His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (31 page)

“Where will you go?” he asked both his friends.

The determined glint in Drake’s eyes gave Aric pause. “To see to my revenge. ’Tis past time Murdoch pays for what he did to my father and to me.”

Aric nodded, trying to hide his concern. Now was not the time to dissuade Drake from such a foolhardy scheme, but soon…

“I shall return to Spain,” interjected Kieran. “There the
senoritas
are lovely, and Spaniards pay well for wicked sport!”

Biting back an admonition that would only fall on deaf ears, Aric patted his Irish friend on the back. “God go with you. Both of you.”

“And you,” said Drake.

“Keep you well, and Gwenyth, too,” instructed Kieran, his expression surprisingly sober.

With a hearty handshake and a final farewell, the men disappeared, one riding north to Scotland, the other south to London and the sea beyond.

He hoped somehow, someway, each could bury his demons and find happiness. But his hope looked bleak indeed.

With a sigh, Aric faced the present and followed Henry’s contingent as they headed northward with the fallen king’s corpse. Passerby stabbed or kicked the body as it passed the rest of the soldiers, then wound its way through Market Bosworth.

Aric turned away from the sight, supposing the crone on the bridge had been right; Richard’s head might well strike the sidewall his spurs had hit that very morn.

Before him, he witnessed Northumberland being arrested by Tudor’s soldiers. Though he felt no surprise at the act, for such was the way of new kings eager to secure their position, he wondered at the fate of his neighbor. Would the man be given leniency, as he never truly participated in the fighting? Or would he simply be executed as a traitor for supporting Richard all these years?

Stephen was nowhere in sight, and Aric could only pray he had managed to extricate himself from the marsh before the new king’s wrath descended on the old king’s army.

After traveling through Market Bosworth and beyond, the army arrived in Leicester. The victorious men stopped at a friary. Its old, gray stone walls, dotted with ivy and moss, rose majestically against the humid August noon.

The new king instructed that Richard’s near-naked body should be strung up where all could see. Northumberland and Richard’s other supporters had been taken away, presumably to the Tower of London. Again, Aric hoped Stephen had escaped.

As the remaining knights gathered on the friary’s grounds, Henry Tudor took his place at the front and demanded, “Kneel ye down, all who would call me king!”

Eager to serve a righteous sovereign and begin anew with his own lovely Gwenyth, Aric knelt in the soft grass, as did the others about him.

Tudor began making his way through the crowd, praising some men for their bravery, thanking the rest with a silent tap on the head. The sun belted down upon him. Not a breeze stirred, and he began to sweat anew beneath his armor.

Suddenly, Aric saw Henry’s boots before his very gaze, planted in the dirt and smeared with mud, reeds, and blood.

“Lord Belford, the White Lion?”

Aric looked up. “Aye, sire.”

“And do you now swear fealty to me as well?”

Nodding, Aric cast his gaze down respectfully once more. “I do, Your Highness.”

“After you refused my mother?”

“Forgive my error in judgment.”

Silence fell upon him. Aric fought the urge to look up into the king’s face, see if he might indeed be forgiven. But appearing so eager would only bespeak impertinence on his part, which he could ill afford.

“You long supported that Plantagenet prick. I do not think I shall forgive you. Arrest him!”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After a rough, rushed journey to London, Aric found himself locked in the dark isolation of the Tower of London. In fact, locked in what had come to be known as the Bloody Tower—the very tower that once housed England’s slain princes.

When he’d first entered the infamous prison, he’d been haunted by remembrances of his last trip here—the last time he had seen the young princes alive. As he paced the curiously luxurious lodgings he occupied, he wondered if he would meet the same fate as the boys, be condemned by the echo of the children’s cries during his stay—or both.

To his relief, Aric felt no lingering guilt, no ghosts, within the Tower walls. The boys’ young souls had been avenged now in battle and with King Richard’s death. He wondered if the children and their mother had truly blamed him for their murders, or if he had merely blamed himself.

Two weeks later, he still had no clear answers about his guilt or his fate.

