Henry nodded slowly. “Exactly,” he said. “Therefore, let Jareth go to Bristol. Let him see what his uncle has left him—a den of debauchery that no pious knight would want to take responsibility for. But I have no such qualms, considering the income it could bring me, so let him discover this for himself. And when he returns to London and tells me he’ll not accept the inheritance, I will most graciously relieve him of this heinous enterprise. And he’ll thank me for it.”
It was the general consensus that between Henry and his eldest son, Edward, Edward was the more conniving and ambitious of the two. But William de Valence knew better.
In moments like this, Henry was the master.
In more ways than one.
CHAPTER THREE
Redcliffe Hill Manor
Bristol
“That’s quite atownhome, Jareth. Congratulations.”
Aidric was gesturing to a large manse, with a big curtain wall, that was perched on the riverbank. With the blue, breezy sky as a backdrop and birds riding the drafts overhead, Jareth paused to get a good look at what his uncle had left him. A big, gray-stoned edifice with some sections that were wattle and daub, with whitewashed walls and brown-stained beams in patterns, like quatrefoil, which looked like a four-leaf clover. There were other designs, too, carefully carved and then applied to the wall with plaster.
Truthfully, it was a stunning piece of architecture.
“Given the fact that my uncle was wealthy, I suppose I should not be surprised,” he finally said. “But… damnation, I am. I truly am.”
Those around him started laughing because he was showing genuine shock. Along with Aidric, Stefan and Orion had accompanied him with the rest of the Guard of Six, as Henry had allowed. It was a full complement of some of the most powerfulmen in England, and exactly nine days after leaving London, they were standing in front of Redcliffe.
It seemed like a dream.
Britt de Garr came over and slapped Jareth on the shoulder, beaming at him. The man had red hair, blue eyes, and the flaming temper to match those vibrant colors. He was big and menacing when he wanted to be, but no man was more loyal to king or country or his companions.
Jareth liked Britt a great deal.
Rounding out the Six was Dirk d’Vant, from the Cornwall d’Vants, a family that had made its name in war and piracy and shipping. He was an enormous blond god of a man, more fearsome with a sword than any of them. He was congenial, and had an air of command about him, but tended to be rather quiet because he spoke with a slight lisp. A very deep voice with a barely noticeable lazy tongue, but Dirk had been self-conscious about it since he was a child, so he tended to be a man of action more than words. But even Dirk was awed by his friend’s good fortune.
“God’s Blood,” he said. “You could rule quite an empire from that home, Jareth. Well deserved, old man.”
Jareth was trying to keep the smile off his face. Now that the shock of seeing such a place was wearing off, he could feel the thrill of pleasure filling him. Pleasure in the fact that his uncle’s empire was still here, or at least his primary residence was still here, a fine example of a rich man’s legacy. They were outside of the gates, in an open area where three roads converged, and there were other cottages around, all of them well kept. It was evidently the higher rent district of Bristol. Everything appeared rather nice and neat. Orion and Stefan were already up by the gate leading into the manse’s yard, trying to peer through the slats, when Jareth walked up and pulled on a piece of rope poking through a hole next to the gate.
Somewhere, a bell rang.
Curious, the men gathered around the gate, waiting to see who would appear. No one answered right away, so Jareth rang again. And a third time. Finally, they could hear someone chattering as they came closer to the gate, a running conversation about the virtue of patience or something like it. Whoever it was sounded irritated. The gate on the right had a small window cut into it, and that little wooden square was yanked open.
An eye appeared.
“What are ye wanting?” came the demand.
Jareth put himself in front of the bloodshot eye. “My name is Jareth de Leybourne,” he said. “Chester de Long was my uncle. I have a document from him naming me the heir to his properties and I am here to stake my claim. Open the gate and let me in.”
The eye widened as it looked him up and down. “Ye?”
“Me.”
“Show me the letter!”
Jareth went back over to his horse, digging in his saddlebag before pulling forth the missive. He went back over to the eye, unfolding the vellum to show him the letter.
“See?” he said. “From my Uncle Chester. Now will you open the gate?”
The eye could see the document, and the familiar seal, but he only looked at it briefly before looking at the other men standing around. All of them big and heavily armed.
“Who are the others?” he demanded.
