by Robyn Carr
Julian Kerr was old and jaundiced at over fifty years, a condition no doubt caused by rapidly changing allegiances. His decline had to be aggravated by the presence of an only son who sought to take over this lordship as quickly as possible.
“My lord,” Wescott bowed formally.
“Sir Trent,” Kerr replied, his peaked gray eyes, suspicious and uncertain, darting over him. Wescott’s size and comfort in these surroundings might have been the cause of some irritation. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“I won’t trouble you long; I bring the papers that our sovereign, His Majesty King Charles, requested be filed in your state, in your guardianship.” He produced the rolled parchments. “I fully realize they are tardy, but you will find them signed, witnessed by the sheriff. I’ve adhered to the promised regulation and bring you the first payment of rents on those lands you protected during the absence of my family, and you will find, recorded, that my taxes are fully relinquished.”
Kerr accepted the papers with some hesitation. Even though he suspected King Charles was sympathetic to Wescott, he had held out the hope that Wescott would default on the property he claimed and that it might fall to the Kerr family. He expected the payments to be delivered by courier. Two more over the year and the deed to the property would be freely Wescott’s.
Julian had demanded compensation for the years he had controlled and managed the Wescott lands. It had never occurred to him that the king and all his henchmen would return. Once Charles Stuart was killed and his son had fled, through all the years of civil war, Julian Kerr felt those lands were comfortably his.
Wescott’s refusal to pay was so violent that Charles settled the argument by insisting not only on a nominal lease but also on papers signed by Wescott and Lord Kerr promising to attempt to the best of their ability to live in peace. The papers were promptly given to the king, but it had taken Wescott several months to deliver the same documents to Lord Kerr.
“In addition, I offer my apologies to you if my behavior toward your son was less than appropriate. I do hope we have no cause to differ on that subject.”
“My son?” Kerr choked, wondering what the scamp had done now. “What has happened with my son?”
“We met on the road a few days past and exchanged heated words. Did he fail to mention it?”
“On my lands?” he questioned hotly.
“I fear it was, milord, putting me completely in error. I had hoped that delivering the papers, silver, and apologies would soothe any aches. I yield to you.”
Kerr, at an obvious disadvantage, grumbled slightly. “He didn’t mention the incident. I trust he considers it past.”
Trent smiled slowly. It came as no surprise that Stephen had kept it quiet. Had he thought to begin a small uprising, he could have relayed that he’d been whipped...but the king would not be sympathetic to reports of attempted rape and related crimes in the small farming burgs northwest of London. For all Charles’s apparent compliance with his enemies upon his return, he had no great love of the Kerr family. He had simply stated that he’d tired of hanging and kept peace among those who managed England during his exile wherever it was possible to do so. He was a king exhausted by war and out of money, thus opposed to nurturing further hatred.
“I am pleased, milord, to see that young Stephen makes as great an effort as I to see our troubles buried,” Trent said.
“He is not so very much younger than you are,” Julian spat hatefully. “Consider him not a youthful brat, sir knight, but the next ruler here.”
“Indeed, milord,” Trent agreed a little too eagerly. His sincerity did nothing to give Julian peace of mind. “He is certainly a man now.” He leveled his gaze on the aging baron and hoped that Kerr would take good notice that Stephen would not be accorded the consideration normally given to a child incapable of proper defense. “You may trust me that I see him thusly.”
They stood for a time, this small, aging baron with little but past political alliances to his credit, and a powerful and reckless man of great strength and with many good years left him. They were both painfully aware that Trent had not been offered libations or a chair to take his ease.
Trent pulled the purse filled with silver from inside his cape and placed it on the desk.
“Your burg is not a rich one, nor was there much to be sold from the house, yet you’ve never wanted for money, Sir Trent,” Julian observed.
“A man with any sense can draw a good yield from the gaming tables, my lord,” Trent replied, smiling.
“Perhaps we should discuss the crime upon these country roads,” Julian suggested, taking a seat behind his desk.
Trent was still offered no chair, but preferred to rise above the baron. “Your suggestion bears no accusation, does it, my lord?” he asked.
“‘Tis well known you’ve run with thieves on the back roads of the English and French countryside, Wescott. I point out that you are never lacking funds, that is all.”
“It is hardly well known, my lord, and only fools and gossips dare to babble of it. What is known well among the king and his friends are the battles I joined for Royalists and my escape from your lands when you were turning over prisoners to Roundheads. That would make a meaty discussion if—”
“We were ordered to speak no more of that incident.”
“Then let me only add that putting my reputation with that of thieves would be considered an insult of some great consequence. With a witness to bear it, I could call you out. And a duel, my lord, seems such a useless ordeal, when we can have all we want without your death as a result.”
Julian’s steely eyes penetrated Trent’s. It was such a miserable insult to be known an inferior warrior, with no good second in a son.
“Is there anything else, Sir Trent?” Julian asked uncomfortably.
“Another matter, barely worth your concern. You have an inmate here whose freedom I should like to buy. The lad has the name of Peter and it is rumored he threatened Stephen Kerr’s life. What is your price to stay his execution?”
