by Banks, Evie
They are nearly at the gates and I send this letter with a rider. Read it and run, dear Mother. I shall stand and fight. In the name of my brothers and the Kingdom, I shall not let the forces of Beelzebub prevail.
Your son in humility,
Alfred Montshire
Owen looked up. His fingers rested lightly on the page.
“It’s so sad,” said Cassandra in a small, strained voice. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Indeed,” said Owen. He held up the last item in the folder. “It’s a bill for £200; quite a lot of money in those days. It doesn’t specify for what and it’s unsigned, but what is most interesting is that it’s from the Rossboro Inn in Winchester.” Everybody looked up. “The Rossboro Inn was burnt to the ground in the fighting following Alfred’s overthrow. Perhaps we can conclude that Prince George received assistance here? Needless to say, they never received payment.”
Owen closed the folder. “It has always been thought that the Montshires killed each other over jealousy and greed, but now we find that they were misled and that Alfred understood it at the end. Indeed, this will completely rewrite the history books. ” His eyes gleamed at the thought of the book he would write and the accolades he would receive.
“But who was this man, the stable keeper?” asked Renee.
Owen frowned. “There is no recorded ringleader of the mob that ousted Alfred, though some of the participants are known, none of whom held positions in the royal household or were even remotely connected with it. It was always thought to have been a spontaneous riot. This man, whoever he is, has done well at hiding his identity and making sure he was always behind the scenes.”
Owen stood up and began browsing the shelves of books in Erastus’s library. He climbed a brass latter to get a closer look at something and called down, “You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of the ‘Palace Concordance,’ would you? It lists all the household staff for the Tudors and Stuarts. Perhaps it includes the Montshires, as well.”
Erastus shook his head. “I don’t know what I have on these shelves.”
Renee felt gutted. She tuned out the back and forth conversation between Erastus and Owen. The knowledge that the ill-fated Montshire brothers acted from pure motives did not comfort her even though it went far to clear their reputations. Each one had been so brave, but each one had put their trust in someone else and it had led to disaster.
Owen continued to peruse the dusty shelves, occasionally taking out a volume, thumbing through the pages and replacing it. Cassandra pushed the ladder so he could continue to browse shelves without having to climb down each time and roll the ladder to a new spot.
“This one looks promising. ‘The Royal Equerry,’” he read aloud. He opened the book. “Hmmm, it lists breeds of horses and some famous steeds owned by monarchs. Here’s a list of equerries—Oh my.” Owen shook his head. “This is quite astonishing.”
“What did you find?” asked Renee.
Owen cradled the open book in the crook of his elbow while he balanced on the ladder. “Well, now we know the name of the royal stable keeper.”
Renee looked at him blankly.
“It was Rafe Bretton.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
RENEE FLED FROM the table. She ran through the hallway, past the ballroom and past her mother who had finally stirred from her late slumber and was asking if there was any bacon and froot loops. Renee ran across the yard without knowing where her feet were taking her and pounded up the lane until she was on the crest of the hill, staring across the valley at the ruins of her ruined family. All she could see was the inferno that had leveled the proud manor to the ground, lit by the hand of Rafe Bretton himself. She could still smell the smoldering cinders. Her voice echoed through the valley and bounced off the blazing hills. “Son of a bitch!” she screamed until her throat was raw. Ravens lifted into the air with a startled caw.
Erastus wheezed slightly as he tried to catch up with her.
“Lady Montshire,” he said breathlessly. “Please come back to the house. It’s far too cold to be out here.”
“They’re rotten,” said Renee, not taking her eyes off the dark, hulking building. “All of them. The Brettons haven’t changed in 500 years.”
“That was a long time ago,” he said gently.
She shook his hand off her shoulder. “Is it? It certainly isn’t to Ammon Bretton. He sees the throne as his birthright. I wouldn’t put it past him to have engineered this whole thing—the tragedy at the Reunion.”
