The King's Courtesan. Judith JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
force that held him frozen loosened its grip. It was as if time had stopped, trapping him outside it, only allowing him to observe, then started again, so that everything came at him in a rush. He raised his sword high over his head and it was then that Caroline saw him. Their eyes locked for an instant, hers horrified, imploring, trying to give him some message, but it was lost in the commotion as he charged. He barreled forward with all his strength, screaming his fury, his target the man approaching her with the knife.
Slow and sodden and unprepared, his target wheeled too late, his curved blade just nicking his young attacker’s cheek, and then the longsword caught him through the belly and impaled him against the wall.
The child who’d never killed before blinked in shock. It didn’t feel real. It felt like the force of surprise and his own momentum had carried the thing, not him. But now he’d lost both, and try as he might, he couldn’t pull out the sword.
A liquor jug hit him full force in the back of his head, knocking him off his feet.
“Bloody hell! Poor Humboldt! Killed by a marauding child! And he was to marry his heiress next month.” It was the blond man.
“Aye. A pity. And not how one wants to be remembered,” the handsome one said to sniggers all the way round.
He scrambled backward on his elbows and heels, desperately feeling for the dropped sword he’d seen earlier. The moment he found it he jumped to his feet. He pointed it at them, holding it steady. “Let her go!”
“Do you know what I’m going to do with that sword, boy?” the rat man whispered. “I’m going to slit you from throat to belly, and fry your entrails.”
Caroline, still struggling in Harris’s grip, managed to loosen his chokehold on her throat. “Run, Robbie! Please run! Run!” his sister screamed.
“I’ll let her go, lad, if you say so,” Harris said with a leer, and then he lifted her high in the air and flung her hard against the wall.
He had always been reserved and she the merry prankster. Sister, boon companion and best friend, she was his strength, her charm and personality both larger than life. But when she hit the wall and slid to the floor in a broken heap, she was so small…so fragile. She looked at him a moment, willing something from him. He whimpered, taking one step back as they advanced toward him, and then his sword clattered to the ground and he ran. He looked back one more time before he reached the doorway, but she was gone.
He ran and ran as they shouted behind him, out of the house and back into the night. He fell on his knees when he could go no further. People were coming, running toward him, their torches bobbing in the dark. A great screaming pain tore through him, rising through his blood and nerves, seizing his throat and ripping his heart. He threw back his head, letting loose a wounded-animal howl.
“JESUS!” HE WOKE WITH A LOUD GASP, doubled over and clutching his midsection, trying to catch his breath. His dreams of Caroline were the worst. They had none of the distance of memory, none of the detached quality of his other nightmares. They hurled him back in time, forcing him to relive that night, a frightened child who failed his sister, over and over again. He groaned and went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.
“You needn’t ride me quite so hard, Caro. I’m doing the best I can,” he said to the empty room. But she never stopped. In the light of day he could push such thoughts and images away, but other than the occasional glimpse of a cheeky grin, violet eyes and a muddy face, blood and horror hounded him most every night. He wished he was one of those lucky souls whose dreams did not pursue them when they woke. He wondered what her thoughts would be if she knew he had lost her home.
THE SECOND ROYAL MESSAGE, commanding his presence at Whitehall, came two days later and was almost as great a shock as the first. Robert could imagine no reason for it, other than suspicion regarding his possible involvement with enemies of the crown. Some of those who fought for parliament during the English civil wars were fanatics. The Fifth Monarchists had been a powerful force. Men who saw the war and Charles the First’s execution as a prelude to the start of a golden age where Christ and his saints would reign on earth. They had once hailed Cromwell as a second Moses, leading God’s chosen people to the promised land. Just three months past they’d launched an uprising in London resulting in a bloody street battle and forty deaths. One couldn’t blame the king for dealing with them harshly. Two of them were regicides and one a major general. His first thought upon learning his lands were forfeit was that he was suspected of being one of them.
It couldn’t be further from the truth. His war had been a personal one. His brothers weren’t Puritans and preachers, but the loose collection of steely eyed soldiers who killed who they needed to, to get the job done. They cared little for religion and had few scruples, and their honor was to their fellows, their craft and their word.
Even as his staff stored three generations of family heirlooms, he contemplated rejoining the fold. Provided, of course, he wasn’t arrested for treason. They were after all among the most highly prized mercenaries in Europe, and there were opportunities aplenty in Germany, the Netherlands and further afield. Though he’d thought himself weary of war, he couldn’t deny a prick of excitement. There was something about daring death head-on with only skill and luck to save you that could bring even the most jaded spirit sharply back to life.
He’d already claimed his two thousand pounds of goods in weapons, clothing and horseflesh. He would travel to London and satisfy his curiosity, trusting to his wits should things go awry. While there he would look to finding employment for his servants and a well-paid position with a company of mercenary for himself. He’d also check amongst old friends and acquaintances to see if he might pick up a trail grown cold.
CHAPTER FIVE
London
ROBERT STALKED THE LONG stone gallery at Whitehall with a ground-eating stride. His clothing was sober but elegant, and an oversize sword clearly meant for killing hung easily at his side.
He’d been waiting most of the afternoon and his patience was at an end. Now, as the orange glow from the west sank below the horizon and somber shadows lengthened to the east, he decided it was time to find some supper and a bed. He was not a petitioner, after all. It was His Majesty who had asked to see him. If his oath-breaking, manor-stealing monarch had need of him, let him come and find him at his lodgings. Tomorrow he’d—
“Captain Nichols!” A sonorous voice echoed through the near empty gallery. “Captain Robert Nichols. His Majesty will see you now.”
He stepped into a richly furnished chamber. In the center of the room, parallel to a sculpted marble fireplace flanked by Bacchus and Cupid, a beautiful oak table cast its own lustrous glow. His monarch sat there with his sleeves rolled up and his crimson coat thrown over the back of a chair. He played cards with an auburn-haired beauty perched on his lap. It took a few moments before he looked up.
“Ah, Nichols! Here you are at last, and just in time. Do you play?” The king seemed to be regarding him with great curiosity.
“My lord.” Robert removed his wide-brimmed hat with a flourish, and gave him a deep bow. “My Lady Castlemaine.” He gave her a deeper one. “Yes, I do. It’s a common pastime amongst soldiers.”
“Have we met?” the lady purred, her eyes traveling his length with obvious appreciation.
“I should have remembered if we had, madam, but tales of your beauty leave no doubt as to who you are.”
“Handsome, well-mannered, with a modicum of charm. If we can…” The king made a frustrated gesture with his fingers as he searched for the right words. “If we can jolly you up a little, you just might do.”
“I beg your pardon?”
His Majesty shrugged. “I dare say some women find such a military air dashing, but you don’t want to look like a country parson. Particularly not this evening.”
“My Lord?” Robert was growing more confused by the minute. Was the man addled or