A King's Betrayal (8 page)

‘You have news for me?’  Henry looked up from his writing as Sir John Fletcher entered his chamber.  ‘Is the mission accomplished?’

             
‘I fear the news is not what you would wish to hear, Sire.  The men I sent to carry out your request are all dead.  They snatched the child but were followed immediately by Lord Tomas.  All were taken, tortured and then executed.’

             
Henry frowned.  ‘Would they have talked?’

             
‘I think they feared me more than death.  They would not have betrayed my name and they knew nothing more. No one knows anything for I have kept it secret, as you bid me.’

             
Henry nodded and stood up, frowning.  ‘And the child?  Did they carry out your orders regarding the girl?’

             
‘I believe it is done, Sire.  Lord Tomas has sent out messengers to offer a reward for her return but I believe he wastes his money.  No one will find her if my orders were followed.’

             
‘Good.  Well done, Sir John.  You have served me truly. I shall not forget your service.’  Henry picked up a purse of gold and handed it to the knight.  ‘Serve me as well in Wales and you shall have honours that will please you.’

             
‘Yes, Sire.’  Sir John bowed, took three steps backwards and then turned and left his King’s presence.

             
A few seconds after the door closed behind him another man entered.

             
‘You know what to do?’

             
‘Yes, Sire.’

             
‘See that it is done.’

             
When the second man had gone, Henry rose and went to look out of the window of his solar.  The sky was dark, a layer of thin grey cloud obscuring the sun, as if a storm brewed.  He shivered feeling suddenly cold.  Richard’s death lay heavy on his conscience, but it had been necessary.  Richard was a tyrant and England needed a strong King – but to snatch a child from its mother was a terrible sin.  Yet the mother was a proud and dangerous woman.  Her wild ambition had left him little choice.  The child must never be told who she truly was, nor did Henry wish to know where she was being held.  Only Sir John knew the secret of her abduction.

             
Frowning, he shook his head.  A king must do many things to maintain his crown. If others must die so that he could rule England as he believed was right and just then so be it.  He might suffer the torment of the damned in his dreams but he held the throne and would do so until he drew his last breath.  He had been told it  thus, by the seer he had consulted, and his belief was strong.  All that he had done and would do in the future was ordained, and therefore the will of God.

Sir John glanced back, peering into the shadows.  The night was very dark for there were no stars and the moon had sailed behind a heavy bank of clouds.  In the distance he could hear the rumble of thunder and it had begun to spot with rain.  He walked faster, eager to reach the inn where he would stay that night.  For some time now he had felt that he was being followed.  He was neither a coward nor a man to start at shadows.  It was time to face whoever stalked him. Turning, he stood with his sword drawn, waiting for them to come upon him.

             
‘Who are you?’ he demanded as the shadowy figures rushed at him.  ‘Who has sent you to kill me?’

             
There was no answer.  In deadly silence four of them fell upon him, stabbing and cutting at him with swords and daggers.  He fought bravely, wounding two and killing another before a fourth darted in and stabbed him through the back.  Sinking to his knees, the blood spurting from his wound, he fell face down in the filthy gutter.

             
The assassins melted into the shadows from whence they came.  Sir John lay where he was, bleeding, not quite dead but knowing that he would not recover from the fatal wounds.  Yet when the man came and turned him onto his back, bending over him in concern, he was still able to speak.

             
Seeing that the man was a priest, he knew that he must confess his sins.

             
‘Father,’ he whispered.  ‘Will you listen?  I am guilty of a terrible sin but there is another as guilty as I for ‘twas he that ordered me to do it…’

             
‘Confess your sin, my son,’ the priest said.  ‘God will hear you and forgive you in His mercy.’

             
‘What does it say?’  She took it from his hand and read the brief lines of condolence.  ‘He says that he has heard of our loss and wishes us to know that he is saddened by it.’

             
‘Why should Henry write such a letter after all this time?’ Tomas asked, his gaze narrowed and angry.  ‘Elspeth was dear to us but she was a girl and few would greatly mourn the loss of a female child unless they loved her.  Why should the King send us his condolences when she has been gone  for months - unless he knew that she was Richard’s child?’

             
‘Perhaps he has just learned of her loss.’

             
‘Perhaps – or perhaps his conscience pricks him and he needs to know if we have found her body.’

             
‘Tomas…’  Beatrice stared at him aghast.  ‘Do you think…surely he would not?’

             
‘Those men might have been raiders out for what they could get,’ Tomas said.  ‘But someone could have sent them to snatch our daughter – and who else would want her dead?’

             
Beatrice’s face drained of colour.  Her hand trembled as she touched his sleeve.  ‘You believe that she is dead, don’t you?’

             
Tomas hesitated, then inclined his head.  ‘I fear it must be so, Beatrice.  I have searched for her for months and there is no sign of her.  No one has brought her body or her clothes to us.  Either someone has her hidden or she is dead and buried where we shall never find her.’

