“Inside?” he asked.
“Inside.”
He took her into the cold corridor. An iron sconce burned low, spitting out thick black smoke near the stairs. Avalyn directed Brogan up the stairs to the second floor. When they reached the landing, she pushed herself from his arms.
“I can find my way from here,” she told him. “But I thank you very much for your chivalry this night. I am sure I owe you a great deal.”
He was sorry she was no longer in his arms. Furthermore, he was uncomfortable with her thanks and had no idea why. Then he realized it made him feel good, and he was unused to such a thing.
“It was nothing,” he said, almost brusquely. “I just happened to be in a place where I was needed.”
“Fortunate for me that you were,” her lips formed a sweet, curvy smile. It positively lit up the corridor. “If there is every anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate to call upon me. I would be honored.”
To his horror, Brogan’s heart began to beat just a bit faster. Something about the way the woman smiled made his heart race. She was such a lovely creature. He would have had to have been both dumb and blind not to realize her beauty. And her voice was sweet like honey, a purring tone that felt more like a caress than a sound. It flowed over him, across him, through him, like a warm breeze.
He must have been standing there like an idiot an inordinate amount of time, because she bid him a good eve and began to limp away on a foot that still had a burr in it. Brogan felt very strange watching her turn from him; he didn’t want her to go. He wanted to continue talking to her. He’d never had that reaction before in his life and wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. Maybe it was the emotions of the night, the anguish he had been feeling before the lady plowed into him. She had distracted him from his pain and he was glad for it. Before he could think it all through, he heard himself speak.
“My lady,” he said. “Your horse… if you would like me to help you search for it…”
She paused, her delicious features bathed in a golden glow from the softly burning hall torch. “I hope that will not be necessary,” she said. “I am fairly certain he will have gone back to the stables. But I thank you just the same.”
He didn’t say another word. He didn’t want to sound any more like an idiot than he already did. But she stumbled on her injured foot and fell right to her buttocks. He was on her in an instant.
She was holding her foot up, wincing as she tried to locate the burr that was paining her. Brogan took her little foot in his hand. It was a bold move and she should have yanked her leg away, but she didn’t. Perhaps it was a test of trust, curious about this man who rescued her from the Thames and carried her with such strength. She wanted to see what he was going to do.
“Hold still.” He almost looked around to see who had said that. It was a tone far gentler than he ever knew himself capable of. He spied the prick immediately. “There it is.”
He popped it out, leaving a pin-point of blood on the ball of her foot. She removed her foot from his grasp, rubbing the sting. All the while, Brogan just stared at her. She caught his expression, something between wonder and interest.
“What is it?” she asked. “Why do you look at me like that?”
He averted his eyes and abruptly stood up, feeling completely stupid now. He extended a hand to her to help her to her feet, but she continued to sit on the floor and look up at him.
“You’re not much for conversation, are you?” she said, her tone somewhat quiet.
His gaze was guarded, very aware of his giddy behavior for the past several minutes. Normally, he would not have answered such a question. He would have ignored it. But, for some reason, he felt compelled reply.
“I am when I have something to say,” he replied.
She smiled faintly and his heart started thumping again. She pushed herself up from the floor. Brogan reached out to help her, but he was too late. She was already on her feet, still gazing up at him.
“I would believe that,” she said thoughtfully. “But you do seem to ebb and flow. There are moments when you say virtually nothing. But there are other moments when it seemed as if you want to say a great deal.”
Now he was feeling cornered, but not in a bad way. The woman had known him all of a half hour and already she could sense him. She was pivoting him from feeling to feeling to feeling with no effort at all, but how she understood something about him in the brief amount of time they had been acquainted was a mystery. It was true that often there was a good deal on his mind, but he simply kept his mouth shut. With his heavy accent and awkward English, no one would want to hear him, anyway. His only real verbal strength was barking orders to terrified soldiers. He’d used his intimidation factor to communicate and had never needed any other method. Until now.
