by Lisa Shea
It felt quite strange for Isabel to be voluntarily walking into his house. She had spent so many years desperately trying to avoid this very action that an odd feeling fluttered in her stomach as the servant swept open the heavy oak door and tipped his head.
Curiosity overtook her. Just what would his home be like? Torture implements hanging on the walls? Paintings of his victims lying in misery and ruin?
She blinked in surprise.
The home was stunning. No, more than that, it was actually beautiful.
The entry hall had a marble floor edged with intricate wood parquet. Sconces lined the wall, each holding an ivory beeswax candle. A pair of large portraits sat on either side. One was of Lord Ingram as a young man. He was dressed in black with silver edging. A large cross hung on his chest. He looked …
The word came to her unexpectedly. Happy. He looked happy. She’d never seen him like that. She’d seen him fired with fury, twisted with desire, and glowing with satisfaction. But never the kind of simple joy that shone out of that image.
The opposite picture was of a stern matron. She wore a simple outfit in grey. Doves clustered at her feet. Her hand clutched a long wooden staff. Her fingers glittered with golden rings and at her chest was a massive pendant encrusted with emeralds.
Isabel’s mouth opened. “That’s your mother, isn’t it.”
He glanced up at it. A coil of emotion pulsed through his gaze and then was lost again. His answer was short. “Yes.”
He waved the group into the dining room. The paintings here were elegant scenes of hunting and falconry. They had been executed by a master artist – every detail from the glisten of a scaled fin to the shimmering leaves in the breeze was caught perfectly. The large table was mahogany and could undoubtedly seat at least ten. A row of silver candlesticks lined its center.
The table was already set for dinner for six, with soups steaming from worked pewter bowls.
Eric sauntered over to the head of the table and sat down in the large chair. The rest of the group had smaller chairs in a similar style – carved wood with plush black velvet seats. He waved to the seat at his right. “Marianne, come sit here so we might talk.”
Isabel did ask he requested and Philip sat at her right. The other men filled in the spaces.
She took a taste of the soup. It was a vegetable blend seasoned with dill, pepper, and other spices she could not name.
It was delicious.
She eagerly began taking it in, and Eric chuckled. “Easy there, my girl. The cook has plenty more. You act as if you haven’t eaten well in years.
In a way that was true.
He began eating at a leisurely pace. Philip glanced at the others and then joined in. Isabel supposed there was the tiny chance that Eric would have poisoned the food, but she didn’t think it likely. It seemed more his style to simply have other mercenaries ambush these men if that was his goal. And it seemed he still had a use of some sort for them all.
Eric looked to her as he ate. “So, Marianne, it’s time you tell me about every detail of what happened once you boarded that ship.” He took a sip of white wine. “Please, do not leave anything out. After all, it could be that the smallest occurrence can serve me well at a future date.”
She had no doubt that it was that exact skill that had built his empire.
And so she began.
She altered some details, of course. She stuck to the tale that Philip had taught all of the other passengers. The one the King had heard through his channels. But for the remainder of it, she kept true to the experience. She had no doubt Eric had his people watching them on the entire route.
The servants came and went. Roasted vegetables, steamed duck, and a pastry filled with trout stew. Dessert was some sort of concoction of berries. Each was more delicious than the previous. Isabel was pleasantly full by the time her story came up to the current date.
He was nodding with satisfaction as she ended her tale. He took a long swallow of his wine. “Good, good. So everything is just as I knew it would be.”
Isabel leaned forward. Now was her chance to draw from him what his plot was all about. “It is my turn to catch up. Please tell me where we stand with the plans, and what is to come.”
His teeth glittered. “What, shall I weave you a fairy tale as you just wove for me?”
Her cheeks tinted. “I’m not sure what you mean, Eric.”
He waved a hand toward her face. “You can remove your mask now, you know. We are no longer in public.”
Tension ran down her spine. True, there were only the handful of candles in the wall sconces and then the three silver candelabras on the table. But Eric was immediately at her left. His whole trade relied on his sharp eye and attentive mind. She had no doubt that, once she removed the mask, he would instantly realize who she was.
His smile widened. “Oh, come now. It’s time for us to be open with each other.”
Her mind raced for a solution. For something – anything -
He leant forward. “There’s no need to worry. After all, we’re old friends, aren’t we, Isabel.”
Chapter 16
Isabel stared at Eric in shock. Her mouth opened –
He casually reached over. With a hook of the finger he lifted the mask up off her head.
Her breath left her. She suddenly felt as naked as a newborn babe.
His eyes sparkled with amusement. “So you really thought it? You, with those glowing green eyes that intoxicate? With those luscious red lips which call out to be kissed? You actually believed that a mere mask could ever convince me you were anybody but my very own Isabel?”
The words shot from her mouth before she could rein them in. “I’m not your Isabel.”
He leaned back, his eyes tracing down her leg. “It is easy enough to prove your identity, after all. I am the one who caught you when you were on the cusp of womanhood. I was the first one to put my mark on you.”
Philip’s voice was a low growl. “You shot her as if she were a beast.”