             
Tears trickled down her cheeks.  She swayed, choked with grief.  ‘I knew it must be so.  She is dead and it is my fault.  If I had not been so proud and wilful she would still have been here with us.’

             
‘Someone betrayed your secret, Beatrice.  If I knew who it was I should kill him.’

             
‘I think it must have been Father Arnaud.  I have puzzled over it, Tomas.  I know he thought me a sinful wanton and he left us just before Elspeth was snatched.  He must have told what he knew.’

             
‘You told him that she was Richard’s child?’

             
‘In the confessional, yes – but he may have heard us quarrelling.’  Beatrice wiped her cheeks, looking up at him.  ‘I am to blame.  Had I put away my pride and accepted what I had, as you bid me, I should still have had my daughter.’

             
‘Perhaps…’ Tomas hesitated.  ‘You must hate me?’  He held up his hand as she would have answered.  ‘I have decided that I shall join Glyn Dwr.  If Henry can write such a letter to us after…’  He choked on the words.  ‘I am going to my lands in Wales, Beatrice.  I shall do what I can to help the prince take back his country from English domination.  You will still have the castle and lands that Richard gave you.  I know you do not need me…’

             
‘No!’ Beatrice moved towards him as he would have left her.  ‘Please forgive me, Tomas.  Give me another chance.  I would be your wife in truth if you would have me.  I shall not forget my sweet Elspeth, but if God is kind we may have children of our own.’

             
Tomas stood as if turned to stone, hardly daring to believe.  ‘Do you mean that, Beatrice?’

             
‘Yes, if you will have me?’

             
He hesitated for one second then moved towards her in a rush, taking her into his arms to gaze down at her lovely face.  ‘If I will have you?  Surely you know the answer?  When Richard asked me to wed you I did not do it to please him.  I loved you then as I love you now.  Nothing could ever change my love for you, Beatrice.  If you will come with me I promise that I will try to make you happy.’

             
‘I shall not forget her,’ Beatrice said.  ‘But I know that she has gone, Tomas.  We shall never know why she was taken, though we may suspect – but we must learn to put our grief aside and live again.’

Part Two

Eleven

Castle D’Avignon, South East England 1411

The stench of war was still on the man as he dismounted and strode into the castle.  He’d ridden hard the moment the news had reached him and had not stayed to put off his armour or wash the blood from his hands.  As soon as he entered the  hall, his boots clattering on the marble floor, a servant came running, dropping to one knee before him.

             
‘My lord, grave news.  It is too late.  Your father died at cockcrow, in pain and with your name on his lips.  He called for vengeance and cried bloody murder.’

             
A strong brown hand shot out and gripped the steward’s wrist; eyes the colour of forged steel narrowed in grief and anger.  ‘Did my father speak a name?  Did he say who did this foul deed?’

             
‘My lord, forgive me.  I was sent from the room.  I lingered outside and heard him cry out that he was poisoned.  I heard no more for I was ordered to my work.’  The servant’s eyes moved nervously to a point behind him and Raoul turned to look, feeling a sharp stab of desire as he saw her.  She was as beautiful as the day he had first seen her; the day his father took her as a bride. He’d felt a sweeping sense of loss that day and she’d made his guts wrench with need then as now.  His father’s bride and now after a bare fourteen months, his widow.  ‘I know nothing, my lord, nothing.’

             
Raoul hardly heard him.  His eyes moved greedily over her, seeing her beauty and her pride, the challenge in those dark eyes – eyes like midnight and as mysterious as night.  A smile curved her red lips as she moved toward him, her perfume heavy and exotic, as was her beauty.

             
‘Angeline,’ he said.  ‘I came as soon as I heard.  Was he ill long?  I was told he thought he had been poisoned, but who would do such a thing?’

             
She held the silken veil that fell from her elaborate headdress of black and silver to the corner of her eye and a single tear trickled down the curve of her soft cheek.  ‘Your father’s mind turned with his illness.  He was sick for some weeks, a slow terrible illness that caused him pain.  At the last he cried out that he was poisoned but the physicians could not tell what ailed him.  Their purges did little good but they swore to me that there was no sign of ill wishing or poison.  I swear to you on my honour that I tried to save him, but it was in vain.’

             
‘Most poisons kill quickly,’ Raoul said and frowned.  ‘I am sorry for your loss and mine.’  He took a step towards her.  ‘I am heir to my father’s house and lands, though I have enough of my own through my mother’s line.  You must not fear that I shall send you away.  All that was yours as my father’s wife is still yours, Angeline.’

             
‘I knew that it would be so,’ she said and her voice was soft and low, like the purring of an Egyptian cat: a pampered beauty with slanted eyes.  Her fingers were long and slender, the nails dyed with one of the substances she used.  She used paints on her face and oils on her body and hair, her arts making her so beautiful that she turned a man’s guts to water and sapped his will to resist.  It was the burning lust he could hardly hide that had driven him from his home to battle, joining King Henry in his struggle against the rebellious Welsh, which had dragged on for the past eleven years.  ‘I could not wait for your return.  I have missed you, Raoul.  I have longed for your homecoming.’

