by Shayla Black
Aye, she had been mistaken in thinking a wealthy husband would make a good one. Sir Rankin had proven that quite wrong.
In fact, she had been wrong about happiness needing a home to flourish. It merely needed a heart within which to grow. ’Twas so clear now. Gwenyth wished she had seen such sooner. Then she frowned. For all that Aric had been at times difficult and uncommunicative, he had understood what she had not.
But he did not understand everything. For instance, he did not understand running from his home would not bring him happiness. He failed to realize that lying to her about his identity, accusing her of bedding down with him simply for his title, then abandoning her when she finally admitted she loved him, were churlish and despicable. The wretched coxcomb.
Gwenyth muttered a curse. By the moon and the stars, she had cried for him, yearned and pined like the most foolish of maidens! And what had he done, beyond leave her to the care of a stranger, fight a battle after swearing he would not, then never return for her?
Aric Neville was a fen-sucked lout, just as she had always suspected.
Did the rotten codpiece actually believe she would let him loose so easily, without feeling the edge of her angry tongue?
If he did, he was twice the fool!
One last time, she would see Aric and tell him exactly what she thought of his mangy, ill-mannered hide.
Jumping to her feet, Gwenyth began to leave, then remembered her distraught cousin and her husband’s aging mentor.
Gwenyth bit her lip, her mind racing. She could not simply leave them, Nellwyn during her most unhappy time of need and Guilford without a chatelaine.
The old man must have seen something in her eyes, for they sparkled as he smiled. “For a moment, your step seemed suddenly vigorous. Think you of going somewhere?”
If Gwenyth had not known better, she would swear the man had gypsy blood and could read minds. “I— Well…I had thought… I must see Aric.”
The old man’s mouth curled up into a grin. “Indeed, you must.”
“But—” She gestured to Nellwyn, who still sat quietly, clutching her daughter to her chest, weeping.
“I will care for her,” he whispered for her ears alone.
“But—” She waved a hand to indicate her surroundings.
“Nellwyn is well qualified to take over a chatelaine’s duties whilst you are gone, is she not?” At Gwenyth’s hopeful nod, Guilford continued. “You see, all will be well here. Such duties may relieve her mind of her troubles. For now, you go.”
Gwenyth clutched the earl’s hands. “Thank you, Guilford. I know the words are not much…”
“Nonsense,” the old man insisted, smiling. “I have had the pleasure of a lovely lady’s company for some months now. You have no need to thank me.”
Stopping the smile creeping across her mouth seemed impossible. “You are incorrigible.”
“Nay, I leave that to your husband. And by the way, you may tell him when next you see him that—”
“Believe me, my lord, when I tell you I will fill his rogue’s ears until they bleed, if need be.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Aric stood inside the Tower’s outer walls but still exposed to London’s gray and biting late September chill as he waited for the summons.
By the saints, he had not wished to return. The royal missive he had received just a week past crinkled within his grip. But it could not be ignored.
Cursing, Aric stared at the door of the king’s temporary chambers within the Bloody Tower, the same room in which King Henry had stripped him of his future and doomed his marriage only a month ago.
Why, when he had barely returned to the cottage and begun his existence of lifeless isolation, was the king forcing him back to London? Why, when he had nearly blocked out the exact blue of Gwenyth’s eyes, had Henry chosen to summon him now?
To further degrade his rank?
To throw him back in the Tower?
He gritted his teeth at the thought of either.
After Aric had spent an hour impatiently pacing, the door swung open and a guard bade Aric to enter the king’s domain.
Little had changed in the past month, except that King Henry had been officially coroneted, and the crown now sat upon his head. His clothing and apartments were a bit more opulent, and a small court crowd surrounded him, but the king still had mystery dancing in his dark eyes.
“So, Aric Neville, you have finally arrived?” he said by way of greeting.
Executing a respectful bow, Aric murmured, “Sire.”
The king dismissed his court followers with a wave. Most, fugitives from the crown under Richard’s reign, stared at Aric with speculation as they left.
Once they had gone, King Henry leaned back in his deep chair and regarded Aric with a watchful gaze. “Know you what the most difficult part of being a new king is?”
Aric tried not to allow his resentment or puzzlement to show. Purposely, he lowered his gaze to the stone floor, hoping the king would take it as a sign of respect. Damnation, he could not fathom why the king would utter such a question to him, a question that seemed to invite confidences of Aric—a man in whom the king had little faith—and why Henry had dragged him all the way to London to ask it.
“I confess, Your Highness, I do not.”
“’Tis knowing who to trust, Neville.” The king rose and paused before settling his weighty gaze upon Aric once more. “Many of the men who fought for me were French and have returned home. I must find trustworthy Englishmen and reward them for stabilizing the country to a new reign, loyal men strong enough to hold land in my name. And I know not always who is friend and who is foe.”
With a nod, Aric indicated he understood the king’s logic. But he had no notion why King Henry disclosed this fact to him when he had all but made his displeasure clear upon their last meeting.
“The Tower is filled with such men,” the king went on. “Take your neighbor Northumberland, for instance.”