“What interest have you in that?” he blustered. “He seems hardly worth your silver.”
Trent laughed easily, as if the subject amused him greedy. “You are very perceptive, my lord. I suspect that is how you’ve managed this many years through so many rulers. He is of little matter, and I am a poor man...but it is a family problem.”
Kerr cocked his head slightly and tapped his long, thin finger on the top of his desk. He was becoming unnerved by this presence and was glad to sit rather than pace about the room or otherwise show deference to Trent. He gave his curious attention, prompted by nervousness.
Trent’s motive was otherwise. He was genuinely interested in how much of the scandal about the villages Julian was aware of. His suspicion was that Julian knew nothing of his son’s occupation of terrorizing the villagers, prompting punishments and even executions with little cause, and wielding privy powers he did not possess.
“His mother is my laundress and I pay her three silvers regularly for her work. Part of that sum, you should be aware, would be rents and tithes to your purse, since she is your villein and in my employ. Yet, I cannot get clean shirts or linens with her son much on her mind. I would buy his freedom and, if you request it, move that family from your town. If they trouble you, my lord, I would—”
“They are no trouble,” Julian said with an uncertainty that implied he knew nothing at all of the family, save Peter. “And his good hand on a plow could prove useful if—”
“Ah, then his freedom is your intention,” Trent broke in. “Then allow me to hasten it and gain some fair treatment from my laundress for a small sum.” He raised one brow and bore down on the baron with insistence in his gaze. “Would you name that amount?”
Julian sighed impatiently. “I will see his freedom.”
“No, milord. I will see his freedom. Name your price and I will pay it.”
Kerr looked at him in shock. “You would waste your good coin on a bo
y of little matter to anyone?”
“I thought I explained; my linens mean a great deal to me.”
“But I said I would—”
“The documents state clearly that we will make a concerted effort, you and I, to maintaining peace in this country. It does not state we will trust each other.”
Julian could not have had the point driven home more clearly. He thought it possible that Wescott’s whole motivation lay in using the meeting as an excuse to make clear that he would be watching for a reason to declare open warfare.
“Twenty pounds.”
“Twenty? For a lad of no consequence but to my clean linen?”
“I can play your game as well as you, Wescott. If you want the boy, damn your clean shirts, you’ll pay twenty pounds for him or I’ll let that young buck of mine hang him.”
Kerr was red in the face by the time he finished, but Wescott smiled amiably.
“Very well, my lord. I shall count out twenty. Will you send a man to free him?”
“You may send a servant to take him in the morning. I will see him in clean breeches and with a stout meal. You will get your worth of twenty pounds.”
“I am to leave my coin on your word, Lord Kerr?”
“Damn you, Wescott. Mayhaps I’ll hang the boy. He did threaten my son’s life.”
Sir Trent took a deep breath, his chest growing broader and his great height looming. “Your signature appears on the papers as well, my lord. Let us not upset our strained friendship.”
Both men knew that nothing akin to friendship existed. Kerr instantly backed down, if for no other reason than to gain time to think. “Send your man with twenty pounds on the morrow and I’ll deliver the young farmer to his mother.”
Wescott had no idea whether Peter had a mother but would make it his business to find out. He hoped to learn as much from the young wench in his house as soon as possible. “Then you do not wish the family transported from your shire?”
“I’ve told you, I have need of my farmers. They pay my rents.”
“I stand informed, my lord. My servant will arrive in the morning with the requested sum. And you will not hold this youngster again without sending word to me?”
“If he does not attack his master again.”
“I can give you my word he will not.”
“And is that all?”
“It was a pleasure seeing you again, my lord.” Wescott smiled lazily. “A sincere pleasure.” Then he turned, his black cape swirling slightly, and quit the room.
The steward was close at hand to ensure that Sir Trent did not wander about Lord Kerr’s rich home but was quickly shown the door. His horse was held by a stable boy and Trent was watched as he mounted and rode away from the house.
Trent had carefully held his anger in check. Although his plan was clear and progress was daily being made to attain the vengeance he ached for, it was hard to consider these small, trifling matters of contracts and payments as progress. He was not a man who could be easily sated by an agreement to bury the past. What he truly hungered for was the blood of the man who had betrayed his family. And it appeared quite likely he would be robbed of that satisfaction. Julian Kerr looked ready to die a quiet and untroubled death in his bed. It was that fact more than any other that fanned the fire of his hate.
In little time and barely out of sight of the house, Trent came upon a coach that sported the Dearborn crest. He slowed his horse as he neared. He wondered at the intent of this for only a moment, when the door of the unguarded coach opened and Adrienne leaned well out. She was without cape, veil, or mask, and a lavish plumed hat crowned her head.
“Sir Trent,” she called, smiling broadly. “Sir Trent.”
There was a lone driver and two fine horses. It immediately occurred to him that he could kidnap her, steal the horses, kill the driver, or have any amount of fun with this vulnerable party. It likewise came to him that this could be a plot to threaten his own life if he acted at all. But then upon seeing Adrienne, he knew instantly her business.
