Knight of Passion

by Margaret Mallory

  “I believe Brother Richard was content here,” Geoffrey said in a quiet voice.

  Jamie’s gaze roved over the brown stubble of the miserable patch. Content? More like, half dead.

  “Come, his brother lives a short distance from the abbey.” Geoffrey put a hand on his shoulder. “We must leave now if I’m to be back before compline.”

  A tall, strongly built man with a warrior’s stance met them at the gate. “I am Charles Wheaton, lord of this castle,” the man said. “And your uncle.”

  “That is yet to be seen,” Jamie said.

  “You would call your mother a liar?” Wheaton said. “I’d heard better of you.”

  If Geoffrey had not been so quick to grab him, Jamie would have planted his fist in the man’s face. “Take care how you speak of my mother.”

  Wheaton did not turn a hair. “Calm yourself, laddie; I was not the one who called her a liar.”

  “I never said she lied,” Jamie said, temper prickling at his skin. “But she could be mistaken.”

  “I wanted to see you to be sure myself,” Wheaton said. “You’re a right bit more handsome, but the likeness between us is there for any fool to see.”

  From the first moment, Jamie had been trying to ignore that Wheaton had the same unusual shade of blue eyes that he did. Wheaton’s hair was streaked with gray, but it must once have been as black as his.

  “If you’ve forgotten what you look like, son, I can have a mirror brought out for you.”

  Jamie was not amused. “I have fought in France since I was fifteen. Do not call me son. Or laddie.”

  Jamie flinched as the older man put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Since the only two people who could know the truth said it was so, you may as well accept it.”

  “I do not see where it is any business of yours what I believe.”

  “Come, Jamie, give the man a chance to explain,” Geoffrey said. “Let us go inside and talk over a cup of ale.”

  “Thank you, Brother Geoffrey,” Wheaton said and turned to lead them across the bailey yard.

  The castle had an old square keep, but it was well-maintained. Jamie scanned the walls and outbuildings and saw that these, too, were kept in good repair. Charles Wheaton may be a disagreeable character, but a man who took good care of his property merited some respect.

  They settled into the hall, which had a blazing fire in the hearth, an impressive display of weapons on the wall, and clean rushes on the floor.

  “Charles, you should have told me they were here.” Jamie turned at the sound of a woman’s voice behind him. A frail woman, who looked to be about his mother’s age, had come into the hall and was walking toward them, leaning heavily on the arm of a servant.

  Wheaton rushed to her side and took the servant’s place. When he turned back to face them, Jamie was startled by the transformation in the man’s expression.

  “Meet my wife,” Wheaton said, beaming down at the delicate woman. “A better woman, God never made.”

  “Charles, please,” she said.

  She had a light, sweet voice that reminded Jamie of music from the high strings of a harp. But her pallor made it plain as day that Wheaton’s wife was in poor health.

  “This is your aunt, Lady Anne Wheaton,” Wheaton said, then quoted Chaucer: “ ‘Any man worth a cabbage all his life ought to thank God on bare knees for his wife.’ ”

  Anne Wheaton’s hand was icy and as light as a feather in Jamie’s as he bent over it, but there was warmth and laughter in her hazel eyes.

  “We have waited a very long time to meet you,” she said.

  Jamie was confused. “But I only just heard…”

  “Of course, dear,” she said. “But we knew about you all along.”

  “Then why—”

  He did not finish his question because she began to cough. It was not a delicate cough, but one that racked her frail body and made Jamie wince.

  “Let me take you upstairs, love,” her husband said. “I am sure these young men will wait while you rest an hour.”

  She shook her head. “Just let me sit by the fire, and I shall be fine.”

  Wheaton helped her into a chair, then placed a cushion behind her back and tucked a blanket around her. “How’s that, love?”

  Jamie could not help softening toward Wheaton as he watched the big man hover over his sickly wife.