Eric chuckled. “I took her down, as the gods of old took down the maidens they wished to claim. I was the man who first bloodied her.” His eyes glowed at the thought and his eyes delved into Isabel’s core. “Whatever feeble efforts of intimacy that mouse-dung of a husband might have inflicted on you since then, it will all fade into a distant past once you are properly and permanently in my bed.”
He nodded in satisfaction. “It has taken me a while to finally reach this point, but if I know anything it is how to be patient. It clearly was only a matter of time before that pale imitation of a husband faltered and fell. Before you returned to London to become mine.”
Isabel’s voice edged. “I am not yours.”
His teeth sparkled in the candlelight. “Ah, but you are, are you not? You are sitting at my table and eating my food. Every stitch of clothing on your body is mine. The money in your purse was given to you by me. The horses and carriage you rode in were provided by me.”
Isabel’s cheeks flared with flame, and she fought it down with effort. “I am a free woman. My husband, Diggory, is dead. No man holds a claim on me now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So you will abandon your father to whatever fates the world has in store for him?”
She flushed. “Of course not. You know I adore my father. I will do whatever I can to protect him. To take care of him.”
He nodded in understanding. “Of course you would. Because you are a dutiful, loving daughter. And that is why we are so perfectly matched.”
Her eyes flared. “I could never be with the likes of you.”
Eric drew to standing. He held out a hand to her. “Come. You and I need to talk alone.”
Philip was on his feet. “You will not be going anywhere alone with Isabel.” His hand hovered over his hilt.
Eric’s mouth quirked up in a grin. “Ever the eager defender, aren’t you. Not to worry, we will simply go out on the balcony here. I certainly wouldn’t throw her over onto the lawn, and
I doubt she’d be hurt much even if I did. You can watch that all we do is talk. But I have something to say which is for her ears alone.”
Philip looked to Isabel, his gaze heavy with concern.
Isabel pressed her lips together. She had no doubt that Eric was up to something. He was a man of schemes within schemes. But she had still not learned what the message in the silver cylinder was about. Everything she and Philip had risked would be for nothing if she simply returned to her father’s side.
Philip would ride away.
She’d be left alone …
She firmed her shoulders and nodded. “Fine, Eric. We can talk alone. As long as I remain on the balcony in full sight of Philip and the other men.”
Eric smiled and swept a hand. “Of course. After you, my dearest Isabel.”
She crossed the short distance and pulled open the door. Glass panes were set into it, letting through squares of moonlight. The balcony itself was large enough for three or four people to stand comfortably, taking in the beauty of Eric’s gardens. Herb plants were artfully arranged in a knot pattern beneath them, shadows in the soft moonlight.
Eric followed her out and closed the door behind them.
She rounded on Eric. “All right, then, what did you need to talk with me about in private?”
His eyes moved down her face. “Ah, Isabel, you are even more beautiful than I remember. Such a tragedy that you ran off with that wastrel. That you had to spend a year of your life living like a bug. Living off of scraps.”
Isabel blushed. Her time with Diggory had indeed often been a Hell on Earth. She drew up her strength. “It was still better than living with you would have been.”
Eric waved a hand back toward his stately home. “Would it have been that bad, to be mistress here?”
“Marble and wood are just things,” she snapped. “But living with a family member who delights in hurting others … that is not a life I would wish on any person.”
He shrugged. “We all take our pleasures in different ways. For example, you did not seem to mind killing Marianne and her crew.”
Isabel’s mouth opened in shock.
Had one of the passengers betrayed them? Admitted to what really went on on the ship?
She barely got the words out. “Who told you that?”
His teeth shone. “You just did, with your reaction. It seemed the most likely way that your ship could have grounded on that sandbar with my entire team lost. Somehow you and your … friends … realized what was happening and intervened. As none of my crew managed to return to Dover, I can only assume their bodies are now somewhere deep in the Channel.”
Isabel held her tongue.
“Or perhaps buried on that sandbar?”
Isabel thought she showed no emotion, but whatever reaction she had was apparently enough for Eric. His gaze gleamed with satisfaction.
He shrugged. “I do not blame you, of course. Our world rewards the survivors and your team certainly managed that. You managed to overcome your enemy and acquire the prize. So then we come to the next question.”
He leaned back against the balcony railing. “You had the message. Why not simply bring it right to the King? Provide him with the information he’d been waiting for? Why this elaborate attempt at deception? True, you were able to delude my various minions and move along the path, but to what end? What did you hope to do once you reached me?”
Isabel’s gaze shone with fierce delight.
That eyebrow arched high again. “Truly? You would choose harming me over the life and safety of your father? And you call me a callous man?”
Isabel blinked in shock. “What does my father have to do with any of this?”
Eric looked at her for a long moment. Then amused awareness grew in his eyes. “Oh, my darling, sweet Isabel. Do you truly have no idea what that canister signifies?”
She knew this was where she should look worldly. Look as if she had the entire plot laid out and was only seeking to have him say it out loud.
He chuckled. “You were always the impetuous one, weren’t you. Diving into solutions before you really looked at the problem.”