Avalyn watched him shuffle, seeing his discomfiture. Her smile broadened. “Have no fear,” she assured him. “I am not looking for an answer. It was simply an observation. You are a quiet man and I respect that.”
He looked at her, his deeply tanned cheeks carved with massive dimples on either side. The deep blue eyes glittered. “If I had something to say to you, I would most definitely say it.”
She laughed softly. “I am sure that you would.” Standing in her cold, bare feet, she shifted on the floor and thought that perhaps she had better continue her journey homeward. It was getting late. But she realized with surprise that she wasn’t as eager as she should be; she rather liked speaking to the man with very little to say. “Thank you again, Brogan d’Aurilliac. I hope that you will let me repay the kindness some day.”
His reply was one modest nod. He watched her walk down the hall, her petite frame fading into the darkness. Suddenly, bodies appeared out of the shadows and he tensed. But Avalyn did not start in the least, indicative that she knew those who approached her. One of them passed in front of a lit sconce; Brogan could see that it was a soldier. And there were several of them guarding the corridor. Beauchamp men.
He faded back, to the top of the steps, watching the men escort her to a door at the far end. The door opened, illuminating her with bright light. He saw her turn in his direction as if to see if he was still there. But then she quickly disappeared inside the door shut. The hallway was dark once again and the dark figures disappeared back into the shadows. He was positive they knew he was there so it was best to leave before there was a confrontation.
Brogan lingered a moment before descending the stairs and quitting the tower, his thoughts dwelling on the lovely little woman with the big golden eyes. He’d left her in the Beauchamp Tower, which meant she was Lancastrian. Only Warwick and the like occupied that stretch of chambers. He hadn’t wanted to admit that until this very moment. Until this moment, he hadn’t cared. But now he did.
Chapter Two
“You have heard his name before,” a tall, thin man with graying hair spoke. “Do you not recall?”
Avalyn sat before the hearth in the luxurious sitting chamber, a cup of warmed wine in her hand. She shrugged to her uncle’s statement. “I thought I had, but could not remember the details. Who is he?”
Richard De Neville had made a life out of being shrewd, calm, and calculating. He had also learned long ago to suppress any emotions he might be feeling, including the anger he was now experiencing towards his niece. In his opinion, she had been foolish this night, certainly not the normal behavior of the niece whose opinion was so valuable to him. Small though she might be, younger still though she might be, she nonetheless possessed one of the sharpest intellects he had ever seen. She had oft counseled him when the path was not clear. But tonight, she had taken the wrong path herself. He would see that she realized it.
“D’Aurilliac is the master sergeant in charge of the king’s infantry,” he said as if she was a fool not to have remembered. “He is said to have the strength of Samson and the skill of the archangels. There is no one more deadly in Henry’s arsenal. Do you truly not remember any of this?”
Aval
yn stared at him, initially surprised, but vaguely recollecting someone mentioning the man who held the reins of the Tower’s infantry. She set the warmed wine down, shaking her head wearily.
“Truly, Uncle, there are so many enemies these days that one has to write them all down simply to keep track.” She fixed him with a golden stare. “I do not worry over the common soldier as I do the knights and assassins that abound in this place. I know each and every one by name and by sight. That is the only thing of concern to me at this moment, as it should be to you.”
Richard lifted a dark eyebrow. “Common or not, I would suggest you stay well away from d’Aurilliac, for he undoubtedly knew who you were.”
She shrugged. “My name is not De Neville. He would not recognize du Brant.”
“But he brought you back here, so he must suspect your ties.”
She still tried to shrug it off. “Perhaps,” she said with more casualness than she felt. “But he did not harm me and I have returned safe, and that is all that matters.”
