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The Month of September

Westminster Palace, London

T he evening was full of wine, women, and song.

Not that he was able to participate in any of it.

For certain, the captain of the king’s guard didn’t participate in the usual festivities.

Those were reserved for the king’s allies, and even enemies who pretended to be allies, and the king allowed it because he needed their wealth.

Or armies or social position, or any number of advantages from the young king’s perspective.

Edward II was now in control.

He had been for six years. Six years of the reign of Piers Gaveston, for the most part, under the guise of counselor of the king.

A counselor that Edward’s father had hated so much that he’d exiled the man, but once Edward I was dead, Piers had returned with great fanfare and many promises to the warlords of England.

Promises that were never kept.

But something major had happened. Parliament had convened several months earlier and, under much pressure from the warlords of England, the king had been forced to accept many new rules and ordinances that essentially limited his power.

Promises made could now never be broken.

Gaveston was once again banished and England, hopefully, was beginning to settle down after the turmoil of Gaveston and wars with Scotland.

Wars and turmoil that the captain of the guard had personally participated in.

Truth be told, he was looking forward to a little peace.

And this night was the start of it, or so he hoped.

As a gesture of goodwill toward the warlords who had essentially bullied him into accepting their ordinances, the king threw a lavish feast at Westminster Palace.

The structure, newly renovated in light of the new king’s coronation a few years earlier, was blazing with light and music and the heady smells of the dozens of roasted animals that Edward had ordered.

Beef, mutton, pheasant, peacock, pork, and more filled the tables.

The king wanted to show there were no hard feelings for being strong-armed into agreement.

But the captain of the guard knew differently.

Sir Magnus de Wolfe was that captain. He’d been with the king since the days of his father, Edward I, when he came to London with his brother, Cassius, who had been Edward’s lord protector.

But Cassius married and became the Duke of Doncaster, no longer a simple knight but now a peer.

It had been Magnus who had taken over Cassius’ position as lord protector, but when the king died and his son, Edward II, came to power, the new king decided he no longer needed a personal bodyguard, and Magnus was given the responsibility of managing the entire royal knight corps.

These days, he was lord commander.

To tell the truth, he didn’t mind. He liked being in command of an elite group of knights and not simply a king’s minder. That was really what the position as lord protector boiled down to—protecting the king in all situations, sometimes even from himself, and being focused only on one man.

Magnus wasn’t cut out for something like that in the long term.

Lord commander was much more his style. He led armies into battle, fought enemies with an ax his Norse grandfather had given him, arranged protection for the king’s movements, and the like.

As the son and grandson of an earl on his father’s side and the grandson of the King of the Northmen on his mother’s side, his bloodlines were far more elite than most. WolfeAx , he was referred to in military circles.

But as a de Wolfe knight, he was a legend, from a legendary family that had been instrumental in forging England as a country since the days of the Duke of Normandy.

It was this legendary knight who watched groups of lords and ladies head into the great hall of Westminster.

It was a cool night, and the light from within the hall glowed from the big lancet windows, creating a halo of sorts and a beacon for all to flock to.

Clad in full regalia befitting the commander of the king’s knights, Magnus was moving from post to post, checking on his men and also making sure there were men inside the hall should the need for order arise.

When there was a gathering the size of this one, chaos was always waiting to be unleashed.

But not on Magnus’ watch.

“This evening ought to prove interesting.”

A voice came from the darkness, and Magnus turned to see his second-in-command approaching.

Sir Denys de Winter, from the great military family of de Winter, was not only one of the most capable commanders that Magnus had ever seen, he also happened to be Magnus’ best friend.

He was positively enormous, tall like Magnus’ father and brothers, with a shaggy crown of fair hair and big dark eyes.

He had a ready laugh and a booming voice, enough to scare the wits from some of the younger knights, and Magnus smiled at his comment.

“I believe that is a great understatement,” he said. “Have you been watching the warlords entering the grounds?”

Denys nodded. “I’ve been on the wall,” he said. “I was at the gatehouse when Arundel and Lancaster entered. Who did I miss?”

Magnus shrugged dramatically. “Gloucester, Worcester, Pembroke,” he said.

“At this point, we are awaiting Warwick. Aye, laddie, the true kings of England have arrived as guests of the man who officially holds the title, and I cannot imagine that this evening is going to be one of great peace and love. It is going to be a power struggle before our very eyes.”

“We’ll be lucky if there isn’t an execution by midnight.”

“Exactly.”

They looked at each other knowingly, silent words of concern and some amusement passing between them. There were soldiers about, and a few knights at their posts, and they didn’t want to start gossiping like women at what may, or may not, occur this evening.

All they knew was that it was going to be a fragile peace.

“Daventry just arrived,” Denys commented. “My father should be here soon, also.”

Magnus glanced at him. “Thetford is one of the most important warlords in England,” he said. “I should think your father has a good deal to say about all of this, considering he was the one who made sure Gaveston took the cog across to Calais.”

Denys grinned. “You can stake your life on the fact that he held his sword to the man’s back until he boarded that boat,” he said. “What about your father? Will he come?”

