Outrageous Page 4

  Deep in Griffith’s heart the knife of memory twisted, and he bled anew. The blade was a shard of glass, a broken icicle, or perhaps plain rusting steel, for memory, he’d discovered, had the capacity to wound forever and ever.

  “There, lad.” Art pushed him back on the bed and changed his rag again. “’Twas a low blow, and I’m sorry for it. I was just trying to point out we all make our mistakes, and ye’ve judged this girl too harshly.” Turning away, he muttered loudly enough for Griffith to hear, “And all because she’s got ye playing solo on yer skin flute.”

  Dignity had somehow escaped him, but Griffith answered, “I’m here on Henry’s business—for no other reason.”

  Art opened a pocket on his own saddlebag, pulled out a folded paper, and extended it.

  Scarlet wax fastened the edge, and Griffith recognized the design of the seal. With foreboding, he accepted it and looked inquiringly at Art.

  “Our sovereign sent this letter—hand delivered by that little secretary of his—with instructions it should be delivered after ye’d met Lady Marian.” Although he couldn’t read, Art leaned way over the bed as Griffith skimmed the contents and inspected the writing with a knowledgeable eye. “Anything interesting?”

  After rolling the paper, Griffith handed it to Art. “Burn it, then unpack the bags. We’re staying at Wenthaven Castle, God rot it!”

  Art scratched behind his ear where his last few wisps of hair remained. “The king doesn’t say why?”

  “It’s Henry’s style. Orders, but no explanations. That’s why he sent a letter to you—by Oliver King, no less. If Henry had commanded me himself, I’d have demanded the truth.”

  “Crafty, isn’t he?” Art asked in admiration. “What are the orders?”

  “We are to remain indefinitely and watch over Lady Marian and her son.”

  Art thrust the parchment deep into the fire with an iron poker. “Why is the king worried about Marian lass and her son?”

  Clipping his words, Griffith replied, “I don’t know. Henry confided no worries to me.”

  “But it’s damned strange he has an interest.” Art went back to the jumbled pile of clothes and stirred it with his toe. “Might as well hang all this up. Good thing ye were going home to Wales and ye brought every last one of yer garments for yer mother to clean, else ye’d be hard-pressed to dress for this fancy company.”

  “I had wondered why Henry insisted I visit my parents. No doubt he was troubled in his mind.” Griffith swung his legs off the bed. “I had heard rumors about a setback in Ireland.”

  “What kind of setback?”

  “The rumors claim the earl of Warwick is at large in Ireland.”

  Art sighed with the marked exasperation of a Welshman who prides himself on his ignorance of English nobility. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “The earl of Warwick,” Griffith explained carefully, “is the son of the late duke of Clarence.”

  Art sighed again.

  “Pay attention.” From the bowl of fruit placed on the bedside table, Griffith withdrew three apples and placed them on the table. Lifting the plumpest and rosiest, he said, “This is King Edward, father of Elizabeth of York.”

  “He’s a fat one,” Art observed.

  “So he was. This”—Griffith lifted another, quite shriveled piece of fruit—“is King Richard, the usurper, defeated, and killed at Bosworth.” Griffith lifted the last apple, smaller than the rest. “This is the duke of Clarence. These three men were brothers, sons of the house of York.”

  “Aye, I see the family resemblance,” Art interjected.

  “Two of them were kings, and although Clarence was not, he had a son.”

  “Ah.” Light broke over Art’s wizened face. “The earl of Warwick.”

  “Exactly. Nephew to two Yorkist kings and, by some accounting, heir to the throne of England.”

  “And now he’s in Ireland?”

  “Nay, the earl of Warwick lives safely under Henry’s protection in the Tower of London.”

  Pressing his hand over his eyes, Art mumbled, “I’ll never understand all these kings and king’s daughters and king’s nephews.”

  “Think about it,” Griffith urged. “Edward’s heirs disappeared into the Tower, never to be seen again, murdered by their own uncle”—he picked up the wrinkled apple—“Richard. Now Henry has taken another heir into custody. If you were a lord who hadn’t supported Henry in his bid for the throne, what would you think?”

  “That Henry had murdered this earl of Warwick.”

  “Right. And if you were a lord who hadn’t supported Henry in his bid for the throne, how best would you depose him?”

