All his life’s work destroyed.

Despairing, Edward galloped into a truce signed at Bruges to cease hostilities. If England was humbled, Edward was trampled underfoot. He had lost everything, a thing that his mind found it difficult to comprehend. He tired quickly, losing the thread of conversations in the middle of a thought. Sometimes he fell into a silence from which he could not be roused. Sometimes he did not recognize me.



Chapter Eleven



Sir William de Windsor! Back in England! Back within my orbit!

He might have thought it a matter of pure chance that I was crossing the vast space of the Great Hall at Westminster when he arrived, but I could have put him right if I had chosen to do so. I knew exactly when he dismounted from his mud-spattered mount, dispatched his horses, baggage, and escort to the stabling, exactly the moment when his foot struck the first of the steps into the great entrance porch.

I stood in the shadows cast by a pillar to catch a glimpse of him, the first for nigh on four years. I had been expecting him, for before the debacle of the English fleet off La Rochelle, when Edward had turned his mind to England’s precarious hold on Gascony, he had also picked up the rumors emanating from Ireland.

It was not good news. It never was. The usual trail of accusations of inefficiency, bribery, corruption, and backstabbing in the highest circles. Which put Windsor directly in the firing line, for no one doubted that the power was in Windsor’s hands rather than in the hapless Desmond’s. Windsor had no warning from me. Had I not promised to apprise him of royal policy toward Ireland? The last time I had written was to tell him that there was no policy. By the time I knew of Edward’s renewed interest, events had overtaken me. In an unusual burst of anger, and a flash of the old independence, Edward had ordered Sir William to get himself to London on the next available ship and deliver an explanation in person.

When he would come, whether he would come, was a matter for conjecture. It was easy enough to claim the message lost en route. But I thought he would obey the summons. Windsor was not a man to hide from notoriety. And so I had been watching for his arrival, unsettled by the range of emotions that was stirred up in me. Some trepidation, some anticipation, a good deal of mistrust. And more than a pinch of pleasure.

And here he was. My first impression—more than an impression, more a certainty—was that Windsor was not in a good mood. I would not have expected otherwise, given the tone of the royal demand. Crossing the threshold, he looked as if he had been thrust into the hall by a blast from a raging storm. His clothes were wet and mud-spattered; a hint of stiffness in his muscles told of long days of travel. Driven, furiously engaged with the direction of his thoughts, as if the storm had entered his brain, he marched forward. I thought he would stride straight past me. Did he even see me?

I waited until he drew level, even two steps beyond, picking apart my own wayward reaction to this man as my heart beat a little more quickly, my mind bounding ahead to the prospect of his caustic observations. Unexpectedly my lips warmed. That final kiss had been compelling.

If I did not speak now, he would be gone.…

“Sir William…”

He lurched to a halt, wheeled ’round, eyes fierce as if he expected an enemy to leap from concealment. Then he gave a sharp, impatient exhalation of breath.

“Mistress Perrers.”

He made a scratchy bow, irritable beyond words, to which I responded with an equally brief curtsy. Braveheart, older but no wiser, pushed hard against my legs to give herself courage.

“Is that all you have to say?” I asked sweetly.

His eyes narrowed. “What do you want me to say? I’m back. And not best pleased.”

An understatement, I realized, seeing his expression clearly for the first time. His face was set hard, engraved with a faint cobweb of lines by eye and mouth that were new since I had last seen him. His tight-lipped mouth and flared nostrils spoke of temper. His whole body was, in fact, an essay in contained fury, with all the allure of a shard of flint. But my heart shifted at the proximity of his lean frame and sardonic features. When he snatched his hat from his head in a gesture of furious impatience, his hair clung, sleek as moleskin from rain and sweat, against his skull. The eyes that were dark and hostile on mine as he waited for me to speak were no darker than his dangerous and volatile mood. And still I felt that uncomfortable thrill of attraction, new to me, but frighteningly appealing.

I set myself to speak of immediate affairs. Indeed there would be no point in doing otherwise, since the man was too caught up in the moment to think beyond his grievances.

“I hope you’ve come prepared to answer for your actions in Ireland, Sir William.”

