“Blast.” Her father and brothers didn’t discuss politics before her, but she knew her father was at odds with the king. The king had sent her brother, William, home from court. It was an insult and a sign to all Sir Arthur had lost favor.
She perched on the edge of her bed. Long shadows stretched from the clothes tree and inched along the ground. Dust motes glittered in the air like faeries. She’d been too caught up in her secret romance to give any thought to the world all about her. Her father had committed treason, openly and decisively. The king would act.
The gravity of the situation settled like a dull weight in her middle. Her father had left enough men to defend the castle. What if the king were to bring an army to bear? He had any army, because he was always asking for taxes to pay for it. If her father had thought it fitting to speak of politics more in her presence, she would’ve understood more.
She dug her fingers into the silk of her bed covering. Her mother might have explained, but she couldn’t ask her.
Henry would only give her a superior look down his perfect nose and tell her women should not involve themselves in men’s affairs.
Beatrice didn’t see how women could avoid being involved in men’s affairs, since every decision some man made affected some poor woman, somewhere.
Beatrice got to her feet. Beyond her casement, the beautiful day drew to an end with the sinking sun gilding the river. The breeze carried the ocean’s tang and the plaintive cries of roosting gulls echoed her mood.
Just this morning she’d been free as one of those birds. She’d been selfish.
Intent on Garrett, she’d ignored the signs that all was not well within Anglesea.
On the river, a fisherman poled his boat back to the village for the night. The same village Garrett called home. For now.
She had no business thinking of Garrett when her family was threatened from all sides.
Below her, Tom crossed the bailey toward the stables.
She hadn’t seen as much of Tom since Garrett had appeared in her life. They’d been friends since both of them could toddle off without their mothers. Tom was Nurse’s son and he had his mother’s pragmatic nature, without her bite. He’d grown much taller of late, towering a full head above her. His shoulders cast a broad shadow before him.
Soon, Tom would be courting. Suddenly, she ached to be with her old friend. Tom had a way of looking at the world that made sense to her. He didn’t judge her or laugh at her. Tom listened, and then put matters to rights in her head.
Chapter 5
Garrett woke with a start. His head thudded like someone kept putting the boot to it. His arms screamed the agony of stretched sinews. He tried to move them. They were held fast, wrenched from the socket and suspended above his head like a crucifixion. Searing pain spread down his arms from the bindings constricting his wrists.
Alarm shot through his blood. He forced his eyes open. Everything swam and he closed them again. It took a long moment for his head to stop the cursed whirling.
He needed to remember. His belly heaved. Breath sawed through his nose as he clenched his jaws shut. It came to him in fits. Finishing in the forge, sweaty but too tired to bother with washing. Thinking of Beatrice. Falling asleep. Then, waking up with the dread someone was in the hut.
They’d clobbered him. He forced his eyes open. Instinct to fight surged through his muscles. Icy water hit his face and he gasped. Nothing would be gained by striking out blindly.
“Welcome back,” a man drawled. In the dimly lit forge, he sat atop a water barrel, looking strangely out of place with his fine tunic and clean boots.
The pressure on his arms was unbearable. Icy water dripped down his chin onto his bare chest. Sweet Christ, he was naked, stark-bollock naked. He got his feet beneath him and tried to stand. His legs were weak as wet linen, but he forced them to take some of his weight. The relief on his arms made his eyes water. It must be late, the great fires were banked to the coals. Lyman would be asleep.
“I thought we might speak.” The stranger sounded like a bloody lord.
Who was the cur? Darkness concealed most of his face, clean lines with a patch of a neatly trimmed beard. A man of fashion, then.
“Who are you?” Garrett licked his lips and tasted the bitter iron of dried blood. His stomach roiled.
“It is better for you not to know.” The stranger wiped his hands on a kerchief and tossed it into the hearth. Flames leapt around it and subsided.
Sod that. He tried to think, but his head was fuzzy. Did he owe the dog money? A wife. Had he tupped this one’s wife?
“We are not acquainted.” The stranger rose and gave a curt wave.
Three men materialized out of the shadows.
Garrett went cold. He hadn’t seen them before, and he should have. Growing up rough left few gaps for mistakes.
The men moved to the door and out.
Alone with the overdressed cur meant no aid, but also no witnesses. It was either a very good thing or a very, very bad thing.
He tested the ropes. The knots pulled tight.
“There is no need to be concerned.” The stranger dusted the seat of his tunic.
Garrett nearly laughed in his face. He was strung up like a slaughtered pig with his wedding tackle dangling. There was every bloody reason for concern.
The man had light hair with eyes either brown or green.
He took keen note of the face. If he got out of this situation, it was a face he’d be sure not to see again. And if he did, he would grind those pretty features beneath his boot and laugh while the whoreson squirmed.
“I have been watching you for a time now.” The stranger stepped carefully, avoiding the filth on the floor. “And I thought it was time we had a talk.”
“So talk.” Garrett’s head pounded in time with his pulse. He hoped like hell he wasn’t going to spew in front of this cur. “You have my attention.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Wit?” He cocked his head and contemplated Garrett. “At a time like this? Do you think it apt?”
“You tell me.”
The man came closer and studied Garrett from head to toe. He might be one of those who liked other men.
Jesu, if the sod put his hands on him, Garrett would tear the roof down about their heads.
“Oh, cease.” The man waved at him. “I am only here to have a mannerly conversation.”
It surprised a laugh out of Garrett. Jesu. If this was mannerly he was a pig’s ass.
“At first, I was confused by your obvious interest in the Lady Beatrice.” The man leaned down and peered at a lump of steel.
Garret went still. Was this Beatrice’s brother, the one not in London? The stranger looked too old, somewhere in his middle years. Garrett waited.
“No hot denials?” He sauntered about the forge, lifting Lyman’s apron and peering into the pouch.
“Would there be any purpose?” Garrett’s legs firmed and he stood. The man was shorter than he and slighter. If it weren’t for the three feet of steel at the whoreson’s side, Garrett was sure he could take him. Experience had taught him not to underestimate the speed or accuracy of that steel. It was all useless speculation whilst he hung here.
“I was intrigued by you.” The stranger ran his hand over Lyman’s hammer. “Intrigued enough to do a bit of checking on you, young master Garrett. When I discovered you were, in fact, Wulfric’s bastard, the entire thing began to make sense. Let me take