The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (17 page)

“Nay,” Minh said. He turned to face Jareth, his brow furrowed. “Your clan rides eastward to Torquay. You haven’t arrived as of yet.”

“Oh, I guarantee, I am locked up in the belly of Torre Abbey even as we speak.” Jareth’s hands skimmed to his sides in a relaxed pose. He gestured to the bottle in the middle of the table. “Shall we have port before making war, boys? That is, after all, where this is heading.”

“Boys?” Gabriel scoffed. “You’re the only boy I see.”

Jareth grinned as he pulled a chair and sat adjacent to Gabriel. He gestured for Minh to grab a chair. “It will be a long few days.”

“James of Torquay is an avid naval captain, Jareth,” Minh said as he pulled a chair and sat. “He is responsible for the peace of England’s shores. “And he loves that thing he calls a daughter. Vicious witch.”

“It will be fine,” Jareth assured him. He reached for the apple port and uncorked the bottle. He poured a healthy portion into a glass and slid it to Minh.

“Enlighten us,” Gabriel said. He leaned forward on his forearms and tapped the table with his finger. The sound ricocheted in the quiet room. “Because I saw blood in Dover not an hour ago and it had ‘Vengeance is mine’ splattered everywhere.”

“I shall have my vengeance, there is no doubt.” Jareth passed Gabriel a glass before pouring his own. “But it is obvious to me that you are not truly listening.”

“Call me stupid, but last I heard, James of Torquay was a crazy bastard who single handedly won the crusades—if history be true,” Gabriel said.

“History is most certainly . . .” Jareth raised his glass in salute, “ . . . Interesting.” He sipped the port and placed his glass on the table, tracing the stem with his fingers.

Gabriel picked up his glass with a salute. “I hear a
but
coming.” He drained the port in one gulp and grimaced as he slammed the glass to the table. “I definitely heard a sardonic pause from the bastard Duke.”

“Jareth?” Minh asked hopefully.

“We have Jeremy. History does not know about him, and he is ready.” Jareth raised his glass again and saluted with it. “He is speaking, and that means he can communicate when he dissipates. Our host is ready, boys. Let the war begin. We cannot lose. May God have mercy on Catherine of Torquay, for I shall not.”

Torre Abbey, Torquay, England 1312

SIR JAMES OF
Torquay had rounded up all of the Duke of Dover’s men, save for one who managed to ride off. “Do not hang him,” he ordered to a group of his naval officers. Jareth understood it was an allowance on their part. Someone needed to warn the people of Kent that their duke was not coming home. “Wait a while. We shall see what King George has to say about his appointed duke. Do you think he shall spare his life? The life of a bastard?”

Laughter rang.

Jareth spit at the ground from where he lay at James’ feet. It was more blood than spittle, and splattered the soft half boots he wore. James used that same booted foot to kick Jareth in the mouth.

“You disgusting piece of dung! It was a privilege for me to offer my daughter’s hand in marriage. I did it for the alliance, not because I believed you worthy. Filthy bastard.”

Jareth wiped his mouth on his shoulder. His hands were tied, as were his feet. He was strung up like a Christmas goose. “You do love that word,” Jareth said in modern English. The crowd hushed. Everyone glanced around with narrowed brow, wondering if anyone understood what the prisoner was saying. Jareth licked his teeth to clear the blood from them and spit again, but had no particular aim this time. He spoke next in Latin. “Catherine never held my affection. They lie with another.”

James’ top lip curled in disdain and he kicked Jareth in the mouth again. “I can do this all day, Sir Jareth.” He uttered the title mockingly. “Make a mess of your pretty face, so not even your beloved will desire you.” His face puckered and he delivered another blow, but it landed on the side of his face as Jareth quickly turned away. “How dare you speak of another when my daughter—my
daughter
—is the most coveted of the land.”

Jareth’s head throbbed, his mouth was full of blood, and he figured about three of his ribs were cracked. It was amazing that he kept all of his teeth through the ordeal, but the day was young. He passed his tongue along his teeth, counted them and checked for breakage. Vain bastard, he was; Elizabet would laugh if she heard of this. Percival fought wildly against his ties, but Jareth made eye contact with him and shook his head. The effort sent a piercing pain through his temple.

