Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  Why shouldn’t he, indeed, after last night? Still, he felt a low hum of unease. It should please him that she could bathe in front of him without a hint of self-consciousness. How often had he dreamed of seeing her just like this, exquisitely naked and smiling at him with the intimacy of a lover?

  But that was just it, he realized. It was that very intimacy that discomfited him. He’d felt it all morning, a nagging disquiet that he couldn’t shake despite the appalling discovery of two bodies in Halthorpe Castle and the conclusions they’d been forced to draw—that Marguerite, in her capacity as the queen’s agent, had murdered Istagio for his indiscretion, only to find herself so overwhelmed with guilt that she took her own life.

  Phillipa stood up in the tub, water sluicing off her elegant little body like quicksilver. “Would you hand me that towel?”

  Hugh lifted the sheet of soft linen from the back of a chair and gave it to her, then turned away and crossed to one of the arrow slits. Through it he saw Raoul and Isabelle d’Argentan standing near the gate to the outer bailey, engaged in a heated quarrel. No, not a quarrel, of course not; Raoul would never quarrel with his beloved wife. Instead, she seemed to be berating him, while he stood there like a whipped dog and took it. A handful of onlookers snickered openly.

  After that humiliating court of love three days ago, Hugh had finally asked Raoul how he could tolerate Isabelle’s treatment of him, and wasn’t he ever tempted to pick up and leave, perhaps petition for an annulment of his marriage. Raoul had maintained that Hugh was only seeing it from an outsider’s perspective, that he loved Isabelle and she him, but that it had become complicated, terribly complicated.

  To which Hugh had replied that love tends to do that.

  Does it frighten you so much, to be loved?

  Indeed, it frightened him a great deal.

  Water splashed softly, followed by the muted snap of rushes; Phillipa must be stepping out of the tub. “Have the bodies been seen to?”

  Without turning around, Hugh said, “Aye. Orlando has arranged for Istagio to be buried in the chapel graveyard. But Father Nicolas has refused to let Marguerite be laid to rest there. He said suicide is too grave a sin to reward with interment in consecrated ground. He ordered her body taken into the woods and exposed.”

  Phillipa whispered something he couldn’t make out.

  “Unfortunately,” Hugh said, “after he made that announcement, Orlando declared that it was just as well, because a murderess ought not to be buried with decent people.”

  “Oh, no,” Phillipa moaned. They had wanted to keep the circumstances of Istagio’s death a secret, given the sensitive political issues involved. “But we’d asked him not to say anything about—”

  “He was distraught and not thinking. He apologized to me afterward.”

  “Did many people hear him?”

  “Aye. You should have seen the color drain from Aldous’s face. I thought he was going to keel over.”

  “No doubt he was contemplating all the times Marguerite might have pressed a pillow over his face after she’d gotten him...how did she put it that time?...all trussed up like a roasted swan.”

  Isabelle was swatting at Raoul now, driving him back toward the castle entrance. Hugh knew what the altercation was about. Raoul had been anxious to leave Halthorpe ever since the court of love, but his wife had refused. He had redoubled his efforts to talk her into it after this morning’s gruesome discoveries, but Isabelle, like the rest of Clare’s guests, seemed to view the murder-suicide as just another tantalizing scandal for their amusement. Why should they leave now, she had demanded of her husband at breakfast, just when things had gotten so terribly exciting?

  “Would you lace me up?”

  Hugh turned to find Phillipa approaching him in a white linen kirtle, holding her damp hair in a knot on her head. She turned and he saw that the garment was open down the back, the cord that secured it strung slackly through the bottom few eyelets. He hesitated, feeling strangely taken aback. Over the years he must have laced up a hundred kirtles, but it had never felt quite the same as it did now, like a domestic task, something one might ask of a husband.

  “Edmee normally does this for me,” Phillipa said over her shoulder, “but at this time of the day she’s needed to help serve dinner.”

