by Band of Iron
“Witch.” Northrop cursed, wiping the wet from his face. “Mother Church would warm you with a fire.”
Caxton seethed, his voice shaking with fury. “Four good men died with Nesbit. And three agents have disappeared since you came. Seven dead men you have to pay for with your life.”
Catharine put her hand on his arm. “No, my lord,. Consider that the duke is using Northrop for an information source. What if we feed His Grace false information, and expose him for the traitor he is?”
Caxton turned to a shocked Northrop. “The length of your life depends on passing on our information to the duke. One question first. Who is behind the planned downfall of Sir Peter, your coming here, and the planned death of the princes?”
Northrop pursed his lips, and gave a bitter smile. “Why not? The game is up. The man is already under arrest. John Morton, the Bishop of Ely.”
Peter made a disgusted face. “Edward should have executed him after Tewkesbury. Instead he gave his pardon and made him Master of Rolls. God’s blood! When will they learn.”
Caxton sat down at his desk. “I’ll send an order to have him transferred out of his custody. But the first order of business is saving the poor bastards we sent to spy on the duke.” Caxton turned to an armed servant. “Take him away. Secure the traitor in chains.” The light in his eyes did not bode well for Miles Northrop.
Next morning at Trevor House, in the great courtyard, a jarring wrench traveled up Peter’s arm. Blue sparks flew off the sword blades. He pressed forward, his dagger darting. With each fresh attack, he found his way neatly blocked by the smiling bearded giant who pounded his blade and brought his dagger up short each time. Admiration boarding on awe rose in Peter at the ingenious counter. A wave of exhilaration ran within him.
In a fierce final effort he began a series of moves and in seconds the giant’s dagger spun out of his hand. The giant attacked, bringing his sword down to land in a crucifix of steel. Peter wrenched the sword free, and stood back. “God’s Blood, Adrian. I think I have the trick down.” His sweat-drenched linen shirt stuck to his hard breathing body.
“You do beautiful, Peter. As I say, you are the master now.” Adrian was obviously pleased.
A single pair of hands clapped with lazy arrogance. Peter turned toward the sound. Thirteen armed horsemen quietly filed their mounts inside the wide courtyard of Trevor House. A smoldering rage worked up from Peter’s stomach into his throat. Buckingham’s arrogant face smiled back. “Excellent exhibition, Peter. You should not have let him win, Monsieur De Chemeau. He won’t learn that way.”
“Monsieur,” Adrian said, bowing, “Lord Trobridge is easily the best swordsman in the realm. He has bested me every time these last three months.” A scowl worked his beard and wrinkled his brow. Peter laid a warning hand on his arm. The Frenchman’s dark eyes fastened on the duke. “The only man who ever has.” He collected the swords and daggers from Peter, but stopped when he saw Carnahan. “Ha. My other student. You learn all the tricks, but none of de honor.” He spat in the dirt..
Carnahan went white with rage. “I demand satisfaction.”
Adrian flung down one sword and brandished the other and the dagger.
“No,” Peter said. “You have no honor, Carnahan.” He eyed his sword master, and whispered, “Remember the emotion.” Adrian relaxed. The duke watched amused. An alarmed Catharine moved to Peter’s side.
Forty men-at-arms waited, many with hands on sword hilts. “I would have satisfaction, Lord Trobridge.” Carnahan appealed to the duke. “Your Grace?”
“There is no question you are a master,” the duke said. “But I need a live sword master, not a dead or maimed one.” He grinned. “Lord Trobridge, perhaps at a future time we can arrange a duel to first blood between sword masters?” He turned to Carnahan. “As far as honor is concerned, a man with your history and appetites need never broach the subject. Your manhood is not in question, only your need to bully. Enough.” Carnahan trembled, worked his mouth, but kept silent. Pure murder and old pain shot out of his eyes. “I believe Lord Trobridge has more reason to want to kill you than Monsieur De Chemeau,” the duke said gently.
Peter felt the blood flood his face. The pain and anguish of Carnahan’s butchery, fresh as the moment it happened, roared into his mind crowding out everything except the blinding need for revenge. A cool hand on his arm steadied, then broke through his rage, weakening the desire.
