Dark Moon (The de Russe Legacy Book 6) Read online

  But it would be one he would never regret.

  For an old friend, he knew what he had to do.

  Turning away from Lysabel, he gave silent orders to his men. A hand signal had Adrian rushing from the chamber and into the darkened manse to create a diversion that would allow them to complete their mission. Another hand signal had Anthony and Timothy rushing for the one grappling hook they had left, wedging it into the windowsill on the inside and then waiting several long and anxious minutes until the men below began running towards the kitchen yard to the north side of the manse.

  A fire, they were saying, and the faint scent of smoke could be smelled on the cold night air. Adrian had evidently created quite a distraction and as the garden below cleared of de Wilde’s men, Anthony and Timothy bailed over the side of the window, shimmying down the rope and waiting for their prize, which Trenton would lower from the window.

  But Trenton didn’t lower Benoit at all. As Anthony and Timothy watched, Trenton simply tossed the man from the window, head first.

  He was dead the moment he hit the ground.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Palace of Greenwich, London

  One month later

  “It is not like you to make a mistake, Trenton. But all things considered, it was a blessing.”

  Trenton stood in the private solar of the king, a room that faced out over the River Thames. The ceiling of the chamber was a masterpiece of Gothic architecture with intricate patterns. Small panes of square glass made up an enormous window that presided over the bucolic landscape beyond. In all, it was a room built to impress, and impress it did. Imported woods and the smell of leather from the furniture built by Savoy artisans in France ensure that all who entered the room were properly awed.

  But Trenton wasn’t impressed by his surroundings. He hadn’t been for a very long time. To him, it was a room just like any other. He leaned against the windowsill, gazing at the blue waters of the Thames as it meandered to the sea, thinking on how he would reply to the king’s statement.

  It hadn’t been a mistake.

  He’d meant to do it.

  “We were rushing to remove him from his chamber and in the haste, he slipped from my grip,” he said after a moment. “I explained to you the sequence of events, Your Highness, so it was simply an unfortunate happenstance.”

  Henry VIII, King of England, was sitting near the open window, with the river breeze infiltrating the room. Being that it was in the dead of summer, the humidity in the air was nearly unbearable and Henry’s entire court was preparing to move to Penhurst Palace in Kent, where it was considerably cooler and away from the moisture of the river. But Henry preferred Greenwich so that he never left the palace unless it grew intolerable, and it was quickly reaching that state.

  Still, he had business to conduct, and important business with Trenton de Russe. He sipped on watered wine, cooled because it was kept in the vaults below the palace where it was dry and downright cold at times. Trenton had been offered some, which he had refused. He wasn’t much for drink like this during the day. He didn’t like the fog of alcohol in his head so early in the day. Henry sat near the open windows, sipping his refreshing drink, while Trenton leaned against the wall and watched the traffic on the river.

  “As I said, it is for the better,” Henry said, a slight lisp evident when he spoke. “De Wilde has been a thorn in my side for years. Now that he is gone, the Ilchester title reverts to me to do with as I please. In truth, I am not dissatisfied with this outcome.”

  Trenton glanced at him. “You would take the Ilchester inheritance from de Wilde’s heir?”

  Henry shrugged. “He only has two daughters that I am aware of,” he said. “Legitimate children, I mean. Who knows how many bastards the man has running about? In fact, I have half a mind to grant you the Ilchester titles, Trenton. You have rid me, and England, of a sour excuse of a man. You have done us all a great service.”

  Trenton was shaking his head before the king even finished speaking. “Nay, Your Highness,” he said. “As honored as I am that you should think of me, I already have a title that I have little time to tend, with homes and lands that I must leave to subordinates to manage. If there is any real trouble, then my father must see to it. I have no time.”

  Henry glanced at him at the mention of the almighty Gaston de Russe. “And how is your father these days?”

  Trenton smiled, though it was without humor. He moved away from the window. “My father and I have not spoken in some time,” he said. “I still hear from my mother on occasion, so my father is in good health. She would tell me otherwise.”

  Henry nodded. “And I am sure we would have all heard,” he said. “But I am sorry to hear that you and your father have not spoken. It seems to me that you have not really spoken to him since you came into my service those years ago.”

  Trenton shrugged, hunting for a chair to plant his bulk into. “You know he did not want me to accept your position,” he said quietly. “My father believes what I do for you is less than honorable.”

  “Coming from the man who betrayed Richard at Bosworth and allowed my father to come into power, that is an ironic opinion,” Henry sniffed. “Clearly, he does not realize how important you are to me, Trenton, and if you did not believe this to be important work, then you would not have accepted the post. Does he not realize that?”

  Trenton sat in a cushioned chair near the darkened hearth. “My father told me that he’d always hoped I’d have a better reputation than he did,” he said. “He does not think that special missions for the king are the way to achieve that. As it is, I have men’s respect mostly because they fear me. It is terror that causes them to obey or fall at my feet, not genuine admiration. I suppose I never really knew what my father meant until I started undertaking some of your more… questionable directives. Now, it is too late.”

  Henry didn’t particularly like to hear what he perceived to be a condemnation. “Regrets?”

