The child, who’d never killed before, blinked in shock. It didn’t feel real. It felt like the force of surprise and his own momentum had carried the thing, not him. But now he’d lost both, and try as he might he couldn’t pull out the sword.
A liquor jug hit him full force in the back of his head, knocking him off his feet.
“Bloody hell! Poor Humboldt! Killed by a marauding child! And he was to marry his heiress next month.” It was the blond man.
“Aye. A pity. And not how one wants to be remembered,” the handsome one said to sniggers all the way round.
He scrambled backward on his elbows and heels, desperately feeling for the dropped sword he’d seen earlier. The moment he found it, he jumped to his feet. He pointed it at them, holding it steady. “Let her go!”
“Do you know what I’m going to do with that sword, boy?” the rat man whispered. “I’m going to slit you from throat to belly and fry your entrails.”
Caroline, still struggling in Harris’s grip managed to loosen his chokehold on her throat. “Run, Robbie! Please run! Run!” his sister screamed.
“I’ll let her go, lad, if you say so,” Harris said with a leer, and then he lifted her high in the air and flung her hard against the wall.
He had always been reserved and she the merry prankster. Sister, boon companion and best friend, she was his strength, her charm and personality both larger than life. But when she hit the wall and slid to the floor in a broken heap she was so small…so fragile. She looked at him a moment, willing something from him. He whimpered, taking one step back as they advanced toward him, and then his sword clattered to the ground and he ran. He looked back one more time before he reached the doorway but she was gone.
He ran and ran as they shouted behind him, out of the house and back into the night. He fell on his knees when he could go no farther. People were coming, running toward him, their torches bobbing in the dark. A great screaming pain tore through him, rising through his blood and nerves, seizing his throat and ripping his heart. He threw back his head, letting loose a wounded-animal howl.
~
“Jesus!” Robert woke with a loud gasp, doubled over and clutching his midsection, trying to catch his breath. His dreams of Caroline were the worst. They had none of the distance of memory, none of the detached quality of his other nightmares. They hurled him back in time, forcing him to relive that night, a frightened child who failed his sister, over and over again. He groaned and went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.
“You needn’t ride me quite so hard, Caro. I’m doing the best I can,” he said to the empty room. But she never stopped. In the light of day he could push such thoughts and images away, but other than the occasional glimpse of a cheeky grin, violet eyes, and a muddy face, blood and horror hounded him most every night. He wished he was one of those lucky souls whose dreams did not pursue them when they woke. He wondered what her thoughts would be if she knew he had lost her home.
~
The second royal message, commanding his presence at Whitehall came two days later and was almost as great a shock as the first. Robert could imagine no reason for it, other than suspicion regarding his possible involvement with enemies of the crown. Some of those who fought for parliament during the English civil wars were fanatics. The Fifth Monarchists had been a powerful force. Men who saw the war and Charles I’s execution as a prelude to the start of a golden age where Christ and his saints would reign on earth.
They had once hailed Cromwell as a second Moses, leading God's chosen people to the Promised Land. Just three months past they’d launched an uprising in London resulting in a bloody street battle and forty deaths. One couldn’t blame the king for dealing with them harshly. Two of them were regicides and one a major general. His first thought upon learning his lands were forfeit was that he was suspected of being one of them.
It couldn’t be further from the truth. His war had been a personal one. And his brothers since then weren’t Puritans and preachers but the loose collection of steely-eyed soldiers who killed who they needed to to get the job done. They cared little for religion and had few scruples and their honor was to their fellows, their craft and their word.
Even as his staff stored three generations of family heirlooms, he contemplated rejoining the fold. Provided, of course, he wasn’t arrested for treason. They were, after all, among the most highly prized mercenaries in Europe, and there were opportunities aplenty in Germany, the Netherlands and farther afield.
Though he’d thought himself weary of war he couldn’t deny a prick of excitement. There was something about daring death head-on with only skill and luck to save you that could bring even the most jaded spirit sharply back to life.
