“I thought she looked most uncomfortable in your company last evening,” he continued. “Could it be that she’s proving a difficult conquest?”
Godfrey flushed. It was never pleasant to be the butt of the king’s wit. When the king laughed, others laughed with him. He caught a couple of surreptitious smiles, a few behind-the-hand whispers. Everyone was watching him, waiting for his response.
He gave an unconvincing laugh. “The lady was not feeling too well last evening, Sire. I believe like so many young ladies she is inclined to the megrims. Her mood will be altogether changed when next I see her, I assure you.”
His gaze fell upon Edward Caxton and once again he was troubled by the sense of familiarity. Caxton’s smooth countenance gave him no clues, however. Indeed, if anything, it seemed even more vacuous than usual, as if its owner were absent from the present proceedings.
“A changeable maid, is she?” the king mused, still with that glitter in his eye. “Have a care, Channing. A wife with the megrims can plague a man to death, isn’t that so, Hammond?”
“I’m fortunate not to know, Sire,” the governor said, drawing a laugh from the assembled company. “But Lady Olivia is as rich as she’s beautiful. Compensations, eh, Channing?”
Everyone was laughing now and Godfrey had no choice but to laugh with them. “Wives can be trained,” he said, and was disconcerted when the king threw his head back and roared with laughter as if Godfrey had made the most exquisite jest.
The others joined in and Godfrey was left wondering what on earth was so funny about such a truth.
“No, no, Channing. It’s husbands who are trained,” the king said, wiping his eyes. “You will learn, dear boy.”
Godfrey smiled awkwardly, concealing his fury. To be mocked in this fashion was insupportable.
Behind the bland exterior, Anthony was watching Channing carefully. He understood as did no one else in the king’s presence chamber that the lordling was a bad man to make a fool of. He read the chagrin, followed quickly by fury, in Godfrey’s eyes. He saw the white shade around his thin mouth, the little twitch of a muscle in his cheek, even as with an unconvincing bray he joined in the laughter at his expense.
Anthony had decided he would move against Channing in some secret fashion as soon as he could. He had to be kept away from Olivia certainly, but he was also a wrecker and he had to be stopped. An accident or an abduction would be simple to arrange. They could spirit the man away on a French smuggling vessel. Although such a fate was probably too good for him.
Anthony’s lip curled as he contained his impatience. He had no wish to be here playing the pointless game of fawning courtier. His plans were well laid; the king was ready. His Majesty knew what to do when the time came. They waited only for the new moon. But Anthony knew that if he suddenly ceased his sycophantic attendance on the king, it would be noticed. Those responsible for keeping the king’s person secure were alert to the slightest sign of anything unusual.
So far he had played his part well. He knew he’d been investigated. As part of his cover he rented lodgings from a couple called Yarrow in Newport. He had known them for many years, their son had sailed with him several times, and he knew they would have given nothing away. They certainly wouldn’t tell anyone that their so-called lodger had never yet laid his head on the pillow in the chamber abovestairs. The chamber itself would reveal nothing beyond the obvious possessions of a country squire whose conceit was fed by the illusion of being the king’s confidant. There were plenty like him, fawning upon the king in his imprisonment, ignoring the fact that if His Majesty were at liberty, holding court in his palaces, they would never be admitted within the gates.
The king refused to have the windows opened around him, and the heat in the room was growing intense. A fly droned. Anthony swallowed a yawn. He’d had no sleep the previous night. By the time he’d left Olivia, day was all but broken. He’d just managed to get over the wall before the dogs were released. They had caught his scent and followed it to the wall, where they’d jumped and barked uselessly as Anthony rode off.
He had thought to catch a nap for an hour or two in the morning, but sleep had eluded him. He understood Olivia’s difficulty with divided loyalties, but he didn’t understand the depths of the bitterness that had fueled her attack. She had been accusing him of something else, something more than simply being her father’s opponent. She had said everything about him was so wrong.
It was such a denial of what he had believed they shared. Such an abrupt turnabout from the idyllic day and night they had spent on the beach and at Portsmouth.
Once before, she’d withdrawn from him without explanation, and he still had none, although he’d pushed it to the back of his mind with the resumption of their loving. But this attack he was not going to suffer in silence. There had been no time last night, and he’d been too taken aback, to probe. But he was not going to leave it there.
“I would have music, Hammond,” the king declared with a yawn. “Gentlemen, leave me. I would soothe my soul with music.”
The assembled company bowed and filed from the chamber as the musicians entered. The governor took a seat on the opposite side of the chamber from His Majesty and rubbed his eyes wearily as the three players tuned their instruments.
“Guarding your sovereign is proving somewhat tiring, I see, Hammond,” the king observed with that same slightly malicious glint.
“It is my duty to my sovereign, to the Parliament, and to the kingdom to use the utmost of my endeavors to preserve your person, Sire,” Hammond returned, sitting up straight in his chair.
“But a sadly wearisome duty it is,” the king said, and this time Hammond made no demur.
Godfrey strode down the staircase into the great hall. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It had been hot as hell in the upstairs chamber, and the mockery he’d had to endure had set up a fire in his belly that raged like a furnace.
He left the great hall and bellowed to a soldier to bring his horse to the gatehouse. He was going to visit Lady Olivia. He was going to prove to the laughing court that he was not easily scorned. If the lady was surrounded by her friends, their children, all the vigorous defenses of domesticity, then he would insist on a private interview. He had publicly declared his suit; her explanation for why she wouldn’t entertain it had been no explanation. It was perfectly reasonable for him to ask for more.
He rode fast, goading his horse with spur and whip as he vented his frustration. He rode up to the front door of Lord Granville’s house, dismounted, and ran up the steps. He was about to bang with his whip on the door and controlled himself with some difficulty. He couldn’t afford to give the wrong impression. He was a calm, courteous suitor come to inquire after the lady. He should have brought something. A token of courtship. He glanced around. A rosebush bloomed along the driveway. He could see no one around on this hot afternoon.
Godfrey ran back, hastily plucked three of the finest blooms, and returned to the door. He knocked firmly but without urgency.
Bisset opened the door. He recognized the visitor and bowed. “Good afternoon, Lord Channing. Lady Granville is from home.”
“I had hoped to see Lady Olivia.” Godfrey smiled, glanced meaningfully at his little bouquet.
Bisset had no reason to deny his lordship. He had been received by Lady Granville and must therefore have the marquis’s permission to call.
“Lady Olivia is in the orchard, I believe, sir.” He stepped outside and gestured to the side of the house. “Just beyond the lake, behind the stand of poplars.”
“Thank you. It’s Bisset, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord.” Bisset bowed again.