  Hugh tugged the cord tight in its bottom eyelets, snugging the kirtle around Phillipa’s small hips and slender little waist, then began threading it through the rest of the eyelets. His fingertips brushed her back as he worked; her skin was like satin over the delicate little bones of her spine, and warm from her bath, and redolent of lavender. He loved to touch her.

  He loved it too much.

  “Did you have a chance to ask Orlando what’s really going on in the cellar?” she asked.

  “Aye, but he’s more close-mouthed than ever, after what happened to Istagio. I don’t think he truly realized what he’d gotten himself involved in. Now that Istagio’s been murdered for his folly, Orlando is determined to keep mum.”

  “But the person who killed Istagio is dead,” Phillipa pointed out. “Shouldn’t that make Orlando feel safer about talking?”

  “Theoretically, yes, but he’s not taking any chances. In truth, he’s so upset about Istagio that he’s not really thinking logically. In any event, I couldn’t talk him into opening up.”

  “Perhaps I’ll have better luck,” Phillipa said.

  “I doubt it.” Having woven the cord through all the eyelets, Hugh pulled it tight, causing the kirtle to conform to Phillipa’s feminine slopes and curves as if it had been sewn onto her. “Orlando seemed adamant about keeping his counsel. Said he wished he’d never heard of the black powder.”

  “So do I, now that I’ve seen what it can do—especially in the hands of someone like Orlando. Dried snakes and talismans notwithstanding, he’s a brilliant man. If it’s his objective to create some devastating new weapon for Queen Eleanor, he will do it.”

  “And it could be devastating, indeed,” Hugh said as he tied the cord into a bow. “If the queen were to equip her soldiers with weapons that burst apart like those Chinese toys, her revolt would be victorious within days.”

  Phillipa turned to face him, releasing her hair, which fell in an inky tangle down her back. “Are you sure?” she asked as she retrieved her big oxhorn comb from the wash stand and sat on the edge of the bed to comb out the wet snarls. “King Henry has at his disposal thousands of the most seasoned archers and crossbowmen in Europe. Not to mention swordsmen, like you, and then there are his siege engines, and—”

  “I daresay none of that will matter if the queen gets her hands on whatever it is Orlando is cooking up in that cellar. Swords and arrows and maces and the like—weapons that pierce and crush—require skill to wield effectively, skill and nerve. It takes some ballocks to...pardon me.”

  “That’s all right.” Phillipa smiled as she plucked at a particularly stubborn knot. Hugh resisted the urge to take the comb from her and perform the task himself. It would be reminiscent of that first night they’d made love, when he had brushed her hair to relax her—too reminiscent. Would that he had had the strength to walk away when she had asked him, so sweetly and shyly, to take her innocence. Would that he had never placed his heart in her hands, because taking it back was going to be the most agonizing thing he’d ever done.

  Pacing restlessly away from her, he said, “It takes some grit to walk up to a man and run him through with your steel, especially if he’s armed, as well. And it takes a fighting force of vast numbers to overwhelm one’s enemy with such weapons, because they take down one soldier at a time. A weapon that explodes, if it’s powerful enough, could kill scores of men at once, shatter curtain walls, destroy castles...”

  “Merciful God,” Phillipa whispered.

  “God is not always in a merciful humor,” Hugh said. “I’ve seen the results when He’s feeling vindictive. The aftermath of battle is an ugly sight. I can’t imagine how much more hellish it would be if one side had
weapons of such brutality that can be so easily employed.”

  “We’ve got to stop that from happening.”

  Hugh turned toward Phillipa to find her sitting with her comb clutched in her lap, her eyes wide with distress.

  “‘Tis our mission to do so,” he reminded her.

  “I don’t just mean in order to stop the queen’s rebellion, but because no army should have such horrible power at its disposal.”

  Hugh sighed and leaned back against the wall. “You should know better than most that knowledge can’t be curtailed forever, even destructive knowledge—especially destructive knowledge. The Church has tried to outlaw the use of crossbows against Christians, but with little success. Rest assured, this black powder will eventually be produced in Europe, and terrible weapons made from it, and warfare will never be the same. Nothing we do now can prevent that from happening. But we just might forestall the inevitable by keeping such weapons out of the hands of Eleanor of Aquitaine—and in the process, we’ll ensure that the duly crowned king of the English remains on his throne.”

