"Why did you let her go if she was such a beauty?"
"I told you," Royce said shortly, "she was sick." Trying to avoid talking further to Graverley, Royce made a great show of being hungry. Reaching forward, he pulled his own trencher of bread toward him and took a large bite. His stomach lurched in protest to the bread, which was covered with rancid goose and soaked with its grease.
Twenty-five minutes later, it was taking a physical effort for Royce to keep his growing tension from showing. Arik and Godfrey must have given Jennifer Royce's message and she was evidently balking; as a result they must be trying to reason with her and delaying bringing her into the hall. But would she balk? And if she did, what would Arik do? For a horrible moment, Royce imagined his loyal knight using physical force on Jennifer to make her acquiesce. Arik could snap Jennifer's arm in two with no more effort than it would take another man to break a tiny dry twig between his fingers. The thought made Royce's hand shake with alarm.
Across the distance of the rough-hewn planks that formed the makeshift table, Graverley was looking about him, his suspicion of trickery growing. Suddenly he leapt to his feet. "Enough of waiting!" he said sharply, glowering at Royce, who was slowly coming to his feet. "You're playing me for a fool, Westmoreland. I can sense it. You've not sent your men for her. If she is here, she's being hidden, and if that's the case, you're a greater fool than I thought." Pointing to Royce, he turned to his sergeant-at-arms and ordered, "Seize this man and then begin searching the castle for the Merrick woman. Tear this place apart, stone by stone if necessary, but find her! Unless I miss my guess, both women were murdered days ago. Question his men, use the sword if necessary. Do it!"
Two of Henry's knights stepped forward, under the apparent misapprehension that, as the king's men, they would be permitted to reach Royce without opposition. The moment they moved, Royce's men instantly closed ranks, their hands on the hilts of their swords, forming a human barrier between Henry's men and Royce.
A clash between Henry's men and his was the last thing on earth Royce wanted to happen, particularly now. "Hold!" he thundered, well aware that every one of his knights was committing a treasonous act merely by obstructing the king's men. All ninety of the men in the hall froze at the bellowed command, turning their faces to their respective leaders, awaiting the next command.
Royce's gaze slashed over Graverley, shocking the older man with its blazing contempt. "You above all dislike being made to look absurd, and that's what you're doing. The lady who you think I've murdered and hidden, has been taking a pleasant stroll—without a guard—on the hill behind the castle. Furthermore, far from being a prisoner here, Lady Jennifer enjoys complete freedom and has been accorded every comfort. In fact, when you see her, you'll find she's lavishly garbed in the clothes belonging to the former chatelaine of this castle, and around her throat is a strand of rather priceless pearls—also owned by the former chatelaine here."
Graverley's mouth fell open. "You gave jewels to her? The ruthless Black Wolf—the 'Scourge of Scotland'—has been lavishing his ill-gotten gains on his own prisoner?"
"A coffer full of them," Royce drawled blandly.
The look of amazement on Graverley's face at that revelation was so comical that Royce was torn between the urge to laugh and the more appealing urge to smash his fist into the other man's face. However, at that moment, his chief concern was to prevent an outbreak between the opposing forces in the hall and avert the unthinkable repercussions of such an act. To achieve that goal he was willing to say anything, confess to any folly, until Arik appeared with Jennifer in tow. "Furthermore," he continued, leaning his hip upon the table and affecting an attitude of complete confidence, "if you're expecting Lady Jennifer to fall at your feet and weep with joy that you've come to her 'rescue,' you're in for a disappointment. She will want to stay with me—"
"Why should she?" Graverley demanded, but far from being enraged, he was, for the moment, evidently finding the situation highly diverting. Like Royce Westmoreland, Graverley knew the value of alternatives, and if all this rubbish about Lady Jennifer Merrick's willingness should prove to be true—and if Royce could persuade Henry to hold him blameless—then all this diverting information about Westmoreland's tender treatment of his captive would still provide enough hilarious gossip to keep the English court laughing for years. "I gather from your proprietary air that Lady Jennifer has been cavorting in your bed. Evidently, because she has, you think she'll now be willing to betray her family and her country because of it. It sounds to me," Graverley finished with open amusement, "that you've begun to believe all the court gossip over your supposed prowess in bed. Or was she so good to lie with that you've lost your wits? If so, I'll have to invite her for a tumble with me. You won't mind will you?"