  “Do not fret, Charles. I do not intend to let God take me today,” she said, smiling up at him. Then she turned to Geoffrey and Jamie. “Please, take a seat. We do not often have visitors these days, so this is a great treat for me.”

  “For me, as well,” Jamie said and meant it. He took the chair opposite her, though the heat from the roaring fire was going to make him break out in a sweat.

  “A gallant young man,” she said, turning to her husband. “Just like Richard.”

  Wheaton patted her hand.

  “Can you tell me about him?” Jamie asked, finding it easier to ask her than his uncle.

  “It did not surprise me that your mother trusted him, for ’twas easy to see that Richard had a pure heart,” she said, a smile in her eyes. “He was the kindest man I knew.”

  “If he was so kind, how could he leave my mother with that man?”

  “He did feel guilty, but what could he do? That man was her husband,” she said. “Meeting your mother affected him deeply. If she had been free, he would have offered for her. He was very troubled and prayed often for her safety.”

  “Hmmph. He should have fought for what he wanted,” Wheaton said. “Instead, he used the abbey as an escape from life.”

  “But all turned out well for your mother,” Lady Anne said, a smile lighting her pale face. “When we met them, it was clear that she and Lord FitzAlan are devoted to each other.”

  Jamie nodded.

  “We did not contact your family sooner, out of respect for Richard’s wishes,” she said. “It would have… upset him.”

  Jamie cleared his throat. She smiled so sweetly at him that he felt like an oaf pressing her. “I am very glad to meet you, but why did you wish me to come here? I am a stranger to you.”

  “Because you are the only child of our dear Richard, of course,” she said, as if that should be answer enough for anyone. “And you are my husband’s closest kin, as well.”

  “Closest kin?”

  “What she is saying is that you are my heir,” Wheaton said. “Or you would be, if the truth were known about who your father was.”

  Jamie felt like the ground was shifting under him.

  “I don’t know if it makes me a bastard to be fathered by one man while my mother was married to another, but I am certain I have no legal claim to your lands. Nor would I attempt to press such a claim.”

  “But we have no one else,” Lady Anne said in a small voice. “I have told Charles he must take a younger wife after I’m gone, in hope of getting an heir, but he refuses to consider it.”

  “Annie, don’t,” Wheaton said, squeezing her hand.

  She began to cough again. It made Jamie’s chest hurt to hear it. This time, Wheaton lifted her up in his arms and carried her off.

  A short time later, he came down looking drawn. He took his chair and drained his cup of ale.

  “I won’t wed again,” he said in a heavy voice. “There could be no other woman for me after Annie. But I could not sire an heir, in any case. I had something of a wild youth before I married. So far as I ever heard, none of the women ever conceived.”

  After a long silence, Jamie said, “Your lack of an heir, sir, does not mean I have any claim to your estates.”

  “Better that I decide who shall have my lands, than that they go to the Crown for Bishop Beaufort to choose,” Wheaton said. “I’ve hired a lawyer to find out how it can be done.”

  Jamie did not know what to say. To have his own lands was something he had dreamed of for years.

  Finally, he said, “You are a fit man. You’ve a long while yet to make a decision.”

 
“When I lose Annie, I will take my brother’s place at the abbey.” Wheaton poured himself another cup of ale. “I’ll grant you the lands then.”

  Jamie knew Wheaton would not appreciate false comfort, so he gave none. “I am truly sorry your wife is unwell. Has it been a long illness?”

  “Her health was fragile from the day we wed,” he said. “I count myself blessed for every day I’ve had with her. I’ve had a good life. The best life. No regrets for me.”

  No regrets. The man had no children, and he had been watching his beloved wife die from the beginning of their marriage. And yet, Jamie believed Charles Wheaton would not have exchanged his life for another.

  “ ’Tis a fine estate,” Jamie said finally. “I would do my best to keep it as well as you have.”

  “I could tell that from the way you looked at it,” Wheaton said. “ ’Tis a comfort to me.”

