Courtly Scandals

by Erin Kane Spock

  • • •

  There had been some concern over letting Mary travel back to the palace, but Mary herself had insisted on returning to her room in Mistress Parry’s apartments. And there was no argument that, though the inn was well enough, the palace would be better equipped should Mary develop a lung fever. Mistress Parry was still concerned about the possibility of the chill having harmed Mary’s body, but Charles knew better than anyone that Mary’s body had been quite thoroughly warmed.

  He had not intended to take advantage last night, but when he woke up, Mary had been pressing his hands between her thighs. She had been so warm, so ready for him. There had been no question of resisting. If anyone had taken advantage of the situation, it had been Mary . . . and he loved it.

  And, yet again, he had failed to take precaution. He knew in his heart that this time was different. This time the idea of Mary bearing his child was the best thing he could hope for. Something he wanted very much. Mary, his wife, the mother of his children. The path to happiness was so clear.

  The hard part lay ahead.

  He was a nameless, landless bastard with no options. Well, he did have one option. An option he had not wanted to ever act upon.

  After all, he was the brother of the Earl of Oxford. That had to count for something.

  He braced himself for the confrontation as he opened the door into his brother’s sick room. The cloying scent of incense and spices threatened to make him gag. He hated being here, hated having no other option but to be here. But he refused to balk. If he had to swallow his pride, he would.

  “This is unexpected.” The Earl of Oxford, his half brother Ned, reclined in a silken pillow strewn bed. The chamber, while larger than most, seemed close confined. How long had it been since a window had been opened? Charles was sure the apothecary would recommend against it, but if a cool breeze didn’t clear out the stink soon, Charles might pass out.

  “Indeed.” His mind made up, Charles made his way through the fog and to a window, opening the shutter and tying up the sash as he spoke. “I thought it had been too long since we spoke as brothers and thought to wish you a happy new year. Little did I know I would be arriving in time to save your life.” Charles gave a half-hearted laugh as he felt the cold afternoon air flow into the room.

  “Doctor Hargreave will have your head for that. I’m sure the restorative incense cost me a pretty penny.”

  “I am sure. Yet you were well enough yesterday to stand out in the cold. You probably felt better when you could breathe, regardless of the good doctor’s orders.”

  Ned took a deep breath of the crisp air and sighed. “But of course, you are right as usual. Who am I to doubt you? I am merely the earl.”

  “Earls are people, too. You are not infallible, Ned.” He had to be careful—he was here to achieve a goal, not teach his selfish little brother how to be a good person.

  Oxford grimaced as he sat up fully, his hand darting to grip the bandage on his shoulder. “I realize that.”

  Charles paced, watching the tendrils of smoky air wisp out the window. It was almost easy to relax into the old habit of brotherly bickering. He could almost forget the monster his brother had become. Almost, but not quite.

  “I take it you are not here to inquire as to my health?”

  Charles offered a sad smile. Even if he had been willing to ignore the past, Ned would always remind him that he was a cold-hearted, arrogant, sadistic, manipulative . . . He stifled a sigh of resignation. It did not matter what his brother was, what mattered was that Charles get through this. “In all honesty, I am surprised you received me.”

  “How could I not? After your heroics, you will have half the court swooning over you. And the gossip . . . I cannot imagine that uptight little wench on her back for any man, let alone my bastard brother. She is so full of condemnation.” Ned shook his head as if to clear her from his mind. “I had to get the story firsthand, and I certainly cannot ask her.”

  Charles would not rise to the bait. “You know the court is still saying that she is your mistress. At least they are now naming a new attacker.”

  “I heard it was my wife. That would have been exciting.” Ned laughed at his own thoughts. “I have already been questioned and will not discuss it further.” For a moment, Ned was the pouting little boy he remembered from his childhood.

  “You will not name your attacker?”

  “If you are here to interrogate me, you may leave now.”

  Charles sighed as he sat down on the trunk beside the bed. “That is not why I am here.”

  Ned leaned closer. “You want to marry that chit.”

  Charles did not show his surprise. “Yes.”

  “Bastards cannot marry.”

  Charles knew it had been done often enough before. “I could with the Queen’s permission.”

  Ned leaned back against his pillows. “You think She would give it?”

  “She might.” Charles could only pray for a positive outcome for that petition. He had served the Queen well ever since his father, the previous Earl of Oxford, had died. Years of honest and reliable service had to count for something.

  “Are you counting on Her for a knight’s land grant?”

  “I would not presume so much.”

  “And you would be correct to do so. She is not known for Her generosity.” Ned would know. Queen Elizabeth had had charge of his estates during his wardship to Baron Burghley, Anne’s father. She had made the profit and paid very little to him in return.

  Charles smiled and gave an exaggerated reverance as he said, “Nor are you—and yet, here I am.”

  Ned pursed his lips and steepled his fingers, apparently considering his options. “So this is the meat of it?”

  “Yes.” Now he just had to wait on Ned’s master plan, which was sure to include something unpleasant.

  “You know that you cannot own the land. You would merely be a steward of my property.”

  “But I would be more trustworthy than any layman you could hire and would ask for an honest wage accordingly.”

