Trenton was shaking his head before the king even finished speaking. “Nay, Your Highness,” he said. “As honored as I am that you should think of me, I already have a title that I have little time to tend, with homes and lands that I must leave to subordinates to manage. If there is any real trouble, then my father must see to it. I have no time.”
Henry glanced at him at the mention of the almighty Gaston de Russe. “And how is your father these days?”
Trenton smiled, though it was without humor. He moved away from the window. “My father and I have not spoken in some time,” he said. “I still hear from my mother on occasion, so my father is in good health. She would tell me otherwise.”
Henry nodded. “And I am sure we would have all heard,” he said. “But I am sorry to hear that you and your father have not spoken. It seems to me that you have not really spoken to him since you came into my service those years ago.”
Trenton shrugged, hunting for a chair to plant his bulk into. “You know he did not want me to accept your position,” he said quietly. “My father believes what I do for you is less than honorable.”
“Coming from the man who betrayed Richard at Bosworth and allowed my father to come into power, that is an ironic opinion,” Henry sniffed. “Clearly, he does not realize how important you are to me, Trenton, and if you did not believe this to be important work, then you would not have accepted the post. Does he not realize that?”
Trenton sat in a cushioned chair near the darkened hearth. “My father told me that he’d always hoped I’d have a better reputation than he did,” he said. “He does not think that special missions for the king are the way to achieve that. As it is, I have men’s respect mostly because they fear me. It is terror that causes them to obey or fall at my feet, not genuine admiration. I suppose I never really knew what my father meant until I started undertaking some of your more… questionable directives. Now, it is too late.”
Henry didn’t particularly like to hear what he perceived to be a condemnation. “Regrets?”
“Never,” Trenton shook his head firmly. “What should I regret? That I have helped a king hold fast to his crown in a country where vipers abound? I should never regret that. But I do regret that my father views me as a disappointment.”
Henry was feeling some guilt for that, as if the rift between father and son was some of his doing. He’d pushed hard for Trenton even when Gaston had come to visit him and asked him not to offer Trenton this position. But in the end, it was Trenton who had made his own decisions. Nothing had been forced upon him.
At least, that was the way Henry viewed it.
He always got his way in the end.
“So the great Duke of Warminster finds you a disappointment,” he muttered, scratching his head. “You, his eldest son and heir. You hold the title of Earl of Westbury, a courtesy title for the heir of Warminster, and Westbury is a wealthy holding. You are a man with some independent wealth, Trenton.”
Trenton shrugged. “As I said, I cannot properly administer the lands I have and must leave it to subordinates.”
“Do you want less responsibility? Do you want to return home and make amends with your father?”
It was the first time in almost ten years that Henry had even remotely offered him some kind of respite from the constant missions he undertook on the king’s behalf. Trenton’s first reaction was to deny he needed any time away, but he stopped himself. Perhaps, time away from his usual dirty dealings was a good idea. But as he considered it, he realized there was a particular reason why he was, indeed, thinking about it.
Lady de Wilde.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking of Lysabel since that night. His thoughts weren’t lustful, or those of interest in the sexual sense, but more of great concern. If Henry sent him out on another mission right away, which was usual, then there was no knowing when he’d be able to return to Dorset to see how Lysabel was coming along.
He’d left her almost three weeks ago, damaged and broken, and it had haunted him. That sweet, lovely woman had been so badly damaged, and no one had known – not her father, and certainly not his own father, because between the two of them, they would have done something about it. If Trenton hadn’t killed Benoit, then he was fairly certain that the old knights would have. But Lysabel had kept her secret, and bore her burden, without telling a soul of the hell she’d been going through. What was it she’d said? She’d been married to de Wilde for twelve long years.
Twelve long years of hell.
For the sake of an old family friend, Trenton very much wanted to return to see how she was faring. Therefore, he found himself nodding to Henry’s question even though he had no intention of visiting his father.
