Page 78 of Ondine

“Humble!” Charles burst into laughter, then clapped William on the back. “Why, sir, these are some of the finest lands in the country! Humble! Why, in purse, I’d dare to say that Rochester far exceeds my personal wealth.”

“Will you come into the house, Your Majesty?” Ondine inquired. “We are most eager to serve you.”

“Aye, of course. I’ve come for just a brief spell, but I did yearn to satisfy my own curiosity. Ah, pardon! It seems the snow has dirtied my boots—”

He paused, looking about, and Ondine frowned, not knowing his intention. She hadn’t realized that Charles had noticed Warwick, roughly clad, unshaven, and sooted from the forge.

But he had. Oh, he had, and why not? For he had known Warwick many years, and they were as close as friends could be, given that one was the king.

Charles appeared near devilish, and Ondine soon discovered why, for he lifted a hand to Warwick.

“You, young man! Aye, you, the tall fellow with the fine shoulders. Come here!”

Warwick started for but a moment, then turned over the mount he held to a young apprentice and approached the king, kneeling before him awkwardly.

“Good man for a smithy, Deauveau! Seems the job would become him, and him the job. How do you like service here, young sir?”

“Ah, it is good,” Warwick murmured, still upon his knees; It appeared that the king was in no mood to release him quickly.

“My boots, young man, have become encrusted. Do clean them for me while you’re down there, good fellow, will you?”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

The answer came a bit slow, but well and strong.

Ondine barely kept from bursting into merry laughter as she met Charles’s eyes over her husband’s head.

It seemed that only they had heard the grating of Warwick’s teeth, that only they, together, could truly enjoy this moment of seeing the great Warwick Chatham, champion at arms, so sorely humbled!

“Ah, very good, my thanks there, boy! The best of luck to you, then!”

And with that, Charles stepped past him, slipping an arm about Ondine to lead her into the house.

He kept them a distance before William and Raoul and, whispered into her ear, “I could not resist! A smith, eh?”

“A smith, sire, and I must say I enjoyed your entrance tremendously!”

“Knowing the circumstances of your relationship, my dear, I was quite sure you’d felt the blade of his domination now and then, and that our dear lord Chatham deserved a taste of his own medicine.”

“Aye!” Ondine laughed softly, her heart light, her eyes sparkling brilliantly. “You knew, then, that he was coming here? That he intended such a thing?”

“I told him everything, my dear. He knows me well; he knew I hid the truth from him. You are not angry that I betrayed you?”

“I could bless you for it, yet I am afraid for him, for he does not wear humility with ease.”

But the king grew sober then, his voice becoming softer. “Play ’tis one thing, and it seems we must all enjoy it when we may. Yet I—who did perhaps encourage this situation—do not like it much now. Have you discovered anything?”

She wanted to tell him about the blotter, that it gave clue at least to evil purposes. But she had no chance to speak—William was upon them.

“You have heard, Your Majesty, that my son and the duchess will wed, and the house will be one?”

“Ah, yes, indeed, I have heard rumor of the impending nuptials!”

They came into the hall. Charles shed his cloak, and Ondine saw that he was in full Stuart dress uniform, his sword at his side. Two of his guards followed him closely. When the king sat at the head of the table within the hall, they flanked him on either side.

He cast his gloves upon the table, a congenial guest, and accepted the ale that Jem quickly brought him from the kitchen. He gazed about and murmured pleasantly, “I have interrupted your morning meal! Come, and I will sit with you.”

They took their places. The king refused to dine, but continued to smile as Berault served them food now grown quite cold.

No one remarked upon it.

“Alas—as long as all is well,” Charles said, “I am pleased. My dear, in truth, I bear you no grudge for your father’s act—certainly, it was but a moment’s madness on his part.

I could not bear to think that you, such a fair young lass, might have conspired against me.

But here I see it all! The peace and harmony amongst you!

What more assurance could I have when these two men—your doting family—have given you their faith! ”

“It did grieve me most terribly, sire,” William vowed, “when my brother came to that fit of madness! That he should raise his arm against you . . . Sire, it was the most woeful day, yet now we seek to live past it.”

