Page 4 of Ondine

“God in Heaven!” Charles exclaimed. “This must be madness. Who do you suspect? Justin, Clinton? I cannot believe—”

Warwick laughed bitterly. “I pray not!”

“Then—”

“There is Lord Hardgrave,” Warwick said bitterly.

“Oh, come!” Charles muttered impatiently. “You two have your differences, but for such an accusation—”

“I am sorry, perhaps it was unjustified. But who, dammit, who? Mathilda loved her dearly, as did Justin. Even Clinton thought her entirely too good for me! Charles, it leaves me cold. I must discover the truth, else spend my life in the company of paramours.”

Charles sighed. “Warwick, I tell you, this is a plague of your imagination. Genevieve was . . . I’m sorry, Warwick, but I believe that she was suicidal.

You found an old mask and a cloak. Many wear masks at court to hide their true identities when planning a tryst with a lover!

You must get over this. You are coming back to court with me. ”

At the king’s insistence, Warwick returned to court. Not only did Charles miss his friend, but there was the business of a kingdom to run.

And as the lady Anne had prophesied, he spent the Christmastide next in her arms, where she worshipped an ardor grown silent, roughly passionate, strangely distant.

She took to calling him the “beast” again, for he went to many women. He claimed their desires; yet he gave none his heart. He was a heated lover, but a cold man, harder than ever before.

A year passed. Time healed the rawest pain, but Warwick’s suspicions did not die, and his determination never wavered.

“You need to marry again, my friend,” Charles advised once more.

Marry . . .

Nay, he needed to bait a murderer first. But he did not feel like arguing with Charles.

“Aye, Your Grace,” he would say, smiling. “I need a wife.” But to take a wife, he firmly believed, would be to risk that lady’s life. He was certain that someone was determined he should leave no heirs.

* * *

Lady Anne’s elderly husband, Geoffrey, succumbed to a fever and died. In bed Anne turned impetuously to Warwick.

“We could marry now, my dearest!”

Warwick rolled from her side, planting his feet upon the ground as he ran his fingers through his hair.

“I will never marry again,” he told her.

The lady Anne chuckled huskily, rising upon her knees to rake her nails sensuously along his back. “I shall change your mind!”

Nay, she could not change his mind, but she could ignite his senses. He turned, taking her into his arms, fiercely easing the tempest in his body. But when dawn came, he left her.

Genevieve haunted him always. Dear God! But he owed her justice! There had to be a way to flush out the killer!

* * *

In April of 1679 Warwick walked with Charles along Market Street. The king sought trinkets for his wife, and Warwick, in a rare light mood, sought to purchase an ivory fan for the lady Anne.

He and the king stopped in a tavern for ale. Charles, a king easily accessible to his people, readily sat in the common house. He made the serving wench gasp with pleasure when he discreetly pinched her rump, and he rewarded the innkeeper with a fat gold coin.

The king’s guards stayed far behind them as they laughed merrily and ambled into the streets again.

Suddenly a flurry of darkness descended upon them, and a sword was raised against the king. Warwick sobered quickly, drawing his own sword. The skirmish was swiftly ended with the man, a hearty if filthy and toothless soul, panting at Warwick’s feet and begging for a quick death.

“Slay me, my lord! I beg you! ’Twill be Tyburn Tree—”

“’Twill not be Tyburn Tree for a traitor against the king’s own person!” A guard, rushing upon the scene, declared, “Ye’ll know the agony of being drawn and quartered, scum, or perhaps the fires of death will rise to the sky!”

The beggar was dragged away. Charles, his dark and handsome eyes upon his friend, sighed wearily. “Would that I could do something to save such wretches. The man was surely mad.”

“Then surely he should be mercifully hanged!”

“Hanged? Nay, man, hundreds hang for far lesser crimes. They rot for debt, they die for stealing bread.”

“You are the king—”

“I rule by Parliament,” Charles said huskily. “I do not ever forget that my father’s head was severed from his body; I rule by the law. I am fond of my neck and the crown upon it.”

A week later Warwick traveled the streets again in his coach, homeward bound for North Lambria. The coach came to a halt, and he leaned from it to speak with Jake, serving then as his coachman. “Why do we stop?” he queried.

“A death procession, my lord,” Jake replied. “A lot of three poor wretches, bound for the Tyburn Tree.”

Warwick gazed out the window. Crowds gathered about a cart as it moved down the street. He saw a youth, an old man—and a woman.

The woman turned suddenly. She was filthy, tattered, but something about her compelled his further scrutiny.

Her hair, tangled with filthy straw, still caught the sun’s reflection.

It was long, waving, and curling down her back, a rich auburn when the sun caught its highlights.

She was young . . . surely less than two decades of life had passed her by.

She held her chin high. Her face was smudged and filthy, but her eyes burned with a haunting defiance. She was thin and pathetic.

Yet it was not with lust or love that he looked upon her. Warwick Chatham’s eyes narrowed, and he tried to imagine her scrubbed and scoured. Her life would be forfeit in a matter of minutes.

And wasn’t any extra moment of life precious?

“Jake!” he said suddenly. “I’ve heard tell that a man or woman can be saved from the gallows if taken in marriage before the rope is pulled. Is that true, Jake?”

“Aye,” Jake muttered. “So reads the law.”

“Jake,” Warwick commanded tensely, “follow the procession.”