Henry was still eyeing Trenton angrily, but Matthew was right and he knew it. Therefore, he forced himself to calm. He returned to the wine pitcher but there were no longer any cups so he picked up the pitcher and drank from it.
“I have spent two days riding from Winchester to Deverill,” he said. “Two days of building up such a rage. You may blame me for what I asked of Cort, Trenton, but you cannot blame me for his actions. He made the decision to marry an Irish rebel himself. I did not tell him to do that.”
Trenton started to argue with him but a pleading look from the man he knew as Uncle Matthew stopped him. Making a face at Matthew to let him know he thought the whole situation was infuriating, he took a deep breath and backed down.
“Nay, you did not,” Trenton said. “Do you want to hear the story or do you want to continue yelling at me?”
Henry frowned, but he surrendered quickly. “Tell me what happened.”
Matthew stepped back, allowing them to look at each other without his bulk between them now that he was certain they weren’t going to kill each other.
“I have heard the story,” he said. “I am going to sit with Gaston. Trenton, I will trust you to make sure everything remains calm. May I?”
Trenton rolled his eyes but he nodded. “You may.”
Matthew nodded, turning to Henry. “And you,” he said. “No more screaming?”
Henry plopped into the nearest chair, weary and frustrated. “Not unless I have a good reason.”
“If I hear screaming, I will send Lady Warminster down here.”
Henry simply held up a hand to indicate he understood, and Matthew turned for the chamber door. He winked at Trenton as he passed the man, quitting the chamber and closing the doors softly behind him. When the room was silent but for the gentle snapping of the fire in the hearth, Trenton turned to Henry.
“I will start from the beginning,” he said. “This is the story as it was told to me by several different people, so I had to piece it together. It is accurate.”
Henry nodded, the pitcher of wine still in his hand. “Trenton?”
“Aye, Your Grace?”
“I am sorry I yelled at you.”
“I know.”
“Proceed.”
Trenton did.
PART ONE
ENGLAND
CHAPTER ONE
Several Months Earlier
Deverill Castle, Wiltshire
“Gaston?” came a soft voice. “Are you awake?”
Gaston de Russe was awake because his youngest granddaughters – Cassandra, Nynette, and Rosemarie – had crawled into bed with him once their grandmother had risen to prepare for the day.
Their mother, Adeliza, had brought her brood to stay at Deverill Castle while her husband was away on business for the king. Therefore, while Mummy and Grandmother were going about their early morning chores, the grandchildren decided it would be warmer and more comfortable in Gaston’s bed.
Perhaps it was warmer and more comfortable for them but, at the moment, Gaston had a little foot in the side of his jaw.
“I am awake,” he whispered. “Keep your voice quiet, Remi.”
Remington, Duchess of Warminster, stepped into the still-dim chamber, unaware that there were three little sleeping bodies against her husband. When he carefully lifted back the coverlet to show her, she put a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggle. Rosemarie had ended up strewn across his belly while her sister, Nynette, was lying cuddled up against his right side and drooling on his chest. Cassandra was on his left side, upside down, her foot against Gaston’s jaw.
Everyone wanted to be close to the man they called Opi.
That was what Gaston had called his own grandfather when he’d been very young, something he hadn’t even thought about until his own grandchildren began to come. Madalene and Bryant, children of his two eldest daughters, had been the first grandchildren and it was Madalene who first called him Opi. Now, he had fifteen grandchildren and more on the way, a growing family that was his heart and soul.
Those kicky little girls in his bed were part of it.
“It looks as if they are poppets strewn about,” Remington said, shaking her head at the sight. “When did they come in here?”
“As soon as you left.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Opportunists, all of them,” she said. “I hate to disturb them, but you have an important visitor. You are required in the hall.”
Gaston frowned. “At this time in the morning?”
“He has come specially to see you.”
“Who?”
“Henry.”
“Henry who?”
“Your king, Gaston. Get up, now. Your monarch awaits.”
Gaston looked at her as if she’d lost her mind but he didn’t say anything because his granddaughters were starting to stir. The voices were rousing them. But when Rosemarie moved her foot and it ended up in his eye, Gaston made the decision to get out of bed before he was pummeled.
Very carefully, he lifted Rosemarie off of his belly and extricated himself from the bed, tucking the coverlet in around the children as they slept peacefully. They hardly stirred. He headed into the adjoining chamber with his wife so he could dress, but his movements were slow.
He was slow in general these days.
It was no secret that Gaston’s health had been in decline for several years. A cancer in his throat, the physics had told him. It had weakened him terribly until last year when he’d had something of a remission at Christmas. A miracle, the physics had called it, but the reprieve had been temporary. His health started to decline again over the past few months, sapping his strength until all he did was sleep or rest these days. Once in a while, he’d walk the grounds of Deverill Castle, but his days of riding beyond the walls were over.
That was why Henry had come to him.
“You know that the king has sent me a couple of missives, asking me to come to Winchester,” he told his wife as she pulled his sleeping tunic over his head. “I told him I could not come, but he did not tell me he was coming here.”