“I could not have spoken to you at my uncle’s home,” she quickly explained. “Not now. Not knowing who you are.
“Conversation between us would most certainly be forbidden,” he said with a smile. “But you’ve gone to dangerous lengths, madam, and if you are caught, Lord Kerr will have you soundly beaten.”
“I am seldom caught,” she quipped. “Now I should like to know how we are to go about getting better acquainted. And quickly now, I can’t be gone for very long.”
Trent smiled at her impish quality and then began to laugh with very real amusement. “I beg your pardon, lady, but that is not a good idea. Your uncle would have to call me out and I would have to kill him. The king has already made clear that more death and murder would not please him.”
“But it is certain we must become friends,” she said, putting on a very attractive pout. “After all, neither of us cares for him. How can we let him ruin a wonderful friendship when—”
“Adrienne, I feel no obligation to honor, especially where Julian Kerr is involved. Do not play your strumpet games with me. I would not hesitate to use you. And our king,” he said, laughing lightly, “may frown upon more murder and battles, but it is very obvious he does not care who a man takes for his whore.”
“Sir,” she said, straightening somewhat and feigning shock. “I did nothing to invite such an insult. My suggestion has nothing to do with Uncle Julian. Only you and me.
“But you have failed to understand that it is too late for anything honorable to pass between my household and yours. And if you posture yourself before me again, I will answer your request and you will be spoiled for your future husband. And then, my dear Adrienne,” he said, tipping his hat slightly and giving her a very pleased smile, “we will know each other much, much better.”
Adrienne sat back in her seat with a petulant little huff and slammed the door to the coach. Trent continued to laugh at her as he turned his horse slightly and urged it into a gallop down the road.
With her arms crossed over her chest, her breath came in short, aggravated huffs as she burned with angry embarrassment. But before the sound of his horse’s departure faded from her ears, she was possessed by a delightful shiver. She leaned her head back and allowed a smile of pleasure. She thought perhaps she had finally met a man with enough power to deserve her.
FOUR
There was no fire in Sir Trent’s study, since the heat late in the day had become severe. Once bathed and suitably attired in some house servant’s skirt, Jocelyn lay on the settee in the small room as she was instructed. Avery had curtly commanded, “If he wants you here, then you’ll be where he can see you. Right here in his study you’ll wait, and I fear he spoke the truth; you may regret that you’ve bargained so carelessly. He’s a good master, Wescott, but I’ve never known him to be overkind.”
Jocelyn waited patiently after the evening meal she’d been given. The food was plentiful, also as Wescott had instructed. She ate of roasted hen, potatoes, carrots, and honeyed bread. It was certainly the greatest meal she’d known. And they had washed and brushed her hair. By the time Avery and the women servants found her appearance suitable, she felt akin to a princess from the pampering.
Her long, errant hair had been coiled atop her head and pinned there securely. She so adored the tight bun that she feared to rest her head lest she jar it loose. It could be they expected her to style her hair for herself on the next day. And the clothes were not rich but seemed so to her for they were cleaner and newer than anything she owned. Likewise, she was wearing both stockings and leather shoes, giving her to feel that she was highly privileged.
When sleep threatened to overtake her, she finally used the tinder and candle that Avery had pointed out to her. While chiding herself for being cowardly and foolish, she found she was frightened of the cool, dark study. Jocelyn had, for years, been able to look through the slats of her father’s roof to the sky as she fell asleep. Wescott’s study was a close room
, lined with books, heavy with furniture, and thick with the smell of his leather, perspiration, and liquor.
The house had been long quiet when she had allowed herself to drift into sleep. She had no idea the hour when she began to rouse, but instantly her thoughts were that she must better acclimate herself—she might be left to lie around his study, ready for some mysterious command, for days. Still, she sat up cautiously to look around the room again. The rich lived in such a strange, stifled way. Their houses were heavy, polished structures that contained so many possessions. The smells of the people were so different from anything she had known. Just the fact that she couldn’t hear and smell the breeding animals right within the room was a vast difference.
She looked at the dimly lit spines of the books on the shelves and dreamed that she might one day read their titles. When she felt safer here, she decided, she would hold them...if only to dust them. Although a bit of ciphering and spelling had been handed down to her, she still felt that nobles did things with pen and parchment that eluded her, had some methods of recordkeeping that her father committed to memory.
And Wescott named himself poor. She felt laughter come to her lips. On his command she was scrubbed, clothed, and fed like a visiting earl. Her family could barely provide the water for washing and would be hard pressed to find a lavish meal.
“Do you always sleep so restlessly?”
Jocelyn jumped at the sound of his voice and looked sharply toward his desk. He sat there, in the shadows of the single dim candle, watching her.
“I did not hear you return,” she whispered, still shaking slightly from the startling effect of his words.
“Some time ago,” he said. “Avery put you here?”
“Aye.”
She watched in his direction, his image not at all clear to her. She was aware only that he sat in the large chair behind his desk, that his shirt was shockingly white, and that he drank from a snifter of liquor. The odor of his leather and drink seemed to permeate the air about her more strongly, since she was sure of his presence. His face, shadowed, seemed darker, yet softer.
