Rhiannon.
She hadn’t flown the nest after all...hadn’t fled him. Relief unclenched his belly and loosened his balled fists.
She stood alone, light-footed as a butterfly, while the green ivy pressed against the glass as though yearning for her touch. In that moment, she was the soul of purity and innocence, and something in him longed for her—both her haunting sweetness and her flashing fire. For the healing grace only her gentle soul could offer.
Heedless of his surroundings, Beltran brushed past the hopeful ladies who loitered casually in his path and strode across the floor straight toward her, boot-heels ringing on the wood.
As though she heard him or sensed him, Rhiannon dropped her hand and turned. Her dark brows winged up. Her eyes widened, the same vivid green as her gown. Her breasts rose against the demure sarcenet bodice as though her breath quickened to see him.
And the sight made him harden, damn it to Hell.
Her lips parted to speak.
Beltran pivoted away from her, scrubbing a hand against his face, and seized upon the first distraction he glimpsed—an elegant figure in a mulberry doublet and trunk hose.
“Ah, Lord Beltran, there you are.” Sir Henry Bedingfield bowed. “A word with you, if I may.”
Beltran suppressed the urge to glance over his shoulder—just to check on her, make sure she hadn’t moved, admire her lissome silhouette before the window. But he refused to stare at the girl like a love-struck suitor. If for no other reason, he’d cause a scandal. The Blades of God were supposed to be celibate.
Belatedly, he made the popinjay a courteous leg. The man was worth his effort to cultivate—Mary’s creature through and through, trusted watchdog over Mary’s treasonous sister.
“Your servant, sir,” Beltran muttered.
Sir Henry gestured for wine. “You’ll understand, my lord, that Lady Elizabeth is not generally permitted visitors. This measure is for the lady’s own good, if she wishes to prove her innocence in the Dudley affair. Matters may yet go badly for her if she doesn’t.”
“No doubt,” Beltran said shortly. Her guardian didn’t seem overly concerned by the prospect.
Beltran beckoned the hovering servant for a cup. The midday meal, no liturgy until Nones; he could allow himself a little bread and wine without breaking the Lenten fast. He suppressed his impatience as the servant crept fearfully forward, tray shaking in her hands—a mouse bearding the lion in its den.
“There, child, I’m not going to eat you up,” he said gruffly, claiming his cup before the fool dropped the entire lot. “Fetch mulled wine for Lady Rhiannon there. Sir Henry, I’ve heard little on the road, but rumors are rife in Rome. The way the Pope heard it, the French are ready to invade this isle in Elizabeth’s name, and the Protestants to rise. Evidently one of Dudley’s conspirators panicked and confessed the entire mess to Archbishop Pole. His Holiness charged me to learn what I could.”
Sir Henry’s gaze flickered at this strategic mention of the Pope. “As a good Catholic and dutiful subject of a Catholic Queen, of course I can refuse nothing to God’s Vengeance. Your reputation precedes you, my lord.”
Sir Henry made a courteous leg, which Beltran waved away. “Never mind that, man. Save your bowing for God and your sovereign. Are the French coming or nay?”
“The plain truth of the matter is, we’ve no idea.” Sir Henry downed his wine like a man who needed it. “Harry Dudley is Elizabeth’s man, like all the Dudleys. His son Robert shared her imprisonment in the Tower in ’54, and there’s strong affection still between those two. The Dudleys are kin as well to the Duke of Northumberland—a connection not to be trifled with.”
Beltran grunted his assent and swirled the tart vintage around his tongue. At San Miguel, he’d learned to drink pig swill after a three-day fast and praise God for it, but this Burgundy was exceptional. Disgraced and under suspicion she might be, still Elizabeth Tudor lived like a princess.
“Now Dudley’s somewhere in France, raising an army to march on London.” Bedingfield shrugged. “Or so it’s said. A considerable sum was stolen from the Exchequer to pay for the rising, caches of arms turning up places they shouldn’t. And that arrogant fool Courtenay’s in it to his eyebrows. He has Plantagenet blood, you know, and they still consider themselves rightful kings of England, though the Lancasters trounced them utterly in the Wars of the Roses.”