“Lady Montshire, that is a heavy charge, indeed!”
“And why not?” said Renee, cutting off his objections. “What’s a few thousand people in exchange for a kingdom? Or four brothers and a family’s good name before that? The charges of murder in America were never—”
“They were never proven,” said Erastus.
“They weren’t disproven either,” said Renee. She wiped the tears from her eyes, took one last look at the far off home, and turned abruptly back to Highlowe House. “I’ve got to get back to London.”
“But why the hurry?” said Erastus, matching her purposeful stride.
“It’s time for the heels to come off and the boots to come back on. I’ve got a lot of ass-kicking to get started on.”
She found Leanne in the hall still in her slippers and a sleeping mask pushed up on her forehead demanding to know when breakfast was.
“Forget breakfast. It’s almost tea time and we’re leaving. Get your things.”
She ran up the stairs while Leanne stared after her open-mouthed. Roberts winced at Renee’s sudden appearance. She told him of her plan to leave over her shoulder as she searched for her purse in her room. She spied it on the dresser and snatched it up, found the small bottle of ibuprofen she kept in the small zipped pocket, tossed it at Roberts and told him to take three pills followed by strong coffee—not tea—and the greasiest food he could find. They could stop for fish and chips on the way to the city. Roberts looked like he was about to be sick, although she didn’t know if it was because he was feeling ill or because she had suggested he try common street food. She didn’t know why, but Renee felt that she simply must get going. Bretton was certainly not sitting at home licking his wounds or drinking tea. He was on the move, amassing his allies. Instead of archers and knights, he had celebrities and reporters. But she would not be chased out of London like Agnes, nor did she want anyone to think she had slunk off to the countryside to hide.
She rummaged in her purse and her fingers closed around what she was looking for. Renee had allies too. She pulled out the business card that said Audrey Finch, Publicist. It was time to go to war.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AUDREY DIDN’T MINCE WORDS. Nor did she sit still. She was a firecracker who, even when at rest, had eyes that flitted and danced and missed nothing. Audrey’s first clash with Roberts occurred about thirty seconds after she walked into the room. She removed a scarf that had circlets of mirror sewn all over it that threw shards of light around the room as she unwound it.
“No more parlor teas,” she said.
“I beg your pardon,” said Roberts.
“She’s not posh. She’s a cowboy. The newspapers will eat her for lunch every time she mispronounces a word or uses the wrong fork for her salad.”
“These things can be taught,” said Roberts.
“Of course they can, but we’re on a time crunch. It’s only six weeks until the final vote. I’ve followed her in the news and she’s remarkable when she’s relaxed, but apt to say embarrassing things when put on the spot. Shall I replay the Yorkshire pudding comment for you or would you prefer the video of the heiress losing her cookies?”
Renee turned red, but had to agree with Audrey’s assessment, although she wished they wouldn’t talk about her as if she wasn’t in the room.
“Look, we’ve got a product that no one has ever seen here before. Let’s use that to our advantage,” said Audrey.
“I’m not a product,” said Renee, ju
tting out her chin much as Cassandra would have.
“Of course you’re not, duckie,” said Audrey soothingly, “except that you are and no one is buying it. People are buying Bretton, though.”
Renee couldn’t deny it. Even though she was the official heiress presumptive, Bretton got all the press. His stunt at the League of Royal Bastards ball had leaked to the papers. Somehow, each story neglected to mention that he had eaten a knuckle sandwich prior to being escorted out. The current newspaper lying on the table had a headline screaming that the League of Royal Bastards were now split. Erastus Hughes had just called to say that he was issuing a statement denying it and that the organization whole-heartedly backed the true legal heiress. Renee sighed. The Telegraph, which generally supported Britchford’s party, had published gorgeous photographs of the League Ball and Renee looked very elegant, but it was no match for the image of Bretton in a riding outfit, standing amongst a group of financiers out for a foxhunt. Renee noticed that Bretton wore sunglasses in all of the pictures—no doubt hiding his black eye—and she doubted if Bretton could even sit on a horse without falling off, but the image was all that mattered. He looked handsome, he looked casual, and he looked at home in a lifestyle fit for a king.
