by Sarah Hegger
Any moment, Godfrey could send another of his other men to check on the prisoner. “I told you before, Beatrice, I love you. Somebody needs to take care of that huge heart of yours, because you do not.”
“I do not believe you.” She sobbed, softly.
It tore through him and Garrett swung her toward him. “This is not time for declarations, sweeting.”
“Do not listen to him, Beatrice.” Tom stepped closer.
“Trust your heart. Just one more time, Beatrice, trust what your heart is telling you to be true.”
Her eyes searched his. “I am not sure I can.”
Garrett allowed her to see all of him. Everything. The man he’d been, the man he was now, and the man he would dearly like to be.
“You hurt me,” she whispered.
“I know.” Garrett cupped her face between his palms. He wanted to weep with gratitude. He had his hands on her again. He’d believed his chance to touch her again was gone. “And I am terribly sorry. I love you, Beatrice,” he said. “I love everything about you and it does not matter if you cannot forgive me and love me back. It only matters you believe that much.”
“I do not believe this,” Tom muttered.
“I do not care what you believe.” Garrett cared only about the beautiful girl in front of him. “It is what Beatrice believes that matters.”
Tom thrust his chest forward. “If you love her as much as you say you do, you will keep your little confessions until we get her to her father. Beatrice neglected to tell you her uncle Godfrey is trying to kill her.”
He’d known it. There was a grim sort of satisfaction in being right. Now was not the time to revel in it, however. “And you stopped to rescue me?”
Beatrice lifted her stubborn chin and nodded.
She’d done it again. Gone and tossed herself right into the middle of danger. God’s bones, but she would be the death of him. Her uncle was trying to kill her and what did Beatrice do? Did she run for her life? Did she hie herself off to her father’s protection as fast as her pretty ass could sway? Nay. Beatrice took the time to rescue a sorry sod like him.
“We will speak of this.” He grabbed her hand and set off at a trot. “After we have found your father.”
Chapter 24
In the hours before dawn, London was a strange place, filled with sinister shadows. The taverns had fallen silent and many of torches burned out. Newt led them through the dark toward the river.
As she traveled, Beatrice was glad of her small party surrounding her. People loomed out of the dark, the desperate and the destitute.
Garrett moved by her side, alert and intent as they hurried onwards.
He loved her and her stupid heart thrilled. She needed answers, but later, when the danger passed.
The boat Newt found looked none too safe. Newt spoke to the figure hunched in the boat before motioning her forward. “He says he will do it, but there is only room for two.”
Garrett climbed aboard the boat and tugged her after him.
“Follow when you can,” he called to Tom. Tom and Ivy stood beside the river. Tom so much taller, standing guard over the tiny Ivy. “And watch out for Godfrey. The moment he finds her missing, he will know where she has gone. He will, for certain, be watching the gates. Travel by river, it is quicker than the road.”
The boat listed beneath her feet. Beatrice sat quickly. The water glittered at her. The sky had grown lighter. King William’s great tower, square and impregnable, it’s four turret’s standing proud, was outlined to the east.
Urgency thrummed through her blood. It would be light before their boat reached Westminster.
“Get to the Black Friars, west of here,” Garrett called as the boatman pushed away from the bank. “The friars have a barge that travels to Westminster.”
Tom nodded and raised his hand. He touched Ivy on the arm, and she turned to follow him between the buildings.
Beatrice waved until he and Ivy were no longer visible. She sent a quick prayer of protection after them. Newt had already disappeared, his part of the bargain over. Beatrice prayed things would go well for him, too.
“Keep it down.” The boatman’s hood was drawn up over his features. He hunched like the harbinger of death in the bow. His voice emerged from the dark of his cloak as he poled the boat into the middle of the river. “Sodding water bailiffs are everywhere.”
Beatrice huddled in the bottom of the boat. A chill wind whipped off the river and she tucked her arms about herself.
Garrett squeezed in beside her. “Beatrice, I—”
“Shut it,” the cloak snarled.
Garrett clamped his lips together. “We will speak later.” His breath was warm on her ear. He lifted his arm and put it about her.
Beatrice snuggled against his warmth.
The boatman grunted as he turned the boat against the tide. “You, big ’un.” A finger emerged from the cloak. “Grab the sodding spare oar and row. We work against this whore.” He aimed a stream of spit over the side and heaved against his oar.
Garrett let go of her reluctantly. He grabbed the other oar and made his way precariously to the stern.
The boat hung motionless against the current. The men strained against the oars.
“Heave,” the boatman grunted.
The boat inched forward, slowly at first, gathering speed as the oars caught the water.
Other than the swish of the water, the trip up the river was eerily quiet. Torches lined the riverbank, but didn’t illuminate them gliding over the dark water.
The silence chafed at her nerves. She kept her eyes fixed on the steeples of London, receding painfully slowly as the two men rowed. A haze hung over the city.
Sweat beaded on Garrett’s brow and slithered down his cheek.
She prayed for speed. She prayed she wasn’t too late to reach her father.
