Suzanne Robinson (12 page)

Honor shook herself and glared at him. She could feel her face grow hot, and the heat was spreading down her neck and to privy places in her body. The evil churl.

“My lord!”

Galen winced. “You needn’t shout in my ear. I can hear you perfectly well. Have some capon.”

Honor glared at the slice of capon he offered on his knife, picked up her spoon and knocked it away. The capon flew across the table and landed on the sleeve of Lady Whiffle. The lady didn’t notice because her attention was riveted on the conjurer who was in the midst of making a rabbit vanish from the cap of the Duke of Clarence.

“I want no capon, nor egret, nor any of your attentions. I know what you’re about, my lord.”

“You do?” He smiled at her and moved his knife
away from her spoon. “Tell me so that we’ll both be privy to the secret.”

He was baiting her. Honor gritted her teeth and said, “Not here.” She glanced at the old lady beside her, whose attention had strayed from a troupe of acrobats to Honor. Honor lowered her voice.

“I would have privy speech with you, my lord. And speedily.”

Galen studied her for a while, then turned and took a flagon of wine from the sewer. He poured a dark red liquid into a glass goblet and handed it to her.

Her patience gone, Honor took it and said, “Meet me in the royal gardens by the cherry tree.” She flushed as she heard his low laughter.

“You’ve not had practice at this. Meet me there, and we’ll have the company of two dozen other illicit couples.”

“Indeed,” she snapped. “I have not had practice at meeting plumped-up knaves, but I must need do it this once.”

Galen bent his head and whispered, “Then go to the garden and out the small door in the southwest corner, by the old birch tree. There’s a flagstone path that leads to the plum orchard and then to the menagerie. Meet me at the center of the orchard, by the wishing well. Where are you going?”

“To the garden.”

“Not at once, my little addlepate.” He straightened and began to watch the conjurer. Sipping his
wine, he continued, “Wait until the trumpets announce the next course. There will be a dozen subtleties, marchpane castles, and sugar dragons and the like. When everyone is marveling at them, slip away. I’ll follow you in a while.”

“I vow you’ve done this before, sneaking away to meet a lady,” Honor said, none too pleased.

“Chivalry prevents me from discussing it, my little sunset, but your interest in my affairs is most flattering.”

“I’m not interested in your conquests of women!”

“Shh.”

“And don’t hush me as if I were a child.” Honor wanted to smack that smile off his face. “Oh, the devil take you.”

Turning her face away, she directed her gaze toward the conjurer and tried to eat with ease and grace, the way he did, instead of jabbing at meat and pasties as if they were her enemies. She stewed and fumed for what seemed like hours, every pore and inch of her skin alive and sensitive to his presence. At last the trumpets sounded. She rose, and started when Galen put his arm out to block her.

“Take your arm from me, my lord.”

He bent and moved the stool on which she’d been sitting, freeing her gown from its legs. He looked up at her, grinning. “God forbid that I should allow you to pitch over on your face in front of all the court. I prefer you to do it when I can help you as I did at Durance Guarde.”

“Oh! May God preserve me.”

Honor yanked her skirts from his grasp and scurried away from him. She didn’t stop until she reached an archway. There she turned and looked back. Galen had risen and was leaning on the table looking at a beautiful blonde woman who’d just walked up to him. She laughed and offered her hand. Galen bowed and kissed it. Honor hesitated, but Galen never looked in her direction. When the lady came close to touch the gold collar Galen wore, Honor sniffed, whipped around and marched out of the hall.

By the Trinity, he was brazen. He was all courtliness and grace to that insipid white rat of a woman trying to catch his favor. Honor thought about the lady’s fashionably pale hair, and jealousy curdled her heart. What new magic torture was this? Galen had no sooner finished ensorcelling her than he worked his wiles on another lady. Lady Honor Jennings wasn’t going to fall prey to him like that bold harlot, like all the others she’d heard about. She would remind him he was nothing but silly old Leekshanks, and he could take his spells and his pretty face and go elsewhere. By God’s mercy, he could.