A sudden clatter at his door brought Aric’s attention to the front of the room. He looked up from his pillowy bed in time to see a pair of guards stride into the small space. Fear and expectation mingled thickly in him, threatening to steal his voice. Their faces revealed nothing, but Aric knew somehow the moment that would decide his very future had come.

He missed Gwenyth each day. His love for her grew as he yearned for her smile, her saucy mouth, her kiss. He hoped his future was with her, not Lady Death.

“To yer feet, prisoner. The king calls fer ye.”

Without waiting for a reply, the burly pair hauled him to his feet and thrust him through the door, into a dank stone hall, then down a flight of narrow, circular stairs.

Before another door he stood, waiting as the guards knocked. Soon, an armed man opened the door and pulled Aric into the room.

There, upon a large chair, holding a mug of frothing ale, sat England’s new king, Henry.

Aric shrugged from the guard’s hold and approached the king, who nodded his assent. When Aric stood before the sovereign, he bowed.

“Stand, Aric Neville, and face me.”

Without hesitation, Aric did as he was bid.

King Henry studied him with unabashed thoroughness. “No wonder men fear you throughout the land. You’re tall enough to scare most away.”

Out of the corners of his memory came a vision of his Gwenyth on the day they wed. She had feared him not. In fact, she had never feared him, even at his worst. Always, she had shown more courage—and more spirit—than most men. Her keen mind ever took turns he scarce understood but were at times sublimely accurate. He loved her all the more for it. Her lovely face and extraordinary curves only added to his pleasure.

“Something amuses you?” asked the king, jerking Aric’s attention back to the present.

Aric cleared his throat. “Thinking of my wife, your highness.”

Henry nodded, a crooked smile emerging on the flat cheeks of his plain face. “Women. May they always amuse us, eh?”

“Always,” Aric replied as the king lifted his mug in toast and took a deep swallow.

Long moments passed. Henry wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then looked back to Aric. “Well, Lord Stanley tells me I have been much wrong about your loyalties. Did you, in fact, fight for my cause during the battle?”

“Aye.”

“Then why did you refuse my mother your support when asked?”

He barked the question, so Aric chose his answer carefully. “I had to consider needs other than my own, sire. I sought the safety of my wife and younger brother, should King Richard have proven victorious.”

“And do you not fear my wrath now?”

Aric nodded, his palms beginning to sweat. “I am most hopeful you will show the mercy Richard did not. ’Tis why I ultimately chose to fight for you. I want goodness for this land.”

The king’s dark brow shot up. “You think I will prove myself merciful and release you for your very late show of allegiance?”

Given his tone, Aric doubted it, but had little choice except to answer. As he considered a safe reply, blood roared in his ears. “I think nothing, but simply place myself upon your mercy.”

“Lord Stanley did mention you have a very careful way with your tongue.”

Aric studied the king’s face but could not discern if the man was irritated or amused.

“Very well,” King Henry said at length, then took another sip of his ale. “You are free to go, so long as you do here and now swear fealty to me.”

With a nod, Aric dropped to his knees. “I do, sire. And it pleases my heart and soul.”

“Rise,” he commanded, frowning. “If you cross me again, I shall have you executed.”

As any king would, Aric reasoned. That he would be allowed to live now was nearly more than he had hoped for. He could return to Gwenyth, and they could make Northwell their home. He would tell her of his guilt in the young princes’ deaths. Perhaps she could begin to forgive him, as he began to forgive himself. Together, they could live peacefully, happily with one another, and he could spend the rest of his days trying to understand her, thankful marriage would never tame her…

“However, I am most displeased you did not come to my aid upon my mother’s request.”

Aric’s heart ceased beating. He sensed the king had a point in this speech, and if it began with his displeasure, Aric doubted he would like it.

“Had I not had my duty to my wife and brother to consider, sire, I would have chosen differently,” Aric offered.

“And did your brother fight for Richard?”

“He fought for no one,” Aric hedged. Henry need not know Stephen had been mired in the mud with Northumberland and had only managed to escape moments before the king’s men arrested their odious neighbor.

