Infamous (28 page)

The young king issued immediate orders that everyone was to return to Carlisle. There, the old king's body was prepared for a journey and it was decided among the clergy that he should lie in state at the magnificent Minster in the great City of York, which was the largest cathedral in England. Young King Edward, with all pageantry, would accompany his father's bier south.

The night before they were to leave, Rickard de Beauchamp sought out his father. “Edward has no intention of fulfilling his father's last wishes. Once we arrive at York, he intends to ride to London with all speed to bask in the adulation of the people he now rules. He has no intention of leading the invading army to victory. He harbors the old belief that a king can do no wrong!”

“The foolish lad has no concept that a king is no more than the representative of the ruling class. The baronage will remain the dominant force in Parliament whether he likes it or not.” Warwick immediately pictured Jory and knew the news of Edward Plantagenet's death would sadden her. “When you reach Warwickshire, send word to Lady Marjory.”

“Can I tell her when to expect you, Father?”

Warwick shook his head. “I have a mission.” He embraced his son. “Go with God, Rickard.”

 

As darkness descended, Guy de Beauchamp rode into a stand of firs and dismounted in a small clearing. He secured Caesar's reins, fed him oats, then lay on the ground to sleep. In place of his usual breastplate he wore the chain mail shirt that Lynx de Warenne had given him, and he carried neither sword nor battleaxe. He wore only his hunting knife tucked into his belt. It was the only weapon he needed to rip out the heart of Robert Bruce.

Bruce had been crowned king, but the English held every Scottish Border castle and he stood no chance of regaining the strongholds and actually ruling.
Until now.
Edward Plantagenet's death changed everything. The effeminate youth who now occupied England's throne would be no threat to the hardened and determined Scots. A steel bonnet would emerge from every thicket and clump of gorse. Eventually, Robert Bruce would emerge victorious and gain Scotland's independence from England. Warwick knew there was only one sure way to stop this from happening.

Guy de Beauchamp knew his horse would soon alert him if danger threatened and he fell asleep in an amazingly short time. It wasn't long before he began to dream and, as always, it was about Jory. Her exquisite beauty held him spellbound; her pale green eyes and silvery gilt hair took his breath away. But it wasn't just her looks that held him in thrall. He treasured her because she made him feel alive. If he could make her love him and no other, he knew his happiness would be complete, his life perfect.

Guy, please, don't go…Don't do this thing.
Her voice was sweet, softly persuading. In supplication she moved toward him and captured his arm.
Guy, please, I beseech you. I beg you not to make war on Scotland.
Jory fell to her knees imploring him, pleading with him to listen, as she clung desperately to his arm.

Get up off your knees! It sickens me that you would beg for your lover!

Warwick woke with a start. Though the night was cold he was covered with sweat. Immune to physical discomfort, he lay still, listening for some sound that may have awakened him. He heard only a night owl and knew in his soul what had awakened him. He could not bear to hear Jory beg for her lover, even in a dream.

At first light he watered Caesar in a nearby stream and dipped his own head beneath the water to clear his brain and make him alert. He smoothed his wet hair back and secured it with a thong. Warwick had covered over sixty miles in the last two days. He mounted and rode the last few miles that led to Douglas. Mist still hung over Douglas Water, giving the place a sinister look, adding credence to the fortress's byname of Castle Dangerous. His plan was simple. The ruse had worked at Dumfries. If Bruce was at Douglas, and he wagered that he was, it should work again.

Warwick stopped at the gateway and told the guard he had a message for Sir James Douglas. The lone rider, assumed to be a Celt, was allowed inside the bailey. He dismounted and strode with confidence into the grey-towered castle. When a steward asked his business, he repeated that he had a message for Sir James Douglas. Presently, the Black Douglas descended the stone steps that led down from the living quarters.

“Sir James, I have a message for Robert Bruce,” Warwick said.

“What makes ye think I can get a message tae the Bruce?”