  The three of them talked for a while of crops and cattle, but it was growing dark and time for Jamie and Geoffrey to go.

  Wheaton walked them out to the gate.

  “We will welcome you to our brotherhood when the time comes,” Geoffrey said to Wheaton.

  “I hope I may visit you and your wife again. And… thank you,” Jamie said, unable to find an adequate way to express his gratitude.

  “Make the most of what life gives you,” Wheaton said, clasping Jamie’s shoulder. “Don’t live a life of regret like my brother did.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Linnet entered Westminster Hall through the grand ceremonial north entrance, with its vaulted porch portal and flanking towers. After passing through the twenty-foot-high wooden doors, she paused beneath the great arched window.

  As always, her gaze was drawn upward to the hammer beams and braced arches of the massive timber roof. It had been commissioned by Richard II and was said to weigh more than 650 tons. Richard had never been one to economize. Still, Linnet judged the new roof worth the expense—as had his cousin and usurper, Henry IV, who completed it.

  Linnet was well aware of the gazes that drifted toward her as she scanned the room for the bishop. Ah, there he was. Though the bishop’s back was to her, his pristine white robes stood out amid the colorfully clad nobles and wealthy merchants.

  Men drew in their breath as she strode past them, her chin held high. The bishop turned around just before she reached him, as if he had eyes in the back of his head—which some said he did.

  The bishop arched an eyebrow ever so slightly. “Now I see what caught everyone’s attention.”

  “Your Grace.” She sank into a low curtsy.

  When she rose, Bishop Beaufort said in an amused tone, “A special evening, is it?”

  She returned the smile. “In sooth, I am hoping for an uneventful time ahead.”

  “It will be more difficult for anyone to overhear us if we walk,” he said in a low voice. As she fell in beside him to stroll the length of the room, he said, “I suspect I know what you wish to speak with me about.”

  “I swear to you, these rumors about me are false,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “ ’Twas risky—but very clever—to come here tonight and put your accusers off their guard.” A faint smile touched his lips. “I must say, that large cross and… heavenly… gown are nice touches.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Your enemies will have to think twice about proceeding after such a public display of your virtuous nature,” he said. “But tell me why you seek me out.”

  “Because my enemies are yours, Your Grace,” she said. “The most dangerous rumor against me is that I used sorcery to cause the queen to have an affair with your nephew.”

  “This is the reason I am willing to speak with you, of course,” he said with a thin smile. “I am glad we understand one another.”

  “I will do all I can to protect the queen and Sir Edmund,” she said. “Can you advise me?”

  “I cannot prevent your arrest,” he said, and Linnet’s heart sank to her feet. “But I’ve a better chance of keeping this quiet and controlling the outcome if you are tried by an ecclesiastic court.”

  The bishop nodded to a group of well-dressed men Linnet did not recognize.

  “If I send you a warning,” he said, “get yourself to a church with all haste and claim sanctuary.”

  “God bless you, Your Grace.”

  “God blesses those who use the wits He gave them.” The bishop stopped walking and said in a voice loud enough for those nearby to overhear, “Where do you get such exquisite cloth? I know it comes from Flanders, but you must tell me the weaver.”

  Bishop Beaufort, clever man, was using his well-known interest in the cloth trade with Flanders to mislead others in the hall as to his reason for speaking with her. She was happy to play along.

  “The weaver’s name slips my mind, Your Grace.” The bishop knew very well the name was a well-guarded secret. “Whoever does the embroidery on your vestments is highly skilled… almost as skilled as the woman who does mine.”

  When she held out her sleeve for him to examine, his expression soured, for hers was finer.

  “It would be a great honor for me to provide your new cardinal’s vestments, if that would be permitted,” she said. “After all, a cardinal’s vestments should be the very best.”

  “That would make an excellent offering to the church.”

  Linnet tried not to smile as she asked, “Would it count against my tithing?”

  “From what I hear, you can afford the additional donation.”

