered.

Brenna gripped the rail with white knuckles, unsure she understood herself.

Brenna’s belly was round and full as she sank into a low curtsy before the man sitting in a heavily gilded throne upon the dais. The babe kicked inside her, pounding on her bladder and sending shooting pains down her back, but she remained in her bowed position. Several months had passed before Brother Giffard was able to set up an audience with King Edward. She had only one chance.

The king’s private chambers sparkled with yards and yards of cloth of gold fabric and she could see fanciful designs woven into the carpet. ’Twas obvious that the room had been built to intimidate as well as impress—likely the king had many of these secret meetings. She wondered vaguely how many Giffard had set up as he had done for her.

The king seemed to leave her in the curtsy for a long time. Another intimidation tactic. There was no need; she was already intimidated nearly out of her mind. ’Twas a near repeat of the time when she was a girl and had been taken to be presented before the queen. That had been a disaster.

Her heart thrummed and her knees shook; the babe inside her seemed agitated too—beating so strongly with its fists that she had to resist all urges to clutch her stomach. She feared she would pee on the rug.

“Rise.”

She did so, shakily, blinking at the man sitting before her and wishing her stomach would stop jumping so much. He was a tall, beautiful man with dark shoulder length hair and a relaxed mannerism. ’Twas obvious from his clothing he had more than a streak of vanity. No wonder he had been so angry at her paintings.

She shuddered. Life and death were in her next words. For herself. For her husband. For the baby she carried. The fact that he sat on a gilded throne in a private chamber spoke volumes. Her mouth felt dry as a desert.

“Brother Giffard said you wished to speak with us concerning your husband,” the king said regally.

For a heart stopping moment, she decided her plan had been daft. She had been painting like a madwoman on the ship as they sailed to London. Hidden in folds of her skirt, an extremely flattering portrait of the king was tucked away—painted and repainted until it was flawless. At the time it had seemed the perfect appeasement gift for the royal pride.

Now…

She opened her mouth to speak, but only a squeak came out.

Not knowing what else to do, she took her small gift, wrapped in exquisite fabric, from the fold of her skirt, sank to her knees, lowered her head into a position of fealty and held her arms up to the king. She had one chance to save her husband; she prayed it would be enough.

“I am here to beg for my husband’s life and plead for his forgiveness by the crown. This crime was my fault alone.” Her voice shook.

The king drummed his fingers on his throne. He did not reach for her gift, causing another wave of trepidation to pass over her. A sharp pain shot through her womb and she stifled a gasp. “What do you know of your husband’s crime?”

She did not dare look up. The royal character had already been bruised. “I know he is innocent.”

“And do you know
what
he is innocent of?”

At that, she did look up, gazing into the handsome, proud face of the king. Her heart skipped as she realized she
had
gotten the painting correct.

Surely, surely he would forgive them all when she explained the other pictures had been painted when she was only a girl and too naive to know better. Vain men always were in need of an artist—she could pledge herself to his service as a painter and spend the remainder of her life making up for her mistake.

“I know he has been accused of painting a series of miniatures entitled
The King’s Mistresses
—I am the artist.”

The king looked taken aback. “You are a woman.”

“So I have oft cursed,” she said, more boldly now, determined to stay the course. A sharp pain shot through her womb and she stifled a gasp. “I beg of you to take my gift.”

His velvet robe whisked into the air like a bird’s wing as he swept his hand out, indicating the room. “If you think to bribe us with jewels, we have plenty.”

“Nay, my liege. ’Tis something more personal. Something I made myself.” Her heart pounded at the boldness of her words. What if the painting was not enough?

Feeling like a child who has made some special craft to appease an angry parent, she held her breath as the king reached forward. If he hated the portrait, she had no doubt it would mean beheading.

He unwrapped the gift with excruciating slowness. His fingers were encrusted with shimmering jewels that glittered with the movement of his hand. Another token of his vanity.

She sank her teeth into her lower lip as the last corner of fabric was pulled away.

He scrutinized the portrait, a frown furrowed on his brow. Silence permeated the room.

