Knights Divided. Suzanne Barclay
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Sail quickly back to Cornwall. Tight schedule. No time for lagging or sentimentality.
“Who goes there?” demanded a gruff voice.
Jamie looked up, startled to find the moment he’d been anticipating and dreading was nearly at hand. The drawbridge had been lowered over the moat, but was manned by a guard of twenty. Not surprising in these troubled times. “Jamie Harcourt, come to bid my mother well on her name day.”
“The hell ye say.” A stout soldier in Harcourt green and gold strode forward and held a torch aloft. “Jesu, it is ye.”
Jamie laughed. “I know. George of Walken, is it not?”
“Ye’ve a good memory, milord.” The old warrior grinned. “Yer sire said ye’d come to honor yer lady mother, but—”
“No one thought I’d dare show my scarred face.”
George looked at the patch covering the ruins of Jamie’s left eye, then away. “There was some who thought ye’d not come…considering that murder business, but I wagered on ye.”
The reference to Celia made his stomach lurch. Would that mistake haunt him, as well? “How much did you win?”
“A pound, all told.” George chuckled. “New men. They don’t know ye as well as I do.” His smile dimmed. “I was always sure ye’d be back. I just didn’t know ’twould be so long.”
“Ah, well, black sheep are never certain whether they’re welcome or not,” Jamie replied with a cheeky grin.
“Ye were never that,” George said stoutly. “Just a high-spirited lad who pulled his share of pranks, ran off to sea and found he liked the adventuring life better than all this.”
A few pranks…like getting himself maimed, his brother crippled and breaking his parents’ hearts. How he wished he could go back and live his life over, but that was impossible. “Fortunately my brother isn’t cursed with my wild nature.”
“Sir Hugh’s been a fine lord in yer stead. Fair and honest and as hard a worker as any under him. But…but he can never be the warrior ye are. What if we are invaded by the French?”
“I doubt the French will come, but if they do, good old Hugh will do what’s needful. He always rises to the occasion.”
“Aye, that he does.” George glanced at the patch again, no doubt recalling the day that had changed Hugh’s and Jamie’s lives forever. “Ye just missed him, rode down to settle some trouble in the village not half an hour past. I could send someone to—”
Jamie shook his head. “Unless Hugh has changed greatly, he’d not thank either of us for dragging him from his duty for so frivolous a thing as greeting his errant twin. I’m certain he’ll return before I leave. Thanks for wagering on me, George.” For believing in me where others have not, Jamie thought to himself.
Kneeing Neptune into a trot, Jamie passed under the teeth of the portcullis and up the road that cut through the outer bailey. Here were the barracks for the soldiers, the stables and the training field. A wave of nostalgia assailed him as he recalled the many hours spent in the tiltyard learning to wield a sword under his father’s exacting eye. The memory was tainted by the fierce competitiveness between himself and Hugh, the strife that had ended in a blood-spattered glade seven years ago.
Look ahead…never back, he warned himself.
All hope of slipping within, seeing his mother and leaving without causing a stir vanished when he rode through the gatehouse and into the inner ward. The courtyard was washed bright as day by the hundred torches fixed to the massive stone towers and packed with those who’d come to celebrate the forty-third anniversary of Lady Jesselynn’s birth. From inside drifted the sounds of music, laughter and general merrymaking.
The ringing of Neptune’s shod hooves on the cobblestones brought several heads around. The crowd in the courtyard fell silent quickly, as though they’d all been struck mute at once.
“Pon my word. ’Tis young Jamie,” a man exclaimed.
His name riffled through the crowd like an ill wind. Men’s eyes widened, their mouths twisted over words he’d heard before: Ingrate. Brigand. Wastrel. Murderer. The older women flinched and crossed themselves; the younger ones giggled and stared.
“Dieu, he’s a handsome one,” said a blonde upholstered in red silk. She appraised him as greedily as she might a slice of beef.
“Too rough. Too dangerous ”hissed her companion.
Beneath her elaborate headdress, the blonde’s eyes sparkled with a lustfulness he’d had directed at him by women from the time he sprouted a beard. “I certainly hope so.” She sauntered over, laid a hand on his hose-clad knee and gazed up at him through kohl-darkened lashes. “Did you really lose your eye battling the pirates?” she purred.
Jamie grinned, tempted to oblige her by lifting the black leather triangle. That’s what they wanted…men and women alike…a peek under his patch. Well, jaded ladies like this one wanted a bit more, a quick tumble to judge for themselves if he was as dangerous as he looked, as hedonistic as his reputation. Many’s the time he’d been only too happy to oblige. But not tonight. “Not pirates, milady,” he replied, cool but courteous. “I fear the story is far less colorful.” Far more tragic.
“A jealous woman, then?” she asked archly, wetting her lips, clearly not discouraged by his lack of warmth. “I know I’d not take kindly to sharing you.” Leaning forward, she pressed her ample bosom against his leg, giving him an unimpeded view of the charms spilling over the bodice of her low-cut cotehardie.
Jamie groaned inwardly and struggled against the nature with which he’d been blessed—or cursed, depending on your view. Women fascinated him. They were soft, fragile and endlessly pleasurable creatures. Coy, seductive packages whose silken wrappings he could no more resist exploring than he could stop breathing. Since that near disaster with Celia, he had been celibate as a monk. His life was currently dangerous enough without added complications. “Another time,” he said gallantly. “I must first seek out my lady mother.”
“Have you come back to stay?” asked a tall man. Though older and grayer, Jamie recognized Gilbert Thurlow, chief of his father’s vassals. Gilbert had often criticized Jamie’s wild ways and doubtless preferred Hugh’s stable hands at the helm. With Gilbert stood several other Harcourt retainers, faces equally concerned as they waited for his response.
“I fear I cannot stay,” Jamie said. The sigh of relief that went through the group confirmed the difficult decision he’d made seven years ago. They were better off without him. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t linger, but I am anxious to see my parents.” He inclined his head cordially, winked at the blonde, because old habits die hard, and wheeled Neptune toward the stables.
Grinning over the whispers he’d left in his wake, as usual, he dismounted and tossed his horse’s reins to the stable boy along with a penny. “We’ve had a long ride. See he gets a rundown and an extra measure of oats, lad.”
The boy stared at Jamie. “Ye are Lord Jamie. I’ve heard tell of ye. Are ye truly a pirate, milord?” he whispered.
Jamie grinned. “Aye, that and more. What’s your name, lad?”
“Rob. I’m George of Walken’s son. Please, milord, take me with ye when ye leave.”
“Pirating’s a hard life, Rob.”
“I don’t care,” the boy said passionately. “Tis deadly boring duty here, and I’ve wanted to go to sea ever since I went with yer sire to London harbor and stepped aboard his ship.”
Jamie knew the feeling well. He’d been smitten when he was five and his father had taken him on a short voyage aboard The Sommerville Star. Later, when he’d run off to sea, his father had understood…up to a point. “You need to grow some before you’re big enough and strong enough to manage the sails,” Jamie said gently. He didn’t