He had other destinations on his mind.
“That would be in order,” he said after a moment. “Mayhap… mayhap, it would do me good to see my father. He and I have shared a complicated relationship over the years.”
Henry gulped the last of his watered wine and set the empty cup down. “You could also visit your wife,” he said. “When was the last time you saw Adela?”
The mere mention of the name was like mud in Trenton’s ears. It was an ugly, dirty word as far as he was concerned and he abruptly stood up, feeling the familiar agitation that the mention of his wife brought.
“I do not remember the last time I saw her and I do not care,” he said flatly. “She lives as if she has no husband, and I am happy to let her do it. I care not for anything about her.”
Henry snorted; he probably shouldn’t have spoken on Adela de Montfort de Russe, but it was a pathetic situation Trenton had gotten himself in to. All of London knew it, if not all of England.
Trenton’s record with women was not a good one.
“God’s Bones, Trenton,” Henry said, feeling the slightest bit tipsy from the watered wine. He stretched out on the chair, lazily. “You have had terrible luck with women, my friend. For your first wife, the lovely Alicia, to die in childbirth, and then the second wife to be murdered by her own father. I remember that event very well. What a shock it was to hear that Lord Atwell murdered his daughter because his coffers were empty and she would not help him gain your money as he’d hoped. Horribly shocking.”
Trenton was well aware of his history with women and he didn’t need a slightly drunk king to remind him. It was an embarrassment, and probably more disappointment to his father than his service record for the king ever could be.
He didn’t want to dredge up old shame.
“No need to revisit this, Your Highness,” he said evenly, but he meant it as a warning. “It is all in the past.”
But Henry wasn’t hearing his tone; he continued to muse about Trenton’s marital history. “And then you let your father talk you into marrying that French duchess,” he said. “You married Adela of Brittany, the illegitimate daughter of the Duke of Brittany, because your father thought it would bring you great wealth and support from the French. What he did not know was that Adela was a whore and had no intention of giving up her whoring ways.”
Trenton looked at him. “You will not speak of my wife so,” he said, his threatening tone more evident. “Regardless of her behavior, she still bears the title Lady de Russe and is due all respect, even from you.”
Henry eyed him, unmoved by the hazard in his voice. “She took your home, and your money, and now you are not even welcome at Penleigh House, your seat.” He sat up and lifted a frustrated hand. “She has even banished you from her bed. Have you not gone to the church with this, Trenton? Surely you can gain an annulment based on the fact that she will not allow you to touch her. I have told you this before, Trenton. You must do something about this woman.”
By this time, Trenton was growing weary of the conversation. He didn’t want to discuss his father, and he certainly didn’t want to discuss his three marriages, including his current wife. Henry didn’t know when to shut his mouth sometimes.
“The arrangement is an agreeable one, considering I have n
o desire to touch her, either,” he snapped softly. “As you have so eloquently reminded me, much of my life has ended in utter failure. I will leave well enough alone when it comes to my marriages. Three failures are enough.”
Henry’s brow furrowed as Trenton’s mood became apparent to him, now realizing that his words had been careless. He respected Trenton too much to offend him, but he could see that he’d done precisely that.
“You have a great many things to be proud of, Trenton,” he said, trying to make up for his tactlessness. “I have always been proud of you. Your reputation in battle and in service is unparalleled.”
“But my private life is in shambles.”
Henry had a twinkle in his eye. “As if mine is perfect.”
He had a point. Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon was anything but problem-free. Still, Trenton would not be soothed. He didn’t like the comparison to the king’s rather lusty and imperfect private life, because he wasn’t like that at all. He was an introspective man and he had tried to be careful with his marriages. He’d tried to pick women of honor, he thought, or women he was attracted to. He wanted what his parents had, an excellent union for many years. Unfortunately, the universe had worked against him, and that was a bitter pill for him to swallow.
He was not to have what his father had when it came to love.