“I’m familiar with English history,” Beltran said impatiently. Next the man would begin reminiscing about how Owen Tudor had bedded the widowed Lancaster queen and thus fathered the royal Tudor line, all of it well over one hundred years past. “What about Courtenay?”
“You’ll scarcely credit the man’s conceit, but he proclaims to all and sundry that he’ll marry Elizabeth and seize the throne.”
“Good Christ.” Beltran glanced darkly around the hall. White-rimmed eyes stared back at him. They saw him as the Pope’s man, enforcer of the dread Inquisition. The stench of fear in the room was thick enough to choke on, and now he understood why. “Is she part of it, do you think?”
Sir Henry voiced an elegant snort. “Her? Who can say? I’ve been her guardian for more than a year now, and the woman has made my life a merry hell, I can tell you. Nothing suits her, nothing pleases her, she confesses nothing and commits to nothing. She’ll obey no one and go nowhere she’s bidden. If I insist, she takes to her bed and carries on like she’s dying! I’ve never seen anything like it. Forsooth, this very day—”
Beltran intervened before the man could settle into what was clearly a familiar grievance. “I’ve no doubt she claims innocence, though a skilled questioner would have the truth from her. What of her people, her servants and intimates? Can no evidence be found, either to clear her or condemn her?”
Henry hesitated. “There are letters, written in code, found in the French ambassador’s saddlebags. Supposedly from her, but that can’t be proven. Predictably, the French king invoked diplomatic immunity for Monsieur de Noailles and recalled him to Paris. Therefore, he can’t be questioned.”
“But her folk here—”
“Put to the question.” At this casual mention of torture, Beltran frowned. “They’ve already arrested her servant, one Francis Verney, and seized her neighbor, John Bray. As for Sir Peter Killigrew—another neighbor and one of Elizabeth’s confidants—no one’s seen him in days.”
“No wonder this entire household’s starting at shadows.”
“The net’s tightening, never doubt it. If that redheaded vixen had anything to do with this conspiracy, even if she merely suspected it and said nothing, with even a little more evidence they’ll have her head off. Just like her mother, that adulterous witch Anne Boleyn.”
Beltran gave him a quelling look. He’d been an idealistic young knight of twenty when Henry Tudor’s second queen was beheaded in ’36. He’d sleep-walked through that summer, devastated by his failure to earn a priest’s chasuble solely because he hadn’t been able to keep his cock inside his codpiece.
Despite his personal tragedy, Anne Boleyn’s gruesome end had been the talk of Europe. The wronged husband, Old Harry himself, had served as judge and jury. So much for the showy trappings of English justice. And Beltran had always questioned the verdict.
Now, for some reason, his brain skipped from the travesty of Anne Boleyn’s trial and sentencing to the elfin beauty he’d found in the forest—the lady he resolutely kept behind him now. The same fate awaited her in the Inquisition’s hands if she couldn’t prove her inn
ocence...if he did nothing to protect her.
But protecting a suspect witch wasn’t his job. Far from it. Forgiveness was a priest’s work. God required utter ruthlessness from his Vengeance.
He looked coldly at the pompous prig before him, whom he neither liked nor trusted. “Has it occurred to you, sir, that if Mary Tudor dies without issue, this ‘redheaded vixen’ becomes your Queen and sovereign? She’ll not remember you fondly.”
“’Tis treason to predict the Queen’s death.” Sir Henry glanced warily around the banqueting hall, where subdued servants in green-and-white Tudor livery bustled to set the long table for dinner. “She’s devoted to her husband, and King Philip’s a proven breeder. A father of sons.”
“Father to an imbecile.” Beltran snorted. “That hunchbacked whelp from his last marriage, Don Carlos, is a bloody monster. Tortures his own horses to death for pleasure. Yet Philip thinks to wed the wretch to Elizabeth, since Philip can’t have her himself.”
