Sin and Surrender (23 page)

Gradually, the air grew colder, its scent dank and stale. He thought they were in the undercroft, but perhaps there were deeper places cut into the rock below, as some dungeons he’d seen. His ears strained for unusual sounds; he was constantly alert for tension in the man who held him by the arm. Paul deliberately stumbled now and again.

At last he could feel a change, as if the space around him was now expansive. The man pulled him to a stop, and Paul could hear the murmuring voices of other men, and then the silence as he was noticed. A door shut behind him.

To his surprise, they pulled off the blindfold. He was in a small chamber hewn in rock walls, with no win
dows, only torches in brackets on the walls. Four men sat behind a table looking at him.

And these men he recognized. They didn’t bother to hide their faces, as proof they didn’t need to fear him. The noblest was the earl of Redesdale, from Northumberland, on the Scottish border. The men of this county were hardy cattle stealers, used to constant warfare with their northern neighbors, and the earl looked a descen-dent of such stock, broad and barrel-chested, with an unshaven face of gray stubble and matching cold, gray eyes.

Viscount Gerard of County Durham regarded Paul steadily, but his hands moved with restlessness, linking and unlinking. He was thin to the point of emaciation, as if he were either ill or the deeds they were about to do tormented him.

The third man, Lord Byrd, reminded Paul of a fat pigeon waiting for an easy meal. Dark eyes beady in his fleshy face, he constantly turned his gaze from Paul to Redesdale and back, leaving Paul no doubt that Redesdale was in command. The last man seated, Sir Hugh Burton, was Redesdale’s captain of the guard. He was the youngest, in his thirties perhaps, strong and tall and well trained, as Paul had seen on the tiltyard just that morn. The first man who’d approached Paul outside Yorkshire wasn’t in attendance, suggesting that
the conspiracy was even wider than this, or that he’d been well paid to risk himself.

The man who’d alerted Paul the previous evening was probably one of the two men behind him, if height and build were the only judge. They retreated, and he glanced behind himself, feigning nervousness as they took up positions on either side of the door.

The lord of the house, the earl of Kilborn, was not in attendance—did that mean he was innocent of the traitors’ plot? Could Staincliff, Lady Margaret’s father, be innocent, too?

Paul faced the men arrayed against him like accusers. “You have me here. What do you want of me?”

“Exactly what you hoped for when you traveled so conspicuously up from London,” Redesdale said, his expression serious but with a hint of a smirk. “You want to be used. We want to use you.”

“And in exchange, your debt will be canceled,” Gerard said, “and you’ll be well compensated—and you’ll live.”

Paul shuffled from foot to foot, but he kept his chin lifted belligerently. “Aye, so your man already said.” He glanced behind him, but neither guard betrayed even the slightest interest. “But much depends on what you require of me.”

Byrd chuckled, his jowls quivering. “Lucky for you,
we require little. Already we have word that King Henry is looking into your background. He perceives a threat. That was well done on your part.”

Paul nodded stiffly, knowing the League had manufactured the rumor.

“With your coloring and demeanor, many will wonder at your identity,” Redesdale continued. “Although there are several young men with more claim to the throne, like the missing Warwick, the son of the duke of Clarence, we have agreed that you will impersonate Prince Richard himself, younger brother of our boy king who so briefly reigned.”

“Your Grace.” Byrd laughingly bowed his head. “You will someday be King Richard IV, with our backing. The riches of the monarchy will be yours to share—as long as you do what we say.”

Paul licked his lips. “What am I supposed to do? Do I openly claim such a thing?”

“Not yet,” Gerard said, glancing nervously at his compatriots as his restless fingers picked up their pace. “First you will copy in your hand a letter to our fellow Yorkists staking your claim to the throne. We will use that to prove to our foreign allies that our plan will work.”

“We have brave men in Ireland,” Redesdale said, “the earl of Kildare and Lord Desmond, who will gladly supply Irish support in arms and armies. My connec
tions in Scotland guarantee that they will march at our sides when we go to meet Henry’s army.”

“War?” Paul said faintly.

