by Tamara Leigh
Feeling a pang of hunger, guessing it was late morning, she pushed up on an elbow and laid a hand on his jaw.
He needed a shave but, as usual, would put it off for as long as possible. He hated having the beard scraped from his jaw, even though she had cut him only twice.
She eyed the nick on his chin that had mostly healed. Remembering the incident, she smiled in remembrance of his muttering about an electric razor that, of course, required an explanation. And a wondrous one it had been.
She sighed. There was surely much about his world he missed, but at least he seemed content in hers.
“Good morning,” he said huskily.
She looked into eyes that were more gray than usual, the sunlight narrowing his pupils to pinpoints. “I think ’tis nearer noon, Husband.”
He pulled her close. “Then perhaps we shouldn’t bother rising.”
“Stay abed all day? But I am near sick with hunger.”
He slid a hand in to her belly. “Perhaps you’re pregnant.”
Catherine had only a moment to thrill to his touch before the dream flew back to her. Could it be? Never had she known such a dream. So beautiful. So precious. So unlike the horrors her sleep preferred to visit on her.
“What’s wrong?”
“I dreamed.”
His brow furrowed.
“Nay, not like that. I slept easily on the night past, and the dream was without portent of ill.” Recalling gurgling laughter and soft skin, she said, “I dreamed of a babe.”
He blinked. “Ours?”
“It had your eyes. Do you think…?” She laid a hand atop his on her belly.
He smiled. “If you dreamed it, then it must be.”
“But never have I had such a dream. The things I see are only to be feared.”
“You’ve never had a pleasant dream?”
Though she had told him of the sight, she had not revealed all of it. “None that I recall.” And not even the dream of her own death had been as clear as the joyous one from which she had awakened.
“Perhaps the sight is changing, Catherine.”
Dare she believe it was no longer a curse? Her next thought swept away that hope. Had the child in her dream been a girl? Mayhap the dream was not as joyous as it appeared but did tell of ill to come—that their babe would be cursed with the sight.
“Catherine?”
“What if ’tis a girl child?”
He moved her onto her back and leaned over her. “My ego does not require a son.”
“But if a girl, she might have the sight. Mayhap what I saw in the dream was to be feared.”
“Is that how it’s passed—through the female line?”
“It seems to be.”
Gaze unwavering, he said, “Know this, Catherine. If it is a girl and she has the sight, I will not send her away as your father did you. Just as I will not send you away. Whatever happens, we will face it together.”
Of course they would.
He looked to the smile rising on her lips, lowered his head, and kissed it. “Now, having lazed away the morning, I must rise.”
She started to sit up, but he urged her back. “Get some more sleep.”
“But I am rested.”
“A few more hours will do you good.”
She laughed. “Though I may be with child, it does not mean I am unable to see to my duties. Too, I must check on my father.”
“I will look in on him.”
“And I am hungry.”
He tucked the covers around her. “I’ll send Tilly with a tray.”
She sighed. “Very well.”
He crossed to the trunk and began searching through his meager choice of clothing.
She grimaced. He had said nothing when her first attempt at sewing for him had failed. But though she ought to try again, the memory of that failure remained fresh—more, the embarrassment. All he had done was reach across the table, and the seams of his tunic had torn. He had made light of it, saying something about watching his calories more closely, but the pitying looks of the castle folk had made her vow to never again wield a needle. But she would. For him.
As Collier pulled on his braies, he reflected on the expectation he would become accustomed to the loose-fitting undergarments, but they were not much better than running around naked. He missed his athletic boxers.
He pushed his feet into boots, and as he straightened, flexed his aching shoulders and rolled his head on his neck. His muscles were taut from the lumpy bed. Another thing he missed—an orthopedically correct mattress.
At the door, he looked over his shoulder, and that was all it took for thoughts of his twenty-first-century world to retreat. Catherine’s face was gentled by the lowering of her lids and brightened by color in her cheeks. This was what he wanted. Her.
He had never given much thought to having children, and might not have missed them in his other life. But girl or boy, sight or not, he wanted the child his wife dreamed of. He wanted to see what she had seen. Hold the little one. Glimpse immortality in its eyes.
Remembering his promise to look in on Lewis, he closed the door and strode down the corridor.
The old Lord of Irondale had surprised all by lingering well past the time the physician said he would, and had even begun to show signs of improvement. Still, he would not sit in the lord’s high seat again. However many days were left to him would be spent abed.
Collier knocked. No answer. Likely Lady Lavinia had gone to the chapel as she sometimes did while her husband slept.
He pushed the door inward with the expectation of seeing Lewis Algernon propped on his pillows, but he lay on the floor near his bed, one arm outstretched as if he had tried to crawl to the door.
A moment later, Collier eased him onto his back.
Blessedly, Lewis peeled back his lids.
“Lord Algernon, I am going to return you to your bed.”
“My h-h…”
Collier understood what he wanted. Though he had thought Lewis would not sit in the high seat again, he would one last time. “I will take you, my lord.”