Honor picked up her skirts and stalked down a corridor toward a side door. “He thinks he’s brought me right low and weak with his trickery. I’ll teach him. I’ll reduce him to a quavering kitchen scurvy, I will. He’ll rue the day he tried to enchant me.”

T
EN
 

W
hile he pretended to listen to the flattery of Lady Nicolette, Galen strove to master himself. He wasn’t used to being unable to govern his emotions; at least, outside his visions. Yet tonight he’d nearly challenged that pasty-faced dullard Isidore Jennings. The man would have matched sweet Honor with Drogo Scattergood, the greatest wastrel in the kingdom. And Isidore hated Honor. How could anyone hate Honor, with her lively, clever wit and reckless courage? Anyone could see she’d make an excellent wife to a well-placed nobleman, one who deserved her, of course. The trouble was, there weren’t many that did.

Galen endured through the tasting of the subtlety placed before him. He served Lady Nicolette,
who wouldn’t go away. When she had her mouth full, he murmured an excuse and scooted off his stool. He was gone before she could swallow and protest. Slipping behind an arras, he found himself in a deserted passageway lit by a candle in a wall sconce. He headed for a door, had his hand on the latch, when he heard someone call his name. With a guard in Jennings livery, Isidore scuttled into the passage, his hand on his dagger.

“If I were you, my lord, I’d pay more attention to my own affairs and less to those of the Jennings family.”

Galen eyed the man-at-arms, cursing the fact that one didn’t attend royal feasts wearing battle swords. The weapon at his side was ceremonial, and wouldn’t match the one carried by the guard.

“Are you planning to murder me at King Edward’s banquet, Jennings?”

“What provokes you to say such a thing? I merely warn.”

Jennings and his man moved toward Galen. The arras moved again, and two more men appeared.

“For the ease of my heart, I must convince you to leave the apportioning of the Stafford inheritance to me,” Isidore hissed.

Galen crossed his arms over his chest and looked past Jennings at the two newcomers. “Did you hear? Jennings has an uneasy heart.”

The men behind Isidore shrugged. Jennings whipped around and tried to draw his sword. The
guard did the same, but their opponents already held theirs.

The taller of the two newcomers cocked his head. “Uneasy in your heart, Jennings? Let me cut it out for you. That should banish the discomfort.”

Isidore’s gaze darted from one to the other of his adversaries. Then he signaled to his guard, who sheathed his half-drawn sword. He scuttled around the two men, toward the arras. “Remember what I said, de Marlowe. The Stafford inheritance is mine.”

Galen uncrossed his arms and headed for Isidore, but Jennings darted through the arras along with the guard, and the two newcomers blocked his way. At the same time, Galen felt the world around him recede. He halted abruptly, staring at a distant scene. He glimpsed a man riding beside a river on a fine black hunter, then the vision faded abruptly. Had the man been Aymer Jennings? Why was he seeing visions of Aymer Jennings, who had been dead for years?

Confused, he shook his head. The scene had appeared and vanished in seconds, leaving him disturbed but unable to discern its significance. Neither of his companions had noticed his distraction. One of the men grabbed Galen and crushed him in a rough hug.

“Jesu, Galen, it’s good to see you. What did you do to anger Isidore Jennings?”

Galen gasped and shoved him away. “Let go, Macaire. You’re breaking my ribs.”

Macaire de Marlowe was in a good humor, as
usual, and as usual his cheerfulness in the midst of Galen’s adversity was irritating. Four years younger than Galen, Macaire had an optimistic nature which made his gift for speaking to other people with his mind less of a burden than Galen’s much different talent. Galen had decided long ago that Macaire found it easy to bear his gift because he simply refrained from employing it. Ignoring difficulties sometimes made them go away.

Macaire released his brother and grinned. “First you say you’re sick to death of intrigue and fighting, and then you stir up trouble with that arse. How are you?”

“Sore in my ribs,” Galen said, rubbing his side. “Well met, Fabron.”