“For the love of God, have a care!” Sir Henry murmured. “She’s his own wife’s sister, and he’s never offered her an unchaste word, no matter what the rumors. We’ll have our English prince from his union with Mary, never doubt it.”
Beltran had never been comfortable tiptoeing among the quagmires and shifting terrain of court intrigue. Until the Cardinal found him in that stinking coal-pit of a Yorkshire hovel, he’d been a mongrel with dirt beneath his nails. His own father had come close to crushing his skull with blacksmith’s fists the size of anvils. Thus, diplomacy had been a hard-won skill for Beltran. He placed far greater faith in violence.
Now he confined himself to a shrug. “The Holy Roman Emperor’s dying, God assoil him. As his heir, Spanish Philip can’t leave the Netherlands. He’ll need to farewell his Danish mistress and return to England if he wants an heir, or your Queen must go to him. Either way, at her age, conception would take a miracle.”
“I thought you believed in miracles.” Sir Henry eyed the holy emblem that swung against Beltran’s chest.
“That’s someone else’s job.” Beltran’s mouth hitched. “I’m the Church enforcer, not its saint.”
I’m the hired sword, nothing more, a glorified constable who hastens the guilty to Hell. And content with my calling, damn it.
“My duty toward the Queen requires constant vigilance,” Sir Henry said primly. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must inquire about the purpose that brings you to Hatfield. Who the Devil is that woman who rides with you? And, by the way, where has she gone?”
* * *
Rhiannon was staring longingly through the mullioned window at the verdant green beyond—freedom, if only she could reach it. If only she hadn’t sworn an oath to remain. Despite the sprinkle of plump crystal droplets on the ivy over the sill, the last clouds had scudded away. A torrent of sunlight, like honey from a pitcher, poured through the glass to warm her.
Though she’d placed her back to the whispering courtiers, none of whom had extended any overtures, she sensed the sudden presence that silenced the muted court like a hammer blow. Slowly, as if drawn by enchantment, she glanced over her shoulder. When she recognized Lord Beltran, the breath spilled from her lips, as though all the air had been sucked from the hall.
For once, he’d abandoned his austere black. Now he commanded the doorway without effort, broad shoulders encased in sapphire-blue brocade so dark it was nearly midnight. With his slashed doublet and dashing cape, heavy links of hammered gold spanning his chest and the sword in flames swinging over his heart, his shoulders nearly brushed the lintel on either side. A velvet cap, tilted at a stylish angle, set off his dark golden hair and rugged features to perfection.
Dear Lady, she’d never dreamed his battered saddlebags held such finery, or that a man of his holy discipline would condescend to such worldly garb. Only the high boots were familiar, beneath the dark luster of trunk hose clinging to sinewed thighs. He made her breathless; no doubt her stomacher was laced too tightly, which was why she felt like sinking into a maiden’s swoon. Vaguely she wondered whether she might be succumbing to some mortal fever.
Or perhaps she merely feared him. When she used her Sight, she could see the great winged form looming over him like a shadow, beautiful and brooding, a banner of shimmering white-gold hair streaming over the silver scales of his armor.
Surely even these mortals could sense that dread Presence, though they hadn’t the Sight to see it. They quailed visibly before him—or was it only that his reputation preceded him?
For Beltran’s part, barely contained impatience simmered in his piercing eyes as they dismissed the fluttering courtiers. When his gaze locked on her, an intensity leaped into his sun-bronzed features that arrested her breath. His eyes moved over her body, encased in tissue-thin sarcenet, and a muscle flexed in his jaw. Those glacier-blue eyes heated to flame. With a hooded gaze, he strode into the banqueting hall and made straight for her.
Rhiannon felt faint, overheated. The sun burning her back was far too warm. Surely that explained the butterfly flutter in her belly—not the lithe, barely leashed power in his gait as he closed the distance between them. And the way her heartbeat quickened, liquid warmth pooling low in her core. Merciful Goddess, what was happening to her?
