Chapter 13
Ash
Agnes had hurried away to write the letters to her family. Olly, promising he would be fine, had gone to sequester himself in Ash’s chambers.
And Ash, again, was alone.
He was glad for that. Olly could not see how nervous he felt. He could not see how tenuous this decision was, how much Ash would be forced to rely on the goodwill of the men who were only obliged to obey him because he was his father’s son.
He set his shoulders and headed towards the treasury, looking for Michael. The rest of the staff would need to be informed as well, but with the steward aware of the situation, they would have no choice but to follow.
Or, Ash thought, with a nervous twist in his gut, Michael would refuse, leaving Ash with a mutiny on his hands.
He knocked on the door to the treasury – an old habit that even now he could not break. He still half-expected to be granted entry by his father, his booming voice rumbling through the wood.
But the voice did not come. Ash steeled himself and heaved open the door.
‘Ah, Ashwy.’ Michael looked up as he entered. ‘How do you fare?’
‘Well, thank you,’ he said. ‘I have some things I must speak to you about.’
Michael closed the ledger he was reading. ‘Oh?’
‘Lady Agnes and myself have decided that we wish to marry sooner than we had intended.’
Michael looked hugely surprised – and a little amused.
‘I … suppose that is understandable,’ he managed eventually.
‘I am going to ride into Skeldale to speak to Sir Walter, the priest,’ Ash said.
‘If I can talk to him in person, I should be able to receive dispensation to marry sooner. I intend for it to be a simple affair, you understand, but I wanted to … to inform you. I … we … are aware that it is unusual, but Agnes is a widow, after all, and I am far past my best age as a groom. It seems sensible, especially after the attack on the road.’
‘Of course.’ If Michael had any further thoughts on the hasty marriage, he did not voice them, much to Ash’s relief. ‘Was there anything else?’
Ash braced himself. ‘There is. It is about the man who attacked me, in fact.’
Ash stood straighter. He was the earl, he reminded himself.
‘I have released him from the tower,’ he said, voice sure. ‘And given him leave to explore the keep.’
‘My Lord?’ Michael’s expression was not anger, but fear. He thinks I’ve gone mad, Ash thought. Perhaps I have.
‘The matter is significantly more complicated than we originally assumed,’ Ash said, resisting the urge to speak with too much haste. ‘His name is Oliver. Oliver Coppard.’
The steward frowned. Then, slowly, recollection.
‘Coppard?’ he said. ‘From Lord Benedict Coppard’s household? The man you—’
His grey lips snapped shut.
‘The man I squired for, yes. The one who led me into war. Oliver is … he is his son, Michael.’
Michael crossed himself. ‘My God.’
‘Indeed.’ Ash pushed some papers aside then sat in the chair opposite him. ‘We were in France together. I thought him dead. His family believes him to be dead, too. He was Benedict’s youngest son. He was captured out there, and has only just managed to return to England.’
‘Captured?’
‘And ransomed,’ Ash said. ‘But their demands never reached these shores. He assumed his mother – God rest her soul – and the rest of his family knew him to be alive. It was anger that made him hide from them, and now … now I cannot say what stops him, beyond stubborn shame.’
‘But why attack you? Did he harbour those same thoughts about yourself, my Lord?’
Ash had already decided how to deal with these questions. No one else was to know that the attack had been an orchestrated attempted on his life – no one beyond the confines of the family.
‘I am unsure,’ Ash said, lying smoothly. ‘But his attack on Lady Agnes and myself was truly an unfortunate coincidence. Since returning he has been forced to seek … less than savoury ways to support himself. Robbery and banditry included.’
‘May God save him.’
‘He espied us – two apparently unarmed nobles taking a stroll – and took his chance. It was unimaginably lucky that he did not harm us, and that I later realised who he is.’
‘It truly is.’ Michael looked aghast. ‘It is as if fate has brought him here.’
Ash knew that their steward was a godly man; if he were less cynical, he would have been inclined to agree.
But it was not God who had brought Olly to him: it was money and desperation and an empty stomach.
He did not say so out loud, quietly sure that Michael would be discussing it all with the chaplain later.
‘Perhaps,’ he said noncommittally. ‘But can you see why I cannot force him to go? It would go against all I know – all Father taught me. I will not allow him to starve on my account.’
‘Of course,’ Michael said, as if shocked that Ash would even consider removing him. ‘But what will you do with him?’
‘I intend to establish a role for him in the keep so he does not need to return to his previous life. We had spoken before …’ Ash shook his head.
