“I do.”
“Hah!” Rufus was barely amused, for while they both knew that Henry was indeed a formidable knight and commander, his loyalty was questionable. On more than one occasion he had allied himself with their oldest brother, Robert, the Duke of Normandy, against William Rufus. By playing brother against brother, he had succeeded in gaining a territorial base for himself in the fortress town of Domfront, and was a count in the Cotentin. His growing might was both a help and a hindrance to Rufus, for Henry could be seduced into loyalty if the price paid was high enough, but likewise, he could be pried away in exactly the same manner. Rufus was no fool. He understood his brother’s ambitions exactly, and coin was not the issue.
Rufus accepted his mantle from his page, allowing the lad to help him slip it on. “Fetch me the ruby brooch,” he ordered. He turned to his brother. “And I value your loyalty,” Rufus finally said.
Henry was silent.
Rufus smiled. “In truth, I thought a bit about marrying her myself; after all, eventually I must wed. But—” he sighed dramatically “—apparently Stephen could not restrain himself. She might be with his child.”
Henry was grim.
“Of course, this fact prevents me from even considering wedding with her, for my heir must be mine.” He studied his brother. “Come now, be honest, Henry. You are distraught. But is it the thought of my unborn heir that upsets you now or your friend’s betrothal? Did you not come here to beg me to giveyouthe princess?”
Henry said nothing.
“It did cross my mind,” Rufus said. “After all, you are my brother. A prince and a princess make a perfect match, do they not? Still, I decided I prefer Northumberland. Him I know.”
Henry said, “But I am your brother. You can trust me.”
Rufus raised a brow, and was unable to resist another jab, “Perhaps I will give you FitzAlbert’s daughter.”
Henry’s face grew even darker. “She is a baron’s daughter, with naught but a lowly manor or two.”
Rufus laughed softly. “As you have naught but a petty estate or two, then aren’t you both equally, perfectly matched as well?”
Henry could not contain himself any longer. “You are going to regret this, brother.”
Despite himself, Rufus felt a twinge of fear. For he did not trust Henry for an instant. He was too much like their father. The time had come to placate him. “There is another sister, one unsoiled, in the convent, actually, and as yet too young to wed.”
Henry’s interest was immediate. “Malcolm will never marry both of his daughters to Normans.”
“But Malcolm will not live forever. And when he is gone, his realm shall be ripe for the plucking, as shall be his daughter, Maude.”
Henry stared, unsmiling. And Rufus felt a moment of intense regret for offering something so great to his brother—who was sometimes his greatest ally and always his deadliest enemy.
The Earl of Kent kept a manor on the south side of London on the banks of the Thames. It spoke of the wealth of Kent. It was freshly whitewashed, the great front door mahogany and engraved with the family’s crest. It boasted not one but two Great Halls and many chambers, a luxurious chapel, and separate buildings for the kitchens, buttery, and alehouse. Within, downstairs, the table and benches were of the finest wood, intricately carved, the thronelike chair reserved solely for the earl upholstered in crimson velvet. Upstairs, in the private rooms, exotically designed carpets from Persia covered the floors, and the walls were hung with bright, vivid tapestries.
Roger Beaufort sat negligently in another thronelike chair in his private bedchamber, sipping a fine wine from Normandy. Adele Beaufort paced in front of him, back and forth across one singularly bold red carpet, the fire in the hearth casting her form into long, misshapen shadows. There was nothing restless about her movements; rather, they were volatile and filled with fury.
She stopped, hands on her hips, her beautiful breasts heaving. “Have you nothing to say? Nothing at all?”
“Do not screech,” he said. Despite the fact that he was convinced her misfortune was due to the King’s current annoyance with him—and her misfortune was his—he was enjoying her rage. Rarely did one best Adele.
“God, how I hate you! I am cast aside like some worthless doxy, and you do nothing, nothing!”
He decided to dig the barb in deeper. “There have been a half dozen offers for you since the betrothal was broken a sennight ago. Henry of Ferrars was most persistent. You will not die a spinster, darling.”
“You jest! He is a nobody, a nobody!”
“I do not jest.”
“Whom,” she spat, “whom could he be intending to wed? Whom could he want more than me?Who is she!”she screamed.
Roger’s smile was lazy as he eyed his stepsister with interest. “You should not be in here, Adele, and now you shout to bring the household down.”
She stared, panting from her rage, flinging back her long black hair, which was unbound. “You know. You know who it is! You have found out!”
He smiled again, taking another slow sip of wine.
