Bodies crunched against the stone wall, grunts of pain in the air. Now, it was a fight as Anthony and the man grappled for control of the poker. As Trenton headed to the pair to snatch away the poker, Timothy and Adrian leapt into the room. Timothy ran straight for the door to ensure it was bolted while Adrian, heading for the fight, slipped on the chunks of glass and landed on his knees. But he was up in a flash, reaching the struggle just as Trenton grabbed the poker and tossed it aside. Now, it was Anthony and Adrian subduing the struggling man.
“What do you want?” the man demanded, his voice cracking in terror. “Why are you here?”
Trenton stood back, coolly observing the man. “Benoit de Wilde?”
The mention of the name caused the man’s face to turn shades of red. “Do you have any idea what I can do to you?” he snarled. “This will not go unanswered. Who has sent you?”
“Are you de Wilde?”
“This is my home, idiot. What do you want with me?”
“It would behoove you to give me a direct answer. I do not wish to punish the wrong man.”
“Punish me?” the man exploded. “For what? Let me go!”
Trenton didn’t reply. He had his answer, even if it was via clues and assumptions. So he turned to Timothy, who was now standing beside him and waiting for orders.
“Bind him and gag him,” he commanded quietly. “Make it so the man cannot move a muscle.”
Gleefully, Timothy’s young face was full of delight as he went to separate the rope from the grappling iron over by the window. But as he did, he noticed that the sentries below had heard the noise and were coming to the side of the manse to investigate. Quickly, he grabbed both ropes and pulled them through the window, removing any external evidence.
“My lord,” he said to Trenton. “We have little time. Men are moving below.”
Trenton glanced at him. “They have heard us?”
Timothy nodded. “They have heard something. We must hurry.”
Trenton understood. They hadn’t exactly been discovered, but their scent was in the air. The crash through the window had created noise, and the grounds were alerted. He flicked a hand at the struggling prisoner.
“Then quickly bind him,” he hissed. “We must depart before his men grow wise.”
Swiftly, Anthony and Timothy and Adrian did as they were told. De Wilde struggled and fought, and the four men eventually ended up on the ground, with Timothy sitting on de Wilde while Anthony and Adrian bound the man hand and foot.
It was a snarling, nasty mess of men – the captors against the captive. At one point, de Wilde ended up with his foot in the fire and Timothy had to put out the flames as his hose began to smolder. Then, de Wilde began to howl until Anthony quickly shoved a gag into his mouth, fabric torn off of de Wilde’s fine silk tunic.
As this was going on, Trenton rushed over to the window, seeing men gathering in the garden below, pointing up at the broken window as if wondering what should be done. Trenton tried to stay out of sight as he watched them. He was pressed against the wall next to the window, straining to see if the men were going to make their way into the manor and up to their lord’s chamber. There seemed to be some indecision about it because with de Wilde’s well-established history of violence, no one wanted to be the first to charge in and risk their lord’s anger.
And that was where Trenton would capitalize.
“Adrian,” he muttered, motioning to the young man, who came on the run. “I want you to get to the first floor of this structure and create a diversion. I do not care what it is; start a fire if you have to. But we must move these men away from the window if we are to escape unseen and unscathed.”
Adrian nodded swiftly. He was tall, and strong, with wavy dark hair and flashing dark eyes. Women adored him, and he had an aura of greatness about him, and Trenton knew that Adrian Levington had a bright future. Smart and resourceful, he would go far. As the young knight dashed to the chamber door and put his ear against it, listening, Trenton was about to turn back for the skirmish near the hearth when he heard soft whimpering on the bed.
The woman that has suffered the brunt of de Wilde’s brutality was on the bed. She was sitting on it, hunched over, her hand on her face. She’d made no noise at all during the entire time de Wilde was being captured, and Trenton could have very well fled the chamber without saying a word to her.
But he didn’t.
