Royal Blood. Rona SharonЧитать онлайн книгу.
There was another telltale sign: rhythmic thudding. Hoofs or…heartbeats? His pulse remained calm and steady, whereas the unidentifiable thuds were frenetic, like a hammer hitting the anvil, faster and faster. “This way!” He spurred Archangel into the clustered birch trees, giving chase after the fleeing hart. The thudding grew stronger. King and party were hard behind him. They were forced to ride at a maddening sumpter pace to keep from getting prized out of the saddle by a twisted leafy bough or thick roots sticking out of the ground, while the agile, fleet-footed hart, unimpeded by such concerns, drew farther and farther away.
A league into the woods Michael began to rue his outspokenness. He could not see the hart; he was following it as a hound would, by scent, sound, and instinct. I am gone mad, he thought as he let his senses—or rather lack thereof—guide him onward. He should have stayed abed, or leastways heeded Stanley’s warning. Taking the King of England on a wild hart chase to the next shire was probably not the brightest approach to curry favor with him. What a colossal gaucherie it would be should they be forced to turn back empty-handed. Mayhap he ought to call this off now instead of later and spare himself the greater embarrassment—
All of a sudden the hart halted, sweating, panting, slavering…
“Not far!” Michael cried over his shoulder, his confidence restored. Ignoring the leaves and offshoots swatting at his face, he rode faster for fear the hart would break into a dead run again.
The hart remained put; its scent grew stronger, as did the thudding. The hunting party with Michael at the lead was almost upon it. Its squeal of terror pierced the air. Birds flapped from their nests in distant treetops, soared into the sky, and circled high above their heads, screeching vociferously, as if alerting the animals to the formidable prowler invading their realm.
“There!” King Henry pointed at the ill-fated buck caught in a thicket by its majestic antlers.
The hunting party dismounted, crunching dry leaves and twigs under their boots. Awestruck, they approached the mythical golden creature with admiration in their eyes. In ancient times, the regal hart would be protected by the Melians, fierce nymphs that had germinated from drops of Uranus’s blood, when his son Cronos castrated the Titan of the sky as retribution for imprisoning the children of the earth goddess Gaia in their mother’s bowels, thus depriving them of sunlight for all eternity. King Henry drew his huntsman knife. Michael made the mistake of looking into the hart’s fearful eyes as the king made the kill. All at once he felt his heart bursting, his lungs burning. Warm blood spilled to the ground. He stumbled off to hide behind a thick trunk. He was in agony. His eyes hurt. Bitter saliva filled his maw. What dementia was this? He could not count the times he had hunted in Ireland. Not once had he felt like this—his skin feverish, his senses raw, blood rushing thick and hot in his veins, as if he were about to faint. Only before dawn.
Michael leaned back against the rough-barked tree, got out the bottle stashed in his sporran, and bled it dry. I must quit it, he thought despairingly. He conquers who conquers himself.
The horns signed the mort of the deer, summoning the huntsmen to carry back the game. As Michael, his sanity restored, stepped from the brushwood, Stanley grabbed his shoulder. “How now, my brave-hearted! Where have you been gadding? Come. Harry requests you attend him.”
Michael steeled himself for answering questions for which he had no answers. There was no credible explanation for the insanie afflicting him. Stanley said, “Your Grace, I present Michael Devereaux, my Lord Tyrone’s man and legal heir, arrived yesterday from Ireland.”
Michael knelt before the king, head bowed, heart thumping against his ribcage.
“Devereaux.” King Henry’s tone was pensive and amused. “Are you the one responsible for the new Irish birds prattling pompously like some Celtic parliament in my mews?”
The query coaxed laughter from the onlookers and a grin from Michael’s grimly set mouth. “Aye, so please Your Grace. My most noble protector sends Your Majesty the Lord’s blessing and pledges his love and ever-steadfast fealty.”
“If your loquacious gifts share your talent for snagging prey, I daresay we shall see some superb hawking. Shan’t we, gentlemen?” His comment was accepted with murmurs of consent. “Are you the son of Sir John Devereaux of Chartley of his second marriage?”
The murmurs took on a different note. “Aye, Your Grace,” Michael confirmed, baffled.
“Begotten by an attainted traitor and raised by our most valiant loyalist, an interesting breed. My Lord Tyrone wrote us of your coming and alerted us to expect great feats from you.”
Michael was dumbfounded. His sire a traitor? Surely not! Your noble sire, who fought like a lion and died for his king at Blackheath during the Cornish rebellion, had sworn me to take his son, begotten off a second wife… Why should his worthy lord tell him falsehoods?
He scanned the curious faces of the lords whose ranks he strove to infiltrate. Most of them had never met his father. He was relieved to note that the drone of speculation carried no venom. Only Walter the Peacock looked aghast. The king said, “My lords, we will judge this lion by his own claws. Rise, Devereaux. We are well pleased.”
Renée was in high spirits. Her dear friend the Lady Mary had arrived shortly after Mass. Their reunion, sweeter for Mary’s surprise, was a muddle of tears, laughter, and inquiries. Mary was happy, beautiful, radiant with love. She had two babies, Lord Henry and Lady Frances, and was expecting her third child. Two years Renée’s senior, Mary was bright, headstrong, with gray eyes, a fiery mane, a Grecian profile, cool pallor, and regal height. From the moment they had fallen into each other’s arms, she could not stop prating about her husband and the changes in her life. Renée, burdened by forbidden secrets, proved the perfect listener to the cheerful narration.
“Henry was furious. Knowing our hearts, he still made Charles swear he would not propose to me when he sent him to fetch me from France. When he learned of our nuptials, conducted in secret and haste and without royal consent, he flew into a rage, labeling Charles an overreaching traitor and opportunist and swore he would not see us again. Charles was his closest friend and I his cherished sister, and yet he was hard put to bless our union with the old men on the council clamoring for an execution or a lengthy imprisonment for my husband. Thanks to Wolsey’s intervention with the council, Charles escaped the gibbet, and I was spared the heartache of mourning my dearest lord and of premature widowhood. Henry fined us heavily and banished us from court till the storm blew over and his wrath cooled.”
“But you are restored to favor. That is wondrous!”
Mary’s eyes shone. “All is well now. He was with us at Abingdon last month and was much content, for no man came to tell him of the death of any person from the plague, as they were wont daily. And how have you done since last we saw, Renée? You are very quiet.”
Renée sighed. Mary was bound to hear of her indiscretion. She did not care for her friend to get the sordid version from strangers. So she told Mary about Raphael. Unbosoming herself to a sympathetic, trustworthy ear was a relief. They had become friends during a difficult period in both their lives. Renée had lost her mother to illness. Mary had just become the young bride of an old king in a foreign country. Discovering they had much in common had been their salvation. King Louis’s death had liberated Renée of a despotic sire and Mary of an unwanted husband. The English Rose was free to marry her true love: Charles Brandon, the first Duke of Suffolk. Parting with Mary had been a wrench. She had grieved more over the separation from Mary than the death of her sire and inevitably drifted toward the Lady Marguerite, the fickle witch. Seeing Mary so blissful was a breath of fresh, blossom-scented air. Mary had achieved the impossible: she had married an upstart and gotten away with it. Her success and happiness instilled hope in Renée. If an English princess of the blood could do it, why not a French one?
“A painter?” Mary raised a reddish eyebrow when Renée finished her story. “Why not settle on a gentleman of noble parentage and of fair demesnes?”
“Bloodlines mean naught to me, and I am dowered aplenty. I have the duchy of Chartres and Brittany. As soon as my banishment is over, Raphael