“No matter.” Chelynne shrugged. “There is nothing here for me.” There were no tears for Eleanor’s harsh words, but pity.
Early, as the sun was just rising on the next day, they prepared to leave. There was little to ready, simply servants to inform, horsemen to alert. Chelynne pulled her wrap tightly around her as she watched Tanya leave with the last light parcel. She looked around the room that had been hers when she stayed at Welby Manor. The bed had been made in France, a gift to her on her tenth birthday. The room was done in virginal pink and white, a feminine and pure habitation. She remembered Sheldon’s exclamations, for he had had the room decorated to his specifications. “If I surround you with womanly things perhaps you will grow into gowns instead of breeches!”
Sheldon had always said such lovely things about her mother, his hope clearly being that drawing a good picture of Madelynne would help Chelynne to grow into the dignified and graceful woman her mother was. She had at long last given up her boyish antics and impish foolery, but she could never live up to Sheldon’s expectations. She could feel gratitude, though, and more profoundly now as she prepared to leave for the last time. She had not known parents but she knew fatherly love. She had never felt protected until the protection was gone and she was awesomely alone.
The only thing she could do for Sheldon now was to take charge of her life and carry on as she had been reared to do. She gave a sigh of resignation and prepared to leave all this behind her.
There was a swift sinking in her heart as she saw Harry in the doorway, lounging lazily against the frame. She would not be allowed to go easily now. He stood and leered at her.
“Will you ride in the coach this time, cousin, or flee on horseback again?”
“I will ride where it pleases me,” she sighed wearily.
“Strange, I hadn’t thought you so clever, Chelynne. Such a wit. I’m greatly impressed.”
“You seem greatly intoxicated, Harry. And so early, too.”
“I should like to know if you sought it out, or stumbled upon it?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Harry.”
“The paper. I would like to have it back.”
“What?”
“Perhaps you didn’t know it belonged to me, Chelynne. Did you think perhaps it was my father’s?”
“I don’t know what you babble about, Harry.”
“Spare me your innocence,” he snapped. “I know you were the one to take it. I want it back.”
“I’m sorry, Harry. More of your delusions?”
“The record of your husband’s marriage, as well you know.”
“You confuse me. You must explain.”
His fist hit the door in a sudden rage. “Where have you taken it?”
Chelynne jumped in surprise and turned her palms up in dismay. “I’ve not left the house since I arrived but for a ride. What is it you’re after?”
“I know it’s not here, I’ve had your room thoroughly searched. I mean it, cousin dear, I want the thing!” Her great effort at confusion was not fooling Harry. He was determined and his temper frightened her a little. She was too alone with him. He stared her down and she remained mute, refusing to play this game with him. “Perhaps you thought to make use of it yourself, Chelynne?”
“Make use of what, Harry?” she asked with feigned tolerance.
“Your husband’s marriage to Anne Billings. Will you hold it over the earl’s head for a price?”
She ruffled somewhat, wondering at his plan. She should have determined this was mischief worthy of Harry, but she had not. She couldn’t fathom his purpose now.
“My husband will be angered by your interest in his private affairs.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Harry laughed. “He’s taken great enough pains to keep it secret.” Chelynne paled and Harry was quick to notice. She was at the disadvantage, knowing nothing of the marriage and little of the man. He saw his chance. If he was correct in guessing, she was ignorant of the whole thing. “It must have come as quite a shock to you, Chelynne. Of course you would be the last to learn of it.”
“You’re mad,” she hissed impatiently.
“I imagine you wish I were. Quite a rake, isn’t he? Keeping two wives in the same city and neither of them knowing of the other. You truly never suspected, did you?”
“Harry, I believe the last link has slipped,” she sighed, quickly trying to pass him in the doorway. He grabbed her sharply by the arm.
“I pray you remember I have never lied to you, Chelynne. Wasn’t it I who taught you of your parentage? Of course I left you the letter in your coffer. I could have held that for a price, but why antagonize the same king I seek favor with? That was better off yours, but this I would have kept.”
“For what purpose, Harry?”
“It might serve to see you selling oranges outside the Duke’s Theater. Nothing would bring me greater pleasure.”
Chelynne was beginning to tremble and prayed she wouldn’t faint dead away. To cover her upset she attempted a wicked laugh, but it was little more than a nervous giggle. “Some petty forgery to bring you easy coin, Harry? Do you think the earl that kind of fool? He would never let you embarrass a farthing out of him! Come now, have done with this acting!”
“Bryant is no fool. He sought to have the best of both and before I found the truth to it he was succeeding. Few knew of the lady Anne. There is the woman who gains his love and devotion and here stands the well-bred flower he can take to court. I don’t doubt it could have gone on for many years, but now I have an upset at hand.”
She blanched, her world beginning to spin around her. It all made sense. He was ever away from the house and she had never shared his bed. Personal problems to set aside? Must he rid himself of the old bride or the new? Whom did he seek to remove? She looked searchingly at her cousin and mumbled, “Why?”
“I wouldn’t know his reasons.”
Her hand came up to stop him, for he had not answered the right question. With a pleading in her eyes she whispered low, “Why do you go to such lengths to bring me pain?”
