by Shari Anton
Four days! Certes, the king couldn’t spend all four days in war council, could he?
Well, if she couldn’t go through the clerks, or appeal to the chamberlain above them, then she would have to go around them all. Make a direct assault on the royal chambers. Somehow get past the doorway’s guards.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have any effective weapons in her armory—save one. Bravado.
She would give the king today and tomorrow to meet with his counselors. Early on the morning after, she would be among the throng of courtiers, advisors, and attendants milling outside his chamber door, prepared to sneak, bluff, or push her way inside.
No matter if she lowered her standing at court—which was already so low she didn’t see how she could sink further—she would keep her oath to Nicole. Pride and honor, and her own peace of mind, demanded she do no less.
Darian of Bruges strode through the passageways of the royal residence beside William of Ypres, commander of the Flemish mercenaries, matching his stride to that of his shorter and rounder mentor.
He’d made this trek several times over the past years, and each time Darian felt amazement that he was allowed onto Westminster Palace’s grounds, much less into the royal chambers. Of course, there were people who would prefer that a man of his ilk not be allowed in the city of London, much less inside the palace.
Too bad.
King Stephen needed men like Darian if he hoped to win his war against the Empress Maud. Men willing to take risks, capable of accomplishing those tasks that men of refinement were reluctant to undertake. A mercenary skilled in warfare, willing to do whatever necessary to defeat an enemy.
His boot heels clicked against the highly polished plank floors, too loudly for a man accustomed to approaching others too quietly for them to hear before he struck. But then, this morn, his only task was to act as an added set of ears and eyes for his commander.
An easy task, but one few others could perform. Not only did William trust Darian’s keenly honed ability to assess his surroundings, but Darian was also a member of a carefully chosen band of mercenaries who knew William’s eyesight had begun to fail. King Stephen didn’t yet know of the mercenary commander’s difficulty, and William planned to keep the problem secret until it interfered with his ability to command troops in battle.
Darian hoped that time might not come for many years yet.
“Do you know why we have been summoned, or who else will be present?” Darian asked.
William shook his head. “The clerk did not say, though I would not be surprised to see Bishop Henry. He did not approve of the plan we decided upon yester noon and I fear he may have convinced the king to change his mind.”
Damnation! If the king changed his mind, then Darian wouldn’t be leaving London anytime soon, and Edward de Salis, a vile, evil man, would continue to ravage villages and maim and murder more innocents.
The son of a baron, Edward de Salis took advantage of the war’s upheaval to add coin to his coffers, uncaring who suffered from his endeavors. Though warned several times to cease, de Salis ignored the king’s orders in his pursuit of wealth.
The villain must be stopped. Yesterday, the king had finally given Darian the order to bring the villain to his knees, then send him to hell.
Unfortunately, one of the complaints often heard about King Stephen was his inability to withstand a convincing argument, and Henry, bishop of Winchester, the king’s brother, who hadn’t approved of King Stephen’s decision on de Salis, was quite adept at presenting convincing arguments.
“Bishop Henry might not feel so generous toward de Salis if his villages were being burned and his people harmed.”
“Too true. Do you see him?”
They were nearing their destination. Darian’s height proved useful as he glanced around at the men and women milling in front of the doors to the antechamber.
“Nay. Nor do I see any of the earls or other advisors present yester noon.”
A good sign. If Bishop Henry had, indeed, won King Stephen over, the bishop would surely be present to gloat.
“Perhaps they are already in the king’s chambers. Ah, the doors open.”
The huge oak doors swung wide. The crowd rushed forward to enter the antechamber. Pushing and shoving ensued, each person trying to gain advantage over their fellows. Their efforts would do them no good. Unless they’d been summoned by the king or paid the clerk a goodly sum beforehand, they would be forced to wait until the clerk deemed them worthy of entry into the royal presence.