“I might have hoped you’d have warned me, mistress,” he snapped back.

“And I would.” I tilted my chin a little. I did not appreciate his criticism. “It was too late. The King’s summons would have reached you before any warning of mine. Besides, would it have made any difference?”

He shifted his shoulders irritably. “So he’s angry.”

“He’s not pleased.”

“I thought the King was fading…” he growled. “I had hoped the Prince might have spoken for me.”

“The Prince is ill.”

“I had heard.…” Windsor sighed, his thoughts momentarily diverted. “And God knows I’m sorry for it. Once, we were close enough, fighting side by side, campaigning together—twenty years ago now.” His frown deepened as he stared down at his fist clenched on his ill-used cap. “We were both young and loved the soldiering life. He was the best commander I ever knew. And now…”

“Now those days are gone; the Prince is dying.”

“Is he, now? It raises a question over the succession.”

“It does. A question where more than one has an interest.”

“The child is too young…five years?”

I sighed silently. Politics and policy. Court intrigue. This was not what I wanted to talk of when my heart was beating and my blood racing: that same strange reaction to this man whose principles were questionable, whose motives were driven primarily by personal ambition, and whose actions did not bear close scrutiny. I realized that a silence had fallen between us, and that for the first time Windsor was concentrating on me.

“You look well,” he announced brusquely.

“I am.”

“I see my wolfhound fulfills her role.”

“Not to any degree.” I dug my fingers into the rough hair at Braveheart’s neck, causing her to whine in delight. “She needs my company to make her feel brave, and even then a mouse would frighten her. Your choice was not a good one, Sir William.”

“And the blade?”

“I have had no occasion to use it, unless it be to cut my meat.”

“For which it was not intended!” For the first time his eye glittered with more than ill humor. “Tell me that you keep it in your bodice.”

“I’ll tell you no such thing.”

I waited for a provocative reply, but he surprised me.

“I hear you’ve made a reputation for avarice. Your hold on power has grown apace since I saw you last. I commend you.”

It hurt a little. I did not expect that from him. “And I hear that you are much disliked by those whom you rule.” I would give as good as I got.

“I also hear that you are making a name for yourself acquiring rights over property by fraud.”

Acquiring property? He would know, of course. It was no secret—but fraud? Oh, he was in a vicious mood. I raised my chin.

“Fraud? That’s unproven! My agent, Greseley, is a man of high principle!” My response was sharp, for I would defend my business dealings until my last breath. “If you refer to the fact that I have just acquired the manor of Compton Murdak with some difficulty, then that is so. Are you so interested? Then let me tell you. I sued John Straunge for poaching in my new rabbit warren—did you hear of that too? He was as guilty as hell and deserved the fine. His wife wore a rabbit-skin hood.” I smiled at the memory. “I sat with the judges in the case and pointed it out to them. They were not pleased at my interference, but they ruled in my favor. How could they not? If that is fraud, then I am guilty.” I grew solemn. “I hear that you are guilty of exploitation and bribery.”

It was like setting a match to dry timber.

“God help me! Of course I am. Which governor of Ireland has never been guilty of bribery?” His jaw visibly clenched. “When will he see me?”

His admission shocked me. “I don’t know.”

“Then I’d better find someone who does.”

“There is no one.” I had not done with him yet. “Who knows but the King himself?”

His stare became ferocious. “The longer Ireland is without a head, the sooner it will descend into revolt and bloodshed. All my work undone in the time it takes for Edward to decide that he has no one, other than me, to take on the task.”

And without another word or even a gesture of respect, he spun on his heel, damp cloak billowing and shedding pieces of twig and leaf, and marched off. I watched him go. I was sorry, despite his foul mood. I trusted him as little as I trusted Gaunt, but there was a visceral connection between us. I might have wished there were not, but so it was. I waited until he reached the staircase at the end of the Hall. I raised my voice.

“Windsor.”

He turned but did not reply. Even from a distance I could tell that his humor had not softened to any degree. There he stood in the shadow, the light from a flickering torch picking out the edge of his cloak, the glint of the metal at his side. A man of shadows, a man of unplumbed depths. It would be a brave woman who claimed to know him.