The slim, dark young man beside Macaire sheathed his sword. “Well met, beloved brother. Are you crazed in your mind or have you become suddenly enamored of adversity and death?”

Fabron, and his twin Fulk, were but six and twenty, but Fabron had a spiteful turn of phrase. Galen scowled, trying to fight off the disorientation of that fleeting vision of Aymer Jennings. He didn’t like the fact that the vision of the dead man had appeared after he’d been with Honor. Something might be wrong. Or perhaps his difficulties with Honor had brought up old memories he’d forgotten.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

Fabron glanced at Macaire, who had grown silent and looked unhappy.

“Abandoning court is foolish enough,” Fabron said, “but going to ground at Durance Guarde of all places, and spreading those old tales of ghosts. Deliberately making the place seem haunted. You’ll get us all accused of witchcraft.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“We heard the rumors all the way in Argent,” Macaire said.

“That wasn’t me,” Galen replied. “Lady Honor Jennings was trying to roust me from Durance Guarde and claim it for herself. She disguised herself as the ghost of Rowena.”

Fabron tossed his glossy black hair back from his face. “She wouldn’t have done it if you’d been at Argent, where you belong. Come home. We’re tired of looking after the place for you.”

“I’m not coming home for a while. I can’t.”

His brothers stared at him, and Galen looked away. Fabron often made him uncomfortable, for his gift was to sense emotions. It was damned disconcerting to have a younger brother who knew how you felt, especially if you desired a woman or were frightened about something. There had been times during their youth when Galen had been forced to box Fabron’s ears for announcing some embarrassing truth to the whole family.

Macaire said to Fabron, “It’s a vision.”

“It’s more than a vision,” said Fabron.

Galen rolled his eyes.

“But it’s mostly a vision,” Macaire said.

Fabron shrugged. “He must face it.”

“You don’t have them,” Macaire said. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand he has a duty not to expose the family to talk that could lead to danger.”

“He would never do that.”

“He’s damned near done it already,” Fabron snapped. Galen’s growl stopped him from saying more.

“God’s mercy! I can’t help it if Honor Jennings makes more noise and chaos than a Lancastrian army. I’m trying to find a remedy.”

“Simon sent us with a message,” Fabron said, unfazed by Galen’s wrath. “He says King Edward is grievously unhappy at your absence and you must remain at court now that you’re back. I disagree. I think you should come home.”

“Damn Simon and his opinions.” Simon had been born two years after Galen. He had the ability to see patterns of events, and an uncanny talent for sensing danger and evil, which made him think he had the right to tell his brothers what to do. For their own good, of course.

Macaire drummed his fingers on his sword hilt. “I’m glad I don’t have visions. You have a troublesome gift, Galen.” He glanced at Fabron. “He won’t Come home.”

“He must,” Fabron said with a grim expression. “Simon has told us there are signs of distant trouble. We need time to prepare, and by God, Galen, this is no time for weakness.”

Galen reached out and lightly slapped Fabron’s
clean-shaven cheek. “I remember you in swaddling clothes, and dirty ones at that, my sweet brother. Don’t talk to me of weakness.”

Fabron gave him a malicious smile. “Then don’t involve yourself in this affair between the Staffords and the Jennings. I’ve always thought there was something odd about Aymer Jennings’ death, and now you’re battling with his widow.”

“I grow weary of everyone accusing me of things I haven’t done.” Galen sighed. “Listen to me, my dear brothers. I’m not coming home. I will settle this dispute with Lady Honor, and I will remain at Durance Guarde.”

“For how long?” Macaire asked.

“I don’t know. Now, run along. I’m meeting the lady in the plum orchard, if she hasn’t fled by now.” When his brothers exchanged knowing glances, he cursed. “It’s not like that, damn you. Keep your foul imaginings for harlots and leave Honor Jennings out of them, or by my troth, I’ll whip them out of you.”

Macaire whistled, and Fabron smirked. Galen stalked toward them, and they backed away quickly.