In the last few words Garret had spoken, she realized that she liked him very much.
CHAPTER TEN
It was early evening at the end of a hot summer’s day, an evening that had turned into a hot summer’s night. The unseasonably warm season was wilting everything it touched – men, women, animals – everything.
That kind of misery was unprecedented. Even the heavy stone walls of The Wix couldn’t keep the heat out entirely, although it was better than some of the lesser-constructed buildings. It tended to keep the temperature moderately cool during a hot summer and moderately warm during a freezing winter. Still, the walls were slick with humidity as Jago sat in his solar, a fourth cup of fine Spanish wine in his hand.
He was drunk. He was lying to himself if he thought this was really his fourth cup of wine. He’d been through at least two pitchers, so it was probably more like his seventh or eighth. He needed the wine after his failure this morning because he knew, sooner or later, Grace would find him and he would hear of her displeasure for him having assaulted one of her women.
But he was absolutely defiant about it. He’d done nothing wrong; if anything, Lady Lyssa had been the culprit when she refused his advances and then force him to hit her. He wouldn’t have struck her if she’d only cooperated. Jago was confident, however, that there would be a next time – he would find the lady again and when he did, she would understand that it was not in her best interests to deny him his wants. He put a roof over her head and food in her belly.
He would get something out of that arrangement.
So, he sat in his solar that overlooked the river and he drank, pondering his life. It wasn’t so bad but he could be better. His thoughts moved to the party the evening before and he began to think on his discussion with John. A good deal had happened during that conversation, things that would set Jago on a path to more power and more prestige.
Changes were coming.
In fact, he’d sent a servant for Rickard some time ago because, as the captain of his troops, Rickard needed to know what would be happening in the foreseeable future. As he waited for Rickard to appear, he drank more wine and contemplated more thoughts of women and his political ambitions. He wasn’t the type to be satisfied. His personality dictated that he always seek more, always demand more, and as long as Richard and John were willing to give it to him, he saw no reason not to give his loyalties to the highest bidder.
It would make him very rich.
The sun was beginning to set by the time Rickard made an appearance. Having lost count of the cups of wine he’d had by this time, Jago eagerly beckoned the man into the depths of his dim, rank-smelling solar.
“In, Rickard,” he demanded. “Come in. Where have you been? I sent for you hours ago.”
Rickard knew that. He’d received the summons a couple of hours ago but he was unwilling to immediately obey. After the incident this morning, he found that he could no longer serve Colchester with respect. What regard he’d had for the man had been limited since assuming his post, as he’d watched Jago’s behavior as a degenerate too many times to recall. He’d told himself it wasn’t any of his affair because Lady de Nantes overlooked it and Jago did whatever he pleased. Therefore, it wasn’t up to him to pass judgment.
But with the attack on Lyssa, something had changed for Rickard. It wasn’t merely that Garret had his eye on the woman; nay, that wasn’t it at all. He wasn’t sure yet what had changed, but whatever it was jeopardized his service for the man because he no longer felt any desire to do anything for him.
Still, Rickard knew that was foolish; he had an excellent post. He was paid well and his wife served a duchess. They were in an excellent position and he didn’t want to give that up. Maybe that was why he’d been willing to ignore the man’s behavior, but that stance was no more.
It was a dilemma, to be sure.
“I apologize, my lord,” he replied as he came into the pungent room. “I only received your summons a short time ago. How may I be of service?”
Jago pointed to the chair opposite him, a cushioned contraption with one of the cushions torn and goose feathers coming out. “Sit.”
Rickard didn’t hesitate. He planted himself on the seat, watching the feathers shoot out when he put his weight on it. “My lord?”
Jago looked at him, a half-lidded drunken gaze. “Where have you been?”
Rickard suspected that question might come. He was prepared with a semi-lie. “We have some new men, my lord, men that have come from your property in Wivenhoe. There is a rather large village there, as you recall, and these are the men you ordered me to procure last month. They have finally arrived.”
Jago nodded vaguely, but the motion nearly sent him falling back in his chair so he stopped nodding.
“Infantry,” he muttered.
“Aye, my lord.”
“How many?”
“Sixty-one, my lord.”
Jago scratched his head and looked away. “You are very regimented with them, Rickard.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Tell me something….”
He trailed off. Rickard prompted him. “Anything, my lord.”
Jago was staring off into the depths of the room, seemingly lost in thought. “How many men can we house here?”
Rickard turned his head in the direction of the bailey as if to imagine the buildings and outbuildings they used to house Colchester’s considerable army. “We have a troop house that will house five hundred men, my lord,” he said, “and there are other barracks against the western wall that will house nearly two hundred if we cram them in tightly. There is always the hall to house them, and the hall will hold up to eight hundred easily.”
“Then we may hold a great many men here.”
“Hold, aye. But feeding them and keeping everything orderly is another story. Fifteen hundred men require a good deal of food, not to mention the fact that that many men would overrun the garderobes. The place would start smelling like a sewer and I doubt your lady wife would appreciate that.”
