Chapter Two
“You have heard his name before,” a tall, thin man with graying hair spoke. “Do you not recall?”
Avalyn sat before the hearth in the luxurious sitting chamber, a cup of warmed wine in her hand. She shrugged to her uncle’s statement. “I thought I had, but could not remember the details. Who is he?”
Richard De Neville had made a life out of being shrewd, calm, and calculating.
He had also learned long ago to suppress any emotions he might be feeling, including the anger he was now experiencing towards his niece.
In his opinion, she had been foolish this night, certainly not the normal behavior of the niece whose opinion was so valuable to him.
Small though she might be, younger still though she might be, she nonetheless possessed one of the sharpest intellects he had ever seen.
She had oft counseled him when the path was not clear.
But tonight, she had taken the wrong path herself. He would see that she realized it.
“D’Aurilliac is the master sergeant in charge of the king’s infantry,” he said as if she was a fool not to have remembered. “He is said to have the strength of Samson and the skill of the archangels. There is no one more deadly in Henry’s arsenal. Do you truly not remember any of this?”
Avalyn stared at him, initially surprised, but vaguely recollecting someone mentioning the man who held the reins of the Tower’s infantry. She set the warmed wine down, shaking her head wearily.
“Truly, Uncle, there are so many enemies these days that one has to write them all down simply to keep track.” She fixed him with a golden stare.
“I do not worry over the common soldier as I do the knights and assassins that abound in this place. I know each and every one by name and by sight. That is the only thing of concern to me at this moment, as it should be to you.”
Richard lifted a dark eyebrow. “Common or not, I would suggest you stay well away from d’Aurilliac, for he undoubtedly knew who you were.”
She shrugged. “My name is not De Neville. He would not recognize du Brant.”
“But he brought you back here, so he must suspect your ties.”
She still tried to shrug it off. “Perhaps,” she said with more casualness than she felt. “But he did not harm me and I have returned safe, and that is all that matters.”
In the lush and overly-appointed chamber that smelt of myrrh and smoke, a small, dark woman sat across from Avalyn, listening to the conversation intently.
Anne Beauchamp de Neville had been a beauty in her day, a petite woman with flashing dark eyes.
She was still quite lovely in spite of her years, but more than that, she wielded as much power as her husband.
Her family, the de Beauchamps, was indisputably wealthy and influential, even more so that the de Nevilles from the north.
Generations of her family had made and destroyed kings.
Between King Edward and King Henry over the past thirty years, she and her husband had played the treacherous games of their ancestors, and still, they continued the path. They knew no other way.
It therefore stood to reason that Anne was also a bit disturbed at the turn of events with her niece this night.
Avalyn was the culmination of four hundred years of de Beauchamp breeding, a woman with wit and intellect that would put most men to shame.
The only child of her late younger sister, Avalyn was clear of thought, cunning, and wise, and still only twenty-one years of age.
Anne could see such greatness in her, even more than her own daughters, Isobel and Anne. But even greatness had its off moments.
“Of course the most important thing is that you are safe.” If her husband Richard was ‘The Kingmaker,’ then Anne was ‘The Peacemaker.’ She was brilliant that way.
“But I think what your uncle is trying to tell you is that you were fortunate this night. Brogan d’Aurilliac is close to Edward and, presumably, our bitter enemy.
’Tis best to leave things as they are and have no further contact with the man. ”
Avalyn felt a strange sense of disappointment, though she did not let it show. She simply nodded. “Of course, Auntie.”
Anne smiled thinly at her niece, presuming and hoping the matter was behind them. “Now, with that business aside, we thought you should be aware that your suggestion for our agents is working beautifully.”
Avalyn lifted her eyebrows. “What suggestion was that?”
Richard stepped in from her other side. “Rumors of illegitimacy, lady,” he said. “With Edward riding to the north to quell the small uprisings there, your suggestion to spread rumors of the king being bastard-born have taken flight and caused much uproar. It was a brilliant suggestion.”
Avalyn shrugged modestly. “It was one suggestion of many. As I said before, if you want Edward off the throne, attacking his legitimacy will do far more damage than attacking him physically. He is a strong king with a large army. But the nobility of England is easily swayed once a question of authenticity comes into question. They consider pure blood more important than God. Even a hint of the king being a bastard, no matter how untrue, will tilt their favor.”
