The Harlot’s Daughter. Blythe Gifford

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СКАЧАТЬ is rightfully ours.’ She lowered her eyes to hide her anger. Parliament had impeached one of the King’s key advisers last autumn, then given the five Lords of the Council unwelcome oversight of the King. It was an uneasy time to appear at court. She had no friends and could afford no enemies. ‘Please, do not let me detain you. My affairs need not be your concern. You must have many friends to see.’

      ‘I’m not sure that anyone has many friends these days, Lady Solay. You asked about my work. Among my duties is to see that the King wastes no more money on flatterers. If you try to entice him into raiding the Exchequer on your behalf, your affairs will become my concern.’

      The import of his words sank in. She risked angering a man who had power over the very purse strings she needed to loosen.

      ‘I only ask that you deal fairly.’ A vain hope. She had given up on justice years ago.

      She stepped back, wanting to leave, but he touched her sleeve and moved closer, until she had to tip her head back to see his eyes. He was tall and lean and in the flickering torch fire, his brown hair, carelessly falling from a centre parting, glimmered with a hint of gold.

      And above his head hung a kissing bough.

      He looked up and then back at her, his eyes dark. She couldn’t, didn’t want to look away. His scent, cedar and ink, tantalised her.

      Let them look. Make them want, her mother had warned her, but never, never want yourself. Yet this breathless ache—surely this was want.

      He leaned closer, his lips hovering over hers. All she could think of was his burning eyes and the harsh rise and fall of his chest. She closed her eyes and her lips parted.

      ‘Do you think to sway me as your mother swayed a King, Lady Solay?’

      She pushed him away, relieved the corridor was still empty, and forced her lips into a coy smile. ‘You make me forget myself.’

      ‘Or perhaps I help you remember who you really are.’

      Her smile pinched. ‘Or who you think I am.’

      ‘I know who you are. You are an awkward remnant of a great King’s waning years and glory lost because of a deceitful woman.’

      Gall choked her. ‘You blame my mother for the King’s decline, not caring how hard she worked to keep order when he could not tell sun from moon.’

      When he did not know, or care to know, the daughter he had spawned.

      ‘I, Lady Solay, can tell day from night. Your mother’s tricks will not work on me.’

      Then I must try some others, she thought, frantic.

      What others did she know?

      He had made her forget herself. She had been too blunt. Next time, she must use only honeyed words. ‘I would never try to trick you, Lord Justin. You are too wise to be fooled.’

      Muttering a farewell, she turned her back and walked away from this man who lured her into anger she could ill afford.

      

      Shaken, Justin watched her hips sway as she walked, nay, floated away. He had nearly kissed her. He had barely been able to keep his arms at his side.

      He had been taken in once by a woman’s lies. Never again.

      Still, it had taken every ounce of stubborn strength he could muster not to pull her into his arms and plunder her mouth.

      Well, nothing magical in responding to eyes the colour of purple clouds at sunset and breasts round and soft. He would not be a man if he did not feel something.

      ‘There you are.’ Gloucester was at his elbow. ‘What possessed you, Lamont, to whisper secrets to the harlot’s daughter?’

      Gloucester’s harsh words grated, although Justin had thought near the same. ‘Such a little difference, between one side of the blanket and the other,’ he said, turning to look at the Duke. ‘You share a father. You might call her sister.’

      Gloucester scowled. ‘You are ever too outspoken.’

      ‘I’m just not afraid to tell the truth.’ But about this, he was. The truth was that he had no idea what possessed him to nearly take her in his arms and he did not want to dwell on the question. ‘The woman sought to tempt me as her mother did the old King.’

      ‘You looked as if you were about to succumb.’

      ‘I simply warned her that she would not be permitted to play with King Richard’s purse.’

      Gloucester snorted with disgust. ‘My nephew is a sorry excuse for a ruler. The French steal my father’s land and all the boy does is read poetry and wave a little white flag to wipe his nose. As if a sleeve were not good enough.’ Gloucester sighed. ‘Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?’

      Justin brought his mind back to the King’s list. ‘He wants to give the Duke of Hibernia more property.’

      ‘And what of my request?’

      Justin shook his head.

      Gloucester exploded. ‘First he gives the man a Duke’s title that none but a King’s son has ever held. Then he gives him a coat of arms adorned with crowns. Now he gives him land and leaves me at the mercy of the Exchequer? Never!’

      ‘I’ll tell him, your Grace. Right after vespers.’ To Justin had fallen the task of delivering bad news. He was not a man to hide the truth. Even from the King.

      But he suspected that Lady Solay was. Nothing about her rang true, including her convenient birth day. As he and Gloucester returned to the hall, Justin wondered whether one of the old King’s servants might remember something of her.

      If she believed she was going to tap the King’s dwindling purse with honeyed kisses, she would be sorely disappointed.

      He would make sure of that.

      Chapter Two

      In the hour after sunset, Justin strode towards the King’s chamber, dreading this meeting. The King expected an answer on his list of grants. He wasn’t going to like the one he would hear.

      But Justin would deliver it, and quickly. He had another mission to accomplish before the lighting of the Yule Log.

      Entering the solar, Justin saw Richard on his knees, hands clasped. He paused, thinking the King at prayer, but when Richard dropped his pose and waved him in, Justin saw an artist, squinting over his parchment, sketching.

      As Justin forced a shallow bow, the artist left the room, handing his drawings to the King.

      ‘Aren’t these magnificent, Lamont?’ The man had drawn Richard kneeling before a group of angels. ‘The gold of heaven will surround me here and my sainted great-grandfather will stand behind me.’

      Only young Richard would call the man a saint. ‘Your great-grandfather died impaled on a poker for incompetence in government.’ And sixty years ago, most had cheered at his death.

      The СКАЧАТЬ