The cold gleam in his eyes was so wicked and depraved she was more afraid of his words than she ever had been. He had always been a nuisance and now he seemed a danger. “For the years I’ve played lackey to a bastard whelp of an exiled king! Ah, the praise and glory bestowed on our sweet Chelynne, with my father’s own flesh left to scourge a wasted farmland! I’ve taken my place behind you long enough, Chelynne. I’ve lived for the day you’ll beg of me a meager rag to clothe yourself, a roof to lie under. I’ve had a bellyful of your regal airs!” He turned and stamped away but foolishly she called him back.
“And the earl?” she asked softly. “What has he done to warrant your vengeance?”
“He coddles you. And he’s an insulting bastard. Reason enough!”
She stood and stared at the now empty portal where her cruel cousin had flung his final blow. Her spirit was so broken now that could she have closed her eyes and sought the peaceful haven of death, she would have done so. It was mad, this. But life did not give one escapes, but challenges. Some were so unbearable that many gave in to the urge and ended the misery of living for themselves. Chelynne considered that alternative.
She made the blind journey to her coach, seeing nothing she passed, not recognizing the servants who turned out to bid her farewell, not glancing back to what she was leaving. The coach waited with her women standing near, pulling their wraps tightly about them, allowing her first entry into her coach. The men were prepared to ride, their horses dancing in anticipation. Gordon sat beside the driver, more than eager to leave Welby Manor. The majority of those attending her journey she didn’t know by name, but they served. Regal wench! Countess! Her Ladyship! Her Majesty, the royal bastard whelp of a whore and an exiled king? Her Mightiness, the wife of an earl who already had a wife? Her Grace, an illegitimate peasant who lived not even in sin with a married man she loved? A lie? Everything? All things? What was truth? Her world went black. She hop
ed death had taken her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Petitioners are as common as air at Whitehall. They chase the king down as he walks to chapel, bribe his mistresses for an audience, offer delightful and expensive gifts to his ministers for a kind word on their behalf. And the king is a rare man. He would like to give them all just what would make them most happy.
Those who are close to Charles Stuart know that he is well informed. He knows all the goings-on and is seldom, if ever, surprised. Because he is quiet and solemn where rumors are concerned, those many he has not confided in are never very sure how much he knows and about what. He trusts no one, but plays at trust. He pretends in many instances, or even begins to believe in a lover or comrade, but life has made a realist of him. He knows everyone has a price.
Charles Stuart was urged by one of his friends to grant an audience to an anxious baron. He was not eager to hear what the man needed, but just the same he was curious. There were so many in the palace, in London for that matter, who knew the profit to keeping the king informed that Charles was not in need of information. It was the presentation this man would make that aroused his interest.
The king was in the company of some of his ministers when Lord Shayburn was admitted after a very long wait. The heavy lord found it difficult to bow very low before his sovereign and Charles grimaced as he tried. Charles was in excellent physical condition, athletic and tireless. He found a gluttonous man somewhat repulsive.
“So gracious of Your Majesty to see me,” Lord Shayburn began.
Charles did not feel gracious. He felt imposed upon and suspicious. Had he no suspicions he would not have seen the man at all.
“There is something you require, my lord?”
“Ah, sire, yes, there is, though for the good of England, I assure you.”
Total tactlessness on the part of the baron, Charles thought. It was usually his first clue that the man had no hope above bettering himself when he opened with such a statement. Everyone wanted the good of England. Few ever did anything that was good for the country.
He nodded and urged the man on. Shayburn was not encouraged by Charles’s appearance. The king lounged in his chair, majestically, but lazily. He was already bored, already prepared to doze during this appeal. Charles’s position bespoke endurance and tolerance—nothing even near to interest.
“We’ve had problems in Bratonshire, Your Majesty. Critical problems. You’ll remember that our shire is on the main...or, um...one of the main roads to London from the north. Imperative that it always be a stronghold, er, at least in the position to bear men-at-arms in the event of any pursuit from the north, er...” He stopped and coughed, spitting into a lacy handkerchief. He was not doing well. He was not convincing the king that Bratonshire was important—because it was not, to any but himself... and some aggressor. He had to make it seem important, worthy of royal support.
“Should there be any attack by aggressors from the north, sire, Bratonshire would be an ideal place to house an army and thwart any such plans. I’ve had the land in the name of the crown for many years and am in the process of building a castle there. An outpost, if it pleases Your Majesty, in the name of England.”
“I’m flattered,” Charles drawled.
“Um, yes, sire. But we haven’t had the opportunity to make any progress on building since we’ve had trouble with—”
“When did you start building, my lord?” Charles asked.
“Sire, money has not been...that is, we had the plans drawn and that is the extent of it. Building was to start in the spring and it’s beginning to look as if that will be impossible.”
“There has been trouble,” the king acknowledged. “Of what sort?”
“Thieves, Your Majesty.”
“Thieves?” Charles raised one eyebrow. Was it customary to trouble a king with a report of thieves in a small, almost nonexistent village of farmers? It seemed, on days like this, that it was customary to trouble a king about which pot was used and when.