He reached into the leather pouch at his side and drew the cylinder out. “Would you like to know what this holds? What you have invested so much time and energy into?”
She held her breath.
He turned the cylinder so it glittered in the light. “Before I tell you, I want you to think on something. Why is your father about to be turned out of house and home? Tossed aside like an old dog no longer able to hunt?”
Isabel flushed with anger. The words shot out of her. “Because of Lord Bedemor.”
Eric’s tone was light. “Oh, sweet Isabel, always such a quick one to blame. You see the surface but do not look into the depths. Why is Lord Bedemor being handed the keys to your beloved Tower?”
Now it was shame which tinged Isabel’s cheeks. “Because the King feels my father is no longer up to the task.”
“Perhaps so - but why not simply hand the reins over to one of your father’s trusted men? Someone who has been there for years and understands the tower’s defenses?”
Isabel pressed her lips together. It was something which had been bothering her as well. She reluctantly ground out, “I don’t know.”
He rolled the cylinder in his palm. “You were never much interested in politics. Perhaps that was your blessing and your curse, growing up in a soldier’s household. You had no mother to school you on the intricacies of dealing with the court. Of currying favor. Instead you learned how to aim a bow and shoot it straight at its target.”
“I can do that quite nicely,” warned Isabel.
He nodded his head. “A skill which comes in handy. But in this case it is the political issues which need to be peeled back a layer at a time.”
He gave a small smile. “You do know about the signing of the Magna Carta, I assume. Surely word of that reached even over to Paris.”
“Of course,” retorted Isabel. “Diggory’s friends would talk of nothing else when the news came. To think, the God-chosen King of England having to cede rights and privileges to the nobles who served him. King John could no longer toss enemies into prison any time he felt like it. He could not wildly tax them whatever he wished in order to fund his continued attacks on France.”
Eric shrugged. “A mere extension of the charter created by John’s great-grandfather, King Henry. The Charter of Liberties. That first charter was a way for King Henry to get in the good graces of the nobles and earn their support. To make up for the excesses of his brother William’s reign. A contract, in essence, between the King and his loyal nobles.”
Isabel’s brow creased. “I didn’t know that. So, if this Charter of Liberties already existed, why wasn’t King John following it? How did he become so despised for his excesses?”
Eric’s eyes twinkled. “When King Henry wooed the court with the signing of his charter, he soon found it a bit … restrictive. Only another decade or two found King Henry falling into the same traps of his brother. Power often corrupts. King Henry found he enjoyed his Kingship and being able to take whatever he chose. He wanted his daughter, Matilda, to take over the crown. He wanted her to have everything the world might offer.”
Isabel murmured, “That would have been something, to have a Queen leading us.”
“She was a spitfire, like you are. Unfortunately for young Matilda, her cousin Stephen had grown up in the court with the family and had keen ambitions. He managed to take the crown in a civil war which threw all hope of the Charter’s binding force out the window.”
He smiled. “But there were many who backed Matilda’s legitimate claim. After twenty years of fighting Matilda was at last able to get her own son, Henry II, onto the throne.”
Isabel nodded. “And Henry II had little use for charters. I know this much from my father. Henry II fought the church, fought the French, and even his own children rose up against him. Henry II gave a number of prime lands to his adored
son John, now our King. That upset the older brothers.”
“And now we have the spoiled brat as a King. His older brother, Henry, died in the rebellion. Geoffrey died in a tournament. Richard and John sided with the French against their own father, which broke their father’s spirit. When Henry II died, Richard became in essence a King in absentia. He would much rather be crusading than ruling. And so John rose up against him, eager that the prize was so close at hand. It is only due to Henry’s good graces that John remained the legitimate heir when Henry was killed by a bowman while sieging Chalus-Chambrol.”
“My father often said that we were doubly cursed that day. We lost a skilled warrior who treasured his soldiers. And we were burdened with a greedy, cruel, unthinking younger brother who never should have made it to the throne.”
Eric looked out into the darkness. “John grew up vying for power. He lived in a household where nobody could be trusted. Anyone could turn on you. He felt, after all he had gone through to achieve the crown, that he should now have unlimited access to all its benefits. Every woman. Every noble’s coffers.”
He shook his head. “King John was thirty-three when he took control – and the rage which had built up over long years finally erupted in triumphant victory. The cruelness, the greed, the lust which then deluged the court pushed the nobles past their breaking point. At last they demanded a fresh charter, to restore what Henry I had promised so many years ago.”
“A month ago they got their wish,” Isabel pointed out. “John did, at last, sign the Magna Carta in order to prevent the full-scale revolt.”
Eric waved a hand at the city before him. “And yet have all the rebel lords left London, as agreed? Why do you think they remain here?”
Isabel pursed her lips. “I imagine they do not trust the King. They feel that, like this predecessors before him, he will rip up that document the moment he has the upper hand again. He is just waiting to ensure he has the support he needs before he acts.”
Eric smiled.
He held up the cylinder.
Isabel’s mouth opened in shock.
This had never occurred to her.