Warwick lifted a dismissive hand. “Let's cut to the heart of the matter. I'll deliver the message myself.”

“Who are ye and who is this
important
message from?”

“I am Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and the message is from Lynx de Warenne.”

“A firkin' Englishmon!” Douglas shouted, reaching for his dirk.

“A firkin' Frenchman,” Warwick corrected.

“It's all right, James.” The voice of authority came from the gallery above. “The infamous earl risks much to seek me out.”

Life had taught Warwick that a simple, direct plan worked best. He would stab Bruce to the heart and, when Douglas came to his aid, he would overpower him and use him as a shield and hostage until he was well away from Castle Dangerous.

As Robert Bruce descended the stone steps, Warwick schooled himself to patience till his quarry came within striking distance.

J
ory looked down from her tower window and saw a dark rider enter Warwick's bailey. She drew in a quick breath and proceeded downstairs with a racing heart. Her steps were measured because of her baby; she now took great care with any task she undertook.

When she reached the tower entrance and saw that it was Rickard de Beauchamp who had arrived, she was fraught with anxiety. “Your father?” was all she could manage to utter.

“Father is well,” he reassured her immediately.

Jory let out a long, relieved breath and saw Rickard's eyes widen as he took in her condition.

“You are having a child.” Rickard sounded bemused.

“Yes…your father didn't tell you?” she asked nervously. “You will always be first in his heart, Rickard.”

“Lady Marjory, Father's love is all-encompassing. I harbor no fears that I will be replaced,” he said, smiling to reassure her. “Let's go upstairs—I have news to impart.” He followed her, ready to aid her if she misstepped.

When she was comfortably seated, Rickard said, “I know it will sadden you to learn that King Edward is dead.”

She immediately thought of Robert Bruce and the war that Edward Plantagenet was waging. “Was he killed in battle?”

“No. The king was ill—he died before he reached Scotland.”

Could it be divine intervention? Jane always said that it was written in the stars that Robert was destined to rule Scotland.
“So Prince Edward is now King of England?” It was difficult for Jory to imagine such a thing.

“Yes. We escorted his father's bier to York, where his body is now lying in state at the cathedral. Soon he will be sent to Westminster Abbey for burial. Prince Edward—I mean, King Edward—is on his way to London. Father asked that I bring you the news.”

“Thank you, Rickard. My friend Princess Joanna always insisted that her brother would never fight a war. Does this mean that there will be no campaign to reconquer Scotland?” Jory could not disguise the hope that had begun to blossom in her heart.

“The Earl of Pembroke and the army are still in the field, Lady Marjory, but the new king prefers to direct matters from the rear,” Rickard said with contempt.

“Is Guy in York with the old king?”

“Nay—I left him at Carlisle. Father said he had a mission.”

Jory went pale. She heard a low knock on the door and asked Rickard to answer it.

Young Catherine Mortimer blushed profusely when Rickard de Beauchamp unexpectedly opened Lady Marjory's chamber door. She stammered, “Sir Rickard…what…when…that is, how—?”

“Catherine!” Rickard was as surprised as the young lady. “I had no idea you were visiting Warwick.”

“Catherine has graciously consented to be my lady-in-waiting.”

“This is marvelous news. Her brother Roger is my good friend,” he told Jory. “We are at Kenilworth. I'm sure he would have accompanied me if he'd known you were at Warwick.”

Jory looked from the handsome young man to the blushing maiden. “If you can stay, Rickard, I'll have your old chambers plenished.”

He took Catherine's hand and drew her into the room. “I would love it above all things if I could stay, ladies. But I am at the beck and call of a king who is riding to London with all speed.” Rickard kissed Catherine's hand, then walked across the chamber and took Jory's fingers to his lips. “
Au revoir
. I deeply regret that I must take my leave. Catherine, I charge you to take good care of my father's beloved wife.”

Jory guessed the couple would like a few minutes alone together. “Catherine, go with Rickard to the hall and ask Mr. Burke to fill a tankard of good Warwick ale to quench his thirst.”