But he didn’t want to think about that at the moment. Henry’s idle chatter had put a great many things on his mind, and now he was feeling depressed and moody. God, he hated that he couldn’t shake feelings like this. He’d never been able to. On the surface, he was a man of stone, but inside, he was weak and emotional. Therefore, it was best to simply end the conversation before he said something ridiculous.
He’d been known to.
“I have decided to accept your offer of time away,” he said as he turned to Henry. “I shall also tell Anthony, Timothy, and Adrian that they may also take some time for their leisure as well. They have earned it.”
He was suddenly on his feet, heading for the chamber door. Henry watched him go, rather quickly, he thought.
“Wait,” he called after him. “Are you going to your father’s home? Can I reach you at Deverill Castle?”
Trenton put his hand on the door latch, pausing. “I will send you a missive from wherever I decide to go,” he said, not wanting to give him a firm answer because the truth was that he didn’t have one. “You have my thanks, Your Highness. Time away is exactly what I need at the moment.”
With that, he yanked the door open and passed through, slamming the panel in his wake. He half-expected Henry to come running after him and was mildly surprised when he didn’t. Perhaps, even Henry realized it would be better to let him go, especially in light of the touchy conversation they’d just had.
With instructions that they were to meet up in three weeks at The Horn and The Crown tavern in the village of Westbury, part of Trenton’s properties, Anthony, Timothy, and Adrian found themselves granted eighteen days of leisure time, nearly unheard of in their profession, but something they gratefully accepted. As they gleefully went on their way, Trenton went on his, collecting his big black steed. The green, rolling hills of Dorset were calling to him.
He had to see an old friend.
CHAPTER THREE
Stretford Castle
“Pick it up, Cissy! It will not bite you!”
It was late on a sunny day, warm with a summer breeze, as Lysabel sat in the kitchen yard of Stretford and watched her daughters as they tried to corral the chickens for the night. Her words of encouragement were directed at six-year-old Brencis because was afraid of the chickens. She didn’t want to be pecked. But her elder sister by two years, Cynethryn, didn’t seem to fear the chickens at all. She was grabbing them two at a time to put them back into the coop.
“Pick them up around the body, Cissy,” Cynethryn said impatiently. “They cannot peck you if you hold them like that.”
But Brencis wasn’t certain at all. In fact, she watched her mother and sister gather up all of the chickens to put them back in the tall coop so the predators couldn’t get to them overnight. She felt rather useless, but it was better than being pecked.
“What else can I help with, Mama?” Brencis was eager to help but reluctant to do half of the things she was told. “Can I bolt the door to the coop?”
Lysabel stood next to the open coop door, wiping at her forehead with the back of her hand. She looked down at her youngest child, with huge blue eyes and curly blond hair. She looked so much like her grandfather, Lysabel’s father, that it was frightening.
“Of course you can,” she said. “That is the biggest task of all.”
Brencis beamed as she shut the door and threw the bolt. “Is that all?” she asked. “What else do we have to do?”
“Nothing, sweetheart,” she said, putting her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “We may go inside and prepare for the evening meal now.”
The sun was beginning to set, and the smell of baking bread and roasting meat wafted upon the warm summer air. It had been a beautiful day in a line of beautiful days, because every day for the past thirty-six days had been the best day of Lysabel’s life.
The only days in the past twelve years where she’d lived without fear.
Aye, the sky had never looked so blue, nor the grass so green. Cynethryn and Brencis were starting to come out of their shells a little, no longer living in fear of their father and his violence. Cynethryn still screamed at loud noises and Brencis still wept every night as she was put to bed. But for the most part, Lysabel could see the beginnings of healing in her girls. She knew it would take time. But with Benoit gone, they had nothing but time to heal lifelong wounds.
It was a hope she genuinely thought she’d never have – a hope for healing.
