Anne smiled thinly at her niece, presuming and hoping the matter was behind them. “Now, with that business aside, we thought you should be aware that your suggestion for our agents is working beautifully.”
Avalyn lifted her eyebrows. “What suggestion was that?”
Richard stepped in from her other side. “Rumors of illegitimacy, lady,” he said. “With Edward riding to the north to quell the small uprisings there, your suggestion to spread rumors of the king being bastard-born have taken flight and caused much uproar. It was a brilliant suggestion.”
Avalyn shrugged modestly. “It was one suggestion of many. As I said before, if you want Edward off the throne, attacking his legitimacy will do far more damage than attacking him physically. He is a strong king with a large army. But the nobility of England is easily swayed once a question of authenticity comes into question. They consider pure blood more important than God. Even a hint of the king being a bastard, no matter how untrue, will tilt their favor.”
Richard nodded. “And you were right. But we added something more.”
“What is that?”
The Kingmaker’s eyes glittered. “That Clarence is York’s true heir. We do not seek anarchy. If the king is to be supplanted, it will be with another royal.”
“And you suggest the Duke of Clarence?”
“As Edward’s younger brother, he is the logical choice.”
Avalyn cocked her head. “And did you not suggest a betrothal between Clarence and Isobel?”
“Indeed. A de Neville upon the throne would put the entire family in favor.”
Avalyn was not surprised or shocked by the statement. There was always some manner of intrigue in the House of de Neville, including the secret betrothal of her cousin Isobel to the king’s younger brother. Now, with her suggestion of spreading rumors of a bastard-born Edward, the bad blood between the king and Uncle Richard was deepening. The marriage of Clarence to Isobel de Neville would widen the gap. At some point soon, it was going to explode. She knew it would happen, but she wondered where and when.
As she pondered the discontent that she had helped create against the king, Aunt Anne broke into her thoughts. “Go to bed now, my angel. It has been an eventful night.”
Obediently, Avalyn rose and passed through a small corridor that led into a dark, warm chamber. She was glad to be free of her aunt and uncle’s disapproving presence. A small fire burned in the hearth and a massive bed was lodged against one wall. She tried not to think of d’Aurilliac as she pulled off the borrowed woolen shift, yet her mind was inevitably drawn to him. Aye, she recalled his name and, with prompting from her uncle, what she had heard about him. Rumor said that he was all brawn, no brains. More cruel gossip had called him a simpleton, a war machine that simply did as he was told because he could not think for himself. It was a sad reputation, really. He had seemed kind to her, but she could also understand why the man had thereputation he did. He didn’t say much, and he was positively terrifying.
“Avie?” came a soft voice from the bed. “Is that you?”
Snapped from her train of thought, Avalyn pulled her sleeping shift from a large trunk and went to the huge, over-stuffed bed. “’Tis me, sweetheart,” she said as she donned her night gown. “Go back to sleep.”
Isobel de Neville sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes groggily. Across the room in a smaller bed slept her thirteen-year-old sister, Anne. Isobel was a whole five years older. She focused her sleepy brown eyes on her cousin.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
Avalyn climbed into the mounds of covers and snuggled beneath them, pushing her cousin down in the process so the woman would go back to sleep. “I shall tell you tomorrow,” she kissed her cousin’s temple. “Sleep now.”
Isabel promptly obeyed. Avalyn lay there in the darkness, warm under the covers, and gazed into the soft warm glow of the distant hearth. Visions of Brogan d’Aurilliac drifted through her mind like snowflakes falling from the sky; every time she rid herself of one, another would take its place. She had no idea why the man had left an imprint on her, other than the fact he had saved her life. That was reason enough.
And in spite of what her aunt and uncle said, she intended to pay her debt to him.
*
“She’s Warwick, man,”St. Alban said sternly. “She is as powerful as they come. God’s Bones, Brogan, when you make a mistake, it’s a big one.”
Brogan sat on a plain stool before the blaze roaring in his chamber. St. Alban was often cold-blooded and would work thehearth into a forest fire of embers, which usually left Brogan uncomfortable and sweating. But in respect to his old friend and mentor, he would suffer in silence. Even now, he continued to sit in silence as St. Alban tried to explain to him just how out of reach their wet visitor had been. St. Alban only knew this because the usually silent and mostly-sullen Brogan had mentioned only two words; Beauchamp Tower. It had been enough. There was only one family that resided on the second floor of the Beauchamp Tower and the attached apartments.
“Do you hear me, Brogan?” the old man asked. “You must never go near her again. For your own sake, stay away from her.”
Brogan tore his gaze away from the blaze then, fixing St. Alban with his deep blue eyes. “I do not intend going near her again. And it was not a mistake to save her life.”
“Nay, it was not, but it was a mistake to involve yourself with anything to do with Warwick.”
“I do not regret it.”
“I know you don’t. But stay clear of her, my friend, or risk your life.”
“I said that I would stay clear of her.”
