Ondine

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Ondine Page 42

by Heather Graham


  “Ah, it is good,” Warwick murmured, still upon his knees. It appeared that the king was in no mood to release him quickly.

  “My boots, young man, have become encrusted. Do clean them for me while you’re down there, good fellow, will you?”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  The answer came a bit slow, but well and strong. Ondine barely kept from bursting into merry laughter as she met Charles’s eyes over her husband’s head. It seemed that only they had heard the grating of Warwick’s teeth, that only they, together, could truly enjoy this moment of seeing the great Warwick Chatham, champion at arms, so sorely humbled!

  “Ah, very good, my thanks there, boy! The best of luck to you, then!”

  And with that, Charles stepped past him, slipping an arm about Ondine to lead her into the house.

  He kept them a distance before William and Raoul and whispered into her ear, “I could not resist! A smith, eh?”

  “A smith, sire, and I must say I enjoyed your entrance tremendously!”

  “Knowing the circumstances of your relationship, my dear, I was quite sure you’d felt the blade of his domination now and then, and that our dear lord Chatham deserved a taste of his own medicine.”

  “Aye!” Ondine laughed softly, her heart light, her eyes sparkling brilliantly. “You knew, then, that he was coming here? That he intended such a thing?”

  “I told him everything, my dear. He knows me well; he knew I hid the truth from him. You are not angry that I betrayed you?”

  “I could bless you for it, yet I am afraid for him, for he does not wear humility with ease.”

  But the king grew sober then, his voice becoming softer. “Play ‘tis one thing, and it seems we must all enjoy it when we may. Yet I—who did perhaps encourage this situation—do not like it much now. Have you discovered anything?”

  She wanted to tell him about the blotter, that it gave clue at least to evil purposes. But she had no chance to speak—William was upon them.

  “You have heard, Your Majesty, that my son and the duchess will wed, and the house will be one?”

  “Ah, yes, indeed, I have heard rumor of the impending nuptials!”

  They came into the hall. Charles shed his cloak, and Ondine saw that he was in full Stuart dress uniform, his sword at his side. Two of his guards followed him closely. When the king sat at the head of the table within the hall, they flanked him on either side.

  He cast his gloves upon the table, a congenial guest, and accepted the ale that Jem quickly brought him from the kitchen. He gazed about and murmured pleasantly,“I have interrupted your morning meal! Come, and I will sit with you.”

  They took their places. The king refused to dine, but continued to smile as Berault served them food now grown quite cold.

  No one remarked upon it.

  “Alas—as long as all is well,” Charles said, “I am pleased. My dear, in truth, I bear you no grudge for your father’s act— certainly, it was but a moment’s madness on his part. I could not bear to think that you, such a fair young lass, might have conspired against me. But here I see it all! The peace and harmony amongst you! What more assurance could I have when these two men— your doting family—have given you their faith!”

  “It did grieve me most terribly, sire,” William vowed, “when my brother came to that fit of madness! That he should raise his arm against you … Sire, it was the most woeful day, yet now we seek to live past it.”

  “And live past it well,” he murmured dryly, pulling his small blade from his hip and idly paring his nails with it. He emitted a sudden impatient oath. “Damn, but this blade needs a honing. Raoul Deauveau! Call that smith of yours here! I’ve a mind that man could make a finer thing of my blade!”

  Raoul was instantly up, bowing and out. The king commented on the hall; William said again that they were grateful to him, glad that he had lifted his disfavor, though it was true that the family had been deserving of his anger.

  Then Warwick entered the hall on Raoul’s heel, his golden gaze already wary of what was to come.

  “There you are! It seems I’ve a dull knife here, yet I’m convinced that you can set it to rights.”

  “Your Majesty, I shall do my best.”

  Warwick once again knelt at the king’s side, next to Ondine, as he extended his hands to accept the knife. Charles dropped it to the floor.

  “Ah, it seems the cold has numbed my fingers!”