Remington was working quietly, efficiently. She had a bowl of warmed water and witch hazel, and she took a rag and washed Gaston’s arms and chest with it before handing him a clean tunic to put on.
“He is here with about twenty courtiers and advisors,” she said as she produced a pair of leather breeches from the wardrobe. “He also has about one hundred soldiers with him, all of them being kept out of the walls by Cort and Matthieu. They will not let the king bring his armed men inside.”
With the fresh tunic over his head, Gaston had to sit down to pull on his breeches. An enormous man who, in his youth, had been the greatest knight in the realm, he was still powerful, still sharp, in spite of his bad health and he was perhaps the king’s greatest advisor when it came to military tactics and politics.
Gaston de Russe had sacrificed much for England during this lifetime and that acumen was well-respected, especially by a young king. Gaston had turned the tides at the Battle of Bosworth so Henry’s father, also Henry, could become king.
Were it not for Gaston, it was possible that Henry VIII would have never been.
Therefore, the king sought him out on many things, but Gaston wasn’t sure why he was here this time. The missives the king had sent him over the past couple of months had mentioned trouble in Ireland but nothing more. Perhaps there was something so pressing with Ireland that it could not wait. Gaston knew there were issues in Eire, with the English managing the only uncontested strip of land in the entire country called The Pale.
He suspected that was why the king had come.
“Cort is acting in our best interests, not Henry’s,” he said. “He knows Henry very well, considering he spends a good deal of time with the man. If he wants to keep Henry’s army out of Deverill, then that is his decision. But Henry hates it when I recall Cort home. It is like this great tug-of-war with my son; Henry wants him and I want him. Mayhap Henry is here to fight me for Cort.
”
Remington was down on her knees, helping him pull on his boots. “He would lose.”
Gaston nodded firmly. “He likes to have Cort with him because, he says, he is much like me,” he said. “He must have a de Russe in his retinue and he sends the man to lead his armies whenever he has need of military action.”
“I know.”
“Cort is my son and leads my armies. I want him here.”
“I know, Gaston.”
“If he wants my son, he cannot have him.”
“You will not know what he wants until you speak with him.”
With his boots secured, Gaston stood up, slowly. Remington collected a heavy robe for him, leather and lined with fur that went from his neck to his feet. It was a sharp piece of clothing, very much befitting the Duke of Warminster. It also kept him quite warm, which his poor health required. She smiled at him and he pulled her into his arms, kissing her sweetly before releasing her.
“My sweet angel,” he murmured. “How I have troubled you all of these years.”
She patted his cheek. “Not much, you haven’t,” she said, teasing him. “Come along, now. The king awaits.”
They were just leaving the chamber when a wail arose from his bed as Rosemarie, realizing her Opi wasn’t there, began to cry. With a grin, Remington went to soothe the grandchildren while Gaston continued on to the hall alone, however slowly. It was true that he was weary, his illness making him so, but it was also true that he wasn’t looking forward to whatever the king had in mind.
He would soon find out.
“Gaston!”
The man born Henry Tudor, now King of England, greeted Gaston as one would a beloved relative. When he smiled, he had a mouthful of big teeth, slightly crooked. He grinned broadly as he reached Gaston.
“I do not know why men tell me you are in poor health,” Henry said, looking him over. “You look fine and fit to me. How are you feeling these days?”
Gaston smiled weakly at the enthusiastic monarch. Henry had a big personality, boisterous and loud at times. But he was also highly intelligent and talented, which made for an interesting combination. Gaston couldn’t imagine what the man was going to be like in ten or even twenty years because he had such a big presence, but he was the powerful monarch that England needed.
“I am well, Your Grace,” he said. “Although you are most welcome at Deverill, I will admit that I am surprised to see you. Why did you not tell me you were coming?”
Henry grinned. “Because I did not want to forewarn you. I want Cort back.”
“That’s exactly what I told my wife.”
“Did you tell her that I would fight you for him?”
Gaston chuckled. “I did, in fact,” he said. “Is that what you intend to do?”
Henry shook his head. “God knows, I should,” he said. “I should beat you within an inch of your life, but I will not. I love you too much. Let us sit, Gaston. I have much I wish to discuss with you.”
Gaston moved towards one of the cushioned chairs that were positioned by the hearth. There was always a cushioned chair there for him, but Henry took it before he could get to it, leaving him to plant his bulk on one of the other, less comfortable chairs. It was either that or sit in a woman’s tiny chair and he couldn’t get his body into one, so he took one of the bigger chairs with the hard bottom. He sat with a grunt.
“How are you feeling these days, Gaston?” Henry asked, concern evident. “I have heard you were much worse last year.”
Gaston nodded. “I was,” he said, though he didn’t like to discuss his health. “But I am better. And I hear your health has been excellent.”
It was his way of veering the focus off of him and Henry took the bait. He held out his arms. “Look at me,” he said. “Do I not look magnificent?”
“Indeed.”
The answer pleased Henry and he lowered his arms. “It is not every man I will come to, Gaston, but you are an exception,” he said. “I came because I need your help.”
“You have it, Your Grace.”
Henry held up a hand to beg his patience. “Let me explain before you commit yourself,” he said. “As you know, there has been some difficulty in the administration of my Irish holdings.”
