“Sire,” the chamberlain said.
Stephen peered back over his shoulder, and remarked, “D’Lucy... I am surprised to see you. In truth, I would have thought you preoccupied with your new bride.” He nodded to his chamberlain. “Leave us now,” he said softly, and then waited patiently for the chamberlain to comply.
Graeham straightened his shoulders, resolved. “Aye, well, that is precisely the matter I wished to discuss with you, my lord... my, er, bride.” He shifted uneasily under the king’s watchful gaze.
“Really?” Stephen lifted his chin, turning now to face Graeham, adding offhandedly, “Are you aware, Graeham, that William Beauchamp is here at court, as well?”
Graeham was unable to hide his surprise. His brows lifted. “Nay, I certainly was not, my lord.”
“Aye, well, he is. He awaits an audience with me, though as yet I’ve not had the stomach to grant it. Imagine my surprise to find you here, as well,” he said as he came to stand before Graeham.
In deference, Graeham knelt before his sovereign, but Stephen waved him up. “We are alone,” he said. “No need for such formalities. Tell me what brings you to London, my friend.”
Graeham swallowed, and faced Stephen squarely. Once reputed to be the most comely man in England, at fifty-seven Stephen still wore his looks well. Yet his lackluster eyes bore a sorrow that Graeham knew came from the loss of his queen two years past. She had been his ally through the worst of his trials, and he would never truly overcome her passing. That, and the simple fact that he had no issue to whom he’d pass the crown, had led to his truce with Matilda.
“I’ve a queer request,” Graeham yielded, “though one of which I feel quite strongly.” When Stephen nodded, he continued. “I would have you confirm my father’s lands, all of which I now hold, to my brother Blaec.”
Stephen was taken aback, and his expression dearly revealed it. He made some staggered sound, and agreed, “‘Tis indeed a most irregular request. In fact, I have never come across such a petition in all my days.” He shook his head incredulously. “Though I would welcome Blaec as lord of Drakewich, I must wonder, Graeham, why you would seek such a thing. ’Tis mad, indeed.”
“Sire... I realize how this must sound, but ’tis simple. Blaec is both my brother and the rightful heir to my father’s demesne. He is firstborn, and as such, deserves to hold what is his due. I’d not hold it any longer, for I feel I am not suited to lead my men—not as he is.”
Stephen’s expression turned grave. For the longest instant there was only silence between them. “I knew your mother, Graeham,” he said. “I knew her well indeed, and I am well aware of that unfortunate truth. And yet... I would remind you that your father assigned you as his heir, not Blaec. That he is firstborn does not give him absolute right to succession. I fail to understand why you should wish that altered. I would loathe to think ’twas so, but you are not being coerced in this are you?”
“Nay, m’lord. I am not. ‘Tis simply that I am not the warrior my brother is,” Graeham said, standing firm. “In truth, as you know me well enough to know I am not a coward in battle, I must admit to you that I’ve neither the stomach nor the heart to lead any longer.”
Stephen’s brows rose at his forthright answer. “I see. Though I must admit I find it difficult to believe that Blaec would agree to such an ill-advised proposition.” He cocked his head.
Graeham’s face colored. “Aye, well,” he said, hedging, “the truth is that Blaec does not know as yet.”
Stephen blinked incredulously. “He does not know?” He shook his head. “Allow me to repeat this lest I’ve misunderstood... You wish to bestow your lands upon your brother, and he is unaware of that fact?”
Graeham gave him a sheepish glance. “I believe that is the pith of it, sire.”
“God’s teeth, son! Why, by the birth of Christ, would you wish to do such a thing? Did I not know you better, I would think you unsound of mind! I feel certain in saying that if Blaec knew of this, Graeham, he would not only refuse it but think you as mad as I do.”
“Perhaps.” Graeham expression remained sober. “Yet I must insist you consider my wishes.”
Stephen made a sound something like choked laughter. “Brotherly devotion is a virtue, d’Lucy, but the two of you take it too far, I fear.” He sighed wearily, heaving in a breath. “Ah, well, I cannot say as I understand, but if ’tis your wish, then so be it. It will be done.”