He’d already claimed his two thousand pounds worth of goods in weapons, clothing and horseflesh. He would travel to London and satisfy his curiosity, trusting to his wits should things go awry. While there he would look to finding employment for his servants and a well-paid position with a company of mercenary for himself. Far better to be a soldier of fortune, than fortune’s slave. He’d also check amongst old friends and acquaintances, to see if he might pick up a trail grown cold.
CHAPTER SEVEN
London
Robert stalked the long stone gallery at Whitehall with a ground-eating stride. His clothing was sober but elegant, and an oversized sword, clearly meant for killing, hung easily at his side. There were offended sniffs and angry stares but people stepped aside. Prince Rupert, the king’s cousin, returning from His Majesty’s chambers, smiled and tipped his head as he passed, one military man to another. A dashing prince and able commander, it was he who had allowed the slaughter at Bolton. It was no worse then what Robert’s own own commanders had done, and he gave him a nod and a cold smile in return.
He was familiar with Whitehall and had been here many times in Cromwell’s day. He’d even slept in a billet in the west wing a time or two. There’d been a gun battery mounted at the Holbein gate and much of the place was used as barracks at the time. Now, with its opulent hangings, sumptuous seating alcoves and magnificent paintings gracing the walls, it dripped elegance and luxury once more. Such changes made it seem like an age had passed when it had only been five years.
Housing the royal collection and open to the public, the gallery was the place to hear the latest news. Gossipers, gawkers, and those here on business reacted alike to the parade of ministers and the occasional sightings of the king. They observed every nuance, tick and gesture, searching for clues to great matters of state. Was his majesty’s tone warm when he spoke to this one? Was his smile cold when the other made a jest? Within hours their sage conclusions would enliven the chatter at coffeehouses and taverns throughout the town.
Robert wasn’t interested in gossip. He’d been waiting most of the day and his patience was at an end. Now, as the orange glow from the west sank below the horizon and somber shadows lengthened to the east, he decided it was time to find some supper and a bed. He was not a petitioner after all. It was His Majesty who had asked to see him. If his oath-breaking, manor-stealing monarch had need of him, let him come and find him at his lodgings. Tomorrow he’d—
“Captain Nichols!” A sonorous voice echoed through the near empty gallery. “Captain Robert Nichols. His Majesty will see you now.”
He stepped into a richly furnished chamber. In the center of the room, parallel to a sculpted marble fireplace flanked by Bacchus and Cupid, a beautiful oak table cast its own lustrous glow. His monarch sat there with his sleeves rolled up and his crimson coat thrown over the back of a chair. He played cards with an auburn-haired beauty perched on his lap. It took a few moments before he looked up.
“Ah, Nichols! Here you are at last, and just in time. Do you play?” The king seemed to be regarding him with great curiosity.
“My lord.” Robert removed his wide-brimmed hat with a flourish, and gave him a deep bow. “My Lady Castlemaine.” He gave her a deeper one. “Yes, I do. It’s a common pastime amongst
soldiers.”
“Have we met?” The lady purred, her eyes traveling his length with obvious appreciation.
“I should have remembered it if we had, madam, but tales of your beauty leave no doubt as to who you are.”
“Handsome, well-mannered, with a modicum of charm. If we can….” The king made a frustrated gesture with his fingers as he searched for the right words. “If we can jolly you up a little, you just might do.”
“I beg your pardon?”
His Majesty shrugged. “I daresay, some women find such a military air dashing, but you don’t want to look like a country parson. Particularly not this evening.”
“My Lord?” Robert was growing more confused by the minute. Was the man addled or drunk?
“I assure you he doesn’t look anything like a parson, Charles. He looks big and and a little bit frightening, and not the least bit meek or mild.” The lady held her hand to her bosom and gave a slight shudder.