When she was alone, Jory whispered, “Guy, please don't slay Robert Bruce. There is no need. My heart belongs to you alone.”

 

“You have news for me?” Robert Bruce descended the stone steps of Douglas Castle.

Warwick stared at the man who approached him. He was staggered at the contrast between this twenty-three-year-old Celtic warrior and the pitiful excuse of a king who was the same age and who now ruled England. What Bruce lacked in height, he made up for in the breadth of his shoulders. He was all sinew and rippling muscle.
Christ, Jory, you have superb taste in men!

Guy de Beauchamp heard the echo of Lynx de Warenne's voice: “Bruce, Earl of Carrick, is the rightful King of Scotland.” As the dark Celt drew close, Warwick knew in his bones that it was the absolute truth.
All that stands between this man and his rightful destiny is a knife thrust!

“Edward Plantagenet is dead,” Warwick declared. He saw the flare of ambition in the Bruce's eyes, but he also sensed his genuine regret.

“We will never see the like of him again, Warwick.”

“Sadly, that is true.”

“You are a close friend of Lynx de Warenne?”

“We are more than friends; we are related by marriage. Lady Marjory is now the Countess of Warwick.”

Robert Bruce showed surprise. “You are a lucky man—I envy you, Warwick.” His mouth curved. “I adored Jory. She was the most generous woman I have ever known. At her suggestion I wed the Earl of Ulster's daughter, Elizabeth de Burgh, a sure way to get him to support my bid for the throne.”

As Warwick listened to the revelation he realized that Jory had never truly been Robert Bruce's mistress. Ambition had been bred into his bones. The Bruce had only one mistress and that was Scotland.
The man has no notion that he got Marjory with child. She never told him. She wanted him to fulfill his destiny—that's how selfless Jory is!

Warwick was at war with himself. He had come to kill Robert Bruce, but his instincts told him that Jory would never forgive what she would consider an act of treacherous betrayal.

You were given a rare second chance at happiness. Don't squander it, Warwick!

“I answered Edward Plantagenet's call to arms to reconquer Scotland,” he said bluntly. “If we can reach an understanding, I pledge to take my men-at-arms home to England and never return.” Guy de Beauchamp wagered that Robert Bruce would do the expedient thing, as always.

“An understanding?”

“Marjory is
mine
. Scotland is
yours
.”

“Done!” A grin spread over the Bruce's handsome features as the two men clasped arms. “I am more afraid of the
bones
of the dead father, than of the living son!”

 

“Lord Warwick has just returned, my lady.”

Jory let out a long, slow breath. “Thank you, Mr. Burke. Are the men-at-arms with him?” she asked anxiously.

It had been a month since Rickard de Beauchamp had brought her news of the king's death, and Jory felt as if she had been holding her breath ever since, waiting for her husband to return.

“They are, my lady, and they'll be thirsty. If I don't hurry to the hall, Meg will be there before me.”

She watched the steward hurry off and wanted to follow, but she suddenly felt shy and self-conscious about her appearance. She had carried her baby for eight months and only in the last two had she been unable to conceal her pregnancy by wearing a loose, flowing gown. She carried the child high, her hands often resting on the small mound in a protective, loving gesture.

Jory closed her eyes and offered up a prayer of thanks that Guy de Beauchamp had not been killed in battle. Did she dare to pray that he had not killed Robert Bruce or would God think her greedy?

She left her own private tower room and went down one flight of steps to what she thought of as Guy's chamber. She went to the window and looked down into the bailey, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dark, infamous earl who held her heart captive. She didn't see him, but she caught glimpses of Brutus dashing about, wild with joy at his master's return. Just knowing Guy was there, issuing orders, stabling Caesar, and setting all to rights, comforted her and bolstered her sense of security.

Jory opened his wardrobe to make sure he had freshly laundered shirts and her hand fell on his black velvet bed robe. Her fingers traced the embroidered golden bear and the Warwick motto,
Non Sans Droit.
“Not without right.” Jory shivered. In spite of the noble-sounding motto, she knew that Warwick and every other earl, including the Earl of Carrick, believed that
might was right.