  Art dropped both his hand and his guise of confusion. “I would claim to have the earl of Warwick, raise a force, and try to take England from Ireland, where Yorkist feeling still runs strong.”

  Tossing the apples back into the bowl, Griffith said, “Ah, Arthur, you are ever the wisest—”

  A knock on the door interrupted him, and he and Art exchanged looks. Opening it, Art revealed a round and wrinkled maid, smiling and bobbing a curtsy. “I’m Jane. I’ve been sent t’ help ye settle in.” She clucked when she saw the mess of clothing on the floor and immediately knelt beside it. Sorting shirts, hose, and mantles into separate piles, she chatted, “Looks like ye could use help, too. Never know why ye men must try t’ do yer own laundry. Right awful, ye are.” Shaking out a richly trimmed mantle, she pulled a disapproving face. “Look at this! Fer all that it’s black”—she glanced down at the pile—“like most o’ yer clothes, it deserves more than being thrust into a bag an’ ridden all over th’ countryside. I’ll take care o’ this one right away, an’ ye can wear it tomorrow, master.”

  She took his agreement for granted, but when Griffith would speak, Art laid a restraining hand on his arm. Let me handle this, his look said to Griffith, and Griffith subsided. Art had a way with women, all women, and he stepped forward and bowed with a flourish. “I’m Art, the man who is eternally grateful for yer services.”

  Obviously well versed in flirtation, Jane dimpled coyly. “Glad t’ meet ye, Art.”

  “Will ye be taking the rest of the clothes, too?” he asked.

  “The rest o’ them we’ll work on, an’ th’ master’ll have one t’ wear every day ye stay. As th’ winter deepens, though, we might have t’ loan ye a warm cloak. But don’t worry, we get visitors all th’ time we need t’ dress, an’—”

  That proved too much for Griffith’s restraint, and he demanded, “Why do you think I’ll remain through the winter? I told Wenthaven I’d be leaving tomorrow.”

  Straightening, Jane stared. “Have I got th’ wrong room? Aren’t ye Griffith ap Powel?”

  Art elbowed Griffith back into silence. “He is, and a surly, ungrateful lord to so scorn yer services. Now I”—Art moved close and picked up Jane’s hand—“I cherish the tenacity which keeps ye working so late. Yer husband must be a lucky man.”

  Jane tittered as he kissed her knuckles. “I’m a widow.”

  “A widow? How sad.” Art cooed the last word, making his true emotions clear. Jane smiled in response, and Griffith cleared his throat in disgusted admonition.

  Recalled to her duty, the laundry woman stiffened. “All I know is, orders from His Lordship came down just as we were retirin’ t’ our pallets, tellin’ us ye were stayin’ fer a long spell an’ we were t’ tend t’ ye as one o’ our most honored guests. He said we were t’ wait until tomorrow afternoon t’ do so, but I said t’ Mistress Fay, I said—Is that th’ way we treat honored guests? Makin’ ’em wait fer their clothes to be cleaned an’ pressed? So here I am, an’ good thing, too, I say.”

  Astonished, the two men stared at the woman as she stood, clothing hanging from her arms and shoulders. When they didn’t reply, she shrugged. “I’ll have these back fer ye as quick as a wink.” Peering at Griffith, she clucked her tongue again. “Ooh, Lady Marian really landed ye a knock. She always was a hot-tempered one. Will ye sh
ut the door behind me, Art?”

  Art hastened to obey, then faced his master with hand outstretched in a gesture of innocence. “I told no one about Lady Marian and yer nose. Someone must have seen ye quarreling.”

  “I’m not concerned about Lady Marian or her hot temper,” Griffith snapped. “I want to know how Wenthaven knew I would be staying almost before I knew.”

  “The king’s been in contact with Wenthaven,” Art guessed. “Must be why he knew we would stay.”

  “Or do the walls in this manor have ears?” Griffith indicated the carvings that etched the wood panels in elaborate designs. Art, too, glanced around, instant comprehension in his gaze. Before Art could express his rage, Griffith said quietly, “Sleep with your eye open, will you, Arthur? With the blow to my head, I’m likely to rest hard tonight, and there’s more to this than I had realized.”