“Mmm. And that’s quite enough from you, my pet. Leave us now. I will see you later.” He gave his pouting a mistress a pat on the rump. She responded with an angry hiss as he sent her on her way. “She does have a point though, Captain,” he said, returning his attention to Robert. “You are very well dressed for a fellow who has just been stripped of his possessions.” He gestured toward the sword. “You came ready to do battle?”
“I came, because you summoned me.”
“Yes?”
“And I was curious.”
Charles nodded. “Naturally. That’s a wicked weapon, Captain, if not terribly practical. Worth a good deal of money, I expect. Most prefer something lighter, with more flexibility. A rapier or cutlass perhaps.”
Robert shrugged. “It is not meant for dueling or to impress the ladies, Your Majesty. You might call it…a personal possession of sentimental value. It was left me by my father.
“Ah!” The king looked at him with a grin. “Call me Charles. May I see it?”
The moment he drew the sword four men at arms stepped from the shadows along with two gentlemen who’d been playing cards in an alcove across the room. Robert didn’t know if it was a display meant to warn him, but as an officer he was impressed. Charles motioned them back with a negligent wave and after Robert laid his sword on the table, gestured for him to sit.
“Germanic perhaps. They do like their wolves.” He examined the blade with interest. “But I’ll wager this is a Spanish steel.” He turned it over. “Lex Talionis. Tell me, Captain—” he leaned forward, and there was hint of playful challenge in his voice “—on whom do you seek revenge?”
Robert leaned forward, too. “If it were some fellow seated in this chamber, Majesty, he’d already be dead.”
“God’s blood, but you’re a bold and impudent fellow!” Charles’s laughter rang through the room. “You’re not exactly what I expected, but damn me if I don’t think you’ll do. Here. Take it back.” He slid the sword to Robert. “It’s bound to be an accursed nuisance when dancing. Have a care not to trip up the ladies tonight.”
Is our interview over? Why in God’s name did he call me here? “Your Majesty. I came here at your summons. I’ve been waiting all day. Might I enquire as to—”
“All in good time, Captain. Hurry now or we shall be late.”
~
Robert knew the king was notoriously informal. It was said he attended private parties, taverns, even brothels, and played the country gentleman at Newmarket every fall. It was unheard of in any other court in Europe, yet he and his brother James could be seen frequently at dinner and supper, dispensing with formality for the sake of entertainment. It took remarkable courage and confidence in the love of his people to allow them to see and interact with him as simply a man. He felt a grudging respect. But it was a shock nonetheless to be bundled into a carriage and told they were off to a party that his other mistress and he were hosting in their town house on Pall Mall.
It was May Eve, a beautiful night, and though dusk had already settled it wasn’t yet full dark when they rolled to a stop in front of grand three-story house on the desirable western end of the street. Shaded by elms, with a garden adjoining the king’s garden at St. James’s Palace, it backed onto the park. Several carriages were arrayed on the street out front and it looked as though the gathering was well underway.
There were occasions in battle, when despite training, planning, and good intelligence, one found oneself cut off and lost in a situation one couldn’t foresee or control. When that happened, one trusted to one’s instincts and waited, going with the flow of events, watching for that moment when direction and momentum could be wrested back again. Robert Nichols still had no idea why the king who’d stripped him of his lands had summoned him to court and made him his boon companion. And with no answers forthcoming, he prepared to observe.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hope Matthews could hardly contain her excitement. Hosting this evening with Charles and his friends made up for a thousand tiny hurts. For the past year and a half, just like Cinderella, she would appear at Whitehall, set tongues to wagging, and then hurry home at midnight with nothing but the remnants of a dream. But tonight she was hosting the ball! Well…dinner party. Tomorrow would be May Day and tonight was an informal private celebration for only his closest friends. To hold it at her lodgings was to acknowledge her importance to him in front of those whose opinion he valued most.
She knew she wouldn’t have him much longer but she couldn’t help but love him for letting her enjoy the fantasy and pretend for one night, that she was his queen. He had left her to manage it, telling her to spare no expense, and she was almost bouncing with excitement waiting for him to see what she had done. She had worked day and night for two weeks to prepare, turning the house into a feast for the senses. A place to celebrate the summer to come in luxury, comfort and ease.