Magnus shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “You know the trouble with the Scots right now. He will not leave Berwick, nor will my uncles leave their castles along the border. I’m afraid this gathering is going to have to get along without the earls of Berwick, Warenton, and Northumbria.

They are shoring up the north while the king makes peace with his warlords in the south.

But my uncle Edward will be present, though I’ve not seen him arrive yet. ”

“What about the mighty Duke of Doncaster?”

Magnus grinned. “My brother, Cassius?” he said.

“He refuses to attend due to the fact that his wife should be delivering another child any day now, and he will not leave her. You know those two were sewn together with silk ties on the day they were married. He will not leave her side and she will not leave his. It is appalling, truthfully.”

Denys snorted. “I have a pair of brothers who are the same way with their wives.”

“Drake and Devon?”

Denys rolled his eyes. “Those two make me sick,” he said.

“They’re so disgustingly sweet with their wives that I feel as if I need to bathe every time I’m around them simply to wash off the cloying stickiness that covers them like a spider’s web.

It bleeds all over me, and I hate it. Love turns a man into a fool, Magnus. ”

“You think so, do you?”

“And you do not?”

A shout came from the direction of the gatehouse, interrupting their conversation, and they turned to see a small party entering with an escort of torch-wielding soldiers. With all of the light emanating from the hall, it was a simple thing to see the radiant red and gold standards.

“There’s Daventry,” Denys said. “I’m surprised to see him tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because I cannot believe that old boar is still alive. Shouldn’t he be dead already?”

Magnus struggled not to laugh. “Sir Simon de Staverton is a well-respected and extremely wealthy man,” he said. “But I will admit he is as old as dirt and does, in fact, resemble a boar.”

“True.”

“He’s one of the only warlords with any common sense, so let us hope he does not die anytime soon.”

Denys could see the party drawing closer to the hall entry. “I hear he has a reason to stay alive these days.”

Magnus looked at him. “What reason?”

Denys lifted his blond eyebrows. “He has the Ruby.”

Magnus frowned. “What Ruby?”

“ The Ruby,” Denys repeated, but realized Magnus didn’t understand what he was telling him.

“The Ruby that once belonged to Bristol. Before Bristol, it was Lord Falmouth. Before Falmouth, rumor has it that none other than Longshanks had the Ruby. That most beautiful of jewels, Magnus, the one that everyone wants and the one that is sold from earl to earl, to the highest bidder. That Ruby.”

Now, Magnus understood. “Ah,” he said. “Aye, that Ruby. She’s with Daventry now?”

Denys nodded. “So I’ve heard,” he said. “Truthfully, I’ve never actually seen her. The lords who have kept her have been very greedy about not sharing her with the world. I heard that Falmouth actually locked her up in a chamber that was lined with silk on the walls and had a golden bed.”

Magnus thought on the woman everyone called the Ruby, so spectacular in beauty, poise, and grace that the great lords of England passed her between them.

A woman that beautiful wasn’t meant for only one man, they said, and she was part of a group called the Seven Jewels of London—courtesans of the highest order, the most beautiful and coveted women in the inner circles of England’s nobility.

There was a Diamond, a Ruby, a Pearl, an Emerald, a Sapphire, an Amethyst, and a Garnet, all named for precious gems. They were women who had kept company with kings and princes, so cultured and educated that even the wives of those men who kept them did not oppose their presence.

But, like most jewels, they were protected and kept from public view.

Such beauty wasn’t meant for the masses.

“I have not seen any of them,” Magnus admitted. “Although my brother, Cassius, saw the Ruby when she was with Longshanks.”

“Oh?” Denys was interested. “What did he say about her?”

Magnus shrugged. “Beauty beyond compare, but very young,” he said. “I seem to remember hearing him say that someone gave her over to the king in payment for a debt of some kind. She was supposed to be a hostage, but he took her as his mistress. He gave her over to Margit Barkwith for training.”

Denys’ features registered surprise. “I had not heard that,” he said. “You mean the woman that owns the…?”

“The stew over on Farnham Street in Southwark, aye,” Magnus finished for him, using the common term for a brothel in “stew.” “I’ve heard that Margit has trained all of the Jewels in courtly manners and techniques for the bedchamber. Enough to please kings, anyway.”

That gave Denys something new to think over as he turned to watch Daventry’s party draw closer to the gaily lit hall. “Mayhap not enough,” he said. “Longshanks sent her to Falmouth.”

Magnus shook his head. “The man had little time for a woman like that,” he said.

“Or mayhap his wife made him send her away. In any case, let us put aside talk like that, because we sound like a pair of fishwives. I shall head over to the hall and make sure nothing untoward is happening. In fact, gather a dozen of the other knights and join me. The king is due to arrive momentarily, and a heavy presence of royal knights might be enough to deter any of the warlords from becoming too aggressive.”

Nodding smartly, Denys headed off into the night to find the requested men while Magnus headed for the enormous hall in the distance.

Truly, it was a lovely sight on a night like this, but sights could be deceiving.

Not that he was a man of superstition, but something told him to be on his guard tonight.

It was just a hunch he had.