Byrd’s round face stilled. “We take back what is not Henry’s to have. ‘Tis the birthright of the Yorkists, and Henry stole it from King Richard.”

Paul said nothing, for Sir Paul the Dissolute would not care about the politics of the situation.

“Fear not that we will allow you to lead our army,” Redesdale said with open sarcasm. “We would not want to risk our noble prince.”

Byrd laughed with Redesdale, Hugh Burton smirked, but nervous Gerard only looked down at his twisting fingers.

Paul rubbed his hands down his face in his own nervous gesture. “What if I copy this letter for you, and you use it against me?”

“Why would we risk our exposure in such a way?” Redesdale asked calmly. “We’d lose our heads at your side.”

But Paul well knew there was no proof that put these men as his backers—if revealed, the letter would look like it had been from him only, and his word would mean little against Henry’s noblemen. It would insure his complicity with their plan.

“You brought your own guards,” said Burton, the captain of his master’s guard, “but they will not be
enough. I will make certain others are at your back.”

Paul nodded, swallowed, then tried to sound faltering and bold at the same time. “My man Roger, the elderly guard. He once worked in the Tower of London itself. I thought …”

He trailed off as the four men glanced at one another with amusement.

“You thought what, Sir Paul?” Byrd coaxed, leaning back to cross his hands over his large belly.

Paul lifted his chin. “He could be the man who spirited me—Prince Richard—away from the Tower in his youth.”

“Always thinking, are you not?” Byrd said brightly. “We shall remember your idea if it is needed.”

“What do I do now?” Paul asked, spreading his hands wide.

“Nothing,” Redesdale said, his expression sobering. “Now that we have you to inspire our armies, we will begin to spread word among our northern colleagues and our foreign allies. You may behave as you’ve done before, making yourself seen and speculated about. If all goes well, besides riches, we offer you a girl of quite noble background as wife. I saw you with Lady Margaret; she would do well at your side as a future queen. Her father would not need much persuasion, once he sees how things are changing for the better.”

So Margaret’s father was not involved? Paul won
dered. But he could not be certain if Redesdale’s comments were cryptic or truthful.

Byrd pushed two pieces of parchment toward an empty chair, offering quill and ink. Paul sat down and began to copy the words about his flight from London under his uncle, King Richard’s, protection after an unknown enemy had killed his brother, Edward. He remained in hiding much of his life, both in England and in Flanders, with his aunt, the dowager duchess of Burgundy. Now he returned to lead his people to retake the throne, which was legally and morally his.

Along with all the riches and power that went with it, Paul thought sarcastically.

When he was finished, he stood up. “I will await your next missive.”

“And you will not speak of this outside this chamber,” the earl of Redesdale said. “If we cannot trust your discretion, the consequences to you will be grave.” He pulled the newly penned parchment toward him, sealing Paul’s complicity. He lifted another sheaf of papers toward Paul, who took them. “These are details of your childhood, Your Grace. Memorize them and destroy them. If you are found with them, the proof will only lead toward yourself. And this letter will be mysteriously recovered as well.”

Paul nodded, licking his lips as if they were dry. Again, they blindfolded him, removing it at the head
of the corridor leading to his lodgings. Saying nothing, the two guards departed, leaving Paul to rejoin Juliana. He gave a subtle signal of his return at Timothy’s door, but knew the Bladesmen would not risk coming to him too soon.

Juliana was pacing when he arrived. If she felt any relief at his safe reappearance, she didn’t show it, only remained impassive.

“Was it as we expected?” she asked in a low voice.

He nodded. “They had me copy a letter staking my claim to the throne to convince reluctant Yorkists.”

“And the Scots and Irish,” she added.

He smiled. “Aye, and them, too. They even offered me a noble bride at the end of it all.”

Arching a brow she asked, “Should I be jealous?”

“Only if you consider Lady Margaret your competition.”

Her lips thinned. “Her father is part of it?”

“I know not. They implied that I’d shown interest, and that they can make certain I receive her.”

“You’ve shown interest in Lady Margaret?” she asked, faintly smiling.

“I must not be receiving enough feminine attention,” he said sadly.