James took the gleeful opportunity to kick Jareth again, this time not stopping until he rendered the sorry duke unconscious. Percival reared up until he stood, hunched over, and plowed into the stomach of the nearest man. James’ men rang with laughter as he fell to the ground in a heap at the feet of the man he tried to take down.

“Pick him up,” James barked, and kicked Jareth in his left kidney. There was no movement. “Cage him and his men.” He gestured to Percival. “See this one beaten before we hang him from the shackles in the Abbey’s rear.”

Sir James’ current home was Torre Abbey. Although it was a working monastery, he had no qualms about housing his family in the best living quarters. He was merely waiting for his title and castle. Like Jareth, he had been a young squire of the Black Prince. He never understood why Jareth was given a title and he had not.

It wasn’t as if a bastard deserved a title and lands, but a rumor circulated that Jareth was a bastard of the king. Suddenly, Sir James determined that Jareth was the marrying type—and his daughter would make a perfect bride. It was too bad the duke was infatuated with seeing the Church disputed, or that was what he believed at first. He had no idea Jareth had a sweetheart.

How could Jareth’s manhood be as important as translating scripture text for a house arrested scholar in Oxford? Catherine had merely acted out—a woman scorned and all that. The girl would go mad when she discovered she was not only fighting the Church, but a lover too. She wanted to marry a duke, and Jareth was that duke. Fair maidens all across England had dreams of the Bastard Duke and his handsome face. His daughter was no different except that he had the means to see her dreams come true.

Jareth deserved what he was getting. It had been easy to capture him when he was so selfless where his men were concerned. Jareth Tremaine would never leave his men to a fate he was not willing to travel first. The trap had been foolproof. Kill a few of his people and he would come. And here he was, but what to do with him? The stubborn duke was still refusing to wed his daughter and that was something he
must
do. Catherine would have her way or his entire family would not hear the end of it. He had a headache just thinking about it.

Sir James noted that Samuel, his chief man of the waters, did not aid in the removal of men, but instead waited until they were alone. As Samuel approached, James observed the agitation the day had brought forth. Samuel slowed and talked as one speaking with someone who held a knife to his throat. “Sir James, I would have a word.” James inclined his head for him to go on. “The Black Prince is nigh. We can have word to him by nightfall and his answer by daybreak as to the king’s wishes.”

James was surprised. “Edward? Near our shores?”

Samuel nodded. “Aye.”

James looked heavenward and thanked the fates for his luck. He was not a religious man, but he did believe in signs. “Grab that squire Jareth esteems. Do not merely beat him, but break his legs, as well, and then tether him to his horse and dispatch him to the prince. Let’s see what happens then, shall we?”

Percival meets with England’s gallant prince, England 1312

“’TIS A MATTER
of the Church,” Edward, the Black Prince, said with a wave of his hand.

Percival wished his legs worked so he could ride out and save Jareth. It would seem the royal family had no inclination to step forward. With all the babbling about the will of the Church and broken betrothals, Jareth was in a bad way—unless he produced a bride in a day’s time and denounced all of his dealings with John Wycliffe. Both of which were highly unlikely. Catherine had dragged the Church into things—unfortunate, that. Things could get bloody quickly. She had notified the Archbishop of Canterbury of Jareth’s dealings with Wycliffe.

The Black Prince would capitalize on Jareth’s predicament to be rid of a more pressing problem than Catherine of Torquay. The Church was demanding Jareth’s head on a platter or his translation pen—either would do, but with his knowledge of the Church, Percival rather guessed they preferred his head. Edward had washed his hands of the matter once the Church was involved. He would rather deal with heathens than puffed up archbishops and priests.

Harrow set the bones and wrapped casts around each of Percival’s legs. The trip to see the Black Prince had ended with only words and no care. If it had not been for one of Dover’s men traveling with the prince for protection; Percival might have ended up dead on the side of the roadway.

“You are lucky I was in the neighborhood,” Dr. Harrow said as he put the final touches on cast number two. He tipped his chin to see above the bifocals he wore.

“Aye,” Percival said, and then lowered his voice. “Nay. I do not believe in luck.”

“Spoken like a minion of Jareth,” Harrow said. “Does he have a plan?”

“Nay.”

“He’s just gonna wing it? Be left with his pants down?”