In the lush and overly-appointed chamber that smelt of myrrh and smoke, a small, dark woman sat across from Avalyn, listening to the conversation intently. Anne Beauchamp de Neville had been a beauty in her day, a petite woman with flashing dark eyes. She was still quite lovely in spite of her years, but more than that, she wielded as much power as her husband. Her family, the de Beauchamps, was indisputably wealthy and influential, even more so that the de Nevilles from the north. Generations of her family had made and destroyed kings. Between King Edward and King Henry over the past thirty years, she and her husband had played the treacherous games of their ancestors and still, they continued the path. They knew no other way.
It therefore stood to reason that Anne was also a bit disturbed at the turn of events with her niece this night. Avalyn was the culmination of four hundred years of de Beauchamp breeding, a woman with wit and intellect that would put most men to shame. The only child of her late younger sister, Avalyn was clear of thought, cunning, and wise, and still only twenty-one years of age. Anne could see such greatness in her, even more than her own daughters, Isobel and Anne. But even greatness had its off moments.
“Of course the most important thing is that you are safe.” If her husband Richard was ‘The Kingmaker’, then Anne was ‘The Peacemaker’. She was brilliant that way. “But I think what your uncle is trying to tell you is that you were fortunate this night. Brogan d’Aurilliac is close to Edward and, presumably, our bitter enemy. ’Tis best to leave things as they are and have no further contact with the man.”
Avalyn felt a strange sense of disappointment, though she did not let it show. She simply nodded. “Of course, Auntie.”
Anne smiled thinly at her niece, presuming and hoping the matter was behind them. “Now, with that business aside, we thought you should be aware that your suggestion for our agents is working beautifully.”
Avalyn lifted her eyebrows. “What suggestion was that?”
Richard stepped in from her other side. “Rumors of illegitimacy, lady,” he said. “With Edward riding the north to quell the small uprisings there, your suggestion to spread rumors of the king being bastard-born have taken flight and caused much uproar. It was a brilliant suggestion.”
Avalyn shrugged modestly. “It was one suggestion of many. As I said before, if you want Edward off the throne, attacking his legitimacy will do far more damage than attacking him physically. He is a strong king with a large army. But the nobility of England is easily swayed once a question of authenticity comes into question. They consider pure blood more important than the God. Even a hint of the king being a bastard, no matter how untrue, will tilt their favor.”
Richard nodded. “And you were right. But we added something more.”
“What is that?”
The Kingmaker’s eyes glittered. “That Clarence is York’s true heir. We do not seek anarchy. If the king is to be supplanted, it will be with another royal.”
“And you suggest the Duke of Clarence?”
“As Edward’s younger brother, he is the logical choice.”
Avalyn cocked her head. “And did you not suggest a betrothal between Clarence and Isobel?”
“Indeed. A de Neville upon the throne would put the entire family in favor.”
Avalyn was not surprised or shocked by the statement. There was always some manner of intrigue in the House of de Neville, including the secret betrothal of her cousin Isobel to the king’s younger brother. Now, with her suggestion of spreading rumors of a bastard-born Edward, the bad blood between the king and Uncle Richard was deepening. The marriage of Clarence to Isobel de Neville would widen the gap. At some point soon, it was going to explode. She knew it would happen, but she wondered where and when.
As she pondered the discontent that she had helped create against the king, Aunt Anne broke into her thoughts. “Go to bed now, my angel. It has been an eventful night.”
Obediently, Avalyn rose and passed through a small corridor that led into a dark, warm chamber. She was glad to be free of her aunt and uncle’s disapproving presence. A small fire burned in the hearth and a massive bed was lodged against one wall. She tried not to think of d’Aurilliac as she pulled off the borrowed woolen shift, yet her mind was inevitably drawn to him. Aye, she recalled his name and, with prompting from her uncle, what she had heard about him. Rumor said that he was all brawn, no brains. More cruel gossip had called him a simpleton, a war machine that simply did as he was told because he could not think for himself. It was a sad reputation, really. He had seemed kind to her, but she could also understand why the man had the reputation he did. He didn’t say much, and he was positively terrifying.
