Dark Warrior (de Russe Legacy Book 9)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Gaston grunted, sitting back in his chair and rubbing at his forehead. “And you want my son to… to prostitute himself to discover what he can?”

  “You do not have to put it that way.”

  Gaston stopped rubbing his forehead and looked sharply at him. “How else should I put it? Because that is exactly what you are asking.”

  “What is the difference if I ask a man to kill for my cause or seduce a woman for it? There is no difference.”

  He had a point, sort of. Gaston could see that the relationship between a man and a woman was somewhat lost on Henry, probably because he’d married a woman out of duty, not love. He’d lost sight of the precious relationship between a man and a woman, or perhaps he’d never even really grasped it. Whatever the case, Gaston didn’t like using Cord for something he considered cheap.

  But he also understood that in a time of war, all methods were necessary.

  God only knew, in his past, that was his mantra.

  He still didn’t like it.

  “What do you intend to do, then?” he asked. “Send him to Narborough?”

  Henry was watching Gaston closely, watching for any signs of a fight and relieved to realize he wasn’t going to have to spar with the man more than he had. Gaston was an old war dog who understood these things better than most.

  Thank God.

  “Aye,” Henry said. “Summon Cort and I will tell him personally.”

  That gave Gaston pause. “Nay,” he said. “Let me do it. Tell me exactly what you want from him and I will relay it. He is not going to like this, you know. Better let me be the object of his anger rather than you.”

  Henry wasn’t so sure. “He is a knight of the realm, Gaston,” he said. “He is sworn to obey, no matter what the task.”

  “I realize that.”

  “This is a command from his king.”

  “I will make sure he understands that.”

  Henry paused. “Forgive me, Gaston, but you are treating him like a child,” he said. “Why must you deliver an order from me? I am perfectly capable of delivering it myself, you know.”

  Gaston sighed sharply. “Because I do not wish to see my hotheaded son end up in the vault because he swung his fist at you,” he said frankly. “You know Cort. You know he has a temper, which he did not get from me, by the way. Nor did he get it from his mother. He had an aunt, however, that was a spitfire and I suspect, somehow, Cort has some of his Aunt Rory in him. When he was a child, he was nearly uncontrollable. Brilliant and cheeky, but uncontrollable.”

  Henry fought off a grin. “I’ve often heard myself described the same way,” he said. “Therefore, I understand Cort. We’ve practically grown up together, he and I. Have you forgotten?”

  Gaston shook his head. “Of course not. And that is the problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “He views you as more of a family member. It makes him easier to misbehave with you.”

  Henry’s grin broke through. “He will never actually go that far, Gaston. He has never shown me any insolence.”

  “There is always a first time.”

  “How would it be if we told him of his directive together?”

  Gaston nodded with resignation. “I will send for him.”

  As a servant ran to find Cort, who was outside on the walls of Deverill Castle, food was brought into the hall and Henry took to gorging himself on stuffed eggs and wine. Gaston took the opportunity to steal his chair back from the king and he sat there, pondering the coming meeting with his son and wondering, precisely, how Cort was going to react.

  He honestly didn’t know.

  Cort was exactly what he’d told Henry – brilliant, cheeky, and full of fire. He’d been that way since the moment of his birth. With his mother’s coloring and his father’s size and build, he was an astonishing example of a man and if anyone could seduce an Irish rebel, it would be Cort. He not only had the appearance of a god with his copper curls and big muscles, but he had sweet and gentle manners when he wanted to.

  Women loved it.

  There had been many a time when Cort had charmed his mother out of punishing him and took delight in it. The other children used to hide behind Cort, knowing he could get around their mother when no one else could. Although Gaston loved all of his children equally, there was something about Cort that softened his heart and enraged him all at the same time.

  Cortland Henry Hubert de Russe.

  He was even named for the king’s father.

  But it wouldn’t get him out of trouble if he threw a punch.

  When the door to the great hall finally opened to reveal Cort in the flesh, Gaston had to take a deep breath.