Graeham knelt at once, seizing his sovereign’s hand, kissing it fervently. “Thank you, sire! Thank you!”
Stephen nodded, retrieving his hand and raking it over his chin in bewilderment. “One thing, Graeham. Tell me one thing to make me comprehend this. Is your bride so hideous that you would give up so much not to wed with her?”
Graeham’s face reddened. “Nay, my lord. She is fair enough.”
“What, then, prithee?”
Graeham shrugged, searching for a plausible reason, one not quite so complicated, or embarrassing, as the truth. He shook his head. “I’ve a calling for the church,” he said rather unassertively, his expression screwing.
“Good God, man! You must have one better than that!”
Graeham shook his head. “I fear not, sire.”
Stephen sighed and shook his head. “Very well, then, d’Lucy. Have it as you will—though I wish you success in convincing your brother, for I doubt he will be as accepting as I.”
Graeham smiled. “I’m certain I shall manage, sire.”
Stephen chortled. “Aye—smooth-tongued bastard that you are.” Once again, he waved Graeham up from his knees, and then placed an arm about Graeham’s shoulders, leading him toward the door. “Tell me, then... does this mean I will have yet another God-spouting prelate fighting to save my soul?”
Graeham laughed, and cocked his head. “Perhaps, sire, though I vow to give you no more grief than the Empress’ minions have.”
Stephen laughed outright and whacked him upon the back. “Ye God! I would have you quartered,” he swore emphatically. “I would indeed!”
William’s mood was black—blacker yet for the news he’d just received—from the king, no less! Though he tried to keep his calm, he stormed from the king’s apartments, bursting out into the sunlight, his face a mask of stone, lest anyone’s eyes were upon him.
That whoreson d’Lucy! What possible reason could the fool have for giving up his lands to his infernal brother? If he had dared so much as touch Dominique wrongly... he would strangle the imbecile with his bare hands. If he thought for one instant that he, having given up his holdings, was going to wed with Dominique still, then he was truly mad!
At the very least, he was a fool! As was Stephen for granting the petition, for Blaec d’Lucy’s loyalties lay with no other save his brother. His interests were purely his own. And his power, while it had been harnessed beneath his brother’s thumb, was incontestable. There would be no bounds to his greed now that his business was his own.
And Blaec! God damn the man to hell! William would as lief strangle Dominique himself, rather than allow the bastard to touch her. The very last thing he intended was to allow Blaec d’Lucy to usurp what was his. Graeham, he could have borne—Blaec was another matter entirely, for he could well recall the way Blaec had gazed at Dominique. No duty there. Nay, for he recognized lust when he saw it
Damn d’Lucy!
It had been all William could do to mask his anger when speaking to the king—king, bah! the man had no wisdom at all for the dispensation of justice. Nor had he the stomach to rule as he might. Had not England suffered enough these nineteen winters? Stephen was a spineless fool, wanting to please everyone, and pleasing no one at all. At least Henry had known to choose allies. Stephen was little more than an idiot.
Well, by damn, if Stephen could not execute justice, then William was perfectly capable of doing so—and more than ready, as well.
Perhaps all was not lost... yet. Aye, perchance all that was needed now was a reverse in plans. Perhaps Dominique
might still become lady of Drakewich. His lady of Drakewich.
Aye, perhaps.
But then... if it proved to be so, and Blaec d’Lucy had bedded her... if he had so much as touched her... mere poison alone would not be a fitting enough death. By the eyes of Christ, he would personally rip out Blaec d’Lucy’s entrails and feed them to his accursed buteo!
Chapter 22
All Dominique needed do was walk into a room to command attention—even dressed as she was in her threadbare blue bliaut, all eyes followed her. Her silky mane, rich and full, cascaded behind her as she lifted her skirts and raced across the hall, oblivious to his and the steward’s presence. She didn’t see him even as she rushed past them toward the stairwell, and Blaec was hard-pressed to listen to the steward’s report as he watched her—as was the steward. The man struggled to keep his train of thought, he couldn’t help but note. Still his mood was too good to fault the fellow for what he himself could not help.