One woman had apparently come to that conclusion. Garbed in a topaz-hued bliaut covering a white chemise, the softly rounded, dark-haired woman actually seemed hesitant to pass into the antechamber. Darian saw her nervousness in the flight of a hand over a gauzy veil that needed no smoothing, her uncertainty in the touch of a finger to the gold circlet that held her shimmering white veil in place. From behind her, he couldn’t see her face, but could well imagine the misgivings he might glimpse in her eyes.
When he found himself wondering what color the lady’s eyes might be, he pulled his attention back to where it belonged.
He and William edged forward at the back of the crowd, the king’s summons guaranteeing they would be among the first admitted to the king’s audience chamber. Which suited Darian immensely. He didn’t like crowds and found the air in the palace stifling. Better this audience was over quickly so he could get on with more important duties and not have to deal with personages of noble birth, most of whom couldn’t be bothered with anything other than their own petty concerns.
The lady in topaz bowed her head and positioned herself close behind two large men who shouldered their way through the middle of the crowd, doing her best to avoid notice by the guards on either side of the door. She slipped into the antechamber without challenge and Darian could almost feel her relief.
She’s not supposed to be here.
He admired the lady’s boldness, but knew her efforts were for naught. She may have sneaked past the first set of guards, but would never get past the clerk if she wasn’t on his list of those who would be allowed to speak with the king. And he highly doubted she was on the clerk’s list.
Her problem wasn’t his problem. There was nothing he could do to help her, even if he wanted to, which he didn’t.
Still, his curiosity prodded him to nudge William and ask softly, “The woman in topaz. Do you know who she is?”
William squinted. “Lady Emma de Leon. Have you heard her tale?”
He’d heard of the woman and her plight.
“Daughter of Sir Hugh de Leon, who had the misfortune of dying while fighting for Empress Maud. King Stephen’s ward. Barely tolerated at court.” As he was grudgingly tolerated. He brushed aside an unwanted pang of kinship. “Must a royal ward be on the clerk’s list for her to speak with the king?”
“Probably. Why?”
“Merely wondering.”
Thankfully, William accepted the explanation without comment because Darian truly couldn’t explain his curiosity over the king’s ward.
Lady Emma glanced furtively from side to side, likely looking for a place to hide, giving him brief glimpses of her profile.
He could see she was a young woman, possessed of creamy, unflawed skin. Her pert nose was offset by a strong jaw, a quality Darian found intriguing.
Though her flowing bliaut hid the exact proportions of her form, the width of her shoulders, the tuck of her waist, and the spread of her hips suggested all of her curves were nicely rounded and well endowed. The hands he’d admired when she’d smoothed her veil were graceful, and her movements might be furtive, but they weren’t clumsy.
Lady Emma might not be the most exquisite woman he’d ever seen, but she was certainly lovely and interesting enough for a man to give a second look.
Rather, for a nobleman to give a second look, not a mercenary.
To his chagrin, Darian still wanted to know the color of Lady Emma’s eyes, but he didn’t have the chance
to inspect her more closely. Duty called. Darian followed William to the next doorway, this one guarded by an imperious clerk, as well as two burly soldiers.
The clerk bowed. “Earl William, you are expected.” Darian almost smiled at the clerk’s obeisance. Indeed, the king had granted William, a mercenary of noble birth, enough land, rights, and fees to hold the title of earl of Kent. Accustomed to becoming lost in William’s shorter shadow, Darian wasn’t surprised when the clerk didn’t acknowledge him, merely gave a hand signal to the guard to open the door.
Then the clerk glanced up, and a sly gleam within his eyes sent a shiver down Darian’s spine. Something was amiss.
He entered the inner chamber behind William, his senses alert. All seemed calm and normal enough. King Stephen sat in his ornate armed chair, the chamberlain standing beside him, their expressions giving nothing away.
No one else was in the room. Not even a servant. Still, Darian sensed a threat and for the life of him couldn’t figure out why the back of his neck tingled— until he heard shouts coming from the antechamber.