  The situation was about to get interesting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Is she unbearably ugly?”

  Henry blinked in surprise. That wasn’t what he’d expected to hear.

  “Nay, Cort,” he said. “By all accounts, she is a lovely woman.”

  “Woof, woof.”

  “Cort, truly, she’s not unbearably ugly. I swear it.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  Henry was growing frustrated. “Because others have told me!”

  Cort waved his hand at the man as if he didn’t believe a word of it. “If you are calling upon me to seduce her to learn her secrets, then clearly, you are summoning the very best you have,” he said. “My assumption is that if she was anything of worth, someone would have already seduced her and wrung the information out of her by now. Therefore, she must be a dog.”

  Henry wasn’t quite sure what to say. Cort’s arrogance was greatly humorous but he didn’t want to laugh because he knew the man was serious. Cort was gorgeous and he knew it, so the arrogance wasn’t without merit. Therefore, Henry shook his head.

  “Cort, I am sure she’s not a dog,” he said. “She is Brend MacRohan’s sister. You and Brend are good friends.”

  “That is true, but that does not mean his sister is worth looking at.”

  “Even if she is not, this is your task,” Henry said impatiently. “Seduce the woman and find out what you can about the rising Irish rebellion. De Winter believes that MacRohan will soon rebel, and we must know if this is true. MacRohan has thousands and we need them if we are to bolster The Pale.”

  “What you mean is that you need me to save The Pale.”

  Henry rolled his eyes at that point, looking to Gaston, who had an “I told you so” expression on his face. Seeing that he had no support from Gaston, Henry began to harden.

  “Think what you will, but you will not fail,” he said. “This is as important a task as I have ever asked of you, Cort. You will succeed.”

  Cort was standing next to the table filled with food. At least, it had been filled with food until Henry and his courtiers swarmed over it like a plague of locusts. There was very little remaining, but there were a few stuffed eggs left and when Henry turned in Cort’s direction, Cort deliberately shoved all of the eggs into his mouth so that Henry would not get the last of them. As a result, his mouth was so full that it took him a moment to chew, swallow, and reply.

  “Then this is very important to you, Your Grace?” he said.

  “Very.”

  “And you feel that I am the only one up to the task?”

  “God help me, I do. I have thousands of men at my disposal, but you are the most capable.”

  Cort chewed and chewed. Then, he swallowed and took a big swig of wine to wash everything down.

  “I know I am,” he said. “But you want this very badly of me and I am willing to take on Brend’s ugly sister. But I want something in return.”

  Over in his chair, Gaston cleared his throat loudly, causing Cort to look over at him. He shook his head, faintly, suggesting his son not be so demanding with the king, but Cort didn’t listen. He returned his attention to Henry.

  “Well, Your Grace?” he said. “I think that a directive like this is
worthy of a reward. Don’t you?”

  Henry had respect for an ambitious man and, in truth, he wasn’t surprised at Cort’s proposal. As Gaston said, he was brilliant. A cheeky twit, but brilliant. Henry wanted something from Cort; Cort wanted something from Henry.

  He chuckled, realizing he had given Cort the advantage.

  “What do you want?” he asked with a sigh.

  Cort grinned, displaying his father’s big, white teeth with slightly prominent canines. “Both of my older brothers have titles,” he said. “Trenton is my father’s heir and will become the Duke of Warminster. Dane is the Duke of Shrewsbury. I believe I have worked hard enough to earn something, too, since I will inherit nothing.”

  Henry averted his gaze, stroking his chin as he thought on Cort’s words. He glanced at the now-empty food table.

  “Had you not eaten those eggs purely in spite, I might have granted you an earldom,” he said. “Now, I am not so certain.”

  “I can always send for more eggs.”

  Henry continued to ponder the request, the situation at large. It was true that Cort had served him flawlessly for years. That is, when he wasn’t being recalled to Deverill Castle by his father. He paused and looked at Cort.