Excusing himself once she disappeared from view, he followed her, racing up the tower steps after her, his pace swift but silent, for he intended to surprise her.
He quickly overcame her stride, hooking his arm about her waist, lifting her, and hauling her up the stairs along with him. She gave a small shriek of surprise. “You are being made off with,” he told her, chuckling. He carried her into the nearest doorway.
Dominique shrieked indignantly. “Not here!” she exclaimed.
He set her upon her feet, grinning. “Ah, now, but where is there better a place for solitude?”
“Aye, but ’tis the garderobe!” Dominique returned.
He lifted his chin, gazing with a look of surprise about the small chamber. “Is that what it is?” he asked, sniffing. “I didn’t notice.”
“Oh, you!” Dominique laughed and shoved him away, trying to evade him. “God’s truth, but I think you are mad!” she said with certainty.
He caught her, backing her once more against the wall. His lips curved roguishly. “Mad for you,” he agreed readily. He arched a brow.
Dominique laughed softly. “You are a wicked, wicked man,” she said, berating him.
“Well, there you have it…” He brushed her hair from her shoulder and bent to peck her neck with his lips. “And since we are here...”
Dominique gasped. “I do not think I could bear the odor, my lord!”
Lest she escape him, he pinned her to the wall, bracing his arms on either side of her. “I smell only the fragrance of your body,” he murmured silkily, leaning into her, nuzzling her hair. One knee went between her legs, lifting up against her.
Dominique inhaled sharply at the gesture. “I cannot be certain, my lord,” she said on a sigh, her head lolling to one side, “but I believe you have only just insulted me...” He placed a hand upon her breast, and she murmured softly.
The door made to open suddenly, and she stifled a cry of surprise, her head jerking up. Blaec’s arm thrust out before it could open to reveal them, ramming it shut once more. “ ’Tis occupied,” he called out.
For an instant, there was only silence from the other side of the door. “Sorry, my lord,” answered a male voice.
“Good God, can a man not relieve himself in peace?” Blaec added for good measure, smiling for Dominique’s benefit.
Dominique stifled a gasp, her eyes widening at his crudeness.
“Aye, my lord,” came the chagrined reply from beyond the door, and then the sound of retreating footsteps.
She lifted a hand to cover his mouth, lest he speak again.
Blaec shook away from her, saying, “Ah, my love, but I am relieving myself.”
“Shhh! My God, he will hear you!” Dominique hissed at him. “You are truly mad!”
“He is gone,” Blaec murmured, reaching down and lifting up her hem with purpose. “And aye... I am mad... mad with need,” he told her huskily. “Let me love you, Dominique...”
He didn’t wait for her to reply, but bent and kissed her lips. She melted against his knee, and her soft crooning was answer enough.
They were being pursued.
For the last few hours since departing London, they had borne a shadow. And now, at intervals, the foreboding glint of metal flickered ahead of them, making Graeham wonder that they were being led into an ambush.
His brows drew together as he considered who it might be, and then he frowned outright, for the truth was that he could not fathom who might be at their heels. These were lawless times at best.
Everyone was suspect.
Instinct told him that their pursuers had been with them from the first, yet anyone leaving London would have heard the rumors, and would know... there was no longer anything to be gained by challenging him. He held his father’s lands no more. Nay, there was naught to be gained... unless they wished to demand a ransom... or to settle a debt.
He glanced at Nial, riding proudly at his side. Nial held his banner high, unmistakable with its glittering gold-threaded field, and its black, fire-breathing dragon—a device more suited to his brother, for Blaec was the true dragon of Drakewich. Even without the lands, Blaec held the title already. He was the Black Dragon.
Strange that... that people could sense a leader even when that leader swore to follow.
