“My family?” he repeated softly, too angry to ignore the unspoken warning. “You mean those who ordered my mother to abort me? Who continuously threatened and harassed her during my childhood? Who to this day cling pathetically to the myths of your saintliness and us being cousins?”
Arundel thumped his empty pewter goblet down on a carved oak side table. “How many times must we have this out? I was a lad of sixteen, Brandon. Sixteen! There was no proof but her word…and my father had far different ambitions for me. But even if I cannot openly acknowledge our true relationship, I have done well for you, have I not? More than well.”
Brand turned away. It was either that or pummel his father to the consistency of jellied eel. Unlike his devil relatives, the man had ruthlessly ignored his bastard son for twenty-five years, providing nothing and allowing no contact between his three children and their half-sibling. Then came 1553, a tumultuous year for Arundel including his release from imprisonment for suspected plotting, and the deaths of King Edward and Lady Jane Grey. Near-mortality had clearly bitten hard, as handwritten notes, coins, bolts of cloth and a thoroughbred stallion arrived for his cherished “cousin.” A barrage of personal meetings, forced name change and a royal summons to court for a knighting ceremony followed, as did the swift marriage to Catholic heiress Lady Therese Fairfax after she was “discovered” naked in his palace accommodation.
Done well was highly debatable. Although there was one service Arundel had rendered that he would never forget: securing Arthur Linwood’s gifted expertise.
“Indeed, sir,” he said eventually, through teeth clenched so hard they would grind to powder. “Most well.”
“Excellent. Then I shall look forward to seeing you at the feast next week to give thanks for our impending royal heir. Several fine young ladies will be present. Oh, and by the by, Brandon, it would also be prudent to attend Mass more publicly. Start your new life as you mean to go on.”
“My lord.”
Fortunately he was spared any further response as the five-foot, eight-inch and growing, black-haired whirlwind of chaos known as Lucas stumbled into the room with a tray full of cakes, fruit, and a meat pie. “Ohhh, beg pardon, milord.”
“Master de Vere,” replied Arundel with a tight-lipped smile as he strode past. “Cousin. Good day.”
Lucas perched his gangly frame on the edge of a table. “Really don’t know why he bothers with that cousin mummery. Truth is plain as the nose on both your faces. Old Henry acknowledged his boy, why can’t Arundel?”
“Your godfather also cropped people at the neck for speaking out of turn. By the saints, boy, your mouth is going to get you killed one day.”
“They’d have to catch me first. Then fight me.”
Brand sighed. This was Lucas’s ninth noble household in two years for “education and advancement”. He’d been deposited here by a visibly relieved Arundel three months previously. Allegedly the lad was ungodly and uncontrollable, endured solely because he was the old king’s godchild and eldest son of a legendary warrior, then smilingly gifted on when sanity ran out. Personally, he found the boy intelligent and trustworthy, just easily bored and prone to blurt each and every thought he had.
“What are you doing back so early, Lucas? Something to report?”
The boy’s brown eyes sharpened. “Actually surprised to find you here. Thought you’d be at the inn waiting for Mistress Linwood.”
A chill slithered down his spine. “What inn?”
“Ack, you are getting old. Your message! Told her to meet you at the Grand Duke Inn over in Tewkesbury Lane. She left to go there with two guards so I thought all must be well and came back here for a late lunch…Sir Brand? What’s wrong?”
A curse so foul left his lips that even Lucas blanched. Then he stalked to a cupboard, found the plainest cloak he possessed, an old black velvet cap left behind by a long ago drinking companion, and his sharpest dagger.
“Come with me,” he snarled, shoving the dagger into a hidden pocket in the cloak while one thought pounded his head as relentlessly as a drumbeat.
Please be safe.
Her heart was beating so fast, her mind so awhirl, Catherine scarcely felt the uneven cobbled street under her shoes.
All might soon be better with the world. Brand had sent a personal messenger asking her to meet him at the Grand Duke, a busy, respectable inn she’d visited many times with her father. Finally, she would know the truth of his death and be able to sleep again at night. Finally, she could think of a possible future, instead of the darkness of losing the only family she had.
She smiled ruefully. And she would see Brand, of course. The time between their meeting in the crypt and now felt like years even though it had only been several days. This time she would behave like a grown woman and true lady—calm and gracious in a modest, properly fitting dark brown velvet gown and matching hood. Definitely no weeping over herbs or nonsense about his eyes or ancestry.
Not to mention it was truly a blessing to leave the lovely but stifling confines of St. James’s Palace. Queen Mary was still unwell, Jane suddenly summoned to her brother’s side to act as hostess for a feast of thanksgiving, and other friends surprisingly scarce, so she’d been terribly lonely.
“Flower for milady?”
Blinking, she glanced down at the small, raggedly dressed and shivering girl holding up a half-wilted lily.
Before she could reply, one of the two sour-faced guards leading the way halted and turned. “Away, you. Don’t be bothering the mistress or you’ll feel the back of me hand.”
The child shrank back, and Catherine shot an annoyed look at the guard before delving into her fur-trimmed cloak pocket for a copper she couldn’t truly afford now. “I would love a flower, sweetheart. Isn’t it pretty? Here, for your trouble.”
“Cor, God bless ye, milady,” the girl replied excitedly, bobbing a curtsey, and dashing away with her prize.
Lifting the white