Though it was obvious Catherine’s father had been of good height and build before his stroke, his withered body lifted easily.
When Collier turned toward the door, Lady Lavinia stood there, eyes great pools of sorrow.
“’Tis time?” she whispered.
“I believe so,” he said, and with her trailing, carried her husband down to the hall.
The servants looked up from their tasks, and in the time it took Collier to cross to the dais, their ranks swelled from four to a dozen.
Collier settled Lewis into the lord’s high seat, and though it must have taken all of the old man’s strength to hold himself upright, he did.
“Bring your lord a blanket,” Collier ordered a servant, then looked to the woman who had just come off the stairs. “Fetch Lady Catherine, Tilly.”
By the time the servant returned with the blanket, several of the castle garrison and two household knights had appeared, all aware this was the last time Lewis Algernon would preside over Irondale’s hall.
A Yorkist among Lancastrians whose lord neared death, Collier turned away, but a loud grunt brought him back around.
“My husband wishes you to sit beside him,” Lady Lavinia said.
Collier looked to Lewis, and receiving a slight nod, ascended the dais. “My lord?” he said as he lowered into the chair.
“Iron…dale…”
Collier leaned near. “Be assured, I will take care of your people.”
“Lavin…”
“And your wife.”
“Ant…”
“Whatever I can do for Antony, I shall.” Unfortunately, that last would likely be of little benefit to the boy. “And Eustace as well.”
Lewis’s eyes shifted across the hall, and Collier saw Catherine hasten into the hall ahead of her younger brother.
“Do not worry,” Collier said. “I will keep her and our child safe.”
Lewis’
s eyes widened. But there was no joy in them.
Knowing his fear was the same as Catherine’s, Collier laid a hand on his arm. “I will let neither of them go.”
Lewis searched Collier’s face, then jerked his chin.
When Catherine drew alongside her husband, the old man tugged the signet ring from the hand that lay limp in his lap, shifted his body toward Collier, and offered the band to the new Lord of Irondale.
Collier stared.
“You.” Lewis motioned with his chin for his daughter’s husband to take it.
“’Tis yours now, Husband,” Catherine said. “You would honor my father by accepting it.”
Memories of his own father returned to Collier. Winton Morrow had died without dignity. In his hospital bed, cancer having done its worst, he had berated his sons for a business decision made without consulting him, calling them irresponsible and unworthy of the Morrow name. Collier and James had stood through it, but when he cursed them and their mother, they had walked out. Winton Morrow died alone with none to mourn him.
“You are worthy,” Catherine said. “Take it.”
Lewis thrust it nearer, further proof of his acceptance of this Yorkist to govern his people. But why when his hatred had been so strong the day Collier arrived at Irondale? What had changed his opinion? Catherine?
Emotions taut, he reached. “I thank you, Lord Algernon.”
Lewis dropped the ring in Collier’s palm, met his successor’s eyes, and sank more deeply in the chair.
Collier looked to Lady Lavinia.
She inclined her head, while beside her, Eustace stared at his sister’s husband with large, moist eyes.
As those gathered watched the passing of their lord, Collier turned to his wife.
With a sad smile, she took the ring from him and slid it on his finger.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“I did not dream of his death. I do not understand it.”
Collier considered Catherine where she walked beside him. “You dreamed of our child.”
In spite of the day’s sorrow of seeing her father laid to rest, a smile touched her lips. “I did, and ’twas wondrous.”
“Then your dreams are changing.”
“That they are of good and not bad? I pray ’tis so, that this curse is lifted, and I will bear you a son.”
“Girl or boy, the child will be loved.”
Her eyes softened. “This I know.”
Were they alone, he would take her in his arms. Glancing at Lady Lavinia, who walked ahead of the mourners returning to Irondale, Collier felt her sorrow. Not only was her husband dead, but last evening the messenger sent to Strivling had returned with word of Antony’s refusal to attend the burial. Catherine’s mother had withdrawn to her chamber, and her weeping had been heard through the walls.
There would be trouble before long, and it would likely begin with Antony leading Edmund to the rebels. So how was Collier to keep his word to Lewis to watch over his reckless son?
Antony waited in moonlight. And once more his thoughts raked over what he had learned of his father’s death.
It was said Lewis Algernon had himself removed his ring and given it to Gilchrist—in so doing, showing his acceptance of the Yorkist as Lord of Irondale. Nearly as much as the death of his father, it made Antony ache. He was betrayed by the one whose loins he had sprung from, who had promised his eldest son would rule Irondale.
A lie.
Though in the end, Catherine had forsaken the Lancasters, Antony now understood how she had been able to defend Strivling in the face of defeat. Her hate had been that strong. But surely not as strong as Antony’s, whose hatred of the Yorkists would never fall victim to a lovesick heart.
“Whelp!”
Antony swung around.
Before him stood Rudd Walther, the man who had first been on the side of the Lancasters, then the Yorkists, and now again the Lancasters. A vile mercenary, but useful, for it was he who led a band of more than a hundred rebels determined to return King Henry to the throne. And he who had given Antony a very close and painful look at the floor of the wood when he had dragged him behind his horse.