  She rose from the bed. “Now that we’re fairly certain of what’s going on in the cellar, isn’t our work here essentially done? If King Henry finds out about the black powder, won’t that be enough for him to move against the queen?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Remember our meeting with Lord Richard? He stressed that the king needs ‘solid, unimpeachable evidence’ if he’s to take the queen into custody. His position with his subjects and allies is rocky right now. He can’t afford to jeopardize what little support he’s got by incarcerating a wife he’s already publicly wronged just because we’re ‘fairly certain’ of what’s going on in the cellar of Castle Halthorpe.”

  “Solid evidence...” Phillipa murmured. “What about that letter from Queen Eleanor to Clare? She implied that they’re hatching treason. Isn’t that enough to—”

  “Nay, we need more than implications, and she can always claim that the letter—which is a copy, after all, in my handwriting—is a fake. The king needs unquestionable proof that she’s preparing to go to war against him, something he can show people.”

  “You kept that little parchment packet of black powder. Isn’t that enough to—”

  “Nay, ‘tis but a toy, a curiosity from a distant land. We’ve got to get our hands on one of Orlando’s weapons and spirit it out of here. That’s the only way we can prove what the queen is up to.”

  Phillipa sat down again and tugged the comb through her hair, but with an air of distraction as she sorted through their situation. “Marguerite was the queen’s agent, and she’s dead, so that simplifies things and affords us a measure of safety. But we’ve still got Aldous to deal with, and Clare, when she returns.”

  “They’re harmless, the both of them. They haven’t got the stomach for killing.”

  “Even if their very lives are at stake? Treason is punishable by burning, isn’t it?”

  “Depends on one’s rank and the nature of the disloyalty. More often than not, traitors are simply hanged, although sometimes they’re cut down before they’ve choked to death so that they can be disemboweled, quartered and beheaded.”

  Phillipa whispered something and crossed herself.

  “If the king is disposed toward mercy for some reason,” Hugh continued, “they might simply be confined in some castle under armed guard. Certainly that will be the queen’s fate, if she’s found guilty of conspiring against her husband. He wouldn’t dare execute her, not after the outcry over Becket’s death, and especially after betraying her so openly with Rosamund Clifford.”

  Phillipa worried her lower lip between her teeth, making her look like a sagacious little girl. Hugh closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, wishing she didn’t affect him the way she did.”

  “We’ve got to get back into the cellar,” she said. “If there are weapons to be found, that’s where they’ll be.”

  “Aldous has the keys now.” Hugh rubbed his chin. “I might be able to steal them from him. If I were to sneak into his bedchamber tonight while he’s asleep—”

  “It won’t work.”

  “I can be as quiet as a ghost when I need to be.”

  “I know that, but it won’t help you. He sleeps with those keys on. Remember? He had them under his shirt this morning. You could never get them off without waking him.”

  “Ah.” Hugh raked a hand through his hair. “No, I don’t suppose I could. Then perhaps...I don’t know, perhaps you could talk him into...” Hugh shrugged. “You’re so clever at this sort of thing. You think of something.”

  “I’ve got to admit,” she said as she drew the comb through her now-smooth hair, “I’m at a loss this time.”

  He crossed his arms, grinning. “You mean you’re admitting defeat? You? I never thought I’d see it happen.”

  “If that’s meant to be a challenge that I’m supposed to rise to, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. There’s only one way I can think of to get those keys from Aldous.”

  She regarded him with quiet gravity, the comb in her lap, compelling him with her gaze to understand what she meant.

  “Nay,” he said automatically, pushing away from the wall.

  Her eyebrows quirked. “You used to tell me it was the only way.”

  “And you used to tell me that there were more ways to get what one wants from a man than to barter one’s body for it.”

  “Obviously, I was wrong, or I would already have succeeded, wouldn’t I?”

  He shook his head vehemently, wishing to God she wasn’t right. “We’ll think of something...”