  “No difficulty there, sire,” Warwick said smoothly, ducking to retrieve the knife. “I do live to serve you.”

  “Do you? How charming!” The king applauded. Ondine quickly looked down at her plate, lest she be tempted to laughter once again. Yet she had the feeling that the king meant more here than idle play, though she did not understand quite what he was doing. She longed to talk to Warwick herself, away from all prying ears, and discover whether he had managed to retrieve the blotter from her uncle’s desk.

  Perhaps Warwick had been called in so that he and Ondine could have a moment together, because Charles suddenly stood, moving far across the room to point out the window and ask a question about the usage of the land. William and Raoul came quickly to his side, leaving Warwick kneeling down beside Ondine.

  She pretended to sip her tea, but whispered instead to him, her long hair a shield that hid their hurried conversation.

  “Have you the blotter? We could get it to Charles now—”

  “Nay! We cannot!” he responded with a hoarse breath of air. His golden gaze touched hers with firelit sparks. “It was gone; the desk was clean when I went there.”

  She stared at him with horror. He uttered some terse warning sound that reminded her they were not alone, and she swallowed back the despair and frustration that had seized her, turning to smile for the king.

  “Ah, off your knees, man!” he told Warwick. “Go—see what you can do with my knife!”

  Warwick rose, bowed briefly, and hurried from the hall. The king lingered long enough to finish his ale and comment once again that he bore the family Deauveau no grudge. Then he said that he must be gone, but would return.

  “We’ll send for your knife—” William offered.

  “No need; I’d enjoy a view of the forge!” the king said, and sweeping his cloak about his shoulders, he started out himself with his customary long strides.

  Raoul and William gazed at each other, then leapt to their feet to follow him.

  Ondine remained where she was, pensive and worried once again. The blotter was gone. Yet how could they have known that she had seen it? Maybe they did not know. Maybe, once again, time had worked against her, and William had merely decided to clear his desk.

  Oh, God … but then why her uncle’s sharply sarcastic anger that morning? Something was afoot. But surely, now that the king had been here and seen her here, they would not dare to harm her.

  Nay, she decided bleakly, that was a slender thread to cling to indeed! They had managed to murder her father before witnesses and come from it the heroes. Perhaps Warwick was right, and it was exceedingly dangerous to linger here at all. And now her scant hope had disappeared.

  She sighed softly, squaring her shoulders. Dangerous or no, she would have to start over again. She had loved her father so dearly, and she loved the life she was carrying with all her heart. How could she not pit all her heart and strength into justice for that generation gone, and that to come?

  Charles knew that William and Raoul Deauveau had followed him; he knew, too, that they would not dare to intrude upon him once he had closed a door.

  And that was what he did, as soon as he entered the forge.

  Warwick gazed up from his stone seat by the fire. He was not about to kneel again—he’d been on his knees enough to last a good ten years, much as he did honor his king.

  He smiled ruefully, instead, offering Charles his sharpened blade, then sweeping a bow with the same mockery he’d received. “Your Majesty! I most humbly pray ‘tis sharp as you desire!”

  ” Tis sh
arp as your tongue!” Charles retorted quickly, grinning, but he sobered quickly. “Tell me, in all haste, what goes on here.”

  Warwick sighed despairingly. “Nothing! Ondine thought she was on to something, but when I scaled the walls to retrieve this evidence she had discovered, it was gone. Charles—there is no hope here! She must understand that. She is blinded by that love she bore her father, too proud to retreat. If she finds these documents—these forgeries—they hold over her head, to what avail is that? It does not prove that her father did not raise his sword against you. I’ve told her I’ll give her three days—including this one—and that is all. I’ll take her from this country if need be; but I will take her from here, as is my right, so help me God! Those two are evil in the extreme, and we have come too far; she has endured enough. How many times may one woman cheat death?”

  Charles stared at his passionate servant and sighed. “Ah, Warwick, that is why I determined to come now. I assumed that once they had seen me—and I had seen Ondine here, beneath their care—they would think twice before seeking to harm her.” He hesitated a moment. “I am in accord with you, though. Linger here no longer than three days more. ‘Tis better to forfeit the lands than her life.”

