The stench of the Thames made Sir James Rayburn’s eyes water as he rode through the angry crowd. The “Winchester geese,” the prostitutes who worked this side of the river under the bishop’s regulation, would not do much business today. The men filling the street were not here to seek pleasures banned inside the City; they were spoiling for a fight.
Earlier, Jamie had crossed the river to gauge the mood within the City of London—and found it on the verge of riot.
The crowd grew thicker as he neared London Bridge. Men glared at him but moved out of the way of his warhorse. As he pushed through them, his thoughts returned to the evening before. There had been far too many men-at-arms at the bishop’s palace.
Over supper, Jamie had tried to discern the bishop’s intent in bringing so many armed men to Winchester Palace. Under the bishop’s watchful eye, however, none of the other guests dared speak of it. Instead, they pressed Jamie for news of the fighting in France.
He obliged them, telling them of the recent battle against the dauphin’s forces at Verneuil. As he warmed to his tale, the ladies leaned forward, hands pressed to their creamy bosoms. He liked to tell stories. Just when he had begun to enjoy himself, Linnet’s words came back to him.
What you need, Jamie Rayburn, is a dull English wife who will be content to spend her evenings listening to you recite tiresome tales of your victories.
After all these years, Linnet’s ridicule still rankled. He had brought his story to an abrupt end and left the bishop’s hall for bed. Damn the woman. Five years since he’d seen her, and she could still ruin his evening.
Calling him boring was the least of Linnet’s crimes against him. No matter that he was three years older and she was not quite sixteen at the time—next to her, he’d been a babe in the woods. It embarrassed him to recall how he had worn his heart on his sleeve back then. While he professed eternal love and adoration, Linnet used him without a shred of guilt or regret.
After the debacle, he left Paris at once in the hope of reaching England before his letter. But nay. He had to suffer the additional mortification of telling his family he and Linnet were not betrothed after all.
Someone should have told him that men value a woman’s virginity far more than women do themselves. He had mistaken the gift of hers as a gift of her heart—and a pledge of marriage. Never again would he let a woman humiliate him like that.
That did not mean he’d sworn off women. In sooth, he had bedded any number of them in his determination to wipe Linnet’s memory from his mind. Most of the time he succeeded.
Thinking of her now put him in a foul mood. God’s beard, he could not breathe with all these people hemming him in. Judging by Thunder’s snorts and flattened ears, his horse felt the same.
“We’ve seen enough,” Jamie said, patting Thunder after the horse snapped at a fool who got too close.
With his untimely death, their dear and glorious King Henry had left a babe heir to two kingdoms. The Duke of Bedford, the dead king’s eldest surviving brother, had the difficult tasks of governing the French territories and prosecuting the war there.
While Bedford was occupied in France, two other members of the royal family vied for control of England. The power struggle between Bedford’s brother, the Duke of Gloucester, and their uncle, the Bishop of Winchester, had been simmering for months. Now that their dispute had spilled over into the streets, however, it was far more dangerous. Jamie must send a message to Bedford at once.
As Jamie turned his horse to return to the bishop’s palace, someone grabbed hold of his boot. He lifted his whip but checked his arm when he saw it was an old man.
“Please, sir, help me!”
The old fellow’s eye was purple with a fresh bruise. From his clothing, Jamie guessed he was not a part of the rabble, but a servant of some noble household.
Jamie leaned down. “What can I do for you?”
“The crowd separated me from my mistress,” the man said, his voice high and tremulous. “Now they’ve taken my mule, and I cannot reach her.”
Sweet Lamb of God, a lady was alone in this mob? “Where? Where is she?”
The old man pointed toward the bridge. When Jamie turned to look, he wondered how he had missed her. London Bridge was three hundred yards long, with shops and houses projecting off both sides. But in the gap created by the drawbridge, Jamie had a clear view of a lady in a bright blue and yellow gown sitting astride a white palfrey. She stuck out from the horde around her like a peacock atop a dunghill.
“Out of my way! Out of my way!” Jamie shouted, waving his whip from side to side above the heads of the crowd. Men flung themselves aside to avoid the hooves of his horse as he forced his way forward through the throng.
As he rode up onto the bridge, he heard the familiar sound of an army on the move. He turned and saw men-at-arms marching up the river from the bishop’s palace. God’s blood, the bishop had even sent archers.
Jamie had heard a rumor that Gloucester intended to ride to Eltham Castle to take custody of the three-year-old king. Evidently the bishop feared Gloucester’s intent was to usurp the throne, for he had decided to stop his nephew at the bridge by force of arms.
God help them all.
But in the meantime, Jamie needed to rescue the fool woman caught between the forces of the two feuding royals in the goddamned middle of London Bridge.
The mass of people caught on the bridge began to panic as word spread of the men-at-arms marching toward them. As Jamie pushed his way over the first part of the bridge, their shouts echoed off the buildings that connected overhead.
He was still twenty yards from the lady when he heard her scream. Hands were grabbing at her, attempting to pull her off the horse. She fought back like a savage, striking at them with her whip.
Someone caught hold of her headdress. Despite the noise on the bridge, Jamie heard the gasps of the men around her as a cascade of white-gold hair fell over her shoulders to her hips.