  “I already have,” she said with exasperating calm. “Tonight, I’ll go to Aldous’s chamber and let him seduce me—”

  “Jesu...”

  “But I’ll tell him the keys are getting in the way, as undoubtedly they would, and I’ll ask him to remove them. Then, after he’s asleep, I’ll simply take them, let myself into the cellar, and—”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Do you think I do?” She rose and returned the comb to its place on the wash stand. “It’s the only way, Hugh. You know it.”

  He did. But... “Could you really do it? Could you give yourself to him, after...” His gaze lit on the bed, their narrow little bed with its humble straw mattress and blissful memories.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” she asked softly, her back to him as she stood at the wash stand, fiddling with her toiletries. “Just this morning you told me that what had transpired between us last night was just about sex, and that there would never be an ‘us.’ You said any feelings we might have for each other would be our ruin. So tell me, please, why I shouldn’t sleep with Aldous Ewing for the good of the realm.”

  From where he stood, Hugh could see Phillipa’s image in the little steel looking glass nailed to the stone wall over the wash stand. Her reflection was distorted, hazy...yet he could make out the look in her eyes, a look by now all too familiar to him, the look of a small, shrewd creature intent on outwitting its foe.

  He realized then what she was trying to do. She wasn’t at all prepared to sleep with Aldous Ewing; most likely she had no intention of doing so. Her purpose was to force Hugh to confront his feelings for her, to beg her not to.

  Part of him ached to capitulate to her, just as he had that night in Southwark when she’d asked him to be the first, just as he had last night when she’d come to him naked and irresistible in the dreamy moonlight.

  He should have been strong from the beginning, he should have risen above his hunger for her, his torment of longing. He should have resisted her, knowing what would come of it, knowing that he cared too much and should keep his distance. Instead, he’d let himself get ensnared in a morass of feelings he couldn’t control. And now...

  Now he had the chance to make it right. By claiming she was ready to sleep with Aldous, Phillipa was unwittingly giving him the opportunity to do what he should have done long ago. He’d lacked the strength then.

  He must summon
it now.

  Turning to face an arrow slit, he braced his hands on either side of it. “All right, then,” he said woodenly. “I’ll return to Eastingham today.”

  “What?” The rushes behind him rustled. “You’re...you’re leaving?”

  He closed his eyes, his jaw clenched, willing himself to say what had to be said, to do what had to be done. “As far as Aldous is concerned, the only reason you haven’t bedded him yet is because I’ve been here. Therefore I must leave Halthorpe if you are to...carry out your plan.”

  There came a long moment of silence, and then she said, “Perhaps...perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I can figure out some other way to get those keys from—”

  “Nay.” He swung around to face her, determined to allow her no retreat from what she had wrought. “You were right when you said it was the only way. And it is—make no mistake. Whether you meant it or not when you said you were willing to sleep with Aldous, the fact is, it’s our only hope for gaining access to those keys. You’ve got to do it, and that means I’ve got to leave. I’ll go to Eastingham.”

  “Hugh.” She took a step toward him, imploring him with those big, liquid-brown eyes. “Please don’t leave. I won’t feel safe here without you, not after everything that’s happened.”

  “Marguerite was the only real threat. You said yourself that her death makes things much simpler and safer.”

  “Aye, but there’s still Aldous and Clare.”

  “They’re all bluster and no backbone. They’re incapable of doing you any harm.”

  “I’m not so sure of that.”

  “I am.”

  “Hugh.” She came toward him, but he sidestepped her.

  Snatching his satchel up off the floor, he threw it on the bed. Swiftly he plucked his clothes off their hooks and stuffed them inside, along with his razor, whetstone and comb. “If you find yourself in some sort of fix, Raoul will help you. He’s a good man with the sword, and trustworthy.”

  “Hugh, please stay. Please.” She grabbed the sleeve of his tunic.

  He shrugged her off as he lifted his wineskin from its hook and looped it over his chest. With his back to her, he said, “There’s naught to be gained by my staying, and much to lose.”