“I know.”
“Do you also know that I have a very valuable Irish hostage?”
Gaston shook his head. “Who?”
Henry sat back in the comfortable chair, sinking back on the cushions as if to rub it in Gaston’s face that he had the best chair.
“Your good friends, the House of de Winter, has had Irish lands for more than two hundred years,” he said. “They have a long line of legacy knights from the House of MacRohan.”
Gaston understood. “I know,” he said. “There has been a long line of high warriors who have served de Winter and Brend MacRohan is the latest one. He is an excellent knight.”
Henry nodded. “That is true, but the reality is that the MacRohan Clan is Irish to the bone,” he said. “In fact, de Winter has taken the daughter of the chief of Clan MacRohan as a hostage to ensure their compliance with their legacy oath. It is an unusual step with them, but a necessary one. Mostly because Denys de Winter believes MacRohan may be leaning towards rebellion. After two hundred years of servitude to de Winter, Denys believes they plan to assert their independence.”
That was interesting but not surprising news given the turmoil in Ireland right now. Gaston sat back in the chair, contemplating that possibility.
“Two hundred years of servitude is apt to do that to anyone,” he said truthfully. “I have met two of the MacRohan knights, Brend and his father, and Brend is mayhap more English than I am.”
Henry nodded impatiently. “I know Brend,” he said. “He’s a big man with a big mouth.”
“And loyal to England.”
“He came here when he was five years of age and was raised at Narborough Castle, a de Winter holding,” Henry pointed out. “That still makes him Irish by birth.”
Gaston scratched his cheek. “You said you needed my help,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”
Henry had a fiery temper, something he was trying to keep at bay as he discussed Ireland and those Irish rebels he was so angry with.
“The hostage is Brend MacRohan’s sister, Dera,” he said. “She is being treated like a guest so Brend hasn’t shown any aggression with de Winter holding her, but he is about to be shipped back to Ireland because the de Winter properties are in jeopardy. In fact, we received word that they lost one of their garrisons at Black Cove. Even if MacRohan isn’t actively rebelling, their allies are. The Pale is in danger.”
“The Pale” was the only strip of land in Ireland that the English ruled uncontested, but the pressure from the Irish to leave was getting stronger by the day. The House of de Winter had lands on the extreme north end of it, as the king said, and had for over two hundred years. They owned the lands in and around Blackrock, north of Drogheda, including four big castles that Clan MacRohan manned for them.
They were involved in Ireland more than most Norman families.
“It is not just de Winter’s problem from what I’m hearing,” Gaston said quietly. “Kildare, Wexford, and all of the Norman properties are having issues.”
“That is true,” Henry said, “but de Winter seems to be particularly problematic because of MacRohan. The family has ancient bloodlines and has always been in the role of leadership in Ireland in spite of their English ties. They are much respected, but they walk the fine line of being seen as traitors.”
Gaston shook his head. “Long ago, a MacRohan lass married into the House of de Winter, bringing a knight as a dowry with her, and the legacy was established.” He paused thoughtfully. “It is an honorable legacy, but one of servitude. It is possible that MacRohan believes the legacy should be ended.”
Henry shook his head. “I believe that may be the case and Dera MacRohan may hold the key to that.”
Gaston’s eyebrows lifted. “What makes
you think so?”
“Because she’s a warrior woman in the same league as Queen Maeve, the warrior queen of Connacht,” he said. “Dera is no fading flower. That is why de Winter brought her to England as a hostage. Denys feels that Dera could very well inspire, if not lead, such a rebellion.”
“What do you want Cort to do about it?”
Henry had a somewhat mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I need Cort for something very special, Gaston. Something… unusual.”
“Out with it.”
“I want him to get the answers to our questions from her.”
“Can’t Denys do that?”
Henry shook his head. “Denys is a married man.”
That put Gaston on his guard. “Henry, I’ll not permit Cord to marry the woman,” he said sternly. “That’s outrageous. It is also illegal for an Englishman to marry an Irishwoman, as you well know.”
Henry didn’t flinch at the fact that Gaston called him by his given name. No formalities, no address of respect. Gaston was perhaps the only man in England who could get away with such a thing. He put up a soothing hand.
“Not to marry her, of course,” he said. “But let us be honest, Gaston; Cort is a man much sought after. There isn’t one woman in my court that does not fall down at his feet. He has women following him around by the herds and he has known to be quite seductive when he puts his mind to it.”
Gaston began to realize what the king was driving at. “Is that what you want him to do? Seduce her to get the answers from her?”
“Please, Gaston. Dera MacRohan could hold the key to everything that is happening in Ireland, at least in the north near Dundalk. That is the domain of MacRohan.”
Gaston looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “And you think having Cort seduce the woman will work?”
Henry could see how worked up Gaston was, which wasn’t a good sign. He needed the man to see his point.
“Possibly,” he said. “All I know is that we have to try. Otherwise, we are sending thousands of Englishmen to their shores, possibly to be murdered. We must know what the Irish are planning.”
Dark Warrior (de Russe Legacy Book 9) Page 2