  Warwick nodded tensely.

  “I must leave; I stay with a smith too long. Tis well I’m known for a liking of the common man!”

  “Charles!” Warwick called when the king would leave. Charles turned back curiously. Warwick knelt to him once again, and this time in all sincerity and truth.

  “Thank you. For your belief, for your care.”

  The king grinned slowly. “You saved my life once upon a time. Remember? And Chathams have remained loyal; I’ll not forget the blood spilled on my father’s behalf. You see, Warwick,” he added, grinning crookedly with pain, “I understand Ondine’s feelings well. My father, too, was killed by treachery, though it was of a different nature. Get off your knees now, for in all honesty, you are not a man to do well upon them!”

  Warwick stood, and the king embraced him, then hurriedly took his leave. Following him and standing at the doorway, Warwick was able to hear the king cheerfully comment that he was well pleased with his knife. He watched the royal party depart, then turned back to the fire, glad that there was work to do, work to keep his hands busy while his mind remained in eternal worry and chaos.

  Yet he paused when he would have set to melting steel, for with the king’s departure, William and Raoul Deauveau had not returned to the house. They came back toward the forge, engaged in a fierce argument.

  Warwick came to the open doorway and hovered just behind it in shadow, straining to make out their words while remaining beyond their vision. It was not difficult to do, for the tenor of their voices kept rising.

  “I tell you it’s true!” William rasped in fury.

  “And I tell you it is no more than supposition!” Raoul retorted.

  “Supposition! So tell me, Son, does that supposition not dismay you?”

  “You’re taking the word of a thick-bodied and thick-minded stinking peasant!”

  There was a long silence; then came a long, long expulsion of air from William Deauveau.

  “Berta is large, yes—I needed a large woman, in case your lovely and devious betrothed decided to be troublesome. But she is bright and knows women well. She would not make a mistake. Your sweet little virgin is definitely with child.”

  Warwick was so startled that it seemed his heart ceased to beat; coldness … a blanket of coldness, like a river of snow, seemed to engulf him. His mind raced blankly for a moment, then pitched into a fever of emotion.

  By God, he felt like thrashing her with a thousand lashes! How could she have done it! Left him, left Chatham, when she was carrying his heir? How could she play this dangerous game, when even more than their own lives was at stake?

  Oh, fool that he was! A chambermaid had noted it, and he had not! He, her husband, who held her and cradled her and loved her through the night …

  “I knew that she was no virgin, Father. She came to me with the truth—a truth she dared not tell you. And what matter does it make to you? I am the one taking the bride! One tryst, and virginity is lost; the difference is but a night—”

  “You’re not listening! The girl is not only deflowered, but carrying some lout’s child!”

  “That, too, Father, is easily handled! We need only keep her hidden once her condition is discovered; the child can be disposed of with little effort.”

  “She’ll surely love you and serve you well once you’ve slain her child!” William scoffed.

  Raoul began to laugh. “What matter that, sir? We’ve already slain her sire!”

  “We need to get rid of her now—”

  “What? The king would surely be suspect! Damn you, Father, I will have her!”

  “You are a fool! All sense and mind tucked into your pants!”

  “Father—”

  “Nay, I’ll argue no more! Marry the bitch if you are so keen upon her! Take her—you but take yourself straight to hell!”

  Warwick wound his fingers into fists of tension at his sides.

  Nay, Raoul Deauveau and sire William, he thought, so enraged that before his eyes the world had turned red. Blood red. It is I who shall take you straight to the gates of hell!

  “I wash my hands of it!” William exclaimed, then said on a curious tone that was by far lighter, “Do what you will, Raoul. Ah, see to things here, Raoul. I’ll not be about for our evening meal.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere special. I’ve received a message from an old friend; I shall spend some time with her this evening.”

  “A woman?” Raoul chuckled. “Ah, Father. The fires of lust still bum brightly, eh?”