Jago looked at him, then, and Rickard could see the displeasure in his features. “I care not what she thinks,” he said. “I must do what I feel necessary. Rickard, we may be called upon to house several hundred men in the near future. You will make these allowances.”
Rickard nodded. “New recruits, my lord?”
Jago shook his head. He lifted his cup but, realizing it was empty, he went to pour himself another cup of wine on the sideboard near the hearth. Wine spilled everywhere, probably more on the table than in the cup.
“Not new recruits,” he finally said. “New allies. Rickard, you were not in The Levant, were you?”
Rickard wasn’t sure where the conversation was heading but he already knew that he didn’t like it. There was something strange in the air. Stranger than usual, at any rate.
“I was not, my lord,” he replied. “My father only has two sons. My brother and I drew lots to see who would go on Richard’s quest and my brother won. I remained at home with our father for the duration.”
Jago looked at him. “Your family is loyal to Richard?”
Rickard nodded. “My family has supported the crown since the days of the Duke of Normandy.”
“And your brother?”
Rickard hadn’t expected that question. After what Garret had told him, how it had been Garret who had saved Zayin’s life by sailing an arrow into Jago’s hand, he knew he had to be careful on the subject of his brother. But it was more than simply Garret’s move against Jago to save a life – it was the fact that his brother was the Captain of the Royal Guard at Westminster, personally appointed by Richard. Aye, the entire family supported the crown. Rickard thought Jago did, too, but he was starting to wonder about this line of conversation. The question his brother asked him earlier in the day suddenly came to mind: where do Colchester’s loyalties lie?
Did Garret know something he didn’t know?
“My brother has been appointed by the king
as Captain of the Royal Guard,” Rickard said after a moment. “But surely you knew that, my lord. That is no secret.”
Jago was sitting so far back in his chair now that he was practically laying in it, wine in hand as he fixed on his captain.
“Of course I knew,” he lied. “Are you close to him?”
“He is my brother, my lord. We are close.”
Jago considered that a moment. He took another long drink of wine before speaking again. “You have been in my service less than a year, Rickard,” he said. “You came to me from Lincoln and because he trusted you, I trust you. Since you have been in my service, I have come to admire you a great deal. You are a man of decision and duty, and I am honored that you serve me. As my captain, I have come to depend on you.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Jago held up a finger, indicating he wasn’t finished with his thoughts. “I believe it is a wise man that helps change the course of his country for the better. Would you agree?”
“I would, my lord.”
“Sometimes, the right man simply is not in control of the country.”
The warning bells started to go off in Rickard’s head. “What do you mean, my lord?”
Jago set his wine cup down and sighed heavily, trying to form a coherent thought with all of the wine pulsing through his veins. “Richard has hardly spent any time in England since he assumed the throne,” he said. “Richard is my cousin. I love my cousin. But he is selfish when it comes to England. All he wants is English money to fund his wars in France. To me, that is not a good king.”
Rickard wasn’t sure to say to that. “You have served Richard for many years, have you not?” he asked. “You told me once that Richard has been good to you.”
Jago nodded. “He has,” he said. “But only by doing his duty. He has given me lands and titles, as befitting my royal bloodlines, but that does not make him a good king. It only makes him a generous one. Do you love England, Rickard?”
“I do, my lord.”
“Then would you not like to see someone who loves England as you do upon the throne?”
Now, it was coming. Rickard could see the tides of politics turning right before his very eyes. Rather than answer the question, he put forth one of his own. “What are you saying, my lord?”
Jago’s dark eyes glittered at him in the dim light. “I am saying that I need your help. We will help put a man who loves England upon the throne and you will be an important part of it.”
Rickard didn’t have a ready answer for him. As he sat there and struggled for something to say, something that didn’t sound like he was resisting Colchester’s intentions, there was a knock on the solar door. Rickard immediately rose to answer it, relieved by the interruption, hoping it was enough of an interruption that he would be able to flee and not continue this conversation. He’d barely reached the door when it was opened from the other side.
Lady de Nantes was standing on the archway, her pale face drawn and unhappy-looking. Rickard was grateful for the woman’s appearance.
“Good eve, my lady,” he said.
Grace was looking at Jago but her words were meant for Rickard. “Leave us.”
Rickard was very happy to. He didn’t even wait to ask Jago’s permission; something in Grace’s expression suggested he leave whether or not he had permission to do so. Shutting the door quietly behind him, he fled the manse as Grace turned her full attention to her husband.
“I have a need to speak with you, my husband,” she said calmly. “I sent your manservant hours ago to give you the message. Did he not find you?”
Jago wouldn’t look at her. “I have not permitted anyone into this chamber save Rickard.”
“Then you will have to tolerate me as well. What I must speak with you about cannot wait.”
Jago rolled his eyes and sat forward in his chair, grabbing for the wine pitcher again. “God, what now,” he muttered.