“It seems so, sire, but I have my doubts. This is an army of sorts that plagues me now, sire. I’ve set my own men to guard and patrol and we’ve had no success in stopping them. They are not only more skilled than ordinary thieves, they seem to be well informed. Knights, perhaps from some foreign aggressor.” Both Shayburn and the king knew immediately that this dramatic ploy was a failure. There was no foreign power interested in a tiny, centrally located English shire filled with farmers. There was no industry and not even a fine manor. It was ridiculous to speak of it. Shayburn stumbled for his ground.
“It has been the worst struggle, sire. You may have heard complaints of my management, but the truth to it is that I’ve paid more privy tax and tithe to the crown than many other barons, and in addition there has been a good deal of prosperity in Bratonshire since Your Majesty’s restoration.”
“Complaints?” Charles asked.
Shayburn gulped. Charles had heard no complaints? “Perhaps not,” Shayburn stammered.
“I should like to know what you suspected I might have heard.”
“I’ve had misdealings with the earl, but then it was a small misunderstanding and well before your return to England. Nothing of any real importance.”
“Just the same, what was his complaint?”
“It was insignificant, but if it pleases Your Majesty, he complained that I treated the townspeople unfairly, harshly. Claimed they were overtaxed, but I have accurate ledgers and there was never any...that is, there were no further accusations. The misunderstanding was resolved.”
“Bratonshire was not your family seat, am I correct?”
Shayburn blanched. He wouldn’t have guessed the king would pay much attention to those matters. He thought it well in the past. He had never faced any doubt or question when Charles was restored to the throne, and he hadn’t thought to now.
“No, sire.”
“It was the Bollering family, is that correct?”
“Lord Bollering was charged with treason, sire.” It was overcompensation, he knew it at once. He was defending himself before defense was necessary.
“He fought for the crown. One of his sons fought for me.”
“I’m aware of that, Your Majesty. There was nothing I could do to restore his name or clear him short of gifting him with the land I had lawfully acquired.”
“And I am aware of that, my lord,” Charles replied. “But I am certain that is not why you’ve come to me. What is it you require?”
“Because we are under siege, sire, I require men-at-arms and gold to back me in defense of my lands. I come to you only after all other means have been exhausted.”
“You’ve gone to others for support?”
“The earl of Bryant and other barons. With little success.”
“You’re not supported by Bryant?”
“Ah, sire, he has supported me. His support is useless to me. I even suspect—” Shayburn stopped. He reminded himself not to slander Hawthorne to Charles Stuart. The king liked Hawthorne; there might well be coalition there. “He has provided gold and men-at-arms, but I suspect he has little interest in helping me. And neighboring barons are suspiciously unassaulted.”
“Suspiciously?”
“It is a personal attack, sire, I’m certain of it. No one else has been bothered. And to hold what is mine I need support. From the crown. Royal support would see an end to this trouble...for the good of England.”
That always soured the king. He hated the sound of it more every time he heard it. In sincerity it was a noble gesture. It was seldom sincere. What difference to England, after all, did Bratonshire and Shayburn make?
“I appreciate your gallantry, as does England. I shall consider your request and you will hear from me. Good day.”
“Thank you, sire. Thank you.”
Shayburn waddled out of the room and Charles sat still, watching him. Finally he muttered, “Gold and men-at-arms.”
“For thieves!” Buckingham roared with laughter. The conse
nsus in the room was that it would be foolish to aid a baron in holding lands he could not even secure against thieves. But then perhaps it was not holding he sought, but building.
“What do you make of it, George?” Charles asked Buckingham.
“Sounds like a privy squire looking for an empire. Why not grant him a duchy, sire, and see if he can save it from beggars?”
While Buckingham delighted in his own wit, Charles walked to the closet where he played chemist. He gave the matter of Lord Shayburn some consideration while mixing strange concoctions together. Just outside the door Buckingham and York joked over the fat baron’s audacity. Charles smiled occasionally at their jesting without comment or even a glance in their direction. It would seem that he didn’t even think about the man’s request now.
Stuart was not a man to act impulsively where his political affairs were concerned. He was a little curious to see what Hawthorne would do with this mess he had created for himself, but he was not pleased to learn his people had trouble. That was the extent of his consideration. He put the matter out of his mind easily and walked briskly in the direction of a lovely young Frenchwoman’s apartments. In politics he didn’t react impulsively. In his diversions it was the only way he reacted. He was thoroughly delighted with himself.
The countess of Bryant suffered through a long and monotonous journey home to London. The ride was uneventful and silent. There was a hardness to her eyes that hinted years of trials. More than her uncle’s passing was being mourned.
Chelynne couldn’t help recalling the other times she had traveled to Chad. The first time there had been a heaviness of heart, but she was prepared to accept her uncle’s choice of husband and make the best of a sad situation. And then she had met him and loved him. That was the beginning of her trouble, the beginning of dreams of the day he would love her, too. She thought of the nights she would spend in her lover’s arms, of the children she would give him. She imagined the proud set to her husband’s jaw as he watched over his sons.