He stared down at Catharine. Her serious intense gaze willed him to control himself. He took a deep shaken breath, letting it out slowly, steadying himself.
“Then let us fight, Your Grace,” Carnahan said thickly. “I owe him for my son.”
“That is out of the question,” the duke said. “You are not of his rank. Only in war is that possible.”
Carnahan brightened and relaxed. So, Peter thought, it is true. The rebellion is not a fiction. Perhaps we will meet across a battle field. He smiled, feeling drained emotionally.
“Look,” Buckingham said. “I believe the idea appeals to Lord Trobridge.” He laughed.
“To what do we owe the honor of this unexplained visit, Harry?” Peter asked, accepting a towel from a servant.
“I am leaving London to see the King on progress. And I couldn’t resist paying you one more visit. I am happy to see you both fit.” He studied Catharine. “There is a glow about you, Catharine.” His eyes brightened with the realization. “Could you be carrying the heir to the House of Trevor, by chance?”
Catharine blushed a fiery red.
“Congratulations,” the duke said. “And how is your friend, Sir James Caxton?”
So he knows. “Sir James is taken ill these last several days.”
“I am sorry,” the duke said, without any trace of surprise. “Lord Caxton is a valued servant of the Crown.”
“Miles Northrop,” Catharine said, “is taking over Caxton’s duties until the illness is past.” She cleared her throat. “Caxton hopes nothing untoward happens until he is well again, so he won’t have to take a hand in his affairs.”
Clever. Peter glanced at Catharine. “He needs much rest. A stomach complaint.” He wiped his face and neck with a towel and tossed it to a servant. Anthony Will appeared at his side. “Some refreshment, Harry? A stirrup cup, perhaps? I don’t know your plans.”
“No, but my thanks. I leave within the hour for Lincoln to see the King. I came by to tell you I am letting the King know my side of what has happened between us. I will have you in the Tower yet.” He paused. “My thanks for this moment of entertainment. Rest assured, when I return, you two will be my first order of business.” He turned his black gelding, and followed the red and black banner, with its Stafford Knot, out onto Bishop gate Street, his men falling in behind.
Relived and concerned, Peter watched the gate close. His squire placed a robe over his shoulders. “God’s Blood,” Peter swore. “The man always seems to have the last word. There is something unnatural about that.” He gestured, exasperated. “Seems to be only one way out of this dilemma, and I can’t take it. Perhaps our duke will raise his banner and allow it. Would we be so lucky.”
14
Catharine sensed Peter’s nearness before she saw him. Heart beating fast in pleased anticipation, she cantered forward on her young mare.
“Catharine, child, you won’t see Peter for miles yet. Slow down, girl,” Agnes said, face sour. “You should have stayed home growing the child.”
They’d been riding for three days under escort by a detachment of Peter’s soldiers. His letter said the King had disbanded the Royal Army after Buckingham’s rebellion fizzled out. Peter sent Sir Hugh and his two thousand soldiers home with an extra month’s pay, keeping with him a thirty man escort. He waited her in the walled city of Shrewsbury, in Shropshire.
Her armed escort grinned and closed around her, keeping pace. The sun glinted off chain mail. Peter’s squire Ned ordered men back to see to the baggage train.
“No, he’s close. I feel him, Agnes.”
A giddy quickening seized her breast. “He can’t be far.” She spurred her horse toward the next rise. Her green hood fell back from her head, and flipped the fur fringed robe up exposing her ankle. The cold air raced in her lungs, and heightened the feeling of anticipation.
“Slow down, my dear. Think of the child growing beneath your heart.” Agnes snorted. “If ye canna think of that, think of an old woman’s bones. This madness to join him ... ”
She left the rest unsaid, subsiding after a glaring look from Catharine.
Her relief that Peter wouldn’t have to fight Buckingham and Carnahan washed away every fear. For a hundred nights the memory of Carnahan swearing vengeance over the body of his dying son, Castor Breckenridge, had haunted her. And with it, the hatred and agony of wanted revenge in both Peter’s and Carnahan’s faces in the manor courtyard that day with Buckingham. Now it is finished, and we can go home. To create a family. To be together.