Percival’s face scrunched up. “His grace has britches, sir!”

“Why does that saying gets you fellas all crazy?” Harrow asked with a grin. He looked through the bifocals of his lenses as he wrapped the final piece of plaster. “This will be ghastly to explain to the serfs, Percival. Good luck with that.” He offered a smile. “While you explain this monstrosity of artwork you are wearing; I will see to fetching his grace a wife. What do you say to that?”

Gueydan, Louisiana. Present day.

GABRIEL CAREFULLY ROLLED
the cigarette between his fingers. He had quit smoking a month ago, but the ritual of it soothed him. He hated feeling like a stalker. Watching for the duchess to emerge from the hardware store she had just entered—with someone who had to be young Jeremy and a girl his age—was very . . .
stalkerish
. Plus, he did not like small towns like Gueydan. His people had been clannish and it reminded him of betrayal. Which was why he stalked and rolled a cigarette between his fingers to help him forget.

A stout lady trundled past the bench on which he sat and smiled as she passed. It was the sort of smile that resembled sweetness, but was a cover for fear. Gabriel glanced down at his attire. Perhaps not the best for this task, but it was conducive to traveling. Leather seldom complained. Jareth hated leather—unless it was in the form of gambeson. He and Minh wore leather simply to irritate Jareth.

The bell on the door chimed as the trio exited the store. Jeremy carried a paper sack. Elizabet looked up and down the walkway as she fumbled for her keys in her front pocket. She was watchful—alert.

There was no sense beating around the bush. Harrow had found him and explained they needed to find Jareth a wife. He agreed and here he was. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

Elizabet’s head jerked his way. Her eyes widened with recognition, then narrowed to snake-like slits.

“That’s adorable, duchess.” He laughed. It was rather loud because she was still a few feet away, although her short legs were moving fast and the distance was closing. “You always say first impressions matter. You could try to look happy to see me.”

“This isn’t our first meeting,” she declared through clenched teeth. She glanced behind her as the two kids caught up. “Beau, take the keys. I won’t be long.” She smiled to soothe them as they looked suspiciously at Gabriel. Elizabet’s hands trembled as she communicated to them with her eyes. Her expression promised she would handle this stranger and keep them safe.

Gabriel watched the exchange. He smiled and waved; the young girl scowled. He would recognize that fierce look anywhere.

“That’s Beau?” he asked once the children were walking away. The girl in question glanced back before she picked up her speed and grabbed Jeremy by the arm. Gabriel tipped his head back and lifted his sunglasses to rest on his brow. Beau broke into jog. That made him laugh. “She’s cute,” he said. “All young and . . . little.”

“She’s none of your concern.”

“She will be. Everyone involved in the Amalgam is my concern.” His eyes briefly—very briefly—traveled down the length of the duchess. He valued his life. One never knew when Jareth would pop up and thrash someone for insubordination. “You . . . you are small too. Have you been dieting?”

Her face flushed. “I’m short. Tell me something I don’t know, such as why you’re here?”

“You are a bit stout when I come from,” he said. Without touching her, he used his hands to measure the girth of her hips and expanded them. He shrugged. “Probably from all those babies you have.”

Elizabet’s mouth opened. And then shut it audibly.

Gabriel smiled. “Did you just growl at me?”

“Look,” she said, her face the same red color as her shirt. “You are drawing a suspicious crowd. They probably think you’re a bounty hunter from reality TV.” Her hair hung from the back of her head, much as a horse’s tail. It bobbed as she passed his attire a disgusted glance downward. “I understand I’ll be contacted from time to time, but we need to set boundaries. Why didn’t Jareth come himself? It’s been over four days—”

“Don’t get your pants in a knot, duchess—”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Jareth needs you.” He pressed his fingers to his chest. “
I
need you. You must come with me or Jareth will either be married or dead by nightfall.”

“Married or dead?” She looked confused and more than slightly hysterical now. Her arms straightened at her sides; her hands balled into fists. “That’s a broad spectrum, isn’t it? Is that why he didn’t show up on Sunday?”

“Uh huh,” Gabriel affirmed. “He’s being held without ransom for breaking a betrothal. If the King of England doesn’t speak on his behalf by two nightfalls, they will either kill him or force him to keep his promise and marry.”