Royal Blood. Rona SharonЧитать онлайн книгу.
standing at the entrance to the palace, wearing a green badge, his nose buried in a ledger. The queue leading to Riggs was mostly composed of an influx of knights of the shire coming to pay homage to the king and hopefully to make an impression in the tournaments. Riggs turned most of them away. Not all the guests—who owned neither mansions in the Strand or near Westminster or Whitehall nor houses in the vicinity—were entitled to lodging at court for the duration of the chapter. Only those who had the patronage of powerful men, such as Michael’s protector, Lord Tyrone.
“Conn.” Michael beckoned his groom and gave him ale money. “See to Archangel.”
The stable hand raised an expectant eyebrow. When naught occurred, he muttered peevishly, “Your Worship may bestow your men-at-arms at the inn down at the wharf. Attendants sleep with their masters, grooms in the public chambers in the undercroft. Come with me, Conn. We’ll find this fine fellow a clean stall with fresh feed and get a jack of ale for us at the buttery hatch.”
Aside from Conn and Pippin, who was supervising the porters unloading his trunks, Michael had no other retainers. When he voiced his qualms about traveling without men-at-arms, his lord laughed heartily and made an enigmatic remark about unfortunate pirates and highwaymen.
Michael set off toward the sergeant of the household when the sound of glass bottles clinking brought him to a halt. He could not, however, in all fairness, upbraid the porters for mishandling the casket, for he could tell they moved it with care. Still the resounding ring fried his nerves. Journeying with delicate breakables was a nuisance. Italian glass was costly and rare because of the hassle involved in transporting it. Only the wealthy owned such pieces, and they dared not roam the countryside with boxfuls of them. It would have been sensible to empty the bottles into a barrel, but O’Hickey had insisted the physic would lose its remedial qualities if contained in a nonvitreous vessel. Michael had no choice but to adhere to the crazed graybeard’s dictate.
His increasing dependency on the medicament was another nuisance. He was able to abstain for most hours of the day, but when the drouth came upon him moments before sunrise, his body demanded instant relief and would not be denied. If only he knew how long the vile, lingering effects of the Sweat would last so that he could regulate his consumption habits for the duration of the chapter and maybe longer. He had great things to accomplish and tremendous obstacles to overcome. Good health did not ensure his success; feeling poorly would guarantee his failure.
The sudden ringing crash sent his heart plummeting to his feet. He whipped around and saw one of the porters flat on the ground, embracing the large casket to his chest. His helper stood by, looking guilty and frightened. “Your pardon, sir. The great burden slipped my hand.”
Crouching beside the casket, Michael yanked off a leather cord from around his neck and inserted a small key into the lock. “All of you, around me in a circle, backs to me, eyes ahead.”
The men clustered around him, no one daring to steal a look, not even the porter cushioning the casket. Terrified that his arsenal of dragon’s blood was destroyed, Michael lifted the lid and pushed a gentle hand beneath the batch of straw to stroke each felt-padded bottle. No cracks, no leakage. Relief surged through him—then disgust. What wretched, pitiful weakness, to be thusly enamored of a cordial! The very idea of living in a bottle’s thralldom like the Irishmen with their uisce contrasted with the principle of self-discipline and the sense of purpose his noble lord had instilled in him since boyhood. To need something was demeaning; craving something, as if his life depended on it, was torment. Once he fulfilled his pledge to the dying earl, Michael vowed, he would cleanse his mind and body of this imprecation or die trying!
He locked the casket and retied the leather cord around his neck. He looked at the sprawled porter. “How now, man? Still breathing?”
“Aye, sir.” The man smiled faintly. The casket was perched on his muscled abdomen.
Michael made a mental note to reward the man for rescuing his bottles. First, however, he should liberate him. He clasped the iron handles, braced himself, and carefully lifted the casket with the intention of placing it on the ground. He had a moment of shock. Nonplussed, he glared at the maladroit porter who had dropped the casket. Great burden his arse! Scheming laggard! Did he think to fleece him for extra coin? He hoisted the casket effortlessly and shifted it to ride on his hip. The porters staggered back, round-eyed. Fools! They never imagined he might handle the casket himself and discover how light it was. With an oath, he paced off toward the sergeant.
Someone shoved past him. “What hoa!” the man bellowed, fingering a tear in his popinjay-colored, gilt-embroidered, knops-cluttered, fur-lined sleeve. It was a fashion Michael detested. The man shot him a fuming glare. “One-trunk-inheriting, out-of-town clod! Mind your step!”
“Apologies.” Michael bowed stiffly, mindful of the bottles rattling on his hip.
“Apologize to your Maker, blockhead! I demand an angel for the damage you’ve wreaked!”
“You should not try to push by a man with a load, regardless of your eagerness to make your obeisance to the king. Find a wench to stitch you up.”
The popinjay blocked his path, his dander up. “I find this an occasion to withdraw unto some private place where we might settle our differences.”
Michael took the man’s measures. A few inches shorter, a few years older, his light fair hair shorn close to the scalp, as seemed to be the fashion with the courtiers swaggering about. His eyes were a light brown, and there was something familiar about him. “Have we met before?”
The man’s expression switched from livid to circumspect. “I do not think so!”
“Stop pothering, Walter. What is amiss?” A woman, fair and tall, wedged herself between them. She examined the rip in the eye-sore of a doublet. “Oh, it is nothing. I shall beg needle and thread from the queen’s ladies and stitch it for you.”
“There you go!” Michael smirked at the peacock.
The woman lifted light brown eyes to Michael and blinked in bewilderment. “Hello.”
The physical resemblance between her and the surly popinjay told Michael they were brother and sister. He sketched a careful bow. “My lady.”
Walter looked apoplectic. He took her arm. “Come away, Meg!”
Meg stood pat, perusing Michael with curiosity. “Pray, sir, what may I call your name?”
“Michael Devereaux, your servant, lady.” He inclined his head, liking her vivaciousness.
“Devereaux!” brother and sister exclaimed in unison.
Walter demanded sharply, “Whence are you, sir?”
“From Ireland, not that it is any of your business. I do not recall hearing your name, sir.”
Meg opened her mouth to speak. Walter shushed her curtly. Pinning Michael in his glare, he wrapped Meg’s hand around his arm and said, “Come, Margaret.”
Towed toward the palace entry, Meg called out over her shoulder, “I was pleased to make your acquaintance, Michael Devereaux. Hopefully we shall speak anon. Adieu for now!”
“Adieu,” Michael murmured, staring after her with a puzzled frown.
“Why so rude?” Meg snapped at her brother. “I wanted to know him better. He might be—”
“You are not to speak to that man again, Meg. I forbid it!” Years of humiliation, frustration, and poverty welled up in Walter with a vengeance. “You know I know best.”
“No, I do not think you do, but I am not disposed to arguing with you now.”
That was a first, he mused as they walked past Greedy Riggs. How he pitied those waiting in line for lodging, out-of-towners, nobodies, as he used to be afore securing the good lordship of the Duke of Norfolk. He remembered shabby hostels, rooms crammed with others like himself, sword arms for hire. But that was water under the bridge. Nowadays he and Meg occupied lavish chambers in Norfolk’s