Drawing a swift breath, she opened her mouth to address him. You see, Lord Beltran, I have not fled. Even a Faerie must honor her oath.
Before she could utter a syllable, he pivoted away, leaving her startled and uncertain. He descended upon the elegant Sir Henry, whose lean figure was instantly dwarfed by Beltran’s muscled frame. As she struggled to master her unsteady pulse, Rhiannon hardly knew whether she felt irritated or relieved to be abandoned.
“Lady Rhiannon!” Elizabeth Tudor’s commanding voice brought her spinning toward her royal hostess.
Among the strained mortal faces surrounding them, the daughter of King Henry VIII glowed like the sun in splendor, flaming hair vivid against a stylish gown of sage-green velvet. Surely this Dudley business had placed her under intolerable strain, but the lady disguised it magnificently.
“Mercy, I would scarce recognize you!” Elizabeth declared with satisfaction. “The bath has done you worlds of good.”
“I’m profoundly grateful for thy hospitality, Your Grace.”
Rhiannon dipped into a curtsey as Linnet had taught her, not a difficult obeisance to perform before this woman, though Rhiannon herself was styled a princess. The artful tilt to her ruddy head, the mischief dancing in those glimmering silver eyes, the vitality that crackled from her slender form—all proclaimed the wild Fae blood Elizabeth shared with Rhiannon and no other in this vast echoing chamber.
Again she felt that sneaking sense of kinship—royal bastards, both of them, despised and distrusted, belonging nowhere. But she mustn’t be seduced by this illusion of likeness, the alluring prospect of easing her own loneliness. The Fae required a treaty with the English sovereign, and that was her only purpose.
Blithely Elizabeth said, “I’ve instructed my steward you’ll remain until tomorrow, to effect a full recovery.”
“Oh?” This was welcome news, yet she hesitated. “Has Lord Beltran—?”
“We shall inform him shortly. I wished also to assure you I’ve dispatched men to search for your missing comrades.”
“Oh, I’m so grateful!” Despite the certain prospect of Beltran’s reaction to the
delay, Rhiannon beamed at her. If only she could locate Ansgar! Her retinue had been utterly decimated, but surely he would know what to do.
“Indeed, ’tis I who am grateful.” Elizabeth slipped effortlessly into the Roman tongue—Latin, these mortals called it. “Sir Henry would have run me to earth like a rabbit if you and your...protector...hadn’t intervened.”
Rhiannon couldn’t help glancing at Beltran, who stood with his broad back to her, consulting with Sir Henry in muffled tones.
“Lady Elizabeth, I think you overstate your peril.” The Roman tongue came to her effortlessly, unlike the new English. And she couldn’t help smiling at the drama. The Tudor princess was twenty-three, so Linnet said, yet she frolicked beneath the shadow of the block with all the reckless fire of thirteen. “Surely Sir Henry seeks only your protection.”
Elizabeth continued to smile, but her silver eyes hardened to steel. She looped her arm through Rhiannon’s. “Come. Walk with me.”
Rhiannon was familiar enough with royalty to recognize a command when she heard one. Still she hesitated, glancing again at Beltran. Suddenly she wanted to slip up behind him, spread her hands across his shoulders, and knead the tension from them. A healer’s impulse, surely, and one he wouldn’t welcome.
Elizabeth’s quick eyes followed hers, and those reddish brows arched. “Or perhaps you don’t wish to be parted? Are you in love with him?”
Rhiannon blurted a startled laugh, face heating. Such an outlandish notion had never occurred to her, and she held no doubt the mere utterance would shock the man they called God’s Vengeance. With his stubborn sense of duty toward the Inquisition, Lord Beltran Nemesto was the closest thing to an adversary she confronted in this realm.
Besides, no man had ever desired her in that way. She’d lived a thousand years by mortal reckoning, though time flowed differently in Faerie. Yet she’d never been so much as kissed. To men of the Fair Folk, her mortal blood tainted her.
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