The air was fragrant with scented candles and masses of flowers, many of which she had grown in her own beloved gardens under the tutelage of Charles’ gardener, John Rose. Green boughs decorated banisters, mantels and arches, while flower-covered arbors and miniature maypoles marked private grottos both inside and out. The serving girls wore floral garlands and the footmen—dressed in green linen—were painted as jack-in-the-green.
Music drifted in the background from hidden alcoves, cheerful and unobtrusive, weaving into the happy hum of laughter and conversation as people flirted and gossiped and played at cards.
The dining room played host to a more substantial feast. The crystal chandeliers blazing overhead reflected off side-tables sparkling with decanters of the finest wines. Should anyone feel hungry a long table draped in white linen stood ready, piled high with platters of chicken, mutton, lobster and tarts. She surveyed it all with a wide smile, confident it was a night everyone would remember. A night that would make Charles proud.
They had invited about fifty guests in all. The king’s brother James, and His Majesty’s natural son—the Duke of Monmouth—had already arrived. Buckingham was busy at cards in the corner with Elizabeth de Veres, Lord Rivers’ lovely wife. Hope regarded her curiously. She liked the poet. He’d been kind to her, despite her lowly background, treating her as well as any court lady though it was clear he found her faithfulness to Charles amusing. How curious now to find him in love with his own wife. Charles admired her, too. What is it such men crave from these virtuous seductresses? Virtue is something no man will look for in me.
All that was missing was Charles. A cheer made her look to the entrance. A dark-haired man wearing an ostrich-plumed hat tilted at a rakish angle and a gold-braided crimson coat swept through the door dwarfing most of those around him. Charles at last! Her face broke into a happy grin and her heart raced a few beats faster. No doubt he had the same effect on every woman in the room. But tonight he is mine.
Her gaze sharpened and she looked with interest at the man who walked beside him. She’d never seen him at court before or she would have remembered. He might have walked straight out of one of her c
hildhood fantasies. Lean-waisted, broad-shouldered, with a powerful frame, he topped Charles by a good two inches. He seemed solid in a way one seldom saw among men living the soft life at court. He moved like a swordsman, lithe and graceful yet there was something wolfish about him. He looks like a predator in a roomful of sheep. His presence dwarfed the confines of the room, making him seem somehow out of place. It was easy to imagine him strapped in armor atop a warhorse like some vengeful knight of old.
She watched him with interest as she wove though her guests to greet Charles. He wore no adornments, other than the polished buckles and fine leather straps that secured his weapons, but his dark suit was finely made and of rich material, and crisp white linen showed at wrist and neck. In a room of gaily-bedecked courtiers he looked elegant and dangerous. It suited him well. Her heart sped up and a guilty flush warmed her cheeks.
He turned to speak to Charles and she got a good look at his features. For one brief moment, her heart stood still. He had a harsh beauty set off by a faded scar that creased his cheek. His hair was swept back off his face in a neat queue tied with a length of black ribbon. It gleamed in the candlelight, burnished gold with streaks of dark and light. Flickering shadows from hundreds of tapers accentuated chiseled features—strong cheekbones, a firm jaw and a full, almost sinful-looking mouth. I wonder what color his eyes are.
She had almost reached Charles and she rushed the last few steps to greet him. He caught her and hugged her and bussed her cheek. “You’ve done us proud indeed this evening, Miss Mathews. And you are as pretty as the first day of summer.” She beamed with delight, his words making all her hard work worthwhile. He released her and removed his hat, then gave her an elegant bow. “As you can see, I’ve invited a friend. I pray you have room for one more. My dear, may I present to you a dashing fellow, both brave and bold, Captain Robert Nichols.”
Soldier of Fortune: The King's Courtesan (Rakes and Rogues of the Retoration Book 2) Page 7