             
For a moment her words set a torrent of joy coursing through him.  She was no longer his father’s wife.  In time perhaps…was it a sin to marry the woman who had lain in his father’s bed as his wife?  She was not his mother and his father had been old, barely able to do more than kiss and fondle her.  She had given him no children and her slim waist was evidence that there would be no brothers or sisters to contest Raoul’s inheritance, but at this moment material goods were far from his mind.  He wanted her so strongly that it was like a fever in his blood and yet – and yet, something held him.  Rather than betray the father he honoured and loved, Raoul had thrown himself into the wars between England and Wales, wars that Henry 1V was winning, though slowly and with many setbacks .  Her lips were smiling at him, red and ripe and luscious, inviting his kiss, and her eyes promised glorious pleasure.  Her hair was long, blue-black in shade and silky with scented oils.  She was a temptress, an enchantress, and she haunted his dreams and every waking thought.

             
His father was not yet cold!  A surge of disgust went through him.  Was he so lost to respect and honour that he would take his father’s wife whilst his father’s body lay unburied?  Remembering the look in the steward’s eyes as he’d seen her, the first tiny maggots of suspicion started to wriggle in his brain.

             
Angeline had shed few tears for her husband.  Already, she was inviting Raoul’s kiss.  How many men had she lain with since his father wed her?  How could he be sure that she had not murdered her ailing husband as he lay calling for his son?

             
‘Excuse me, lady,’ he said and now his voice was cold.  ‘I must pay my respects to my father and bury him with honour – and then I intend to discover the truth of his death.  If his soul cries out for justice he shall be avenged.’

             
Was there for one fleeting moment a look of fear in her eyes?  If so it was gone in an instant.  She was smiling again, a smile of mockery.  He felt she was taunting him, daring him to challenge her – daring him to search for the truth, as if she was secure in the knowledge that he could find nothing to incriminate her.

             
As he strode up the stone steps that led to his father’s chamber, Raoul made a vow to himself.  He would discover whether his father had been murdered and he would identify his murderer – or murderers – and then he would kill them, whoever they might be.

Raoul stared at her in horror, the disgust and anger surging through him as she lay on her couch gazing up at him.  She was wearing only a flimsy shift of some fine material that allowed the sheen of her skin to show through and her perfume was in his nostrils, making him mad with lust for her.  Her black hair spread on the pillow, as fine and silky as a black spider’s web, her lips as red as fresh blood.

             
‘Tell me this letter is a lie,’ he said and thrust the parchment at her.  ‘Tell me you did not conspire with the priest to murder my father.’

             
Angeline hesitated, then turned to the side of the bed.  She stood up and smiled at him.  ‘Kiss me,’ she whispered, her voice soft and seductive, tempting him beyond bearing so that he grabbed her, holding her close.  His mouth ground on hers as the force of his desire shook him and it took all his willpower not to throw her down and take what she offered.

             
‘You want me,’ she said, her laughter mocking and spiteful.  ‘Your need drove you away, did it not, my lord?  You have lusted after me since I was your father’s bride but your honour forbade you from taking what you wanted.  Your father is dead now.  There is nothing to stop you, Raoul.  Let me show you pleasure such as you have never known before.’

             
‘Have you no pity for the man who was your husband?  Would you sully his memory by such an act when he is hardly buried?’

             
‘I care nothing for that useless old fool,’ Angeline said and laughed, her eyes bright with challenge.  Why should I care that he is dead?  He smelled old and he was old; it was time he died and if he was helped a little to his…’ Her laughter stilled as Raoul moved towards her menacingly.  ‘Forget him and lie with me.  It is you I want in my bed not that useless…’

             
‘Satan’s spawn!’ Raoul muttered, his face dark with anger.  ‘The letter is no lie.  It is proof of your guilt.  The priest was heard to confess his sin in a drunken fit of remorse.  You conspired with him to poison my father…’

             
Her laughter mocked him.  ‘Prove it,’ she challenged, her red lips slightly open, moist and seductive.  ‘Yes, I persuaded the priest to do it in a way that was so gradual no one could know for certain that he was poisoned.  I played the devoted wife until the end, though your father suspected me at the last.’

             
‘Damn you!  I will make the priest confess his sin and yours.  You shall hang for the evil you have done, madam.’

             
She ran her tongue over soft lips, her eyes bright with defiance.  ‘Who will believe you when I weep and claim my innocence?  The priest was paid for his work with what he most desired and dare not tell.  You might have had all you desire too, Raoul – but now you can go to the devil for all I care…’

             
‘I may go to the devil but you shall come with me.’  Raoul muttered.  ‘Before I leave you this night you will take your place in hell but first I shall take what you offer…You are an evil witch, the spawn of the devil, but so beautiful that you drive me mad with lust.’

             
Angeline gasped, fear dawning in her eyes as she saw his purpose.

             
‘Touch me and I shall curse you,’ she cried.  ‘Touch me now and you shall never know peace again.’