“Make way for the bishop! Stand aside! Make way!” The bishop had to be Henry, and Darian’s conjecture was confirmed when he heard the man’s voice.
“Let them in! Let them all into the royal chamber to witness the king’s justice!”
“What the devil is Henry about?” William muttered. Darian didn’t know, but whatever the bishop was up to couldn’t be good.
Henry, the powerful bishop of Winchester, brother of the king, garbed in the full regalia of his office, burst into the chamber. He hustled toward King Stephen followed by four soldiers bearing a litter.
The room filled up with people. The air grew close and overly warm.
Bishop Henry pointed to a spot on the floor in front of the king. The men lowered the litter.
Darian heard the buzz of voices, was well aware of William uncomfortably shifting his stance, but nothing could tear his gaze from the face of the obviously dead man on the litter.
The face of Edward de Salis, the vile, evil man who yester noon the king had given Darian the order to assassinate. Someone had gotten to de Salis first.
“Darian of Bruges!” Bishop Henry shouted. “I accuse you of murder!”
Chapter Two
Emma marveled at her good luck. She’d been prepared for an encounter with an overbearing clerk when fate intervened, easing her entry to the royal chamber. Of course, she still might have to wrestle with the clerk, but she was closer to her goal and she would allow no one to stop her now.
At the moment she couldn’t see what transpired at the front of the chamber. She’d caught a glimpse of Bishop Henry when he’d passed through the antechamber with the litter bearers in his wake. Who the poor man on the litter might be, or how he’d died, she didn’t know.
However, the bishop had called out the name of the man he accused of murder. Darian of Bruges.
An unusual name—Darian.
“I did not murder Edward de Salis.”
His deep, rich voice rang strong and clear through the chamber, and Emma craned her neck to locate the owner of the powerful voice. But the men she’d used as a shield to get into the chamber were too broad and tall to see around.
No matter. The dead man and his murderer had nothing to do with her. Giddy with anticipation, Emma inched her way forward, certain that once this distraction was over, she could better judge how to approach the king.
“Is this not the man you described to us yesterday as vile and evil?” the bishop asked.
“He is,” Darian answered.
“This morn, he was found dead in an alley on Watling Street in Southwark, his throat slit.”
“How fortunate for us all.” Darian’s droll comment drew snickers from a couple of people in the crowd.
She could see the bishop now. In his flowing robes, he stood near where King Stephen sat in an elegantly carved, armed chair and listened intently. She also saw the Flemish mercenary captain, Earl William, a favorite of Queen Matilda’s who often visited the queen’s solar, step over to the litter to stare down at the dead man.
“You are known for your skill with a dagger, Darian. Have you your dagger with you?” the bishop asked.
“Weapons are not allowed in this chamber. I would not be so witless as to bring one into the royal presence. My dagger is with my belongings in the barracks and I can produce it, if you wish.”
Emma squeezed into a small space between two people, inching forward once again.
“You did not sleep in the barracks last night,” the bishop stated, his ire becoming palpable. “There are those among your own fellows who will testify they saw naught of you until the dawn. Can you produce trustworthy witnesses to attest to your whereabouts?”
For several heartbeats silence reigned.
“Nay.”
After a slight shift Emma saw the accused. While murmurs floated around her, she paid them no heed, aware only of the handsome, sandy-haired, hazel-eyed man garbed all in black.
She almost gasped aloud, her pulse quickening as she recognized Darian of Bruges. Broad of shoulder, narrow in the hip, long and lithe, he stood with his feet spread apart slightly, his arms crossed over his chest, a stance sublimely suited to him.
Amazement mingled with a heady sense of anticipation that weakened her knees. After years of waiting, of comparing all other men to him, the lover of her vision had finally appeared.
Emma closed her eyes and envisioned Darian as clearly as the first time she’d seen him. She knew what his upper body looked like without clothing—all taut, sculpted muscle. His lower arms were a sun-touched bronze. Beneath his lowest left rib, he bore a scar. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled, and his smile for her, when holding out his hand in seductive, tantalizing invitation, was glorious.