Richard nodded. “And you were right. But we added something more.”
“What is that?”
The Kingmaker’s eyes glittered. “That Clarence is York’s true heir. We do not seek anarchy. If the king is to be supplanted, it will be with another royal.”
“And you suggest the Duke of Clarence?”
“As Edward’s younger brother, he is the logical choice.”
Avalyn cocked her head. “And did you not suggest a betrothal between Clarence and Isobel?”
“Indeed. A de Neville upon the throne would put the entire family in favor.”
Avalyn was not surprised or shocked by the statement.
There was always some manner of intrigue in the House of de Neville, including the secret betrothal of her cousin Isobel to the king’s younger brother.
Now, with her suggestion of spreading rumors of a bastard-born Edward, the bad blood between the king and Uncle Richard was deepening.
The marriage of Clarence to Isobel de Neville would widen the gap.
At some point soon, it was going to explode.
She knew it would happen, but she wondered where and when.
As she pondered the discontent that she had helped create against the king, Aunt Anne broke into her thoughts. “Go to bed now, my angel. It has been an eventful night.”
Obediently, Avalyn rose and passed through a small corridor that led into a dark, warm chamber.
She was glad to be free of her aunt and uncle’s disapproving presence.
A small fire burned in the hearth and a massive bed was lodged against one wall.
She tried not to think of d’Aurilliac as she pulled off the borrowed woolen shift, yet her mind was inevitably drawn to him.
Aye, she recalled his name and, with prompting from her uncle, what she had heard about him.
Rumor said that he was all brawn, no brains.
More cruel gossip had called him a simpleton, a war machine that simply did as he was told because he could not think for himself.
It was a sad reputation, really. He had seemed kind to her, but she could also understand why the man had the reputation he did.
He didn’t say much, and he was positively terrifying.
“Avie?” came a soft voice from the bed. “Is that you?”
Snapped from her train of thought, Avalyn pulled her sleeping shift from a large trunk and went to the huge, over-stuffed bed. “’Tis me, sweetheart,” she said as she donned her night gown. “Go back to sleep.”
Isobel de Neville sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes groggily. Across the room in a smaller bed slept her thirteen-year-old sister, Anne. Isobel was a whole five years older. She focused her sleepy brown eyes on her cousin.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
Avalyn climbed into the mounds of covers and snuggled beneath them, pushing her cousin down in the process so the woman would go back to sleep. “I shall tell you tomorrow,” she kissed her cousin’s temple. “Sleep now.”
Isabel promptly obeyed. Avalyn lay there in the darkness, warm under the covers, and gazed into the soft warm glow of the distant hearth.
Visions of Brogan d’Aurilliac drifted through her mind like snowflakes falling from the sky; every time she rid herself of one, another would take its place.
She had no idea why the man had left an imprint on her, other than the fact he had saved her life. That was reason enough.
And in spite of what her aunt and uncle said, she intended to pay her debt to him.
*
“She’s Warwick, man,” St. Alban said sternly. “She is as powerful as they come. God’s Bones, Brogan, when you make a mistake, it’s a big one.”
Brogan sat on a plain stool before the blaze roaring in his chamber.
St. Alban was often cold-blooded and would work the hearth into a forest fire of embers, which usually left Brogan uncomfortable and sweating.
But in respect to his old friend and mentor, he would suffer in silence.
Even now, he continued to sit in silence as St. Alban tried to explain to him just how out of reach their wet visitor had been.
St. Alban only knew this because the usually silent and mostly-sullen Brogan had mentioned only two words; Beauchamp Tower.
It had been enough. There was only one family that resided on the second floor of the Beauchamp Tower and the attached apartments.
“Do you hear me, Brogan?” the old man asked. “You must never go near her again. For your own sake, stay away from her.”
Brogan tore his gaze away from the blaze then, fixing St. Alban with his deep blue eyes. “I do not intend going near her again. And it was not a mistake to save her life.”
“Nay, it was not, but it was a mistake to involve yourself with anything to do with Warwick.”
“I do not regret it.”
“I know you don’t. But stay clear of her, my friend, or risk your life.”