He’d heard her screaming, and he’d heard the body blows that de Wilde had delivered, and it had been a brutal beating. Although Trenton wasn’t one for compassion, or kindness, something made him eye the woman and pause in his haste. He may have been a ruthless man, but when it came to women, he didn’t approve of a man taking a hand to them. It was savage and ignoble, he thought.
As a child, he’d witnessed the unspeakable horrors of it.
Therefore, he took a moment to speak with her, if only to reassure her that de Wilde wouldn’t be around to harm her again. It was a brief act of compassion in an otherwise compassionless night. Moving to the bed, which was against the wall and shadowed in the dim chamber, he stood over her.
“What is your name, my lady?” he asked in a voice that could only be described as deep, quiet, and raspy.
The woman kept her hand over the left side of her face, trying to ease the side that had been bruised.
“I am Lady de Wilde,” she whispered.
Trenton eyed the woman. She had long, bronze-colored hair, tied in a braid that was now mussed as a result of the fight with her husband. She was wearing a fine robe, which had been torn and tattered. But beyond that, he couldn’t really see much.
“We are taking your husband,” he muttered. “Do you understand that?”
She nodded, but then she turned to look at him. “But why do you take him? Who are you?”
Trenton didn’t answer right away because there was something oddly familiar about the woman. She had a fine-featured face, full lips, and enormous eyes that, with the flames reflecting in them, looked like undulating pools of blue. A liquid color that was both mesmerizing and beautiful. In fact, the woman was stunningly beautiful in spite of the fact that one side of her face was red and swollen. But it didn’t detract from her magnificence.
Christ, he thought. I know that face!
He peered closer.
“What is your family name, my lady?” he asked, puzzled. “I have seen you before.”
She was eyeing him warily because he seemed quite interested in her. Her expression conveyed terror with what had happened to her and what was happening in general. But as she started to turn away, it must have occurred to her that he looked familiar to her, too, because she began to peer at him the way he was peering at her. She stared at him, starting at the top of his head and then ending at his cleft chin.
Her eyes widened.
“Trenton?” she gasped.
Trenton’s dark eyebrows lifted. She certainly knew him, but he still couldn’t place her. As he wracked his brain, her familiar features suddenly became clear to him, and his mouth popped open in surprise.
“Lysabel?” he said. “Lysabel Wellesbourne?”
She nodded eagerly, her entire face lighting up. “Aye,” she breathed. “Oh, Trenton, it is you!”
Trenton’s could hardly believe it. “Christ,” he hissed. “Lysabel Wellesbourne, as I live and breathe.”
She smiled, her swollen lips revealing straight teeth and a big dimple in her chin. “It has been such a long time.”
“A long time, indeed,” he said. “But… Lysabel, you are married to Benoit de Wilde?”
She nodded, the joy on her face wavering. “Aye,” she said hesitantly. “I have been for twelve years. Trenton, what are you doing here? What in the world is happening?”
As Trenton looked at her, he found himself overcome with the reality of the situation; to find the daughter of his father’s best friend here, being savagely beaten, filled him with rage such as he’d rarely experienced. He’d grown up with Lysabel Wellesbourne, alth
ough she was eight years younger than he was, but still, he’d known her since birth. He’d served her father as a squire for a few years and had even been knighted by Sir Matthew Wellesbourne.
Lysabel was the eldest daughter of the man he’d served as a young knight, a lovely girl who was sweet and kind, and she’d been a favorite at her father’s home. But he’d lost track of her when she’d gone away to foster, and he hadn’t heard much more of her after that, not even that she’d married.
And now, this.
Anger and disgust didn’t quite encompass what he was feeling.
“Henry wants de Wilde,” he said. He couldn’t even bring himself to call the man her husband. “Lysabel, does your father know of… this? Of what the man does to you? Good Christ, we could hear the screaming outside.”
Lysabel’s smile faded and tears pooled in those big eyes. “He is my husband,” she said tightly. “He may do as he pleases. It is his right.”
