Knights Divided. Suzanne Barclay
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“I already have a lad to serve me, but we’ll talk of this again next time I come home.”
“Promise?”
Jamie nodded. Another lie. When he returned, ‘twould be for burial in the family plot. Presuming traitors were allowed such privileges. “Saddle my horse after you’ve rubbed him down and leave him just inside the stable in case I must leave quickly.”
The last was no whim. It was as deeply ingrained a habit as sitting with his face to the door and back to the wall, or sleeping in his clothes with his sword to hand. A sad commentary on what his life had become. But more often than not a man did not choose the path he trod; it chose him. Just a little longer, he told himself. A month or so and he’d be free of this terrible responsibility. Free to get on with his own life.
And then what? mocked a harsh voice.
He knew nothing else but death and deception. Where did spies and murderers go when they gave up the craft? To hell. The now-familiar weariness crept in to weigh on his spirit and conscience. He pushed it away, having neither time nor patience for selfpity. He’d wallowed in both the year he’d lost his eye, and nearly himself. Never again, he’d vowed when his father had succeeded in hauling him back from the brink of self-destruction. Squaring his shoulders, he started for the house.
“Lady Jesselynn’s greetin’ her guests in the gardens, sir,” Rob said. “Just follow that path ’round the back.”
“I remember.” Only too well. Jamie strode down the walk that ran alongside the manor. On one side it was bordered by the stone keep, on the other by the gardens put in by his Aunt Gaby, because his mother preferred managing the estate to domestic tasks. So why couldn’t she understand why he preferred the sea to land? Because she knew it for a lie. Much as he loved sailing, he’d have stayed here if he could. But that was impossible.
Jamie rounded the corner of the castle and stopped, every muscle in his body tensing. Damn, half of London was here. The crush was too much even for the vast hall, and tables had been set about in the grassy verge between the blocks of flowers and trees. Laughing and drinking, the noble lords and ladies milled about before the stately old manor. Torches stuck in rings in the old stone walls shimmered on costly silken gowns and the precious gems banding them at throat and hip.
No expense had been spared, it seemed. To one side, a pair of sweaty-faced boys turned an oxen over a blazing fire. Platters of roasted game, pink salmon and a dozen accompaniments he recognized as his mother’s favorites crowded the long tables. Musicians played in the shadow of a pin oak tree for a line of merry dancers. Maids bearing heavy trays worked the crowd, making certain no ale cup or wine goblet went empty.
Footsteps behind him brought Jamie around. In one swift move he drew the knife from his belt and crouched to repel an attack.
“We’ve had our differences, but I hoped it hadn’t come to this,” drawled the voice that had dispelled his childhood fears.
“Papa.” Jamie sheathed his blade and straightened. Uncertain what to do, he stood still, struggling not to squirm beneath the piercing scrutiny of midnight eyes so like his own.
Time had laced silver hair at his father’s temples and etched deep lines around his mouth. Or was his own behavior responsible for his father’s air of weary resignation, Jamie wondered. An apology bumped against the lump in his throat. But what could he say that would make up for all he’d done.
“I prayed you’d come,” his father said.
“I…I shouldn’t have, I suppose,” Jamie murmured. “I’d hate to taint you with my trouble.”
“Nonsense.” The fire that never quite left Alex’s eyes flared. “You were acquitted of that girl’s murder.”
That wasn’t the trouble he’d meant. Strong was the urge to unburden himself to the one person who might understand what he was doing and why. The need for caution kept him silent.
‘Is it my imagination, or does this gaiety seem a bit frantic?” Jamie asked, smoothly changing the subject. He was good at that, so good at lies and evasion it was sometimes hard to separate them from the truth.
His father glared at the nobles, most of whom were friends and acquaintances of long standing. “They’ve gone mad. The whole damned country’s hysterical with fear of this rumored French invasion. They say Charles has mustered thirty thousand men.”
“And is reportedly readying a transport of near twelve hundred ships to bring them here.” Jamie had seen both the soldiers and ships for himself. But of course, ’twould be treason to admit as much.
“Two days ago the king ordered London’s suburbs demolished.”
Jamie gasped. “Why? Has he gone truly mad?”
“Oxford thought ’twould make the city easier to defend.” Alex shook his head. “I do not agree, but ’tis fruitless to oppose the king or his ministers. They are so anxious to find someone on whom to blame the excesses and stupidity which has landed us in these dire straits that they lash out at any who disagree with them. Walter Dunwell is a case in point. He converted his coin to jewels and tried to flee to the safety of Italy with them sewed into his tunic. He was arrested in Dover, charged with treason, and hanged before his family’s eyes.”
Jamie felt the noose tightening around his own neck. “London buzzed with talk of it when I landed a few weeks ago.” He’d barely paid them any mind, for he’d had troubles of his own. Sir Thomas Burton had met him on the docks with the news of Celia’s death and a lot of tricky questions. Damn but that had been a close brush with disaster. If not for his loyal crew—
“Nor is Walter the only one who has panicked. Those who have not succeeded in leaving are spending their money like…like sailors come ashore on their first liberty.”
“In case there is no tomorrow.”
“Aye. Fools. They’d do better to fortify their castles and hold up in them to resist the invaders.”
Jamie winced, imagining hordes of blood-crazed French troops battering down the gates of Harte Court and slaying those dearer to him than his own life. “Richard and his advisors are not fit to rule,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“I agree they’ve brought much of this trouble upon us, but the French have taken advantage of Richard’s weaknesses and now have us in a stranglehold.” Which was true enough. Last year King Charles had captured Bruges and confiscated the goods of English merchants there, effectively cutting off the wool trade that was a main source of royal revenue. A new wool staple had been established at Middleburg, but profits were slim because the ships had to sail in armed convoys to protect them from French privateers. “The royal treasury is so depleted it cannot fund foreign mercenaries to protect us, and we nobles have been taxed to the limit.” Alex sighed. “No one disputes the fact Richard has been a disappointment. He’s headstrong, capricious and—”
“Irresponsible. Oxford and the other greedy fops he’s surrounded himself with since he cast off his uncle’s good counsel will be the ruin of us all. They are the true traitors.”
“None would dare say so. Oxford stands so high in Richard’s favor he has only to whisper a thing in the royal ear and it is done. John of Gaunt alone had the power and courage to speak out against them. Tis a pity he picked these perilous times to go to Spain and press his claim to his father-in-law’s throne.”
“Lancaster chose it apurpose,” Jamie said. “He has been so vocal in his censure of his Richard’s actions he feared the king would give in to Oxford’s urgings and put him in the Tower.”
“Are you still close with Lancaster and his brood?”
Closer than ever, but that would only hurt the father from whom he’d become estranged. Jamie had been fostered into the royal duke’s household at age nine, and a valuable, if sometimes dangerous, association it had turned out to be. “His Grace asked me to provision his ships for the