The sky blushed pink by the time the turrets of Westminster palace soared up ahead. Torches lost the battle against the day, flickering from the battlements, creating weak shadows against the walls. Her father was in there. As they drew closer, she heard the guards calling the hour.
Godfrey must have discovered she was gone by now.
The boatman drifted past the palace and pulled toward shore in its shadows. He raised his oars and motioned them to silence. They waited with the occasional drip of water from the locked oars the only sound.
She was ready to scream by the time the boatman dipped one oar and guided them to the shore. They barely made a ripple on the water.
The wet mud sucked at her slippers as Beatrice stepped out of the boat. She raised her skirts and tramped on, wrinkling her nose at the smell.
The boatman slipped back into the current like a ghost.
Westminster stood heavily guarded. Men at arms were everywhere, tense and alert, as they peered into the growing day.
Beatrice led the way.
Behind her, Garrett was a solid presence.
The time for stealth was past, and she marched straight for the gatehouse.
A pair of pikes crashed in front of her, bringing her to an abrupt halt.
“I am the Lady Beatrice.” The guard wore a lion, rampant on vert across his chest. The colors were unknown to her. “It is urgent I see my father, Sir Arthur of Anglesea.”
The pikes stayed.
“Get away from here, girl.” The guard’s gaze flickered over her from either side of his metal nasal.
Beatrice knew how she must look to the guard, with her gown filthy from her night running through London, and the stink of the river still on her.
“It is imperative you send a message to Sir Arthur.” She straightened her shoulders, trying to maintain her dignity despite her disreputable appearance. “I am his daughter and he needs to see me.”
The guard snorted at her. “And who is he?” He motioned his head at Garrett. “The bloody king?”
“I am Lady Beatrice.” She raised her chin and
stared the man down.
The guard shoved his pike toward her.
Beatrice stepped back to avoid being jostled.
Garrett stiffened.
Beatrice put out her hand to stop him. She couldn’t risk a fight at the gate. “Would you send him a message I am here?” They could at least agree to that. “I have to see my father. I will not leave until I do.”
People moved in the yard beyond the portcullis. If only she could get past the gate. Her scream of frustration welled in her throat and she forced it down.
“No camp whores in the palace.”
Camp whore? Had this man just called her a camp whore? Her mouth dropped open and she snapped it shut again.
Garrett gathered like a storm.
Well, Garrett would just have to wait his turn.
“How dare you.” She was Lady Beatrice, daughter of Sir Arthur of Anglesea. How dare this churl call her vile names? When she got to her father she’d shove his head on that blasted pike of his. “My father will have your head for this.”
The guard exchanged glances with his comrade. He shifted uneasily.
“You look nothing like a lady.” His voice wavered.
“I am in this state because I need to see my father.” Not so sure now are you, churl? She glared down her nose at the man. Nobody called Lady Mary’s daughter a whore.
The guard swallowed and slid a look at his fellow. “Sir Arthur will have my head if you are not who you say you are.”
“He will have your head if I am.” Beatrice was going to enjoy watching him squirm. “Send a message to one of my brothers, Sir Roger or Sir William. Let them come and tell you I am Lady Beatrice.”
He thought it over for precious seconds. “Wait here.” He stepped beneath the shadow of the gatehouse.
Whispering went on and on. Eventually, another soldier emerged from the gatehouse.
“We will send a message.” The guard placed his pike across the path. “And if you are lying—”
“I am not lying.” Beatrice turned her back, not prepared to waste one more moment on this ill-mannered oaf.
She was almost jumping out of her skin by the time the sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence. Beatrice leapt to her feet. A familiar figure strode across the bailey toward them, his long legs eating up the distance.
Her brothers were all tall, but Roger stood even a few inches taller than their father. He had Sir Arthur’s dark hair, but his blue eyes and carved features were all Lady Mary. He was built like his father, powerful shoulders tapered into a slim waist. Beatrice’s chest swelled with pride as her strong, handsome brother drew closer.
“Roger.” Beatrice jumped up and down and waved her arms. Everything was going to be well again. She’d made it.
Roger stopped and his head jutted forward. “Beatrice?”
Beatrice sobbed with relief. “Roger.” She beckoned her brother. See there. She tossed a haughty glance at the man at arms.
He went a little pale.
Roger jogged toward her. “It cannot be you.” He shoved past the crossed pikes and came to stand right before her. “It is you. You look a sight.”
“Oh, Roger.” Beatrice flung herself at her oldest brother.
Strong arms folded around her. His surcoat was silky beneath her cheek, wearing her father’s arms, a dragon’s head proper on Argent.
Relief brought tears to her eyes. “I have to see father right away.”
“What has happened?” Roger pulled her away from him. “Is it mother? Is she ill?”
“Nay.” Beatrice waved him to silence. “Mother is fairing well.” Beatrice desperately hoped she spoke true. “But I must speak with father. I have traveled such a long way to see him.”
“But where is Henry?” Roger frowned and looked beyond her. “And your escort? And why do you look as if you have been dragged through a hedge backwards? And what is that smell?”
“I will explain everything.” Beatrice tugged on Roger’s surcoat. “Only, tell these men to let us in.”