  “There is a small castle not too far from here,” he said. “It used to be a hunting lodge and now it is simply a royal garrison. I only remember it because it brings in steady income from a major road that it guards.”

  “What castle?” Cort asked.

  “Collingbourne,” Henry said. “It comes with the Collingbourne barony, something that reverted to the crown about a hundred years ago.”

  Cort looked at his father curiously. “That old place near Andover?”

  Gaston nodded. He, too, knew the place because he knew all of the royal garrisons within a fifty-mile radius. “Aye,” he said. “We even stopped there, once, on our way home from Swindon. You were quite young, as I recall.”

  “Is that the place where the majordomo had a pet owl?”

  “The same.”

  Cort turned to Henry. “I accept.”

  Henry laughed out loud. “I have not offered it to you yet,” he said. “But perform flawlessly with this task and, in the end, you shall have it. But not before. Fail and this bargain is null. Do I make myself clear?”

  Henry turned the tables on the ambitious knight. He could have the title, but not until he was finished with what he clearly viewed as an unsavory assignment. Cort’s lips twisted wryly when he realized he could not have his reward until he was finished.

  “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “I will do what I can.”

  “You had better do far more than that if you want the title Baron Collingbourne.”

  Cort wasn’t happy when he didn’t have the upper hand, not even with the king. But the man was the king, after all, and Cort wasn’t a fool. He knew when to keep his mouth shut. Therefore, he simply nodded, once, giving Henry and Gaston the affirmation they were looking for.

  Henry beamed.

  “Good,” he said, moving to Cort and slapping him on a broad shoulder. “Now, send for more eggs. We shall feast and celebrate with your father.”

  But Gaston shook his head, standing up wearily from his chair. “I am afraid I shall have to decline, Your Grace,” he said. “I am weary and must rest. But my younger son Matthieu is here. He will be happy to feast with you.”

  “Ah,” Henry said. “Gentle Matthieu. How is it you have sons who behave so differently? Matthieu is one of the most even-tempered, quiet men I know.”

  “That may be, but he is a lion on the field of battle,” Gaston reminded him. “I will send for him. I consider it an honor for you to feast with my sons, though I will be here in spirit.”

  Henry smiled at him, reaching out to take the man’s hand. “You are always with me in spirit, Gaston,” he said, his smile fading. “I pray for your health. I do not like seeing you like this.”

  Gaston smiled weakly. “Nor do I, Your Grace,” he said. “Your prayers are appreciated.”

  With that, he lumbered towards the stairs, waving off Cort when the man moved to help him. Both Cort and Henry watched as Gaston mounted the steps, heading for the upper floors. When he was out of sight and out of ear shot, Henry turned to Cort.

  “You did not tell me he was as bad as this,” he said quietly. “What do the physics say?”

  Cort sobered dramatically. He always did when it came to his father’s health. “A cancer in his throat,” he said simply. “He has been suffering for a few years now. We thought we were going to lose him last Christmas, but something quite miraculous happened. He awoke on Christmas morning better than he’d been in years. But since that time… we have all seen a steady decline. That is why I come home so often, Henry. I do not want to miss time spent with my father.”

  Henry nodded sympathetically, completely untroubled that Cort had addressed him informally. For Cort, a man he’d known all his life, he would allow it.

  “I know,” he said. “That is why I let you go.”

  “This situation with de Winter’s hostage – is it as serious as all that?”

  “It truly is.”

  “Why have you not questioned Brend about this? He is the MacRohan legacy knight, after all.”

  “Because Brend has been away from Ireland too long. He may not know what his sister knows. And Cort… rumor has it that she is a great warrior woman. You should be aware.”

  Cort nodded, accepting that answer. “Then I will do everything I can,” he said. “But I do not want to be gone overlong from my father. Time is precious with him.”

  “I know.”

  “I do not want to cause him any undue stress, either.”

  “That is understandable.”

  “I’m glad you realize that, Your Grace.”