Respect him? Indeed. Fear him? Certes. Hate him? In abundance.
“You keep the king waiting,” Walther snarled.
Antony nearly lost his footing. “King Henry?” This the reason he had been summoned from Strivling?
Disgust hitched Walther’s mouth. “Surely you do not think I refer to the usurping Edward?”
“Of course not.” Antony stepped away from the stream. “I did not know the king was here.”
“Go!” Walther nodded at the largest of the tents erected in the deep wood.
The king wished to see him—Antony Algernon. A mere squire. Heart pounding, he ran and stepped on one of those curled up before a camp fire. Ignoring the curses that followed him, he continued to the king’s tent over which an immense, ugly soldier stood watch. The man tossed back the flap, motioned him and Walther inside, and followed.
The interior of the tent was a disappointment. No velvet cushions, thick-piled rugs, or platters brimming with delicacies as befitting a king. Except for a smoking lantern, a bowl of withered fruit, and two men—one standing, the other sitting on the ground wrapped in a blanket—the place was barren.
“I am Sir Richard Tunstall,” said the one who stood. “Come closer.”
Wondering if Walther played a game, Antony took an uncertain step forward.
“Is King Henry still your sovereign?” Sir Richard asked.
Antony nodded. “As God is my witness.”
“Then kneel.”
Antony lowered his gaze to the one who sat before him. This was the King of England? This man with dull, heavily-lidded eyes, an angular face that made him look as if he had not eaten in months, a small head that sat more bowed on his neck than erect, and brown hair that sprang unkempt from his scalp?
As if to confirm it, the one in question nodded.
Antony knelt and bowed his head. When a hand touched his shoulder, he looked up.
“I am your king, Antony Algernon.” The voice was so soft it was barely heard, eyes so sorrowful they belonged more to a commoner.
Was Henry’s appearance a result of these past months spent as a fugitive—moving safe house to safe house just ahead of those who sought to capture him? Even so, Antony was repulsed. He had imagined the king to be a giant of a man much like the one who had ushered him into the tent. Not one more likened to a beggar.
“I was much aggrieved to hear of your father’s passing,” the king said.
Only because he did not know Lewis Algernon’s loyalties had shifted during his last days. But no need to tell him. It would only reflect poorly on the displaced heir of Irondale.
“You know why I have summoned you, Squire Antony?”
“I do not, Your Majesty.”
The king’s smile was a sickly thing. “Sir Rudd tells me you were present when Morrow confronted Lady Catherine over the whereabouts of Strivling’s wealth.”
“I was there, Your Majesty.” And that very night had stolen out of Irondale to deliver word to Walther. He had not known the significance of the missing coin, only that such a great deal was important.
“What was Lady Catherine’s response?”
Surely Walther had told him. “She said she knew naught of it.”
Movement drew Antony’s gaze to Henry’s hands. As if agitated, he clenched the right over the left, the left over the right, and back again.
“And the sum?” the king asked.
“Three hundred pounds, Your Majesty.”
Henry shifted his gaze past Antony. Was it Walther who captured his regard, or the big soldier?
A tic convulsing the corner of his mouth, the king said, “You are certain it was only three hundred, Antony Algernon?”
“’Tis as Morrow said, Your Majesty.”
“Then your sister yet holds it for me.”
“I…do not think so. She has turned trait
or—”
“Or pretends to have done so.”
“I wish it were true, Your Majesty, but I am fair certain she has forsaken you for her Yorkist lover.”
Again, King Henry glanced past him. “I thank you, Antony, and give you leave to return to Strivling.”
Antony felt as if struck. He was ready to fight for the Lancasters—even if the king looked hardly capable of raising himself from the ground. “If it pleases you, my king, I would remain with you.”
“Nay, you best serve me at Strivling.”
Though the thought of spending one more day in service to Edmund Morrow turned Antony’s belly, he said, “Aye, Your Majesty.” Standing, he backed his way out of the tent.
As the big man swept the flap open, the king’s voice reached him by a slender thread. “Antony?”
“Your Majesty?”
“If…when…” The king blinked. “When the time comes, I shall send for you.”
Then he would participate in reclaiming these Northumbrian lands! Antony thanked the king, stepped out into the cool night air, and gazed up at the stars.
Ignoring the doubts pressing in on him, he told himself England would be Lancastrian again and the true heir of Irondale would take back what Gilchrist had stolen. Antony Algernon would be a lord and a man of the sword. Indeed, it was possible King Henry himself would confer knighthood on his faithful servant.
Imagining the grand ceremony, the fastening of spurs, the presentation of his sword, the collée delivered by the king’s hand, Antony started back toward Strivling.
Henry looked from one man to the other. Though his enemies said he was witless, he felt the animosity between these two. And understood it—especially the big man’s hatred. Were Walther not so useful in gathering men to the Lancastrian cause, Henry would not have accepted him back.