“Well.” Henry waved his hand in the air as if Aric’s information was of no consequence. “For your defiance, I have decided to seize your lands and titles. You may go.” The king waved him out.

Aric stood, stunned and staring, a hum of shock ringing in his ears. His lands? His titles? His very heritage?

“I said you may go,” Henry repeated and motioned to one of his guards.

A pair of rough hands wrapped about his arm and thrust him out the door, into an empty stone hall.

From memory, he found his way outside, where the blinding late-summer sun cascaded upon him, portending the coming autumn.

He was free of imprisonment, and the land was free from war. He was free to return home.

But he had no home now.

Where would he live? Where would he live out his days with Gwenyth?

Oh, by the saints! Gwenyth, his lovely, needful bride. His wife who needed a castle to feel whole. The beloved vixen who sought the trappings of wealth and power to secure her happiness.

Now he had naught to give her.

He wandered outside the Tower’s walls, along the banks of the Thames, stumbling upon a rock. Righting himself before he fell, Aric walked on blindly.

Nothing to give her. Nothing at all. Not a castle. Not a title. No money. No power.

The future he had envisioned with Gwenyth began to dissolve before his eyes. He frowned as pain lanced his chest and speared its way through his entire body. A deafening clatter began in his head. He began to run.

He had nothing to give Gwenyth. Nothing she wanted. Aye, he had given her pleasure. That meant naught in the midst of an insecure future.

Panting, he stopped running and found himself miles from the Tower, along a deserted section of the river. Somehow its isolation reminded him of his life.

Just as he had reached out to love and believed he had a worthy future, Fate took it from him.

Sliding tense fingers through his long, damp hair, he stared out over the murky green river. Such irony. His attempt to fight in the name of King Richard and thus protect his wife had resulted in the one consequence that would drive them apart forever.

Leave being a lady for dirt floors?
Gwenyth had asked. Nor could he forget her saying,
You cannot give me everything my heart desires, then rip it away from me as if it meant nothing!

A sick, sliding nausea sloped from his chest to his belly.

His marriage to Gwenyth was over.

She would never be happy by the side of a landless pauper. How many times, through words and deeds, had she made clear her need for wealth and status? More than he cared to recall, Aric thought, shutting his eyes as if that could shut out the agony ripping through him.

He wanted her happiness. More than anything, he could not bear her tears, to know he was the cause of them.

Opening his eyes once more to lofty green trees swaying against a blue sky, Aric knew he must leave Gwenyth. He must give her leave to find happiness.

Even if it shattered his heart.

* * * *

August nudged into September and a bit of cooler weather. At dawn, Gwenyth stood about one of Hartwich’s battlements, Dog at her side, as always. The sun rose off to her left, a magnificent display of nature’s wonderment, to be sure, but her gaze remained to the south.

The direction in which Aric had ridden over a month ago and from which he had yet to return.

Wrapping a blanket about her shoulders to ward off the autumn breeze, she wondered why he had not come back. News of King Richard’s final battle had reached them nearly a fortnight past.

A few days later, Aric’s brother, Stephen, had come to Hartwich, contrite and haggard, seeking his brother. His eyes told her the boy had somehow become a man since she had left him last. Mayhap war had done that. Who knew?

Gwenyth would have feared for Aric’s life, except Stephen had seen him leave the battlefield with the triumphant new king. And though Guilford, bless his kind heart, had sent many letters of inquiry to London, thus far no news had reached them.

She missed Aric so deeply, wanted him back with her so badly…regretted their terrible parting so much.

The approach of a rider from the south interrupted Gwenyth’s musings. Within moments, she could hear the faint sound of the horse’s hooves upon the soft soil below, urgent, matching the sudden rhythm of her heart.

Dog barked. She peered closely at the rider as he approached. Disappointment stabbed her when she realized he possessed neither the size nor hair color to be her Aric. But mayhap he came bearing news!

“Come, Dog!” she called as she rushed from the battlements.

Gwenyth and the mutt made haste to the great hall, where she found Guilford dispatching the man with a shiny coin. In his wrinkled hands, he held two rolled parchments.