“What should we do?” asked Renee. “I’m trying my damnedest here, to live up to everyone’s expectations, but it doesn’t seem to be working.”
Audrey softened her brisk demeanor. “You’re new to the country and to its traditions so let’s put you in situations where you will shine. A visit to a farm for rescued horses, perhaps? You grew up in an agricultural environment so time spent in the countryside with regular people would be a natural place for you. A couple of glam photo shoots wouldn’t hurt either.” Audrey continued to toss out ideas and although Roberts completely nixed the idea of staging an American-style rodeo, he came around to Audrey’s point of view that they shouldn’t shy away from Renee’s past, but embrace it.
And that was how Renee found herself facing thirty pairs of hardened, cynical eyes at a Liverpool home for struggling, young mothers. None of them looked older than twenty and despite their hostile, slack expressions, Renee recognized the dark circles under their eyes and knew that it was due to financial worry and nights disrupted by the needs of babies and children. The home director whispered that Renee shouldn’t worry if the young women seemed rude because they were rude to everyone, but Renee didn’t worry. She understood these girls. She had been there.
“Hi y’all,” said Renee, taking a seat on wooden chair in the front of the small classroom where they had gathered. More than one woman rolled her eyes. They clearly were only here because they were required to be as part of their assistance. Several children squirmed in their mothers’ arms or ran between the seats. A small boy tripped and Renee swooped him up before he hit the floor and plopped him on her lap. Renee asked who he belonged to and a woman in the back, who looked no more than eighteen, shyly raised her hand. “You mind if I borrow him for a few minutes?” asked Renee and the girl shook her head. The little boy decided he liked it on Renee’s lap and snuggled in her shoulder as she talked. “I’m going to tell you a story about a woman who found herself pregnant and completely alone. The boyfriend ran off and the car wouldn’t start. Sounds like a great beginning, huh?”
No one smiled, but no one rolled their eyes either. Renee took encouragement from that and continued to speak for the next hour about how she’d had to work herself to the bone simply to pay the rent, and then come home after a long shift and babysit the neighbor’s children until midnight simply so they in turn would look after Cassandra during the day. It was a lot of scrambling and belt-tightening and missed school meetings, but she did what she had to do and her daughter continued to grow and impress her. Life improved slightly after her marriage, but well, they could all see how that had turned out. This time the classroom of women laughed or nodded their heads. They understood. By the end of the hour the women were raising their hands and asking questions.
When it was time to leave, Renee was mobbed by the women who had lost their angry expressions and now looked like the frightened girls they really were. Renee hugged each of them and listened to them as they told her their life stories. Some of them clung to her with tears in their eyes, happy to have someone finally understand what they were going through. One heavily pregnant woman, who already had a little girl holding on to her leg, promised that she would name her new baby George or Georgina when it was born. Renee put her hand to the woman’s belly and said she would be honored to be considered the child’s godmother. And it was this picture that was printed in the newspaper the next day.
Another day saw her serving meals at a homeless shelter and staying for the cleanup, cheerfully calling out the day’s “specials” and exchanging jokes with the “customers”. Many of the people seemed overwhelmed to be served by a royal heir, but when one bewildered man asked how she could lower herself to work in a shelter, she simply laughed and replied that if he had seen some of the places she had worked in, he wouldn’t think she was lowering herself. A little work never hurt anybody, she said and added a bread roll to his plate.