Trenton frowned. “That is nonsense,” he said. “Answer me. Why have you not told your father?”
Lysabel’s gaze trailed to the man she’d married, now trussed up and gagged, and the only emotion on her face was that of clear and present fear.
She was terrified even to look at him.
“He can do nothing,” she finally said, looking up to Trenton. “Please, Trenton… do not tell him. I beg you. And if you are taking my husband, then I should go with him. He will want me with him.”
Trenton cocked an eyebrow. “You are not going with him,” he said. “You will remain here, far away from him. Where he is going, there is no return.”
Lysabel’s eyes widened. “Why do you say this?”
“Because it is true. Henry wants your husband. He will not return.”
Before Lysabel could reply, Anthony was suddenly standing next to Trenton, edginess in his manner. “We must leave now,” he said quietly. “There is no more time to delay and Adrian is prepared to create the diversion.”
Trenton nodded, but he returned his attention to Lysabel, who was gazing up at him rather anxiously. He felt an odd stab to his gut because of it, but there was no time to explore that sensation. Anthony was correct; there was no more time to delay.
“I wish I could remain and catch up on the many years we have not seen one another,” he said, “but I must go. You will not tell anyone that you saw us. For all you know, you were asleep and when you awoke, your husband was gone and you do not know where he has gone. Do you understand?”
Lysabel’s eyes started to fill with tears again and she shook her head, fearfully. “I cannot,” she said. “If I do not summon his men, he will become angry.”
“He is not returning, Lysabel. He cannot hurt you again. I will make sure of it. You must believe me.”
Lysabel moved to stand. It was clear that she didn’t believe him in the least, conditioned after years of abuse on how to behave with her husband. Terror fed her actions. But the moment she tried to stand on her feet and straighten up, she crumpled back onto the bed, her hands on her torso. As she gasped in pain, Trenton bent over her with concern.
“He has hurt you badly, hasn’t he?” he growled.
She shook her head, struggling to swallow away the agony she’d experienced many times before. “It is nothing,” she said. “You cannot help.”
Trenton was a man of little emotion, but he did have a temper. When it was unleashed, there was no stopping it and, at this moment, he could feel the spark of temper rising in his belly. It was bad enough for a man to beat a woman, but in seeing how injured Lysabel was, an old friend, it was more than he could take.
“It is something,” he said in his low and raspy voice. “He has badly injured you and I would be willing to bet my life on the fact that this isn’t the first time.”
Lysabel had her left arm wrapped around her torso. She knew from experience that Benoit had broken a rib or two, and she knew her eye would be bruised come the morrow from the heavy blow he’d dealt her earlier. Trenton said her husband wasn’t coming back, but how could he be so sure? Fear kept her silent.
“You must go, Trenton,” she whispered. “Please, go before my husband’s men come.”
Trenton didn’t push her. He could see how frightened she was and that stab to his gut was only growing worse. Heavily, he sighed.
“Do you at least have someone to tend you?” he asked, rather kindly.
“Aye,” she whispered, turning away. “Please go.”
“I will,” he said. “But first, I want you to tell me the truth. Has he always beaten you?”
In spite of attempting not to push the subject, he was. He couldn’t help it; that odd stabbing in his gut was sparking something more than his temper. It was sparking the first true experience with compassion and sympathy that he’d had in a very long time. He watched her as she forced herself to stand up straight again and pushed herself off the bed. But in doing so, she lifted her right arm, which was heavily bandaged. Trenton caught on to the wrapped arm and he pointed at it.
“Did he do that?”
He was asking her through gritted teeth, an angry sort of question, and Lysabel looked him in the eye, showing him dignity he hadn’t seen before. She was standing strong, holding her bandaged arm against her cracked ribs, facing him regardless of the anguish she was feeling. Benoit had beat on her for years. But in spite of that, he hadn’t been able to crush her spirit or destroy her nobility.
The Wellesbourne strength was still there.