  “What could I gain from such an arrangement? All my land is already managed well enough. Why should I change?” Ned’s tone, up until that moment, had almost been congenial, their discussion honest and to the point. As Ned entered into the bargaining mode, it was as if he was assessing Charles’s weakness and was preparing to strike. Charles would have been surprised if he had behaved otherwise.

  Charles drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders, preparing for the battle. “You should do this as a personal favor to me because I am your brother.”

  Ned pounced. “Ha! At last you play upon your lineage. I have waited for you to do that for years. You realize it makes you no better than me.”

  This was the moment he had dreaded. After everything he had done, the way he had lived, all to distance himself from his de Vere connections, now he had to become beholden to his half brother.

  Ned shifted in bed, casting a critical eye on Charles. “I remember looking up to you. You were so much bigger than I. Smart. Funny. Everyone liked you, and you always had a smile. You were everything I wanted to be.”

  Charles smiled sadly. He had dearly loved his little brother. He had been seven when Ned was born. All those years he had lived with the Oxford family, never really feeling any different. It was not for years, until after the death of their father when Ned inherited the earldom at the age of twelve, that Charles saw clearly Ned’s sense of superiority. Entitlement.

  “I know you begrudge me the earldom. You should have been the seventeenth earl. After all, you are the eldest son and father raised you as such, for all that your mother was a passing fancy. He even named you for him. Fitzjohn.” Ned laughed as he said the name. “I always thought that was pretentious. Did he think he was King Henry VIII announcing his virility by claiming his bastard that way? Frankly, it’s embarrassing. I don’t know how you can stand it.” Ned shook his head as if genuinely sorry for Charles’s unfortunate surname. Then he quir
ked a brow and fixed him with a stare. “Did you expect him to pull strings, have you named legitimate? He could have done it if he had really wanted to, you know. You must hate him for that and, of course, resent me for being born on the right side of the sheets.”

  “And you wish to draw that unpleasant truth out of me with your bad behavior? Because if I were the earl, I would treat the position with more respect?”

  “Honestly brother, you give the thought behind my actions too much credence. I simply do as I wish when I wish. There is no underlying motive. The fact that you seek to give it meaning says more about you than it says about me. You feel I should not have inherited the title. Be honest with me, your dear baby brother. Lay aside your pretense at honor and judging men based on merit.” Ned almost giggled on that last word. Of course, in his world, merit mattered for nothing. Why would it? Ned, the Earl of Oxford, was born to privilege and power.

  But then again, Charles had been raised the same way. Educated. Pampered. When the earl, his father, died, it had been taken away and he’d had to rely on himself. Ned became a ward of the state, but Charles had no legal standing as a person, let alone family that would see him put into a profession. Joining the military had been a good option for him—they always needed more men in Ireland. This had led to his current placement and knighthood. He might have started off with some privilege, but any success he’d had came from hard work and the willingness to do what needed to be done and do it well. Merit, character . . . it was everything. Perhaps if he’d never had to appreciate the sense of earned accomplishment, he would have that same pompous attitude.

  “So that is the price? That I tell you that I should have been the earl and that I resent you? That is what I must do? I just wish to be clear.”

  Ned let out an exaggerated sigh. “God’s teeth, man! Even when you’re ready to abandon your principals and respectability, beg for my hand-outs, you are still the hero—still doing the right thing for the greater good.” Every syllable dripped with disdainful mockery. “You will do as I ask even though you hate it—but you do it for her. You make that sacrifice because you want to give her a better life. So you are not really stepping down off your lofty peak; you are nailing yourself to the cross.”

  Charles sat silently stoic as Ned worked himself into a rage.

  Ned launched himself out of bed, uncaring of his white nightshirt or the pain that whitened his face. “Well, your sense of honor matters not a whit. The wench left my household—Godspeed to her. She is not welcome back, and I would not welcome her on my properties. You can have the living, but not with her. She is troublesome—always looking at me with such judgment. All for that stupid incident with that servant. It was not my fault, I tell you. The man was in his cups and stepped into the fight.”

  Charles was stunned. That Ned resented him, he understood—but why should Mary matter to him? He chose to downplay Mary’s involvement and latched on to the comment about the death. “I remember hearing about that. There was enough suspicion to hold an inquest.”

  “Yes. The verdict was that it was suicide. They said the man threw himself upon my sword. He was drunk. It may have just been an accident, but it was not murder.”

  Charles raised an eyebrow. “I seem to remember that some said that you were drunk.”

  “It is of no matter—you seem to keep forgetting that I am the earl.”

  “I never forget that. It seems that you keep forgetting that I am your older brother.”

  “Not in any way that matters.”

  “That just goes to prove your low character.” As soon as Charles said it, he regretted it. Arguing over matters of morals was a waste of breath. It was entirely possible Ned had killed that boy on purpose, just to have the experience of killing a man. You cannot sway that type of person into doing the right thing for its own sake. You had to make him see that the right thing was also the most logical thing.