Nobody worked harder than Renee in those weeks. It was Audrey’s goal to have her visit every county in the United Kingdom, not only so that Renee could be seen, but so that she could come to understand the country and people she would be representing. They stopped in at pubs for meals, shook hands, signed autographs and posed for pictures. Renee felt like a politician, but the thought of Bretton gaining the throne fueled her to keep going, keep smiling, and keep listening. Renee and Cassandra were eager pupils and Cassandra, especially, delighted listeners by mimicking the accent of whatever locale they were in that day. It began to be whispered in many quarters that even if Renee were an awkward fit for the throne, Cassandra would grow into it.
Renee was beginning to receive so much press that Bretton was pressured into missing a glamorous event or two in order to do a public service project. It was becoming a race as to who could win the hearts and minds of the populace and even though the vote was in the hands of Parliament and the Parliament was in the hands of Rufus, there was still a chance that if she gained enough momentum, Rufus would be forced to back Renee.
If the race was becoming a battle of optics, it was also a battle of narratives. The whole country had suddenly become experts in royal genealogy and programs going into the details of the Bretton and Montshire lines never failed to receive high ratings. Audrey, in her role as publicist, did not hesitate to utilize the discoveries made at Highlowe House or accidentally refer to Ammon Bretton as Rafe Bretton and never tired of pointing out that the Brettons had no direct descent from any royal line, but had merely married into a family that had royal connections. Erastus Hughes joked that Bretton should apply for membership in the League of Royal Bastards, a joke that clearly grated on Bretton, who replied publically that he didn’t need to join the League because the League, if it had any pride at all and didn’t want to always be subservient, would join him.
Hughes laughed heartily at this, but Renee was worried. She sometimes wondered if she could completely trust Erastus. His deliverance of the League to her was a present that might turn out to bite her in the end. Its members prized tradition, but felt they had been excluded from their heritage, and Renee could not promise to bring about what they wanted. If she did recognize the Bastards as legitimate descendants, wouldn’t many of them then have stronger claims to the throne than herself? Bretton’s claim certainly became more compelling if she did so and Erastus himself would then be elevated to a position as one of the first inheritors if something should happen to her or Cassandra. There was so much to consider, but one thing was certain, before she could make promises to anyone, she had to learn who to trust and so far that circle of trust included only Cassandra, Roberts, Chase, and Audrey. And possibly Simon Coakely, she thought warmly. Even Britchford was on her trust-but-verify list ever since her talk with Erastus at Highlowe. It didn’t feel much l
ike a stable foundation, but it was all she had at the moment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE LIGHTS SHINED right into Renee’s eyes, but she fought the urge to put her hand up to shield them. She couldn’t see the audience, but she could hear them shift in their seats and whisper quietly to each other. She glanced to her right and saw Audrey, Roberts and Chase standing in the wings. Audrey was biting her nails and Chase flashed her a thumbs up sign. Cassandra was at the hotel suite with Leanne watching on television. She turned back to the man interviewing her, a pleasant older man with a Yorkshire accent who seemed instinctively to know how to put her at ease for her first interview. He started out easy, noting her upbringing on a horse ranch and subsequent interest in horses and competition in rodeos. He joked that perhaps the Queen’s equestrian guards should swap their military hats for ten gallon hats. This prompted smiles from Renee and the audience. Renee replied that they had a very good military use because they kept the rain off.
They had considered several interviewers for her first television appearance. Audrey had rejected about twenty names and frequently clashed with Roberts during the discussions. She was very insistent that no one from the “smart” set should be given the coveted first interview because they were sure to patronize her for her lack of education and style.
“It’s got to be Michael Hutchison of the Hey Hutch Show,” she had said. “He’s an institution. Everyone knows him and likes him. He’s like everyone’s grandfather. If he approves of you then all of his grandchildren—the viewers—will approve of you too.” Renee asked how she would know he approved of her. “Easy, he’ll put his hand on your knee sometime during the interview. He’s a notorious flirt.”
Not if he wants to keep his hand, Renee had replied, but secretly she prayed that he would.
Hutchison leaned on the arm of his chair. The audience was so quiet she swore she could hear her eyelashes beat together as she blinked.