Topping the rise, she saw Peter sitting on Grey Harold. The great war horse pranced a little, and Peter reined him in. A cheer went up from the men. Bare headed, in blue doublet, white shirt and brown silk hose, he turned at the sound. For a brief second they stared at each other. Her heart raced at the sight of him. All the rush of longing, the needing, flooded within. He dismounted, waiting with open arms.
She urged her horse next to him. He lifted her from the saddle. The touch of him sent a shudder of relief through her. The wet on her cheeks, then he was kissing all her cares away. “Catharine.” The music of his voice curled her toes, and she wished for the privacy of his tent, her longing physical as well as emotional. She reached up and touched his square face, clean shaven, smooth to the touch. The scar, hard and rigid under her fingers, gave way to the broad curve of his chin.
Finally they were in the privacy of his pavilion, in the sleeping quarters. “Mother of God, it’s been so long,” she said, her voice starved and shaking.
“I know.” His hands roamed her, seeking, cupping, loving all the secret places.
She fumbled with the laces of his shirt and hose, until finally they gave way, and everything was removed. Their clothes in a shambles on the carpeted floor told of their need. And afterwards, they lay refreshed, sated in each other’s arms, marveling. “You are indeed breeding,” he whispered, kissing the full swell of her breast.
She giggled, under her breath. “And whose fault is that, Master Seducer?” Eager to love again, her hands moved below his waist. He shifted in surprise, and then accommodated her.
A long time after they sat dressed, and eating in another chamber of his pavilion. “So the King has released you?”
“Aye. The terrible rains and flooding dispirited Buckingham’s forces. He was not well liked or trusted. Few joined his banner, and most who did fled.”
“Has the King captured his Grace of Buckingham?” She sipped light ale from a silver goblet, and raised a helping of meat pie to her lips.
“No, he is still at large. But not for long I suspect. There is a reward. A manor ’s to be given to whoever leads to his discovery and apprehension.”
“Betrayal?” She paused, adjusted the top of her chemise to his close scrutiny. She’d deliberately left the chemise low and open, hiding little, and was pleased at his attention. The new swell of her breasts delighted her. Running a tongue over her lips, she said, “Desert later.”
“Yes. Well, betrayal seems to be the coin the King hopes will flush out this traitor.” He watched her, plainly distracted.
“But we are done with him in any case,” she said, secretly pleased at his interest.
“True.”
She sensed his regret and felt the old terrors begin to resurrect, to course their ancient fears through her again. “You want to fight him?”
He fingered the goblet, his eyes avoiding her face. “Yes. There’s a score to settle. The man did everything in his power to destroy our happiness and our House. Several times he almost accomplished it. I wanted the pleasure of making him pay.”
“And Carnahan?” She watched his weathered face tighten. His eyes hardened. “Remember, you killed his son.”
His scar quivered. hard lines carved into his face. “I know I did. But you can’t say I knew the relationship. Carnahan created a monster in his own image. Better that Castor be dead than ruining people’s lives.” He offered her lamprey in saffron sauce, and at her nod ladled some onto her trencher.
“Carnahan.” He shook his head. “I thought he might be out of my life after the butchering I took from him. For years I prayed I’d revenge myself on him one day. Then he resurrects himself in our lives by working for Buckingham. God-a-mercy, talk about getting your prayers answered. Too close for comfort. I’ll watch what I pray for next. Castor Breckenridge, the kidnapping of Bess, and your escape, and release by Buckingham.” He tasted the lampreys. “Good. Splendid.” His face relaxed.
“I don’t know what to think. A large part of me wants to make Carnahan suffer for what he did. But when I saw him weep over his son, my heart ached for him. I felt tears in my eyes. I never thought a man like that could love.” His thick hands flexed, he interlaced his fingers, and bent his head over them in contemplation. “I had hoped to meet him in battle. As the duke said, he is beneath my rank. Unless he attacked me or I met him in battle I wouldn’t be able to fight the man.” He opened his hands and gestured. “Now I guess it is a moot point. It’s over.”