Northumberland? Aric frowned. The man’s loyalties should not be in question. He, no doubt, would accept Richard back on the throne this day were such possible. Henry would never view such a strong supporter of the previous king as a true ally.
“Your face bespeaks confusion. I would have you tell me why,” Henry barked.
Aric grappled with the truth. Would he, in speaking his knowledge, consign Northumberland to death? If he said naught and Northumberland thought to aid the revolt said to be under plan even now, what would happen to England?
Was this question some royal trap, well plotted?
“Sire, why ask me of Northumberland’s loyalties if you do not even trust mine?”
“I know your reasoning for lining up beneath Richard’s standard, Neville, just as I know you stood beside Northumberland before the battle began. What I do not know is the man’s mind.”
Muttering a curse, Aric regarded the king with wary eyes.
“Do not hesitate!” King Henry roared. “I would have the truth and have it now!”
Sighing, Aric knew he had little choice. Better to see Northumberland executed than an entire nation possibly plunged into death and disorder once more.
“’Tis doubtful Northumberland can be counted among your friends, sire.”
The king nodded thoughtfully. “For whom did he fight?”
He hesitated but again knew he must speak. “For Richard Plantagenet.”
Furrowing his brow, King Henry regarded him with uncertainty. “How did he fight?”
“He was to await further orders behind the hill. I believe he could not see the battle in progress from behind the slope, so—”
“Did he never move to attack?” The king’s face reflected disbelief.
“He did, Your Highness, but ’twas much later. He, along with his men, became stuck in the marshy soil before they could engage your forces in battle.”
The king nodded. “’Twould explain his position on the plain when my men arrested him. That is all. You may go.”
>
Familiar with King Henry’s abrupt dismissals, Aric knew he should leave, but his conscience made him linger. Aye, he had never liked Northumberland but did not wish to see another die, particularly because of his words.
“Sire, I know I am in no position to request favors, but I must beg one now.”
King Henry raised an imperious dark brow. “That is presumptuous of you, Neville.”
Aric cleared his throat and forged ahead while he had the king’s ear. “Do not brand Northumberland a traitor because of my words. If you deem him one, like many of the others in the Tower, execute him for his service to King Richard alone.”
“I have heard you are a man of great honor. And you have shown me thus today.” He paused, as if in thought. “Very well, I will consider your request.”
Aric wished he had the daring to ask for the return of his home and title so that he might be with Gwenyth now.
Someday, perhaps with continued service to England’s new king, he might receive some scrap of land, mayhap even a tiny barony.
And perhaps not.
What irony that the very importance he had once fled in misery was now the one thing he needed to bring him lifelong joy.
“Thank you, sire.” Aric bowed his farewell, then turned to leave.
He would return to the cottage, where he would spend endless days dreaming of the times he had held Gwenyth, wondering what their lives would have been like had war not intervened, imagining the faces of the children they would never share. He would go on enduring the torture of sleepless nights, no longer haunted by the screams of dead princes but the silent death of his heart instead, wilting, withering, wasting away.
Still, he had seen to Gwenyth’s happiness, and for the rest of his life, he must take comfort in that.
As Aric reached the door, the guard pulled it open, and the gray afternoon swept in with the wind.
“Wait, Neville!” the king called.
The guard shut the door in Aric’s face.
Given no choice but to face his new sovereign again, Aric wondered what the king might want now. Suddenly, he felt too tired to stay a moment longer. A dismal future awaited.
“There is more on your mind. I see that upon your face.”
Aric swallowed, uncertain how to respond. He could not tell the king that he craved the return of the possessions he had seized. The impertinence alone would likely get him killed.
Still, without Gwenyth, he had only misery to lose and a bright love to regain.
Despite his knotted stomach, he forged ahead. “Twice I have sworn fealty to you. I answered your summons with all haste and told you a truth about an old neighbor, which brings me great unrest.”
Cynicism settled over the king’s face. “And now you wish a reward for your valiant service?”
Aric curled his damp palms into fists, wondering what had plagued him to take such a risk. Love, he knew. Only love. As only love gave him strength now.
“Nay, sire. I wish only the return of what was mine.”
Henry raised a dark brow. “Do you assume what is yours includes the lands and titles once belonging to your uncle, Warwick?
Aric recoiled from the thought. Once, he had sought nothing more than the power associated with Warwick. Now he hoped the entire earldom rotted for all the grief it had caused his family for generations.
He cleared his throat. “Nay, sire. If you feel inclined to confer it upon someone, you should consider my uncle’s widow. Her claims were long ignored by Richard Plantagenet.”
Astonishment changed the king’s features. “Again, you surprise me, Neville.”
“I no longer seek the benefit of Warwick for myself, but that which will benefit England and her people.”
“Of what benefit do you speak?” Henry frowned.
“Limiting the power of noble families to prevent further wars over succession. Having a good, fair man upon the throne. And I will serve you loyally as long as you serve England thus.”
King Henry studied him. “I hear you resisted serving Richard with your battle prowess some time ago and that he all but forced you to Ambien plain in August. Be that true, Neville?”