  “Umm. Perhaps. We shall see. I shall go now, so you may have your precious beauty all to yourself for the evening. Your black widow, that is!”

  “Father, I tell you, she has been broken to my will!”

  William answered something, but they were walking away, and Warwick could hear them no more.

  Perhaps it was good that they walked away. The awful anger, the anger that washed the world in a mist of red, was still within him. Had they lingered longer, he might have emitted a primal, tearing scream and rushed out to slay them both with his bare hands, or die in the attempt.

  Ah, foolish action! For if he were to die, he would but leave Ondine at their mercy. Ondine … and their unborn child.

  Yet one thing was certain: It was no longer Ondine’s battle alone. In his heart, to the depths of his soul, he knew that the two usurpers must die—in fair fight—by his hand.

  Ondine …

  He set his mouth grimly, for at the moment he also had a most serious argument with his wife!

  Chapter 29

  At a bench in the rear of the White Feather, Jake sat lazily sipping a tankard of ale, legs pulled up, his back comfortably resting against the wall. He grinned, watching the activity in the room; a dice game in one corner, cards in the next. Men drank and laughed, and the tavern maids, their wondrous bosoms well exposed, laughed in turn and served more ale. A haunch of venison roasted on the open flame, creating a tempting aroma. It was cozy and warm, a fine shelter from the blustery cold that encompassed everything beyond the doors.

  All in all, Jake thought, smiling as he saw that Molly was fixing him a plate of the venison, spooning rich gravy over the meat, he’d made out rather well on this particular adventure. The lord of Chatham was busy at an anvil, while Justin and Clinton were on the prowl in London. All he’d had to do was to endure the days with his eyes open and his ears tuned—a most convivial assignment! As it happened, Molly seemed to enjoy the warmth of his heart and minded not his gnome’s face, so leisure had become a handsome sport, and he would most certainly be sorry to leave this place behind.

  Molly placed his food before him, blushing like a bride, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “Ah, what a lass ye are, Molly!” he told her, placing the coin for
the meal between the lovely plump pillows of her breasts. She flushed again, lightly slapping his hand.

  “Now, ye eat that, sir, while it’s still hot and good! And watch yer hands amongst the management!”

  Jake broke into easy laughter, for the management was willing to sell most anything. But he cast a wink Milly’s way and dipped a hunk of bread into the gravy, savoring the taste. For whatever else might take place here, none could deny that the White Feather boasted a fine cook and warm filling food.

  “A taste to savor, Molly, lass!” he said approvingly, and added, “Only ye, yerself, lass, have the power to please the palate greater!”

  “Ah, get away with ye, ye silver-tongued flatterer!” She stooped to give him a quick kiss, but Jake tensed suddenly, his eyes upon the tavern door.

  It had swung open suddenly, taken from the hands of the latest customer by the force of the winter wind. Gusts swept into the place, carrying a sprinkling of snow.

  Yet it was neither gusts nor the snow that Jake noticed, but the latest patron of the tavern.

  It was the lady Anne.

  Clad from head to toe in an encompassing cloak, all that one could see were her beautiful dark eyes, but Jake knew those dark eyes, aye, he knew them well!

  Some young hearty called out against the cold, yelling that the door be closed. And then Jake saw that Anne was not alone; a great hulk of a man entered behind her, silencing the shouts by his mere appearance. His size and height signified a dangerous fellow, strong, and accustomed to using the sword and pistol in his belt.

  “Hardgrave,” Jake muttered in shock against Molly’s lips.

  Molly mumbled something, freeing herself from him in a fervor. “Now, Jake, a pinch on the rump be one thing, but—”

  “Molly! Molly!” he brought his voice to a urgent whisper, needing to hold her near until he could shift around, placing his back toward the two who had just entered. “Molly, girl, do ye love me?”

  “What is this, Jake?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “Molly, do ye love me—just one little bit? ‘Cause if ye do, then I need yer help now.”

 

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