  The whine of the spaniel sprawled on his chest woke him, and the earl of Wenthaven lay with eyes closed and listened. Something rustled in the bushes outside his bedroom window. Something…no, someone. He soothed the dog with a hand on its head and whispered a command, and the bitch subsided. Moving with the subtlety of an ox, the intruder climbed through the open window. He crept toward the bed, and the spaniel quivered with anticipation. Wenthaven waited until the intruder stood right over the bed, then cried, “Attack!”

  The spaniel rose with a spine-tingling growl, the woman beside Wenthaven screamed, and the intruder cursed in a colorful mix of street language and aristocratic expression. Wenthaven recognized the deep voice, but he let the bitch take a few bites as he armed himself with a sword. Then he called off the dog, rewarding her with pats and praise, and faced Sir Adrian Harbottle. “What are you doing in my room?”

  “Filthy goddamn dog,” Harbottle fumed. “Sank her teeth into my wrist and my ankle. I’m bleeding and it hurts!”

  “Well, don’t do it on my carpet. It’s new and it’s expensive,” Wenthaven replied sharply.

  “It would be.” Harbottle wrapped his wrist in a handkerchief and stepped off the carpet onto the flag-stone floor.

  “Again I ask—what are you doing in my room?”

  Harbottle said, “I came to set things straight. I came for a bit of revenge.”

  “Revenge? For what?” Wenthaven kept his sword at the ready as he lashed Harbottle with his words. “For offering you my hospitality? For feeding you more than any one person should consume? For putting up with your boorish ways?”

  “You contrived against me,” Harbottle accused him.

  “I contrived against you? I…?” Wenthaven’s tone became a croon. “Darling, will you light that branch of candles? The moon has just risen, and we need to throw some light on this wretched bit of humanity.”

  With shaking fingers, the woman touched the wicks to the solitary night candle and they sputtered to life.

  Harbottle snorted. “You’ve got your plump, pretty woman in your bedroom and your pretty people in your pretty castle in the middle of a lake, but they all hang about you because you’ve got money—”

  “Yourself included?” Wenthaven interrupted.

  “I came here in good faith, glad of the food and the roof over my head. I didn’t know I’d be paying for all of it with my honor.”

  Wenthaven laughed freely. “Honor? What honor concerns a younger son such as yourself? Your brother’s a baron, you have no prospects except the ones you make for yourself with your face.…Honor? Please.”

  “You want me to do things no decent man would do.” Harbottle’s earnest face glistened with moisture. “You want me to listen in corners, pry secrets out of their hiding places, look under rocks where the evil things dwell.”

  “You’re so good at it.”

  “I am not!” Harbottle shouted.

  This young man would have to be handled delicately, Wenthaven realized. Nature had endowed Harbottle with such masculine beauty, he’d become spoiled. Conquest had become second nature to him. Nature, also, had endowed him with coordination and strength.

  Ah, aye, Marian had dealt a blow to both Harbottle’s conceit and his confidence, and a man in such disarray would seek vindication. Hot-tempered, hot-blooded, with delusions of his own virtuous character, Harbottle reminded Wenthaven of an untrained cur. Frisky, without direction, but teachable with the right master.

  True, Wenthaven trained purebreds, but the principles were the same. Gesturing with his sword, he said, “Pour yourself some wine. It’s the best from my cellar.”

  “You can’t bribe me like a child,” Harbottle protested, but he poured the wine and sipped it. His face lit up. “It is good.”

  “Of course. Now sit down.”

  Harbottle’s face clouded again. “Nay!”

  A sharp blow, then a stroke from the master. Wenthaven planted the sword into Harbottle’s chest. “Please sit down.”

  Subsiding like a good hound, Harbottle watched with mournful blue eyes as Wenthaven filled a goblet for himself and took the chair opposite.

  “The way I see it,” Wenthaven said, “is that I misdirected your talents. I should have seen at once you were too refined for anything as distasteful as seeking out information.”

  “Nay.” Harbottle drank, and Wenthaven gestured to the woman who hovered beside the bed. She brought the pitcher and filled Harbottle’s cup again.

  “Nay, indeed.” Wenthaven made a production of drinking but let the wine only touch his tongue. “Today you proved your sword is your strength.”