Royce's voice was like icicles. "Inasmuch as I intend to wed her, 'twill give me an excuse to cut your tongue out—something I'll look forward to with considerable relish!" Royce was about to say more, but Graverley's gaze suddenly shifted to a point beyond Royce's shoulder.
"Here's the faithful Arik," he drawled with amused insolence, "but where's your eager bride?"
Royce swiveled around, his gaze riveting on Arik's harsh, craggy face. "Where is she?" he demanded.
"She's escaped."
In the frozen silence that followed that announcement, Godfrey added, "Judging by the looks of the tracks in the woods, there were six men and seven horses; she left with no signs of a struggle. One of the men was waiting in the woods only a few yards from where you sat with her today." Only a few yards from where she kissed him as if she never wanted to leave him, Royce thought furiously. Only a few yards from where she used her lips and body and smile to lull him into leaving her there alone …
Graverley, however, was not caught in the grip of paralyzing disbelief. Swinging around, he began snapping orders, the first aimed at Godfrey. "Show my men where you claim this happened." Turning to one of his own men, he added, "Go with Sir Godfrey and if it looks as if an escape actually happened the way he described it, take twelve men and overtake the Merrick clan. When you catch up with them, do not draw arms—any of you. Extend greetings from Henry of England and escort them to the Scottish border. Is that clear?"
Without waiting for an answer, Graverley turned to Royce, his voice tolling ominously in the cavernous hall: "Royce Westmoreland, by the authority of Henry, King of England, I hereby order you to accompany me to London where you will be called upon to answer for the abduction of the Merrick women. You will also answer for deliberately attempting to obstruct me in carrying out my sovereign's commands today regarding the Merrick women—which can and will be considered a treasonous act. Will you place yourself into our custody or must we take you by force?"
Royce's men, who outnumbered Graverley's, tensed—their loyalties understandably torn between their vows of fealty to Royce, their liege lord, and their vows to their king. Somewhere in the inferno of fury that was his mind, Royce noted their plight, and with a curt jerk of his head, he ordered them to lay down their arms.
Seeing that there was to be no resistance, one of Graverley's men, who had moved into position near Royce, caught both Royce's arms, yanked them behind him, and swiftly bound his wrists with stout leather thongs. The thongs were tight, cutting into Royce's wrists, but Royce scarcely noticed: a white hot fury unlike anything he'd ever experienced had consumed him, turning his mind into a fiery volcano of boiling rage. Parading before his eyes were visions of a bewitching Scottish girl: Jennifer lying in his arms… Jennifer laughing up at him… Jennifer blowing him a kiss…
For his stupidity in trusting her, he would face charges of treason. At best, he would forfeit all his lands and titles; at worst, he'd forfeit his life.
At that moment, he was too infuriated to care.
Chapter Thirteen
Royce stood at the window of the small but well-appointed bedchamber that had been his "cell" since his arrival, two weeks ago, at the Tower of London, Henry's royal residence. His
expression was impassive as he stared out across the London rooftops, lost in impatient contemplation, his legs braced wide apart. His hands were behind his back, but they were not bound, nor had they been since that first day when his fury at Jennifer Merrick—and at his own gullibility—had temporarily robbed him of his ability to react. He had permitted it then, partly to prevent his men from endangering their own necks by fighting for him, and partly because, at the time, he was too incensed to care.
By that night, however, his fury had been reduced to a dangerous calm. When Graverley had attempted to retie his wrists after Royce finished eating, Graverley had found himself jerked to the ground with the leather thong wrapped taut around his throat, Royce's face, dark with rage, only inches from his own. "Attempt to bind me again," Royce had bit out between his teeth, "and I'll slit your throat within five minutes after my interview with Henry."
Writhing in surprise and fear, Graverley had nevertheless managed to gasp, "Five minutes after your interview with the king… you'll be on your way… to the gallows!"