“Avie?” came a soft voice from the bed. “Is that you?”
Snapped from her train of thought, Avalyn pulled her sleeping shift from a large trunk and went to the huge, over stuffed bed. “’Tis me, sweetheart,” she said as she donned her night gown. “Go back to sleep.”
Isobel de Neville sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes groggily. Across the room in a smaller bed slept her thirteen-year-old sister, Anne. Isobel was a whole five years older. She focused her sleepy brown eyes on her cousin.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
Avalyn climbed into the mounds of covers and snuggled beneath them, pushing her cousin down in the process so the woman would go back to sleep. “I shall tell you tomorrow,” she kissed her cousin’s temple. “Sleep now.”
Isabel promptly obeyed. Avalyn lay there in the darkness, warm under the covers, and gazed into the soft warm glow of the distant hearth. Visions of Brogan d’Aurilliac drifted through her mind like snowflakes falling from the sky; every time she rid herself one, another would take its place. She had no idea why the man had left an imprint on her other than the fact he had saved her life. That was reason enough.
And in spite of what her aunt and uncle said, she intended to pay her debt to him.
“She’s Warwick, man,” St. Alban said sternly. “She is as powerful as they come. God’s Bones, Brogan, when you make a mistake, it’s a big one.”
Brogan sat on a plain stool before the blaze roaring in his chamber. St. Alban was often cold blooded and would work the hearth into a forest fire of embers, which usually left Brogan uncomfortable and sweating. But in respect to his old friend and mentor, he would suffer in silence. Even now, he continued to sit in silence as St. Alban tried to explain to him just how out of reach their wet visitor had been. St. Alban only knew this because the usually silent and mostly-sullen Brogan had mentioned only two words; Beauchamp Tower. It had been enough. There was only one family that resided on the second floor of the Beauchamp Tower and the attached apartments.
“Do you hear me, Brogan?” the old man asked. “You must never go near her again. For your own sake, stay away from her.”
Brogan tore his gaze away from the blaze then, fixing St. Alban with his deep blue eyes. “I do not intend going near her again. And it was not a mistake to save her life.”
&nbs
p; “Nay, it was not, but it was a mistake to involve yourself with anything to do with Warwick.”
“I do not regret it.”
“I know you don’t. But stay clear of her, my friend, or risk your life.”
“I said that I would stay clear of her.”
St. Alban eyed his young friend. Brogan was not a liar, but deep down, he did not believe him. He had seen the way the man had looked at the young lady. It was something between attraction and curiosity and desire. He’d never before seen that expression before on his handsome face and it was cause for concern; the Brogan he knew had not been himself lately and this show of interest was not only unexpected, it was unhealthy. He pulled up a chair and sat next to him.
“Brogan,” he began patiently; one had to be patient when dealing with him sometimes for he did not always understand things clearly. “Do you know who Warwick is?”
Brogan’s head snapped to him. “Of course I do. I may not be an educated man such as you, but I know who people are.”
As St. Alban feared, Brogan’s temper was sparked. He tended to fire up quickly and strike before he’d had a chance to think. St. Alban put a big, gnarled hand on his forearm to calm him.
“That’s not what I meant,” the old man said evenly. “I suppose what I meant to ask is how much you know about Warwick?”
Brogan’s deep blue eyes flashed again but he seemed to calm somewhat. He looked back at the fire. “I know that the House is more wealthy than the Royal family,” he lifted his big shoulders. “I know that Richard de Neville puts kings upon the throne as easily as some men trade horses. What more do I need to know?”
St. Alban wriggled his eyebrows. “That is a start, lad,” he said. “Do you also know that Richard has been orchestrating the throne between the Lancastrians and the Yorkists for the past fifteen years? They do not call him ‘The Kingmaker’ without good reason. That entire family is full of powerful people and you would be well served to steer clear of them. They shall quash you like a bug in spite of your strength and skill. And I do not want to lose you.”
Romantic Legends Page 3