“Who is that?” Roger narrowed his eyes on Garrett. He tensed and put his hand on his sword.
“I will explain everything, but I have to get to father. Now, Roger. We are all in peril.”
“Peril?” Roger’s face hardened. “You had best come along then.”
She and Garrett followed behind Roger as he led them through the keep. The keep was bare of ornamentation, only the various banners of the warring barons bedecked the hall in a glorious display of heraldry. There were knights and soldiers everywhere, busy but calm and well ordered.
They mounted the stairs to the upper level and entered a large, private chamber.
Sir Arthur stood poring over a map with William.
Joy rushed through her and brought tears to her eyes at the sight of them. Her father was so like Roger, only thicker around the waist and shoulders and his dark hair was flecked with gray. William was as beautiful as ever with the aquiline perfection of his features, crowned by a pair of brilliant blue eyes, his hair so dark as to be almost black.
Her father snapped up straight. “Beatrice. Merciful God, what has happened to you?”
She ran toward him.
He hauled her into his arms for a huge hug.
Beatrice inhaled the familiar smell of horses and leather she associated with her father. With her father’s strong arms about her, she was completely safe. She’d done it. She’d reached her father. Sir Arthur would fix everything. In her entire life, she’d never encountered a thing her powerful, gruff-voiced father couldn’t put to rights. She was passed from her father to William.
Garrett stood just within the door, stiff and tense, his hands clenched by his side. His face appeared to be carved from rock.
Beatrice sent him a reassuring smile.
His face remained frozen.
“Now.” Her father tugged her out of William’s embrace. “You had best start telling.”
Her father sat and listened. His face grew sterner as the story continued.
Roger paced the room, swearing quietly.
William sipped his wine, his eyes drifting to Garrett and back to her.
“Did you not speak with your mother before you left?” Her father rose to his feet.
She thought she had explained why mother could not be worried. “I could not worry her.” Sir Arthur, of all people, should understand that. “She is not well.”
“For the love of God, girl!” Her father frowned mightily. “Why did you not take this to your mother?”
“I told you…”
“Beatrice, think.” He punched his palm. “Why would I leave your mother unguarded?”
“Henry said he did not have enough men.” This was not going at all as she thought it would. “Should we not be leaving for Anglesea?”
“Calder had not reached Anglesea?” Sir Arthur paced the length of the table and back again.
“Nay, not before I left, but both Faye and Henry feared he could not be far behind.”
“Jesu.” Roger threw himself onto the bench. “I told you Henry would make a dog’s ballocks of this.”
Beatrice’s head whirled. Nobody reacted as she expected. Secrets on top of secrets until she wanted to scream.
“Do not use that language in front of your sister,” Sir Arthur said. “We can only hope Henry was sensible enough to go to your mother after Beatrice disappeared.”
“What of Godfrey?” Roger slammed the table. “Jesu the lying whore…knave.”
William caught his goblet before it fell and raised it to his lips. “Before I was banished from court, Godfrey was often in the company of the king and Calder. It is not a stretch to believe he has grown ambitious and the king is always one to use such men to his advantage.”
“We grew up with him.” Roger stalked over to the casement. “Godfrey put me on my first horse.”
William shrugged one elegant shoulder. Even wearing his hauberk, William manage
d to look like a courtier. “Mayhap he grew tired of living in the shadow of the great Sir Arthur.”
“What, in the name of hell, do you mean?” Roger bore down on his younger brother.
“It means simply”—William studied his wine—“Godfrey is a much younger brother. The only property he holds is through father. With the three of us standing to inherit before him, there is no chance of ever increasing his holdings.”
Roger loomed over William.
William sipped his wine.
Beatrice grew tired of their posturing. Roger and William were always at each other’s throats. She turned back to her father. “I think it is more important to ascertain what you are going to do now.”
“Quite right, Sweet Bea.” William grinned.
She’d seen him reduce ladies to a swoon with that smile of his. He needn’t think it would work on her.
“Do?” Sir Arthur resumed his pacing. “I need to get to Anglesea and sort out this snarl. Roger, call up the men. We ride within the hour.”
At last. Relief swept through Beatrice. Her knees weakened, and she caught the edge of the table.
Garrett’s strong arms caught her.
“Do I know you?” William tilted his head and studied Garrett.
Blast! Beatrice froze.
“Nay.” Garrett met William’s gaze, his eyes blazing.
“I think I do.” William swirled his wine.
“By the rood, Will,” Roger snapped. “Get off your idle ass. We ride within the hour.”
“In a moment.” William waved a languid hand. “I know you from the village.”
William had the sharpest eyes. Beatrice cursed, one of the new words she’d learned from Garrett.
Garrett thrust his shoulders back and raised his chin.
“What of it?” She made light of the moment. “There are plenty of people in the village.”
Garrett’s stance shrieked outright challenge.
Her brothers wouldn’t hesitate to take him up on it. She rubbed her damp palms on her bliaut. “The danger is at Anglesea, I came all this way to warn you. You must act.”
“And we will, Sweet Bea.” William leaned his elbows on the table. “But I would like a few questions answered first.”