It wasn’t even a question. But Grace had an answer nonetheless. “Since you clearly have no patience, I shall come directly to the point,” she said. “I was told what you did to Lady Lyssa today. I told you to stay away from her, Jago. I expected you to obey my wishes.”
Jago was so drunk that he didn’t have a forceful argument for her like he usually did. He simply turned away from her, ignoring her, hoping she would just go away. But Grace had no intention of leaving; she came up behind him.
“I will again tell you that my ladies are my responsibility,” she said quietly but firmly. “Shall I write to my father and tell him that you are superseding my authority? Shall I inform the Archbishop of Westminster? They can and they will punish you for your transgression against my authority.”
Jago growled at her. “Get out,” he snarled. “I do not want you here, you shrewish bitch.”
Grace took the insult as she usually did; without outwardly reacting. Inwardly, she cringed. “Have I made myself clear?”
Jago grabbed the cup by his hand and threw it in her direction. It missed her by a wide margin, but the message was obvious.
“I told you to get out,” he bellowed. “You cannot give me commands, woman. You are nothing. ’Tis I who give the commands!”
Grace didn’t back away from the thrown cup but she did maintain her vigilance in case he decided to throw something else. “My husband, I do not dispute your command in almost all things,” she said steadily. “But when it comes to my ladies, you have no command over them. They are not a harem for you to choose from and I forbid you to touch one of them, ever again. If you do, I shall take them and return to my father’s house and I shall take my money with me. I will tell everyone the reasons for my departure, so if you do not wish a scandal, then stay away from my women. I will not tell you again.”
Jago stared at her as if could hardly believe what he’d just heard. Then, his eyes narrowed. “Do you think to threaten me, you ugly cow?”
Grace’s patient expression was turning to one of contempt. “It is not a threat, but a statement of fact,” she said. “When you sleep off the wine you have imbibed, you will understand more clearly what I have told you. And you will behave accordingly.”
He sat forward in his chair, nearly falling off of it because he was so drunk. “Understand?” he repeated, outraged. “Understand? Now, I will tell you something – you have no idea who you are speaking to. Understand that I am a more important man than your father or the entire foolish FitzHerbert clan. You can tell your father anything you please but it will not matter, for I have the prince as my ally now. He has granted me lands in Leister and I will become more powerful than anything you can comprehend, so if I were you, wife, I would show more respect. If you anger me enough, there are a thousand accidents that can befall you and I can marry a woman who is not so ugly or so disagreeable. Do you understand?”
Truth be told, Grace believed him. He may not be brave enough to strike her, but he wouldn’t be beyond paying someone to kill her if he was enraged enough and then deny all culpability. He would deny any responsibility until the end. Therefore, she didn’t press her point because she knew she had pressed it too far already. Now he was threatening her life and she knew when to withdraw.
She understood the rules of engagement with him all too well.
But talk of an alliance with Prince John was something new. She had seen her husband sit with the prince at the dais the previous evening, in serious conversation with the man. Now she was discovering what had been discussed between her ambitious husband and an equally ambitious prince.
To hear him speak of a new alliance wasn’t a surprise, but it was something that changed the dynamics of her entire marital arrangement. Odo FitzHerbert, the last High Steward of Rochester, was an ally of King Richard and that had been one of the big selling points of the marriage of his daughter to Jago de Nantes. If Jago was switching allegiances, then her father would want to know.
Without another word, Grace quit the chamber, heading to her chamber to lock herself in for the night. Whe
n Jago was in a mood like this, there was no telling what he would do, to her or to anyone else. To be safe, she sent word to her ladies as well, and especially to Lyssa, to lock their bedchamber doors for the night.
Tonight, Jago would be on the prowl if he didn’t pass out from drink.
It was just a feeling she had.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Westminster Palace
“It is de Lohr,” Gart said.
Rhys, who had been sitting on a stool in Garret’s solar, looked up from the blade he was sharpening.
“De Lohr?” he repeated, mildly surprised. “Which one?”
Gart pointed out of the window he was standing next to, indicating the dusty bailey beyond. “Chris,” he said. “He is flying the blue and gold de Lohr standards from Lioncross Abbey Castle.”
It was the dawn of another warm day in London, the same rising temperature and rising humidity from the river filling the air. Gart and Rhys were in Garret’s private solar, waiting for Garret and the other knights to make their usual morning appearance, when the portcullis of Westminster’s South Gate had lifted and a rather large contingent of men had poured into the bailey. Rhys stood next to Gart now, watching the de Lohr party swarm into the yard.
“I do not know where Garret is, but we should go and greet Chris,” Rhys said, setting his blade aside as he headed for the door. “I did not hear that he was approaching Westminster. Did you?”
Gart shook his head as he followed the man to the door. “Nay,” he replied. “But with Richard’s wars in France, you know that de Lohr would mobilize. Possibly he is here to collect more men?”
Rhys shrugged his big shoulders. “It is possible,” he said, opening the door. A cloud of dust blew in from the arrival of the army outside. “I wonder if we are to expect David as well.”
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume II Page 43