“But you’ll always carry the need to destroy Carnahan in your heart,” Catharine said. “Is it true?” She tasted the lampreys.
“True. Or at least I’d wonder. It’s baggage I’d rather not have, but I do.” He set his knife down beside his trencher and leaned toward her. His white cambric shirt fell open, the points untied.
Catharine could feel his skin with her mind, smooth with light hairs. A coursing need ran through her body. The blood rushed to her face.
His eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head. “Desert, my lady?”
The man walked out of the woods into the dying sun, across the narrow field toward Catharine. “Lady Catharine Trevor,” he called.
Catharine reined in her horse, men-at-arms surrounded her. Far ahead, exercising Grey Harold, Peter heard the shout, and turned. By his dress, Catharine could see the man was a gentleman. When he grew closer, she could see his clothes were torn and dirty, beard unkempt, and the creases of his face seamed with dust.
The man stopped twenty feet away aware of the vigilant armed retainers who slipped their swords loose in their scabbards. Three bows with knocked arrows sprouted in the hard hands of Catharine’s guards. She waited.
“I am Harry Barristar.”
Peter cantered up, and halted. “God’s Blood, what happened to you, man?” He dismounted and tossed his reins to a squire.
“No time, my lord. You wanted the Duke of Buckingham. I know where he is.” Harry Barristar tugged at his short beard, glanced around and swallowed.
“It may be a trick, my lord,” one of Peter’s squires said.
Barristar stiffened. “I would not blame you for thinking such, considering who is my master, but I have never played you false.” He squinted at them.
“Why should you betray your master?” the squire continued.
“He is sick with an illness called treachery. A man of power subverted to ambition by a false priest.” Barrister’s face convulsed with anger.
“Bishop Morton?”
“The bishop was at Barcon Castle poisoning Buckingham’s mind. He was there when the duke raised his banners, giving God’s Blessing on the venture while dressed in his episcopal robes. Calling King Richard usurper.” Barristar registered disgust. “But he fled in the night when he thought Buckingham was in trouble. A faithless creature best suited for the gallows.”
“Where is Buckingham?” Peter said, face grim.
“He’s holed up at Lacon Hall by the village Wem.”
Peter’s eyes darted to Catharine. “God’s Blood. That’s scarce three miles from here. Who is with h
im?”
“Three servants and his sword master, Allen Carnahan.” Barristar studied Peter. “Are you ill, my lord?”
“No,” Peter said, voice low and intent. “Rob Andrews,” he called. A swarthy man in chain mail raised his head.
“Take two men. Find the Sheriff of Shropeshire, John Milton. He could be in Salisbury or Shrewsbury. Bring him to Lacon Hall at once.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Rob turned to two man-at-arms. “Jamie. Mark.” He turned and spurred his horse into a gallop, Jamie and Mark close behind.
“Ned.” Peter turned to one of his squires. “You stay here with ... ”
“No.” The passion in her voice surprised Catharine, too.
Peter swung to Catharine.
“I will see an end to this also,” she said. Damn this to Hell. Why now? When we’re so close to home. All her fears began to resurrect themselves. Terrible images of personal tragedies. Needless death and injury. They swarmed within, clutching at her heart, ruling her emotions. She fought back the tears of anger, and heard her voice, strong within her ears like someone else speaking. “You go on ahead. I will follow.”
Peter face blank, nodded. “Ned ride with Lady Catharine with half the men. Assign three men to stay with the baggage train. I’ll take the rest with me. Give Mr. Barristar a spare horse.” He stared hard at the tired man, and mounted Grey Harold. “Are you up to it, Mr. Barristar?”
“For this?” he said, accepting the horse’s reins. “Nothing would keep me away.”
The intent look on Peter’s face washed away any hope from Catharine’s mind. He had one thing in mind, revenge. His face, now hard, eyes frosted and strangely vacant. God, what he must be thinking. The tortured agony of Carnahan working his blade slowly in Peter’s face had created this unforgiving memory that blotted out everything else. She might as well not be there. His fierce hope for confrontation seemed to be coming true. Nothing else mattered.