  The richest man in England certainly knew how to squeeze a coin.

  “I wish to make a donation as well to the chancery you are building in honor of our late and glorious King Henry.”

  The bishop pressed his lips together and nodded, and she knew her gesture touched him. It was well known that the bishop had been exceedingly fond of his nephew, the great King Henry V.

  Linnet was about to take her leave when he spoke again.

  “I believe I saw you talking with Sir James Rayburn the last time you were here at Westminster Palace. Could you be the reason he showed a singular lack of gratitude when we offered him marriage to a wealthy heiress?”

  Linnet felt herself color and dropped her gaze to the floor. “He is grateful now, I assure you.”

  “Does he have any notion how much wealth you would bring to a marriage?”

  She shook her head. “I fear it would not balance my faults on his scale.”

  “Then something is wrong with his scales.” The bishop pursed his lips. “He does place a rather high value on his honor, so I suppose you must have damaged his pride in some way. ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’ ”

  That could be said of her as well.

  “I’ve accomplished what I came for,” she said, “I think it best for me to leave now.”

  “Mind whom you trust,” the bishop said by way of farewell.

  “Your Grace,” she said, dropping a curtsy.

  She made her way through the crowd toward the south entrance, where she had arranged to meet Carter. Before she reached it, she caught sight of Eleanor Cobham whispering with two men in an alcove. From their gestures, it appeared they were having a furious argument. As Linnet passed them, Eleanor stormed out of the alcove and almost ran into her.

  “ ’Tis nice to meet a ‘friend’ tonight,” Linnet said.

  “I am not your friend, but I will tell you this,” Eleanor said. “You waste your time here. The bishop’s star has fallen. Leave while you can.”

  “I will give you advice as well—you underestimate the bishop at your peril.” Linnet gave her a tight smile and continued toward the door.

  When she did not see Carter waiting for her outside, she assumed he had left to respond to nature’s call. She decided to take the opportunity to go to Saint Stephen’s Chapel. She wanted to see the progress made since her last visit to the chancery being built in memory of their beloved dead king.

  The chapel was built perpendicular to the Gr
eat Hall and jutted out to the east, toward the Thames. To get to it, Linnet had only to walk down a short covered walkway.

  Her breath caught as she paused at the entrance of the long, narrow chapel. Light from a dozen tall candles reflected on the colored glass in the windows and shone warm light on the intricate carvings and painted seats. As she marveled at the chapel’s beauty, the tension of the last hours seeped from her muscles. Hope stirred in her heart; all things seemed possible again.

  Without warning, she was lifted off the ground as someone grabbed her from behind.

  She tried to scream against the damp cloth pressed against her face. Almost at once, her lips went numb, and there was a metallic taste on her tongue. She struggled against the thick arms that held her, but the man had muscles like steel beneath her fingers.

  Even as she tried to fight, a fog settled over her. Her arms ceased to follow her commands, flopping uselessly at her sides. She could not feel her legs at all.

  Darkness took her.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Jamie felt as if he had stepped into the light. Everything was clear now. He could have a safe and ordered life, or he could have Linnet. No matter how much havoc Linnet caused, nothing would ever be right without her.

  He had come perilously close to choosing the path of the man who sired him: a life that was predictable and safe… and small. A paltry existence. Instead, he intended to take all that life had to offer, the pain with the pleasure, and live it to the fullest with the woman he loved.

  Jamie waited in the bailey yard, anxious to make his farewells and leave. He looked up as Stephen came out with Isobel and helped her down the steps of the house.

  “How long do you expect to be in London?” Stephen asked when they reached the bottom.

  “As long as it takes to convince Linnet to be my wife.”

  “Be quick about it.” Isobel gave him a broad smile and patted her enormous belly. “If you are to be this babe’s godparents, you need to return with her in time for the christening.”

  Isobel gave her husband a sidelong glance.

  “I’ll see what’s keeping the groom with your horse,” Stephen said. “Meet you at the gate.”