“Go, Trenton,” she said, more forcefully. “If you remain any longer, I am afraid you will not make it out at all. I will not tell you again.”
He could see in her face that she meant it. She wasn’t going to answer any of his questions, no matter how much he asked them, and the truth was that it wasn’t any of his business, anyway. That pretty little girl he remembered from his youth had grown into a magnificent woman who had ended up in a horrific situation. It wasn’t her fault. But the truth was that he couldn’t leave her, knowing her situation and not doing something to help. That wasn’t in his nature. In that moment, Trenton made a decision that, in hindsight, was going to affect him for the rest of his life.
But it would be one he would never regret.
For an old friend, he knew what he had to do.
Turning away from Lysabel, he gave silent orders to his men. A hand signal had Adrian rushing from the chamber and into the darkened manse to create a diversion that would allow them to complete their mission. Another hand signal had Anthony and Timothy rushing for the one grappling hook they had left, wedging it into the windowsill on the inside and then waiting several long and anxious minutes until the men below began running towards the kitchen yard to the north side of the manse.
A fire, they were saying, and the faint scent of smoke could be smelled on the cold night air. Adrian had evidently created quite a distraction and as the garden below cleared of de Wilde’s men, Anthony and Timothy bailed over the side of the window, shimmying down the rope and waiting for their prize, which Trenton would lower from the window.
But Trenton didn’t lower Benoit at all. As Anthony and Timothy watched, Trenton simply tossed the man from the window, head first.
He was dead the moment he hit the ground.
CHAPTER TWO
The Palace of Greenwich, London
One month later
“It is not like you to make a mistake, Trenton. But all things considered, it was a blessing.”
Trenton stood in the private solar of the king, a room that faced out over the River Thames. The ceiling of the chamber was a masterpiece of Gothic architecture with intricate patterns. Small panes of square glass made up an enormous window that presided over the bucolic landscape beyond. In all, it was a room built to impress, and impress it did. Imported woods and the smell of leather from the furniture built by Savoy artisans in France ensure that all who entered the room were properly awed.
But Trenton wasn’t impressed by his surroundings. He hadn’t been for a
very long time. To him, it was a room just like any other. He leaned against the windowsill, gazing at the blue waters of the Thames as it meandered to the sea, thinking on how he would reply to the king’s statement.
It hadn’t been a mistake.
He’d meant to do it.
“We were rushing to remove him from his chamber and in the haste, he slipped from my grip,” he said after a moment. “I explained to you the sequence of events, Your Highness, so it was simply an unfortunate happenstance.”
Henry VIII, King of England, was sitting near the open window, with the river breeze infiltrating the room. Being that it was in the dead of summer, the humidity in the air was nearly unbearable and Henry’s entire court was preparing to move to Penhurst Palace in Kent, where it was considerably cooler and away from the moisture of the river. But Henry preferred Greenwich so that he never left the palace unless it grew intolerable, and it was quickly reaching that state.
Still, he had business to conduct, and important business with Trenton de Russe. He sipped on watered wine, cooled because it was kept in the vaults below the palace where it was dry and downright cold at times. Trenton had been offered some, which he had refused. He wasn’t much for drink like this during the day. He didn’t like the fog of alcohol in his head so early in the day. Henry sat near the open windows, sipping his refreshing drink, while Trenton leaned against the wall and watched the traffic on the river.
“As I said, it is for the better,” Henry said, a slight lisp evident when he spoke. “De Wilde has been a thorn in my side for years. Now that he is gone, the Ilchester title reverts to me to do with as I please. In truth, I am not dissatisfied with this outcome.”
Trenton glanced at him. “You would take the Ilchester inheritance from de Wilde’s heir?”
Henry shrugged. “He only has two daughters that I am aware of,” he said. “Legitimate children, I mean. Who knows how many bastards the man has running about? In fact, I have half a mind to grant you the Ilchester titles, Trenton. You have rid me, and England, of a sour excuse of a man. You have done us all a great service.”