He swallowed again, his heart pounding faster than a charging steed’s hooves. “Aye. He had ceased serving England well.”
“You know this for certain?”
Instead of the familiar pain he had lived with for nearly a year, only a deep sadness settled in his gut. “I know more than I would like.”
King Henry raised a brow, seemingly intrigued. “If I asked you today, would you take up a blade in defense of me?”
“I already have, sire,” he answered in all truth.
“So you have.” King Henry nodded thoughtfully. “So you have.”
“I would do so again if need be.”
“Do you swear this?” Henry demanded.
Churning with uncertainty, with hope, Aric nodded.
“Very well. I grant the return of your lands and titles, Lord Belford.”
His heart leaped as relief infused him. Already he wanted to be gone from London. To Hartwich he would ride tomorrow—nay, tonight. Already he could picture Gwenyth, taste her, feel the love in her touch—
“I believe you will serve me well when I need you,” said the king suddenly.
Aric heard the confidence in the king’s voice, and gladness bloomed within him. “I believe you will serve England well, sire.”
With that, Aric bowed and left, his stomach dancing with anticipation for a blessed and beloved future.
* * * *
A grueling six days later, Aric arrived at Hartwich as the sun rose above the sleeping brown-and-rust-hued countryside. He scarcely noticed nature’s display of the autumn as he vaulted off his horse and strode toward the great hall. Dog barked in greeting, then bounded toward him.
Stooping to pet the gray mutt, whose wildly wagging tail hit the earth with repeated thumps, Aric greeted Dog.
When he looked up, Guilford stood before him.
The old man did not often show his disapproval. Today, he did. His scowl showed all the subtlety of a thunderclap. Aric flinched.
“So you’ve returned?” the old man asked sharply.
Despite his pounding heart, Guilford would no doubt make him earn his place by Gwenyth’s side once more. “Aye. I’ve come for my wife. Where is she?”
The old man shrugged then turned for the great hall.
“Why should you believe she would stay here with strangers after you abandoned her?”
As he followed his mentor inside, Aric’s stomach plummeted to his knees. Gwenyth gone? “I did not abandon her.”
“You left her to my care with no intent to return.”
“Damnation, Guilford, much has changed, and I confess my error. That I know well. Do not make me spar with you, for I shall have to beg well enough to my wife as it is.”
“You have learned to stay by her side, no matter what?”
“Aye.”
“And if she will have you, what of politics and battle? Any life you choose will most certainly contain both, unless you plan to return Gwenyth to your hovel.”
“I would not do such to her,” Aric vowed, then hesitated. “’Tis why I did not come sooner. On the battlefield, as I fought for King Henry—”
“You switched sides?”
Aric nodded. “’Twas the only fight my conscience would allow.” At Guilford’s frown, he went on. “During the battle, I realized I did not hate the war as much as I hated my own ambition and the way King Richard had used it.”
“I do not—”
“I know you do not understand me now. Soon, I will explain. Now I must be with my wife.”
Guilford paused, and Aric feared the old earl would say naught. Damnation, if Gwenyth had indeed left, he would tear apart the countryside, look in every forest and shire until—
“She has gone to your cottage.”
Aric’s mouth dropped open in shock. “The cottage? But she… I do not—”
Scowling, Aric resisted leaving Hartwich until he understood Gwenyth’s actions. Had she gone to be with him? Had she gone to show him the sharp side of her anger? Had she gone to tell him he needed never return to her side?
“My lord Belford?” called a quiet, unfamiliar female voice from the corner.
Aric looked beyond his mentor’s shoulder, until his gaze fixed on a wan, dark-haired lady.
Nellwyn? “Lady Brinkley.”
Why was she here at Hartwich?
“I know you realize I wasn’t always kind to Gwenyth. She always had so much beauty. My own father asked me why I could not be more like her…” She trailed off, her tone full of apology.
“She understands,” Aric said, making his way to the door.
“Wait, please.”
Aric turned back to her, impatient to be away. “Aye?”
“If she resists you, tell her…tell her I said if I had a man who loved me so, I would sacrifice nearly anything to keep him.” Slow tears ran down the woman’s face.
“Sir Rankin beat her for birthing a girl,” Guilford whispered to Aric.
Gritting his teeth against an unexpected surge of anger, Aric vowed to seek the sorry bastard out and pummel his face blue.
“Beat him, if you wish,” said Guilford, seeming to read his thought, “but we received word just yestereve that King Henry stripped Sir Rankin of all his lands. ’Tis fitting, I think.”
“It is, but I still plan to beat him,” whispered Aric. To Nellwyn, he called, “I will tell Gwenyth exactly what you said, good lady.”
Now he only hoped Gwenyth still felt the love she had once confessed, the love he had yet to tell her he returned with the whole of his body and heart.
* * * *
Gwenyth meandered about the empty cottage, wishing she had brought Dog with her, but she hadn’t wanted reminders of Aric, and sad Nellwyn seemed to favor the animal. Mayhap she should not have released Guilford’s escort to return to Hartwich Hall so quickly, but she had not wanted the dubious comfort of strangers, either.