  “Never,” Trenton shook his head firmly. “What should I regret? That I have helped a king hold fast to his crown in a country where vipers abound? I should never regret that. But I do regret that my father views me as a disappointment.”

  Henry was feeling some guilt for that, as if the rift between father and son was some of his doing. He’d pushed hard for Trenton even when Gaston had come to visit him and asked him not to offer Trenton this position. But in the end, it was Trenton who had made his own decisions. Nothing had been forced upon him.

  At least, that was the way Henry viewed it.

  He always got his way in the end.

  “So the great Duke of Warminster finds you a disappointment,” he muttered, scratching his head. “You, his eldest son and heir. You hold the title of Earl of Westbury, a courtesy title for the heir of Warminster, and Westbury is a wealthy holding. You are a man with some independent wealth, Trenton.”

  Trenton shrugged. “As I said, I cannot properly administer the lands I have and must leave it to subordinates.”

  “Do you want less responsibility? Do you want to return home and make amends with your father?”

  It was the first time in almost ten years that Henry had even remotely offered him some kind of respite from the constant missions he undertook on the king’s behalf. Trenton’s first reaction was to deny he needed any time away, but he stopped himself. Perhaps, time away from his usual dirty dealings was a good idea. But as he considered it, he realized there was a particular reason why he was, indeed, thinking about it.

  Lady de Wilde.

  He hadn’t been able to stop thinking of Lysabel since that night. His thoughts weren’t lustful, or those of interest in the sexual sense, but more of great concern. If Henry sent him out on another mission right away, which was usual, then there was no knowing when he’d be able to return to Dorset to see how Lysabel was coming along.

  He’d left her almost three weeks ago, damaged and broken, and it had haunted him. That sweet, lovely woman had been so badly damaged,
and no one had known – not her father, and certainly not his own father, because between the two of them, they would have done something about it. If Trenton hadn’t killed Benoit, then he was fairly certain that the old knights would have. But Lysabel had kept her secret, and bore her burden, without telling a soul of the hell she’d been going through. What was it she’d said? She’d been married to de Wilde for twelve long years.

  Twelve long years of hell.

  For the sake of an old family friend, Trenton very much wanted to return to see how she was faring. Therefore, he found himself nodding to Henry’s question even though he had no intention of visiting his father.

  He had other destinations on his mind.

  “That would be in order,” he said after a moment. “Mayhap… mayhap, it would do me good to see my father. He and I have shared a complicated relationship over the years.”

  Henry gulped the last of his watered wine and set the empty cup down. “You could also visit your wife,” he said. “When was the last time you saw Adela?”

  The mere mention of the name was like mud in Trenton’s ears. It was an ugly, dirty word as far as he was concerned and he abruptly stood up, feeling the familiar agitation that the mention of his wife brought.

  “I do not remember the last time I saw her and I do not care,” he said flatly. “She lives as if she has no husband, and I am happy to let her do it. I care not for anything about her.”

  Henry snorted; he probably shouldn’t have spoken on Adela de Montfort de Russe, but it was a pathetic situation Trenton had gotten himself in to. All of London knew it, if not all of England.

  Trenton’s record with women was not a good one.

  “God’s Bones, Trenton,” Henry said, feeling the slightest bit tipsy from the watered wine. He stretched out on the chair, lazily. “You have had terrible luck with women, my friend. For your first wife, the lovely Alicia, to die in childbirth, and then the second wife to be murdered by her own father. I remember that event very well. What a shock it was to hear that Lord Atwell murdered his daughter because his coffers were empty and she would not help him gain your money as he’d hoped. Horribly shocking.”

  Trenton was well aware of his history with women and he didn’t need a slightly drunk king to remind him. It was an embarrassment, and probably more disappointment to his father than his service record for the king ever could be.

  He didn’t want to dredge up old shame.

  “No need to revisit this, Your Highness,” he said evenly, but he meant it as a warning. “It is all in the past.”

  But Henry wasn’t hearing his tone; he continued to muse about Trenton’s marital history. “And then you let your father talk you into marrying that French duchess,” he said. “You married Adela of Brittany, the illegitimate daughter of the Duke of Brittany, because your father thought it would bring you great wealth and support from the French. What he did not know was that Adela was a whore and had no intention of giving up her whoring ways.”

  Trenton looked at him. “You will not speak of my wife so,” he said, his threatening tone more evident. “Regardless of her behavior, she still bears the title Lady de Russe and is due all respect, even from you.”

  Henry eyed him, unmoved by the hazard in his voice. “She took your home, and your money, and now you are not even welcome at Penleigh House, your seat.” He sat up and lifted a frustrated hand. “She has even banished you from her bed. Have you not gone to the church with this, Trenton? Surely you can gain an annulment based on the fact that she will not allow you to touch her. I have told you this before, Trenton. You must do something about this woman.”

  By this time, Trenton was growing weary of the conversation. He didn’t want to discuss his father, and he certainly didn’t want to discuss his three marriages, including his current wife. Henry didn’t know when to shut his mouth sometimes.

  “The arrangement is an agreeable one, considering I have no desire to touch her, either,” he snapped softly. “As you have so eloquently reminded me, much of my life has ended in utter failure. I will leave well enough alone when it comes to my marriages. Three failures are enough.”