Crossing the dusty yard as the servants began to prepare for the coming night, their paths were crossed by a running dog and three growing puppies, which immediately lured her daughters like the call of a siren’s song. Brencis captured a puppy with long legs, hugging it, while Cynethryn petted the mother dog. Lysabel continued towards the manse, watching her children with a smile on her face.
It was so very good to see them happy.
A dream, she thought. I’m going to wake up and this will have all been a dream.
Lysabel had the same thought every day since that dark night when four men had burst into her chamber, trussing up her husband and then throwing him from the window. In truth, it had been Trenton who had tossed Benoit out of the window because she had seen it.
She’d seen everything.
Trenton had thrown Benoit to the ground two floors below and then informed her that her husband’s neck had been broken in the process. He had been quiet and unemotional about it, as if he had been discussing nothing more than the weather, and then he’d climbed from the window and disappeared into the night. The last she saw was the four men crossing the manor’s moat on a small raft before fading into the darkness, all the time carrying her husband’s body with them.
And that had been the end of it.
It was the night that had quite literally changed her life. For several days following that event, Lysabel still couldn’t quite figure out if she’d imagined it or not. But as the days passed and Benoit didn’t show himself, finally, she began to believe. She prayed that it was true. She didn’t know where her husband’s body had ended up and she surely didn’t care. All that mattered to her was that for nearly the first time in her adult life, she wasn’t living in daily fear.
All thanks to a childhood friend.
As she called the girls into the manse, leaving the dogs behind, Lysabel’s thoughts turned to the eldest de Russe son. Her father was Trenton’s father’s best friend, and had been since they were children, so the de Russe and Wellesbourne families had always been quite close. Lysabel was her father’s eldest child, but when she was born, Trenton had been at least eight years of age. She remembered him from her childhood, seeing him on holidays a
nd other occasions when the families converged. And when he’d been fourteen years of age, he and his brother, Dane, had come to serve her father and the Wellesbourne war machine.
Trenton had been as big as a full-grown man at that age, very tall, a quiet and somewhat intimidating young man whom her father had taken under his wing. There had been something inherently sad about him and she’d heard her parents whispering about his past, about a birth mother who had been a whore and a father who had stayed away because of it.
But neither Lysabel’s father nor her mother had ever told her anything directly about Trenton’s past, and all she’d ever heard were the whispers or rumors. Some of the old knights used to say that his father had betrayed King Richard at the battle of Bosworth, and that her father, Matthew, had saved Gaston de Russe’s life. Matthew had lost his left hand as a result. Lysabel didn’t know the entire story, and she probably never would, but none of that mattered. She was simply grateful to a very old friend who had saved her from a life that had become hell on earth.
She wondered if she’d ever be able to thank him for it.
But thoughts of Trenton faded as the great hall of Stretford Castle spread out before her. The hall was on the ground level, with hard-packed earth as the floor and a ceiling that was supported by great arched beams. Lysabel took her daughters into the great hall to help the servants set out the coming meal. It was their usual behavior at mealtime, considering Benoit liked all of the women around him to serve him one way or another, including his daughters. They’d been a great disappointment to him when they were born, being that they weren’t male, and he made sure to let them know every chance he got. Brencis hadn’t been beaten down by it yet but, at eight years of age, Cynethryn was starting to show signs of it.
Another behavior that Lysabel hoped she could help her daughters forget.
As the sun began to set, the servants built a large fire in the hearth that was tall enough for a man to stand in it. Brencis was over by the hearth where a heavyset male servant was positioning the fire, taking kindling from the little girl because it wasn’t too heavy for her to lift. Cynethryn was in the servant’s alcove, watching them prepare the trenchers that would be delivered to the family and also to the soldiers, men who ate at their own tables. There was one table for the family, at the head of the room, and then two longer, well-worn tables where the soldiers ate. Benoit had been welcoming to his men at mealtime, and liked for them all to eat in the hall, mostly because he wanted to preside as lord and master over them. It had made him feel important.