Jory heard servants moving about in the dining room that was below Warwick's chamber and she realized it was approaching the dinner hour.
Will he forego eating in the Great Hall tonight so the two of us can dine together
? The thought did little to quell her anxiety. Perhaps he wanted to be alone because he had distressing news to impart. Her baby kicked and she caressed her belly with gentle, soothing hands. She called down the stairs for a servant and asked that water be brought up so Guy could wash. It was Catherine who brought it upstairs.

“This is all so exciting, my lady. I think it marvelously romantic that you have a private dining room.”

Tonight it doesn't feel romantic. It feels intimidating!
“I think I had better change my dress. Will you help me, Catherine?”

Back in her own chamber, Jory chose a velvet gown in a shade of deep amber. It was low cut to show off her breasts that were now full and lush. She pinned on the black onyx brooch carved in the likeness of Guy's wolfhound, Brutus. Catherine brushed her hair and fastened an ornament of sparkling jet at Jory's temple.

They heard footsteps on the stairs. Jory licked lips that had gone suddenly dry, while Catherine retreated to a shadowed corner. The door swung open and Warwick filled the doorway. He was taller, darker, and far more powerful looking than she remembered. Jory tried to swallow and couldn't.
He sees only my belly!

“Will you do me the honor of taking supper with me, my lady?”

Those are the very words he said to me when he abducted me.
Jory remembered the reply she had given him:
You smooth-tongued French devil, how can I resist such a gallant invitation?
But tonight words failed her and all she could manage was a nod.

Warwick's hand rubbed his unshaven jaw. “I shall come for you in a half hour,
chéri
.”

When he turned and left, Jory remembered to breathe. She paced to the window and wondered when darkness had fallen. Below in the bailey, torches blazed as campaign tents and weapons were unloaded. She took it as a positive sign that they would not soon be returning to fight in Scotland.

She was still racked with worry, however. Warwick had been on a personal mission—to kill Robert Bruce. She understood that he wanted to obliterate Robert from her thoughts, and the only way he knew how to achieve such a thing was to obliterate him completely.
Did my husband accomplish what he set out to do?
Jory shuddered.

As Catherine chattered and hung up the dress the countess had changed from, Jory cautioned herself to not ask about the Bruce, even though his welfare was uppermost in her mind. When she looked at Warwick, she must not even question him with her eyes. She heard a noise at the door and gasped.

Guy strode forward and gallantly held out his arm. “Are you ready to dine, Lady Warwick?”

“I am, my lord.” Jory knew she sounded breathless and unsure.

Her husband held his hand at the small of her back as they descended to the dining room. “You are positively blooming tonight. I hope you have been well, Jory.”

Blooming with child!
“Yes…I cannot complain.”

She looked at the table that had been laid for two. She saw that both Meg and Mr. Burke stood ready to serve them. She felt suddenly cold and moved to the fire to warm her hands.

Guy walked to the side table that held wine and goblets. “Where is the ale I brought from the brew house?”

“It's still down in the kitchen, Lord Warwick,” Meg declared. “I'll run down and fetch it.”

“Nay, I'll go. My throat is as dry as an Arabian desert and my lady prefers ale to wine, I warrant.”

To Jory, the minutes dragged out endlessly until Warwick returned with a jug of ale. She lowered her lashes in an attempt to hide her impatience and her anxiety as her husband filled a goblet with ale and handed it to her.

He filled one for himself and raised it. “I met my full obligation when Edward Plantagenet called me to war. It is over and done. Warwick will not take up arms again against Scotland.”

You are torturing me! What about Robert Bruce?
Jory raised her goblet slowly as Warwick watched her closely. An unusual aroma filled her nostrils. She took a long, deliberate sniff in disbelief and raised accusing eyes to Warwick. “You cruel swine!”