‘We had intended, before the war, for him to return to Dunlyn with me in some official capacity. Perhaps as marshal, or even one day in the future in the steward role. But as things stand …’
‘Things are more complicated.’ Michael looked thoughtful. ‘I am sure we will find some role for him.’
‘Thank you.’ Ash pushed a hand through his already messy hair. ‘And … thank you for agreeing to this. It has been a difficult time.’
The steward’s brow creased. ‘You are the earl, Ashwy. Your decision is final.’
‘You would be well within your rights to refuse to remain under the same roof as a criminal. I was half expecting you to leave.’
Michael put his hands on the desk. ‘You vouch for this man?’
‘I do.’ Ash said it without thinking.
‘Then I trust in your judgement, my Lord. I will inform the rest of the staff – and the guards, of course.’
‘Thank you.’ Ash stood to leave.
‘My Lord?’
He hesitated with his hand on the door. ‘Yes?’
‘This is the right choice,’ Michael said. ‘This is one your father would have made, too.’
Ash gave him a tight smile. He was out in the room beyond before the steward could see the tears threatening to spill from his eyes.
As he walked across the courtyard, he tried to block out Michael’s words.
His father would not have made this choice, not if he knew what Ash was really choosing: how he was making a farce out of the sanctity of marriage that Lord Griffin had held so dearly.
No doubt his father would have seen him for what he really was: a man inviting his mistress to live beside his wife.
At least Agnes understood. At least she knew. Marriage and all its laws and rules could go hang, but deceit he would not stand for. He would not hurt her.
He intended to speak to Dunlyn’s marshal, Magnus, next – but as he strode across the yard there was a twist in his gut.
He had not spoken to Raff. Raff needed to hear the truth, and he needed to hear it from Ash’s lips. He found him in the garden. For once Ash was lucky: he was alone.
‘Raff?’
Raff turned from the border he was tending. ‘Yes?’
Ash suddenly found his words stuck. He took a breath – but it came out wrong, like a gasp. Raff was on his feet and beside him in an instant.
‘Ash?’
When Raff placed his hand on Ash’s arm, fingers still stained with dirt, it all came pouring out, like a flood.
Olly’s apparent death, writ in more detail than he had ever told Raff before, his return.
The attack, their assumptions of the force behind it.
Agnes’s agreement to let Olly stay. Their decision to wed.
Raff listened, never interjecting, letting him speak.
When Ash was done, his chest ached. It was as if his body had been in some awful battle while his mind had remained with Raff in their mother’s garden.
‘Would you care to ride to Skeldale with me?’ he asked at last, feeling pathetic. ‘I must speak to Sir Walter but … I do not wish to go alone.’
‘Of course.’
Ash found his nerves easing as they rode. Getting out all those words – all those horrors – had been like letting blood. Relieving the pressure.
Ash’s luck held as they reached Skeldale: the priest, Sir Walter, was only too glad to speak to them.
Ash had been ready to use all the admittedly poor tools of persuasion at his disposal to win him over, prepared to launch into the story of the attack on the road.
But they weren’t needed. At the mention of special dispensations, and an enormous favour, Sir Walter’s eyes had gleamed.
All it took, Ash quickly learned, was a donation to the church for the matter to be dealt with in less time than it would take to see off a mug of ale.
By the time Ash and Raff left, he had the promise that he and Agnes would be wed that Sunday, and a hefty chunk had been taken from Dunlyn’s purse. No matter: they could afford it, and he would ensure the steward kept an eye on proceedings to ensure the funds were being spent properly.
‘I cannot believe that all it takes to dismiss papal law is coin,’ Ash said, once they were back on the road. ‘I should have been informed sooner – I can pay my way out of all my sins.’
‘He did not even attempt to hide it.’ Raff laughed beside him. ‘He looked quite pleased when he realised you wanted something from him.’
Ash shook his head. ‘I suppose that is one thing dealt with, at least.’
He peered down the road. It was quiet this morning, and the spring air felt fresh and clean.
His problems were not solved – someone still wanted him dead, after all – but at least one of the hurdles had been jumped.
And through fate, or God’s grace, or some other divine provenance …
Olly had returned to him. It was miraculous: a miracle Ash did not deserve yet was determined to cling to.
He glanced at Raff.
‘I need to speak to Hamond at the tavern. First to his yard wins.’
‘Wh—’
Before Raff had time to reply, Ash kicked his heels into the horse’s flank and shot off down the road at a gallop. He caught a curse on the wind, followed by the sound of furious hoofbeats.
He laughed all the way into town.