His ever-cool manner did not faltered even as he stood over the slain body, incognizant of the fact that his victim was his brother until a slow realization gripped him. Then Alec found himself living and breathing the blackest of nightmares.
He damned Peter, even as he ran to preserve his own hide. Why hadn’t he given the signal? Why wasn’t he wearing his armor? Why, in God’s name, did not he simply call out his brother’s name, knowing that Alec would be hiding in the catacombs waiting for him? Alec never went anywhere without Peter; everyone knew that.
Until now. Alec was running alone.
CHAPTER ONE
Baron Rothwell;
As you are a man with little time to spare, I shall come to the point. As you are well aware, there has been continuing discord between St. Cloven and Wisseyham Keep. The actions which preceded this unrest had to do with land rights upon which Sir Albert de Fluornoy was most inequitable. In truth, my lord, he stole lands which did not belong to him. The dissension has been rampant now for many years, an environment which, sadly, my son and Sir Albert’s children have grown accustomed to.
It is my understanding that since Sir Albert’s death six months ago, St. Cloven is without a lord and the prosperous business has been left to the minimal capabilities of his young daughters. Therefore, I am proposing that my son and the eldest de Fluornoy daughter be joined in matrimony. It is my sincere wish that the dispute clouding our daily existence be quelled with the marriage of our respective heirs, bringing peace to a province that has known little harmony for nearly thirty years.
I know that your infinite wisdom will triumph in this most serious matter. We trust your decision will be the correct one.
Written at Wisseyham Keep
Sir Nigel Warrington
20 June 1282
*
“What do youthink? Is it respectful enough?”
Colin Warrington smiled at his father, his eyes resting on the freshly sanded missive. “If it were any more respectful, you would be licking his arse,” he snorted softly. “Summerlin is no fool, you know.”
“Nay, he is not a fool, but he is eager to maintain a peaceful barony and he will do what is necessary. Besides, I would bed with the man himself if it meant acquiring St. Cloven, and I have already damn near made a pact with the Devil to gain you what you deserve. St. Cloven is famous from Edinburgh to London and more than loaded with suitable wealth for Warrington coffers.”
Colin cocked a slow eyebrow. “’Twill be my wealth, father. Mine alone.”
Nigel eyed his son and rose stiffly; his joints were growing stiffer and more painful by the day and there were times when it was difficult to walk.
“As you say,” he replied. “But you will recollect who obtained for you that wealth and you will return the proper respect due.”
Colin looked away from his father, pondering his immediate future. They were closer to St. Cloven’s wealth than they had ever come and his impatience was growing. Lord, it had been a long, long road and he was thankful that the end was finally in sight.
To have St. Cloven for his own was a dream he and his father had always shared, a dream that had known its setbacks and disappointments. The dream continued to lurk in the recesses of their minds, even as the years passed and time faded the urgency. But the dream never died, remaining dormant for the opportunity of an open chance to act.
Nigel thought he saw a chance, once. In spite of the land dispute, he had petitioned Sir Albert for the eldest daughter’s hand, hoping to marry the young heiress to Colin. Sir Albert had responded strongly to the impropriety of the request, adding further insult by promptly pledging ten-year-old Lady Peyton to fifteen-year-old James Deveraux of King’s Lynn.
It had been a setback, but not the end of the dream. Years passed and Nigel was content to bide his time until another opportunity presented itself. And he knew, without a doubt, that another chance would happen across his path. He would simply have to be wise enough to interpret it.
At a tournament in Norwich, the long-awaited opportunity came in the form of a poor knight who advanced to the final rounds of the joust competition against Lady Peyton de Fluornoy’s arrogant fiance. A poor knight coerced into an evil action, lured by his desperate need for money. A poor knight forced into a murderous act in exchange for the welfare of his family, and Nigel had taken full advantage of the warrior’s destitute state and had been wise enough to interpret the chance.
Twenty gold coins had bought Deveraux’s death. Fitting, considering it had only taken thirty pieces of silver to betray Jesus Christ. Betrayal means the same in any monetary denomination.
“She never did suspect anything, did she?” Colin asked after a moment, passing a glance at his father.
“Who? The Lady Peyton?” Nigel shook his head. “A witless bitch, like all the rest. She shall never come to know how she has been manipulated.”
“It wasn’t difficult to orchestrate Deveraux’s death,” Colin picked at his yellowed teeth. “’Twas a perfectly believable plot, maneuvering the break of a crows-foot joust pole only to have it replaced by the spare, which happened to be spear-tipped. Twenty gold coins will buy just about anything, including an honorable knight to do away with an opponent.”
“I thought we were going to have trouble with de Fortlage. He is so damned ethical that when you suggested he eliminate Sir James, I thought he would run straight to the field marshals and inform them of your proposal. ’Tis amazing what money can buy, including silence.”
“And it certainly did not hurt matters that you were sitting behind his wife in the lists pointing a dagger at her back,” Colin chuckled at the memory of particularly ugly blackmail. “No one ever suspected that Deveraux’s death was planned. De Fortlage said it was an accident and his word was believed without question.”
Nigel smiled, entirely pleased that his plans to procure St. Cloven for his son were moving along so admirably. Now, to wed his son to the heiress and all would be complete. The wealthiest ale empire in all of southern England would belong to Colin.