She hadn’t touched his hand in the vision, but had always imagined his touch warm, his grasp firm and sure, his fingers clever and knowledgeable.
True, she’d expected her lover to be Norman or Welsh, akin to her own mixed heritage, but his name implied— Emma’s eyes snapped open as reality returned with a hard slap to her senses. Bruges was a town in Flanders, so Darian must be a Flemish mercenary! And he stood accused of murder!
Sweet God in his heaven!
Oh, cruel fate! A mercenary? A murderer?
Surely she would never bed a murderer!
She frantically studied Darian’s expression, searching for signs of guilt or innocence. His stoicism gave naught away.
“Sire, consider,” the bishop pleaded. “Darian of Bruges is known to hold Edward de Salis in contempt. He cannot produce witnesses to attest to his whereabouts last night. Nor, I believe, can he produce his dagger.” The bishop held out his hand to one of the litter bearers. The flash of silver passed between the men’s hands. “This dagger was found beside de Salis’s body. I believe it belongs to Darian of Bruges.”
Darian’s eyebrow arched, but he made no move toward the bishop. Neither did he confirm or deny ownership.
Two heartbeats of silence later, Earl William held out his hand. “Give me that.”
With a nasty smile the bishop handed the weapon over. “ ’Twould seem you have less control over your mercenaries than you would have us believe, William.”
William tapped the blade against his palm, his eyes narrowing with anger. “I have never known Darian to be less than honest, and I believe his denial of any knowledge of this deed. Whoever killed de Salis has done a fine job of making it appear Darian is guilty.”
Bishop Henry waved a dismissive hand. “Spoken as a commander in defense of one of his favorites. I might allow the possibility of his honesty if Darian could produce one trustworthy witness to his whereabouts. But he either cannot, or will not.”
All looked again to Darian.
Emma edged her way forward, silently begging him to relent. To prove his innocence by telling the bishop where he’d been last night and with whom.
He simply turned to William and, in that s
ame unwavering tone, stated, “I know not who killed de Salis, or why my dagger is not with my other belongings, but I swear to you, he did not die by my hand.”
The denial rang true. Darian hadn’t killed de Salis, no matter the bishop’s accusations. No matter his inability to provide proof. As Earl William said, someone had betrayed Darian. Surely the king would hear and see the truth.
King Stephen rose from his chair and held out his hand to William, who handed over Darian’s dagger. The king flipped it over in his palm, staring down at the weapon— frowning mightily.
A bad omen, that frown.
Dread and anger over her visions flooded through her, and she was once more unprepared and uncertain over what she was supposed to do.
Did the visions reveal future events that couldn’t be changed, or were they glimpses of possibilities that could be altered?
The confusion had plagued her from an early age. Bewildered and sometimes frightened by seeing odd things in pools of water, she’d told her mother of what she saw. Mother had looked on her with pity, told her to keep the sightings to herself. So Emma had obeyed, told no one, not even her mother.
The pang of grief was sharp, the guilt nearly overwhelming over the one vision she wished she’d possessed the wisdom and courage to reveal. Perhaps if she’d told someone that her mother would die giving birth to Nicole, either her mother or the midwives could have done something to prevent the death.
Or perhaps not. She could well have been accused of causing her mother’s death by foretelling it.
And if she hadn’t turned coward and foreswore the visions, might she have been able to warn her father of the danger at Wallingford, warned him to be cautious? And despite the warning might he and her brother have died anyway?
Damn. She never invited the visions, didn’t want to know what might happen in anyone’s future because she never knew what was best, as now.
Would Darian come away unscathed if she held her peace, or must she interfere to save his life so her vision of him would come true?
The king now stared at Darian, and Emma wrestled with the dilemma of what to do if Darian refused to save himself from a hangman’s noose.