  Ned ignored Charles’s last comment. “You may have the living, provided Mistress Mary is out of your life. I will not let you martyr yourself for some doxy. You want out of the guard? Have the stewardship of the Priory in Essex as a charitable gift to my bastard brother—but know you are taking it for your own gain. Be gone from here. I am done with you.”

  Charles, with a sense of relief that the interview was finished, stood and gave his brother a brief reverance before turning to leave.

  “Wait.” Ned was obviously not done. “Why you care so much for others’ well-being is beyond reason.” Ned, still standing, looked somewhat pale.

  The fool had best not fall down. Charles did not want to be forced to help him. “Perhaps if you cared more for others, you would find that generosity returned in kind.”

  “I have never seen the reason behind extending oneself for others. As men of noble blood, our very survival depends on taking care of ourselves. I would not wish to invest my generosity or sentiment on another person without being assured of a return.”

  “This, I am sure, is the only reason you would let me have the stewardship of the Priory. You can be assured of my honest dealings and hope to make a profit from the estate’s yields.” He knew his brother, though great in rank and self-importance, was lacking in funds.

  “Of course.”

  “This makes your other stipulations unnecessary. You are not giving me blood money to betray my values—that would cheapen your investment. You need your land well managed and know you can trust me. Your demands about Mary are counterproductive.” Charles had planned to simply decline the offer and wait out Ned’s change of heart. It was in his best interest for Charles to manage some of the income, and Ned was too smart to let a paltry thing like a woman affect his purse strings.

  “So what is the aversion to Mary? What has she done to you? I would think she has the cause for complaint, not you.”

  “Of course you would think that. Right now, I am put out that she did not finish the fight. Beyond that, well, I had never paid her any heed until the night when I saw her dancing with you. Not worth noticing before. She was merely a leftover friend from my wife’s childhood. This whole situation,” Ned rubbed his shoulder again, “has made my wife even more irksome. I simply wish Mistress Mary out of my life.”

  Charles was amazed. Of course, he shouldn’t be, but he was. Ned was throwing away Mary’s future prospects. Not for the first time, Charles hated court. He would be happy to leave, but he was not leaving without Mary.

  “Well Ned, as much as it pains me to leave you to your recovery, I am on duty this evening. I will consider your offer of stewardship of the Priory, but I must let you know that I have no need of a position outside the Queen’s Guard unless I am taking a wife.” With that, Charles reveranced and left the room without waiting for dismissal.

  As he heard the door latch behind him, he could almost make out Ned cursing.

  He was sure that his brother knew that without Mary, Charles would not take the property. The question was, was that enough incentive to make Ned change his mind?

  He would not speak of it to Mary until he knew for sure.

  Chapter Seventeen:

  On the Ninth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Nine Ladies Dancing . . .

  Over the first eight days of Christmas, Mary had lived more fully than she had in several years. As she thought of the day-to-day routine of her life, it felt as if she had merely been surviving. How could she have been content with that? Then again, these past days had brought with them every emotion she could imagine. Passion had driven her choices instead of complacency. She had thrown herself into the courtly Christmas festivities with wild abandon, excited about the possibilities, happy to simply take pleasure in the stolen moments of joy before returning to her real life. She could never have anticipated, nor even hoped for, the magic she and Charles had shared. There had been no artifice, no elaborate wooing, and no doubts. It was if they had met and, in that instance, mutually knew they were meant for each other. At least, they were meant for each other until Twelfth Night p
assed and Mary would leave the palace.

  Mary shook off the desperation that threatened and tucked her quilts more firmly about herself. Knowing her time with Charles was running out had made her sick bed feel like a prison. If the doctor gave her leave, she would rejoin the festivities for the next evening—which would leave only four days left of the twelve nights of Christmas. So little time.

  Mary sat up against her pillow as her door opened. She must have moved too quickly; her head reeled. Who was here?

  Anne.

  Seeing her now, now that Mary knew how unstable Anne actually was, broke her heart. Anne had been a true friend for the three years Mary had spent with her, for all that Anne had been so much younger than she. They had learned together, laughed, and shared confidences. Anne had been so excited for Mary when she whispered of her betrothal to Master Thomas. There had been no judgment, merely curiosity when Mary had shared some of the more intimate details. And then Thomas was dead, and Mary had to return to her father a ruined woman. She had been foolish to believe that friendship would not have changed.

  Mary smiled blandly and tried not to flinch as Anne sat on the edge of the bed and arranged her skirts. Anne seemed to be pretending that she had never attacked Mary. She wondered what Anne thought of her bruise.

  “It is thoughtful for you to visit me.” Mary tried to make her words sound sincere.

  Anne, thankfully, was calm and playing her role of Countess of Oxford properly. “Would you rather I had not come?”

  Yes.

  “No, of course I am sensible of the honor you do to me.” Was there a guardsman in the corridor outside Mistress Parry’s suite of rooms? How fast could she get there if she ran? Was she strong enough to run? It was ridiculous to be so afraid of little Anne—then again, something about her was not quite right.

  Anne shifted uncomfortably. “Mary, I do care for you. You were like a sister to me. But so much has changed in my life—I cannot continue to risk my own reputation, the consequence of the Oxford title, for friendship.”