  Rising in a surge of indignation, Harbottle shouted, “I’ll not be laughed at.”

  Wenthaven raised his eyebrows. “Who’s laughing? I meant it as a sincere compliment.” He watched the young man waver, then pointed at the chair again with his sword. “Sit.”

  This time Harbottle responded with less reluctance. He sat.

  A pleased master, Wenthaven said, “When I encouraged you to fight the lady Marian, I should have warned you of her slyness. It was obvious to all you were holding back because of her femininity, and when she realized it, she took advantage of you.”

  Harbottle’s full lips parted. “Indeed?”

  “Of that there was no doubt. Word has spread about the excellence of your sword fighting.”

  “I am good! Damned good. That’s how I’ve supported myself, and I’ll wager you knew it.”

  “How would I know that?”

  “The same way you know everything. Why, I’d wager every one of those noble folk who eat at your table pay your price in secrets. I bet you’re the most well-informed man in the kingdom.”

  “You flatter me.” Wenthaven tapped his teeth with one long fingernail and deduced it was time to dangle the proper treat. “But we’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about you. You and the nubile Lady Marian. Isn’t that correct?”

  At the mention of Marian’s name, Harbottle’s hand shook and his voice rose an octave. “What about me and Lady Marian?”

  A stud with the scent of a bitch strong in his nostrils, Wenthaven diagnosed. “You wanted to get to know her better, isn’t that correct? She wasn’t noticing you, and I suggested you challenge her. I thought when you defeated her, she’d show you some respect.” Sadly, Wenthaven sighed. “I failed to think about the advantage she’d have.…I imagine her excellent figure might have distracted you. Hmm?” He peered into Harbottle’s moist eyes, and Harbottle looked away. “It’s no shame. If I do say so myself, Lady Marian’s breasts are the finest in the kingdom. She isn’t as comely as you are, of course, but there aren’t many men who can match her height as you can. I imagine the men lucky enough to share her bed find she can wrap her legs around them twice.”

  The air around Harbottle wavered with warmth.

  Allowing himself a private smile, Wenthaven now opened the gate to the kennel. “Lady Marian learned her swordplay from me, but I’m not a fool. I didn’t teach her everything.” Harbottle exhaled in a gasp, and putting sincerity into his tone, Wenthaven asked, “What would you say to private lessons? I�
��d be glad to teach you what she doesn’t know.”

  Harbottle jumped into Wenthaven’s trap. “I want a second chance at her. I want a second chance at Mistress High and Mighty. When I defeat her, she’ll be at my mercy. Of course”—he looked down at his well-shaped hands with a crooked smile—“she’ll put up the obligatory struggle, but no woman has refused me yet.”

  The man’s complacency staggered Wenthaven, and he wondered how many women had refused Harbottle in all sincerity and found themselves flat on their backs, struggling with this smirking jackass.

  That wasn’t what he planned for Marian. Marian would yet prove her value.

  Wenthaven cautioned, “It will be difficult to lure her into another bout. Your remarks about her son were ill timed and ill advised.”

  Harbottle’s mouth turned down. “That whelp’s just a bastard.”

  Wenthaven felt a stirring of impatience, but he subdued it. If Harbottle was an imperfect weapon, still he was a weapon. Wenthaven needed every weapon he could lay hands on, for Henry Tudor had sent that towering Welshman to guard Marian, and that meant the king was suspicious. Wenthaven said, “The whelp is her bastard, and she’s fond of him.”

  With a rising excitement, Harbottle said, “She’s always hanging on to him when she should be listening to me. I’d like to smash him.”

  “Don’t hurt Lionel.” Wenthaven was alarmed. “The lad is precious to me. Nay, listen to my plan. Stay out of sight until I’ve taught you a few sword tricks she doesn’t know, then you can insult her son, and she’ll challenge you.”

  “And for my reward?”

  “Your reward will be more than you ever imagined,” Wenthaven promised. “Now exit out the window, there’s a good lad—”

  “Nay.” Harbottle leaned forward, fists clenched around the chair’s arms. “I’ll not accept such a feeble promise again. If I do what you want and defeat Lady Marian—”

  “What you want, too,” Wenthaven reminded him.

  “Aye, that’s what I want, too. But I want to hear my reward. I want you to tell me what my reward will be.”