Without thinking, Royce had tightened his hand, the subtle twist of his wrist effectively cutting off his adversary's air. Not until his victim's face had begun to change color did Royce realize what he was doing, and then he released him with a contemptuous shove. Graverley staggered unsteadily to his feet, his eyes blazing with hatred, but he gave no order to Henry's men to seize Royce and bind him. At the time, Royce had attributed that to the likelihood that Graverley had realized he could be treading on dangerous ground by deliberately abusing the rights of Henry's favorite noble.
Now, however, after waiting weeks for a summons from the king, Royce was beginning to wonder if Henry was actually in complete accord with the privy councillor. From his position at the window, Royce stared out at the dark night that was scented with the usual malodorous smells of London—sewage, garbage, and excrement—trying to find a reason for Henry's obvious reluctance to see him and discuss the reason Royce was being incarcerated.
He had known Henry for twelve years; he had fought beside him at the Battle of Bosworth Field, had watched as Henry was proclaimed king and crowned on that same battlefield. In recognition of Royce's deeds during that battle, Henry had knighted him that same day, despite the fact that Royce was only seventeen. It was, in fact, his first official act as king. In the years that followed, Henry's trust and reliance on Royce had grown apace with his mistrust of his other nobles.
Royce fought his battles for him and each flamboyant victory made it easier for Henry to exact—without bloodshed—concessions from England's enemies and Henry's personal ones. As a result, Royce had been rewarded with fourteen estates and riches enough to make him one of the wealthiest men in England. Equally important, Henry trusted him—trusted him enough to permit Royce to fortify his castle at Claymore and to keep a private, liveried army of his own men. Although, in this instance, there was strategy behind Henry's leniency: the Black Wolf was a threat to all Henry's enemies; the sight of pennants with a snarling wolf pictured on them often crushed hostility before it had a chance to bloom into opposition.
In addition to trust and gratitude, Henry had also given Royce the privilege of speaking his mind freely and without the interference of Graverley and the other members of the powerful Star Chamber. And that was what was niggling at Royce now—this long period of refusal to give Royce an audience in order to defend himself was not indicative of the sort of relationship he'd enjoyed with Henry in the past. Nor did it bode well for the outcome of the audience itself.
The sound of a key being inserted in his door made Royce glance up, but hope shriveled when he saw it was only a guard bearing a tray with his meal. "Mutton, my lord," the guard provided helpfully in answer to Royce's unspoken inquiry.
"God's teeth!" he exploded, his impatience with everything coming to a rolling boil.
"Don't like mutton much myself, my lord," the guard agreed, but he knew the food had nothing to do with the Black Wolf's outburst. After putting the tray down, the man straightened respectfully. Confined or not, the Black Wolf was a dangerous man and, more importantly, a great hero to every male who fancied himself a true man. "Do you wish for anything else, my lord?"
"News!" Royce bit out, his expression so harsh, so threatening, that the guard backed away a step, before he nodded obediently. The Wolf always inquired about news—usually in a friendly man-to-man way—and tonight the guard was happy to be privy to some gossip. Still, 'twas not exactly gossip the Wolf would likely be happy to hear.
"There is some news, my lord. Gossip it be, but reliable-like, heert from those what are in a position to know."
Royce was instantly alert. "What 'gossip'?"
" 'Tis said yer brother was called afore the king last night."
"My brother is here in London?"
The guard nodded. "Came here yesterday, demandin' to see yer and practically threatnin' to lay siege to the place if'n he didn't."
An awful feeling of foreboding crept over Royce. "Where is he now?"
The guard tipped his head to the left. "One floor above ye and a few rooms to the west, I heert. Under guard."
Royce expelled his breath in a rush of frustrated alarm. Stefan's coming here was reckless in the extreme. When Henry was angered, the best tack was to stay out of his way until he got control of his royal temper. "Thank you," Royce said, trying to recall the guard's name, "er… ?"
"Larraby, my—" They both broke off and glanced toward the door as it swung open. Graverley stood in the doorway, grinning evilly.
"Our sovereign has bade me bring you to him."