  Henry forced a smile at him. They were speaking of a man slowly dying before their eyes and neither one of them wanted to acknowledge it. Men as great as Gaston de Russe were legends who never truly died, but they were also mortal men with mortal bodies.

  No one wanted to think on Gaston’s mortality.

  “Come,” Henry finally said, pulling Cort over to the table. “Let us sit and speak. And if you ever eat all of the eggs again, I shall become very angry.”

  Cort looked at him. Then, he burst out laughing. It was the same thing he did to soften his mother, which worked on Henry, too.

  There was no way of being too angry when Cort de Russe’s smile lit up the room.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Narborough Castle

  Norfolk

  “Get it! Do you see it by your feet, Dera? Grab it!”

  It was an unseasonably warm summer day at Narborough Castle, so much so that two of the inhabitants were seeking refuge in the castle pond. There was one inhabitant in particular standing in knee-deep water, her skirts hiked up to her thighs, who was now shrieking because there was a fat gray fish by her feet.

  Dera MacRohan was usually the most courageous of women, but a slimy fish had her stumbling to get out of the way. On the shore, a pretty blonde laughed as Dera leapt around and tried to evade the big fish that seemed to want to brush her ankles. She ended up tripping, falling smack into the water.

  Everything was soaked.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Dera roared. “That abominable creature is trying to bite me, I swear by the All Mighty!”

  She spoke in a heavy Irish accent, so thick at times that she was difficult to understand by the English who were used to their own accents. When she wasn’t shouting, she had quite the honeyed tone but, at the moment, the honey had hardened and all that came forth was something booming and sharp.

  But the blonde on the shore laughed uproariously. “It’s just a fish, Dera,” she said. “Now look at you – you’re soaked!”

  Dera grunted, picking herself up out of the pond and getting a grip on the wet skirts as she gingerly waded to the edge of the pond. The straw hat that had been on her head had fallen off and, realizing that, s
he trudged back into the water, picked it up, and sloshed back to the shore.

  “It wasn’t any fish,” she insisted. “That was Lucifer himself. I could feel the fangs, Arabella.”

  Lady Arabella de Winter was trying to hide her giggles, biting her lip. “I am sorry to tell you that it was an ordinary fish,” she said. “If you had grabbed him, we could eat him for sup.”

  Dera turned her nose up at the suggestion. “I don’t like fish.”

  “He liked you. Those were fish-kisses on your ankle.”

  Dera looked at her, frowning, but she couldn’t hold off the smile that threatened. She stood there, wringing out her skirts.

  “I’m going to smell like pond rot now,” she sniffed, holding up her skirts as they dripped freely on the ground. “Help me back to the keep so I don’t kill myself slipping on the stones.”

  Arabella dutifully stood up, picking up the dropped straw hat with one hand and lifting up the rear of Dera’s skirts with the other.

  “My mother will not be pleased if we drag water into the keep,” she said. “Mayhap we should go to the stable and you can change into something dry there.”

  It was as good a scheme as any and Dera nodded. “Very well,” she said. “Just so I get out of this skirt. I’m starting to smell already.”

  “You are being dramatic.”

  “I’m going to smell like a fish!”

  Arabella did giggle, then. She rather liked her friend Dera and the way the woman carried on about things. She certainly breathed life into a castle that had been rather placid and boring before her arrival. At least, Arabella thought it had been boring. Dera MacRohan had been at Narborough Castle for a little over six months, but it seemed as if she’d been there forever.

  Arabella wanted her to remain forever, too.

  She might very well be.

  In truth, she had heard her father speaking of Dera and the Clan MacRohan of Blackrock before Dera had even arrived. Her father, Denys, had spoken of a fearsome Irish lass that he wanted to bring to Narborough under the guise of protecting her from the turmoil that was going on her homeland. Arabella’s older brother, Dillon, had gone to Blackrock along with Dera’s own brother, Brend MacRohan, and they’d brought her back to the safety and tranquility of Norfolk.