  Henry’s brow furrowed as Trenton’s mood became apparent to him, now realizing that his words had been careless. He respected Trenton too much to offend him, but he could see that he’d done precisely that.

  “You have a great many things to be proud of, Trenton,” he said, trying to make up for his tactlessness. “I have always been proud of you. Your reputation in battle and in service is unparalleled.”

  “But my private life is in shambles.”

  Henry had a twinkle in his eye. “As if mine is perfect.”

  He had a point. Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon was anything but problem-free. Still, Trenton would not be soothed. He didn’t like the comparison to the king’s rather lusty and imperfect private life, because he wasn’t like that at all. He was an introspective man and he had tried to be careful with his marriages. He’d tried to pick women of honor, he thought, or women he was attracted to. He wanted what his parents had, an excellent union for many years. Unfortunately, the universe had worked against him, and that was a bitter pill for him to swallow.

  He was not to have what his father had when it came to love.

  But he didn’t want to think about that at the moment. Henry’s idle chatter had put a great many things on his mind, and now he was feeling depressed and moody. God, he hated that he couldn’t shake feelings like this. He’d never been able to. On the surface, he was a man of stone, but inside, he was weak and emotional. Therefore, it was best to simply end the conversation before he said something ridiculous.

  He’d been known to.

  “I have decided to accept your offer of time away,” he said as he turned to Henry. “I shall also tell Anthony, Timothy, and Adrian that they may also take some time for their leisure as well. They have earned it.”

  He was suddenly on his feet, heading for the chamber door. Henry watched him go, rather quickly, he thought.

  “Wait,” he called after him. “Are you going to your father’s home? Can I reach you at Deverill Castle?”

  Trenton put his hand on the door latch, pausing. “I will send you a missive from wherever I decide to go,” he said, not wanting to give him a firm answer because the truth was that he didn’t have one. “You have my thanks, Your Highness. Time away is exactly what I need at the moment.”

  With that, he yanked the door open and passed through, slamming the panel in his wake. He half-expected Henry to come running after him and was mildly surprised when he didn’t. Perhaps, even Henry realized it would be better to let him go, especially in light of the touchy conversation they’d just had.

  With instructions that they were to meet up in three weeks at The Horn and The Crown tavern in the village of Westbury, part of Trenton’s properties, Anthony, Timothy, and Adrian found themselves granted eighteen days of leisure time, nearly unheard of in their profession, but something they gratefully accepted. As they gleefully went on their way, Trenton went on his, collecting his big black steed. The green, rolling hills of Dorset were calling to him.

  He had to see an old friend.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Stretford Castle

  “Pick it up, Cissy! It will not bite you!”

  It was late on a sunny day, warm with a summer breeze, as Lysabel sat in the kitchen yard of Stretford and watched her daughters as they tried to corral the chickens for the night. Her words of encouragement were directed at six-year-old Brencis because was afraid of the chickens. She didn’t want to be pecked. But her elder sister by two years, Cynethryn, didn’t seem to fear the chickens at all. She was grabbing them two at a time to put them back into the coop.

  “Pick them up around the body, Cissy,” Cynethryn said impatiently. “They cannot peck you if you hold them like that.”

  But Brencis wasn’t certain at all. In fact, she watched her mother and sister gather up all of the chickens to put them back in the t
all coop so the predators couldn’t get to them overnight. She felt rather useless, but it was better than being pecked.

  “What else can I help with, Mama?” Brencis was eager to help but reluctant to do half of the things she was told. “Can I bolt the door to the coop?”

  Lysabel stood next to the open coop door, wiping at her forehead with the back of her hand. She looked down at her youngest child, with huge blue eyes and curly blond hair. She looked so much like her grandfather, Lysabel’s father, that it was frightening.

  “Of course you can,” she said. “That is the biggest task of all.”

  Brencis beamed as she shut the door and threw the bolt. “Is that all?” she asked. “What else do we have to do?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart,” she said, putting her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “We may go inside and prepare for the evening meal now.”

  The sun was beginning to set, and the smell of baking bread and roasting meat wafted upon the warm summer air. It had been a beautiful day in a line of beautiful days, because every day for the past thirty-six days had been the best day of Lysabel’s life.

  The only days in the past twelve years where she’d lived without fear.

  Aye, the sky had never looked so blue, nor the grass so green. Cynethryn and Brencis were starting to come out of their shells a little, no longer living in fear of their father and his violence. Cynethryn still screamed at loud noises and Brencis still wept every night as she was put to bed. But for the most part, Lysabel could see the beginnings of healing in her girls. She knew it would take time. But with Benoit gone, they had nothing but time to heal lifelong wounds.

  It was a hope she genuinely thought she’d never have – a hope for healing.

  Crossing the dusty yard as the servants began to prepare for the coming night, their paths were crossed by a running dog and three growing puppies, which immediately lured her daughters like the call of a siren’s song. Brencis captured a puppy with long legs, hugging it, while Cynethryn petted the mother dog. Lysabel continued towards the manse, watching her children with a smile on her face.