Doom fell on her heart. He hated it. Closing her eyes, she prayed for a quick death. “I—” she started, but it came out as a strangled choke. “I–I was only fourteen—”

“Fourteen?”

She licked her dry lips. “A reckless and stupid girl when I painted the others. I had no idea what a man looked like beneath his codpiece. I meant no harm, I swear it.”

More silence. Too much silence. Would he send the guards in right away? Would she be tortured before she was killed? What about the baby? Her heart seemed to be somewhere around her throat and she could not seem to catch a full breath. Still, she pressed recklessly on. “I–I h–had hoped the n–new portrait would appease your w–wrath t–toward my husband. He was not the painter, was never the painter. He didn’t even know about the paintings. ’Twas my fault alone.”

Still silence. Zwounds. Her neck may have well been stretched over the chopping block. Unchecked shudders began to run through her limbs and her womb convulsed.

“Prithee, my liege,” she whispered, shuffling from one knee to the other. Heat stung the backs of her eyes. “I was but a girl. But even if there is no pardon for me, I beg of you to release my husband. He is an honorable man and has lived his life in your service. The man who accused him of painting such works is the one who is truly guilty of treason.”

“And who might that be?”

She sucked in a deep breath. “My father.”

“You expect us to believe that you would turn in your father to save the man you were forced to marry?” He stroked his chin. “We have heard that your husband kept you in bonds.”

Swallowing, she stiffened her spine. “Yes, my liege. Our marriage did not start out so amicable, but he is an honorable man.”

“Rise,” the king said after another long pause.

Unsure what to make of this new development, Brenna wobbled to her feet, her knees knocking. Her fingers, always so steady to do her artwork, quivered.

The king tucked the miniature into his robe. “’Tis good work, my lady. The quality of your paintings is much improved.”

Her breath whooshed from her lungs and Brenna nearly fell back to the floor in relief. He was accepting her painting.

“Your love for your husband saves you,” he said. “And your skill as well. ’Twould be the court’s loss for you not to be the artist in residence.”

Her heart gave a little leap. “But my husband?”

“Will be restored.”

This time she did sink to the floor again. “Thank you, sire. Oh, thank you.”

He cleared his throat and held his hand out for her to kiss his ring. “There will, of course, be fines associated with this pardon.”

She nearly smiled at his cleverness in digging into their coffers. “Of course.”

Reaching over his head, he pulled a bell cord and immediately the door opened and a servant stepped inside with a low bow.

“Tell the captain to bring Montgomery to my private chambers,” the king said.

Closing her eyes, she crossed herself, grateful she would see her husband safe again.

“Inform them to bathe him first and give him a fresh set of garments. Fetch this woman’s canvas and painting supplies. As the new court artist, she will be doing a rendition of the royal personhood here in the private quarters.”

The servant gaped at her, made another low bow and scurried out. The glittering room seemed to close in around her. The babe kicked again, a sharp pain in her right side.

Her hands shook with nerves as she realized what was expected of her. The miniature had been done over several weeks time, painting and repainting until she’d gotten it perfect.

This portrait would have to be done right the first time. Her stomach cramped, doubling her over in pain. She clutched her rounded belly. Smaller pains of the same nature had been happening for days. Nerves from anticipating this meeting with the king.

“Lady Montgomery?” the king said.

She gave a shuddered wince as another cramp banded her middle and then a flood of fluid ran down her leg onto the royal carpets. “Bloody hell!”

The king’s eyes widened. “Merciful heavens, woman,” he muttered, pulling the bell cord again.

Heat flooded her cheeks and she wanted to sink like a worm into the ground. “Zwounds. The babe,” she panted, clutching her belly. Why did every engagement with royalty end in disaster for her?

Servants rushed in. “Call for a midwife,” he commanded, “and help this woman to a birthing chamber.”

Maids crowded around her, hurrying her from the king’s presence. Brenna bit back a scream as another pain shot up her belly. She began panting, trying to hold back the pain.

“Just hurry along, miss. Ol’ Bertha’s had lots of babies, no need to fear,” said the plump maid holding onto her arm. “Even if the midwife don’t make it, Ol’ Bertha knows what to do.”