Graeham had never had reason to doubt Blaec. His brother had always given him fealty without question or regret. The truth was that Blaec would likely hang him by his testicles when he discovered what he’d gone and done. Nevertheless it was done, and there was naught that could be said to change Graeham’s mind and will. God’s truth, he’d done what was best for all, and for the first time in his five and twenty years of life, he felt like his own man—not his father’s puppet.
Once again the metallic flicker appeared in the distance, nearer this time. Nial spied it as well, Graeham noticed, and he nodded at the faithful squire. “Go and warn the men,” he commanded him.
Nial immediately fell back “Aye, my lord.”
“Discreetly,” Graeham said, studying the surrounding land with keen eyes, “lest we force their hand.”
To the right, no more than a furlong’s distance, lay thick woodlands, ideal for hiding an army, yet instinct told him it was not there that the danger lay. They had remained behind at an indistinguishable distance—perhaps farther now, for he’d not caught a glimpse of them in the last twenty minutes.
In the immediate stretch before them, the land sloped upward, concealing what lay beyond. And to the left of them, the terrain was the same. The road on which they traveled lay at an angle to the two hills, cutting between them at the point at which they met, along a lower, narrow passage. It was there he focused his attention.
There, and the small pockets of woodland they had yet to pass. He skirted them, all but the last, and was forced to make a decision, for the last thicket posed a quandary. If they went around it, they would be forced to pass to the right, dangerously close to the even thicker woodland to their right. Yet it would also give them a clearer view of the dale as they entered. If they passed through the thicket itself, it would place them in danger of an ambush within, and then they would emerge blindly into the dale. If they forced a pass to the left, then they would need ride up the hill, placing themselves also in danger of an attack upon the hillside, and then again as they entered even more vulnerably into the valley.
Damn, damn, damn... it was always when Blaec was not there that he needed him most. Yet it was his own fault, Graeham acknowledged irritably, that his brother was not with him, for it was he who had commanded him to remain behind. Clenching his jaw, Graeham reined in, his skin prickling, for he knew instinctively that it was at this point in which their greatest danger lay.
And the decision was solely his.
Though he retained his calm, the palms of his hands began to sweat profusely. At this moment his attraction to the church had never waxed deeper. This was not his strength, by God. It was Blaec’s. He laughed derisively. What absurdity... Driven by guilt for what his father had done to hi
s brother, for his own part in the injustice, he had placed his life in danger so many accursed times... and now did if he died... he would bequeath his brother with a legacy of the selfsame burden. Scarcely could he bear the thought.
It seemed his men understood his dilemma, for one knight came forward at once, offering to scout the hill. He ordered another to the right of the thicket. And another to scout within. Though uneasily, all three obeyed at once, cantering away, while Graeham watched them, sweating like a hog beneath the sweltering August sun. Yet though his face was soaked with perspiration, he resisted the urge to remove his helm, knowing without looking that his men watched him.
No sooner had the three ridden away, less than twenty yards distance, the ruse was revealed. The knight riding for the thicket scarcely had time to turn about, so fast was he descended upon. He was cut down as the attackers stampeded past him. His scream of pain rent the air.
‘To me!” Graeham thundered. ‘To me!” Wily bastards! From the thicket, they might have fallen upon them had they passed from either side. Were it the last bloody thing he did, he planned to skewer their ignoble leader through. It’d be the finest thing his father’s sword had ever done.
With the clashing of metal, the battle was joined, and Graeham found himself, sooner than expected, face-to-face with the iron-helmed leader.
Masked with ventail and a helm, the nose guard distorted his face, cutting it visually in half. The fiend left only his eyes exposed to reveal his identity but Graeham instantly knew those eyes: brilliant sapphire blue.
“Bastard!” he cried out as his mount reared beneath him. Vicious laughter rang in his ears, even as did the metallic peal of their first clashing blows.
Chapter 23
They were alone upon the tower roof. Another moment of solitude, stolen.
As Dominique gazed out over the wall, she felt as though she were suspended somewhere between heaven and earth. From this great height, the land stretched far below them, revealing the horizon as never she had beheld it before.
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