“And live past it well,” he murmured dryly, pulling his small blade from his hip and idly paring his nails with it. He emitted a sudden impatient oath. “Damn, but this blade needs a honing. Raoul Deauveau! Call that smith of yours here! I’ve a mind that man could make a finer thing of my blade!”

Raoul was instantly up, bowing and out. The king commented on the hall; William said again that they were grateful to him, glad that he had lifted his disfavor, though it was true that the family had been deserving of his anger.

Then Warwick entered the hall on Raoul’s heel, his golden gaze already wary of what was to come.

“There you are! It seems I’ve a dull knife here, yet I’m convinced that you can set it to rights.”

“Your Majesty, I shall do my best.”

Warwick once again knelt at the king’s side, next to Ondine, as he extended his hands to accept the knife. Charles dropped it to the floor.

“Ah, it seems the cold has numbed my fingers!”

“No difficulty there, sire,” Warwick said smoothly, ducking to retrieve the knife. “I do live to serve you.”

“Do you? How charming!” The king applauded.

Ondine quickly looked down at her plate, lest she be tempted to laughter once again.

Yet she had the feeling that the king meant more here than idle play, though she did not understand quite what he was doing.

She longed to talk to Warwick herself, away from all prying ears, and discover whether he had managed to retrieve the blotter from her uncle’s desk.

Perhaps Warwick had been called in so that he and Ondine could have a moment together, because Charles suddenly stood, moving far across the room to point out the window and ask a question about the usage of the land.

William and Raoul came quickly to his side, leaving Warwick kneeling down beside Ondine.

She pretended to sip her tea, but whispered instead to him, her long hair a shield that hid their hurried conversation.

“Have you the blotter? We could get it to Charles now—”

“Nay! We cannot!” he responded with a hoarse breath of air. His golden gaze touched hers with firelit sparks. “It was gone; the desk was clean when I went there.”

She stared at him with horror. He uttered some terse warning sound that reminded her they were not alone, and she swallowed back the despair and frustration that had seized her, turning to smile for the king.

“Ah, off your knees, man!” he told Warwick. “Go—see what you can do with my knife!”

Warwick rose, bowed briefly, and hurried from the hall. The king lingered long enough to finish his ale and comment once again that he bore the family Deauveau no grudge. Then he said that he must be gone, but would return.

“We’ll send for your knife—” William offered.

“No need; I’d enjoy a view of the forge!” the king said, and sweeping his cloak about his shoulders, he started out himself with his customary long strides.

Raoul and William gazed at each other, then leapt to their feet to follow him.

Ondine remained where she was, pensive and worried once again. The blotter was gone. Yet how could they have known that she had seen it? Maybe they did not know. Maybe, once again, time had worked against her, and William had merely decided to clear his desk.

Oh, God . . . but then why her uncle’s sharply sarcastic anger that morning? Something was afoot. But surely, now that the king had been here and seen her here, they would not dare to harm her.

Nay, she decided bleakly, that was a slender thread to cling to indeed! They had managed to murder her father before witnesses and come from it the heroes. Perhaps Warwick was right, and it was exceedingly dangerous to linger here at all. And now her scant hope had disappeared.

She sighed softly, squaring her shoulders. Dangerous or no, she would have to start over again. She had loved her father so dearly, and she loved the life she was carrying with all her heart. How could she not pit all her heart and strength into justice for that generation gone, and that to come?

* * *

Charles knew that William and Raoul Deauveau had followed him; he knew, too, that they would not dare to intrude upon him once he had closed a door.

And that was what he did, as soon as he entered the forge.

Warwick gazed up from his stone seat by the fire. He was not about to kneel again—he’d been on his knees enough to last a good ten years, much as he did honor his king.

He smiled ruefully, instead, offering Charles his sharpened blade, then sweeping a bow with the same mockery he’d received. “Your Majesty! I most humbly pray ’tis sharp as you desire!”

“’Tis sharp as your tongue!” Charles retorted quickly, grinning, but he sobered quickly. “Tell me, in all haste, what goes on here.”