Relief mixed with concern for Stefan ran through Royce, as he stalked past Graverley, shouldering him aside. "Where is the king?" Royce demanded.
"In the throne room."
Royce, who'd been a guest here at the Tower several times in the past, knew it well. Leaving Graverley to follow and try to keep pace, he strode swiftly down the long hall to the steps which wound down two stories and then led through a maze of chambers.
As he passed through the gallery with his escort/ guard following behind, Royce noted that everyone was turning to stare. Judging from the derision on many of their faces, the fact that he'd been confined here and was out of favor with Henry was a fact known to all.
Lord and Lady Ellington, attired in full court dress, bowed to Royce as he passed, and again Royce witnessed their strange expressions. He was accustomed to some fear and mistrust when he was at court; but tonight he could have sworn they were hiding amused smiles, and he discovered that he vastly preferred being mistrusted to being laughed at.
Graverley gleefully provided the answer for the odd looks: "The story of Lady Jennifer's escape from the notorious Black Wolf has been cause for much hilarity here."
Royce clamped his jaws together and increased his pace, but Graverley quickened his to match. In a confiding voice ringing with mockery, he added, "So has the story of our famous hero's infatuation with a plain Scottish girl who ran away, wearing a fortune in pearls he'd given her, rather than wed him."
Royce swung around on his heel, fully intending to smash his fist into Graverley's grinning face, but behind him the liveried footmen were already pulling open the tall doors to the throne room. Restraining himself with the knowledge that Stefan's future, as well as his own, would not be improved by murdering Henry's most valued councillor, Royce turned away and strode through the doors the footmen were holding open for him.
Henry was sitting at the far end of the room, garbed in formal robes of state, his fingers tapping impatiently on the arms of his throne. "Leave us!" he ordered Graverley, and then he turned his cold, distant gaze on Royce. Silence followed Royce's polite greeting—an unusual, icy silence that did not bode well for the outcome of the interview. After several endless minutes of it, Royce said with cool politeness, "I understood you wished to see me, Sire."
"Silence!" Henry snapped furiously. "You'll speak to me when I give you leave to do it!" But now that the dam of s
ilence had been breached, Henry's own anger could no longer be held in check, and his words issued forth like lashes from a whip. "Graverley claims you had your men turn their weapons on my men. He further charges that you deliberately disobeyed my instructions and impeded his efforts to free the Merrick women. How plead you to this accusation of treason, Royce Westmoreland?" Before Royce could reply, his enraged sovereign shoved himself from his chair and continued. "You condoned the seizure of the Merrick women—an act which has become an affair of state threatening the peace of my realm. And having done so, you let two women—two Scottish women—escape from your clutches, thus turning an affair of state into a joke that has swept all England! How plead you?" he said in a low roar. "Well?" he roared again without taking a breath. "Well? Well?"
"Which accusation do you desire me to address first, Sire?" Royce replied with courtesy. "The accusation of treason? Or the rest, which constitutes stupidity?"
Disbelief, anger, and a twinge of reluctant amusement widened Henry's eyes. "You arrogant pup! I could have you whipped! Hung! Pilloried!"
"Aye," Royce quietly agreed. "But tell me first for which offense. I have taken hostages many times in the last decade, and on more than one occasion you've commended it as a more peaceful means of scoring a win than outright battle. When the Merrick women were taken, I could not have guessed you'd suddenly decided to seek peace with James—particularly not when we were defeating him in Cornwall. Before I left for Cornwall, we spoke in this very chamber and agreed that, as soon as the Scots were subdued enough for me to leave Cornwall, I was to take command of a fresh army near the Scottish border and install it at Hardin, where our strength would be very visible to the enemy. At that time, it was clearly agreed between us that I would then—"
"Yes, yes," Henry interrupted angrily, not wanting to hear again what Royce intended to do next. "Explain to me," he ordered irritably, unwilling to admit aloud that Royce's reasoning in taking the two hostages had been valid, "what happened in the hall at Hardin. Graverley claims your men tried to attack mine on your order when he placed you under arrest. I've no doubt," he said with a grimace, "your version will vary from his. He detests you, you know."