“You’ve had enough feminine attention for one night.” Her voice was dry, her tone light. “Now, who else was present?”

They discussed each man in detail, knowing that sometime before morning, he would repeat the same thing to their fellow Bladesmen. Then they went over the written history of Richard, and he memorized the few details he didn’t already know before burning the papers.

Throughout their conversation, Paul felt a low hum of attraction, of desire, and if he let his mind dwell on it, he would again remember her look of ecstasy. When Juliana went to bed, he watched her for a long time, still feeling stunned by her earlier amorous behavior.

But he put it aside for later, dwelling on the secrets he knew about her past instead. In the meeting he’d overheard years before, the League had maintained that they had good reason to put an innocent man in jail for treason—surely they knew who the real traitor was, whose place Gresham had taken. If Paul could discover that, he could clear Gresham’s name and restore Juliana’s birthright, giving her some kind of peace.

And the best way to begin was with information that the League itself had. As far as they would know, it would help
this
mission. Perhaps the crimes were even connected. He would ask for an accounting of suspected and proven traitors, year by year over the last ten years, which included the year of Gresham’s death.

At least he would be accomplishing something while he strolled around the tournament on display.

So by the faint light of a dying fire, he composed a missive to the secretary of the Council of Elders, the keeper of all archives. At first, he was rusty with the League codes, and it took him a bit of practice—and mistakes carefully burnt—before he succeeded in writing a letter that seemed only about an inquiry into family in the area—with the real message hidden deep within.

When he was finished, he hid the missive, knowing he would see it on its way in the morn.

T
o Juliana’s surprise and worry, she was alone when she awoke before dawn. She moved swiftly to the door and heard voices in the corridor. Not able to open it—she was barely decent—she went to fetch her dressing gown, only to hear the door open. She turned, reaching beneath her pillow for her dagger, but it was Paul.

He was fully dressed for mass, and she was in her night rail. They froze and stared at each other. His gaze down her body was almost as potent as a physical caress.

She swallowed. “Where did you go?”

“To give a missive to Joseph for delivery to the League.”

Frowning, she said, “We did not discuss this.”

“‘Twas the report of my meeting. I couldn’t fall asleep, so I wrote everything down.” He smiled and spoke softly. “I almost didn’t remember one of the codes.”

“I do not believe that,” she said, walking slowly toward him.

He looked down her body with appreciation. “Even the gray light of dawn makes you look wondrous in that night rail.”

“And now you’ve seen me without some of it.”

“Not enough.”

When he came toward her, she held up a hand. “We have mass, and then you joust this day. Are you prepared? You insisted on not practicing, to leave them all wondering about your skill.”

“But I’ve watched them. If I wanted to, I could defeat them all to win your favor.”

“You do not have to defeat anyone for that,” she murmured. She stood on tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Mass,” she whispered, then, laughing, disappeared behind the screen.

But during mass, when Juliana needed to be praying to God for aid in this mission, she kept thinking about Paul. It bothered her that he hadn’t consulted her about his missive to the League. They’d been together every single moment for over a fortnight; he’d probably never spent so much time in one person’s company in years. Perhaps he was getting anxious to finish this mission, to have his promised freedom.

But as they walked toward the great hall, and he put an arm around her to whisper something meaningless in
her ear, she knew he wanted
her
more than his freedom, she thought, feeling a delicious shudder curl her toes.

“Did he use the method of delivery in the stables?” she asked softly as they took their seats at the trestle table.

Paul frowned. “Your pardon?”

“Joseph’s delivery of the missive.”

“Oh.” His expression lightened even as he looked away to hand her a napkin. “Probably, if he did not want to leave the castle. There are Bladesmen here we know not of.”

“Aye, you have the right of it.”

Any number of men could be watching—and she should be used to it by now. Since Paul had informed her of the names of the traitors, she had surreptitiously been watching their piously bent heads during mass, and their cheerfulness on this morn of the jousting competition. But she also noticed the earl of Redesdale and Lord Byrd watching Paul and her more than once. That made sense, for the traitors were trusting in his secrecy; they thought he was wrapped up in their spider web, unable to escape without implicating himself. Men with too much confidence made mistakes.