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eagle, an ancient Byzantine symbol for empire. To Richard though, the eagle’s heads looking away from each other were a clear signifier of duplicity, it had been a device used by Seymour and reviving it leant credibility to his communications.

Many who saw it would remember Seymour, and even though that man had fallen from grace, his network had been so far reaching and so thoroughly entwined throughout the court that there was little he did not know about. Very few had ever really known who had coordinated Seymour’s network. Richard knew it had been Thomas Archant, dead now, and not likely to be sending messages anytime soon, and it was Archant’s role he took and emulated.

There was a light tap at the door.

Richard quickly stowed the sealed letter inside his doublet, pressing himself up from the desk as the knock came again, this time slightly louder and even more rapidly made.

Opening the door he was forced to take a rapid step backward as Judith stumbled into the room, one hand holding a lit candle. She was wearing a bed robe that fell to the floor, her hair, normally tightly bound and coifed, coiled over her shoulders in long wavy locks.

Richard’s eyes took in the situation in an instant and he forced himself to bury the comment that would have been his first choice.

“Judith, what a surprise? Is something wrong? Can I help?” Richard said, managing to put the sound of real concern in his voice.

“The door, please, you must close the door,” Judith said quickly.

Reaching past her Richard pressed it closed, and as he did the girl dropped the candle holder onto the top of a coffer and flung her arms around his neck. Her head against his chest, she missed the expression of pure annoyance that settled on his face. Dealing with a moonstruck girl was not part of his plans.

“I knew you’d feel the same as I do.” Judith wrapped her arms tighter around him.

Resisting the urge to press her from him Richard instead returned her embrace. “My love, how could I not have fallen for your beauty and your charm. How cruel is Fate to have married you to my cousin.”

“I know, I know.” Judith tipped her head back and shifted one of her arms until it was round his neck, clearly intent upon kissing him.

Richard lowered his head, he was close enough to feel her breath on his face when he stopped. In a sudden movement he planted a finger firmly across her lips. “Shhhh, not a sound,” he whispered, “there’s someone outside the door.”

Judith’s eyes widened in horror.

Richard pulled her arms from around him and pushed her to the other side of the door. “Wait here.” A moment later he had disappeared into the corridor outside leaving Judith alone in his room. Richard walked up the corridor half a dozen paces, his footsteps overly noisy, and then returned to the room letting himself back in quickly.

“It’s Jane, your maid looking for you,” Richard said, his voice sounding worried, “she’s gone down to the kitchen, if you are quick you’ll be able to get back to your rooms before she returns. My love, another night will be ours.” He pulled her close, bestowed a kiss on her forehead, and before she could say another word he had retuned the candle holder to her and propelled her back into the corridor.

 

†

 

Jack resided at Hazeldene following a subdued routine for four weeks before he was admitted once more to the company of his brother. He knew from Dan that Richard had recovered from the wound he had received in London.

Jack drove his fork, without much enthusiasm or vigour, into the hay, lifted the fodder shoulder high and dropped it into the cart where it was raked into some order by Marc. Shaking the fork free from the twisted grass stems, he found Richard walking towards him across the yard. Immaculately dressed as usual, he was in stark contrast to Jack who sported soiled knees and a crown of hay sprigs.

Richard leant against the partly loaded cart and watched as Jack stabbed another forkful of hay to death before loading it into the cart. More twisted stems of summer grass fell from the bundle and snared themselves in Jack’s fair hair.

“You do know you look more like a scarecrow,” Richard sounded amused.

Jack angrily brushed the hay from his hair and glowered at Richard.

Marc was one of Richard’s men and his eyes brightened with the prospect of the coming conversation. It was well known that the Master treated his bastard sibling with little more than contempt, and Jack had no doubt there would be a good audience for any argument.

“I have a mind to ride to the village. Dan presses me to take you with me,” Richard said casually.

“Why?” Jack asked, embedding the fork deep in the hay.

“Is that, ‘Why am I going to the village?’ Or ‘Why should I take you with me?’” Richard asked.

“Either would be a start,” Jack grunted.

“Why I want to go out is my business. Why you’re going is because Dan feels it would be good for your soul,” Richard replied.

Richard delivered instructions to ready two horses, and then he turned away, leaving Jack watching his retreating back.

“Well, you’ll be having a nice afternoon.” Marc chuckled, receiving a withering look from Jack.

A thin line white clouds were rolling over the hills behind Hazeldene, breaking over them like a slow and silent wave. Behind the white lay a darkened sky and the air, stirred by the wind, held the scent of rain.

The horses were ready, standing side by side: groomed, saddled, eager for some exercise, their ears twitching and eyes darting with equine curiosity. Jack was inspecting some frayed stitching in the loop of the harness on Richard’s horse when his brother arrived. The Arab, named Corracha for his fiery spirit, tugged against Jack’s hold.

“Such attention to detail! I didn’t think you would take to your role so well.”

His brother’s words, spoken so close, so quietly, almost made him jump. Suppressing the reaction, Jack took a long slow breath, giving himself time to bury the angry reply which threatened to burst forth. Re-buckling the strap with care before untying Richard’s horse, he turned and handed the reins to his brother, knuckles white on the leather.

Richard took the offered horse and led it clip-clopping over the cobbles to the middle of the courtyard before he mounted. “Are you coming then?” Richard called down as he moved Corracha expertly sideways, crossing the gap between them. Then turning to the gateway, shortening the reins, he set him towards the opening.

“Damn!” Jack’s horse was still tethered. Dragging the reins free, he vaulted into the saddle. The slender neck twisted to face the gate and follow the direction Richard had gone. Before his feet were secured in the stirrups he had forced the mare to a brutal gallop.

Jack caught up only when Richard slowed the pace, a mile or so distant from Hazeldene. He pulled his horse to a jolting halt next to Richard’s. Corracha had enjoyed the scant exercise. He wanted more, throwing his head up, threatening to snap the reins from his rider’s hands. The short journey had taken its toll on Richard; sweat beaded on his forehead and lank strands of raven hair clung wetly to one cheek. In the four weeks he had been at Hazeldene, Richard had given his body as much chance to recover as possible and had ridden little.

“Well, despite Dan’s fears I haven’t fallen off yet,” Richard said breathing heavily.

“Only by bloody luck,” Jack countered.

“Oh, you think so?” Richard said, setting his heels to the horse again.

This time though, Jack was in the lead, his horse pounding over the soft earth, clods flying from her hooves as her legs moved easily beneath her in agile flight. Feeling the first break in her stride, Jack finally slowed, lessening her pace gradually until she bore him at an ambling walk.

A snort from velvet nostrils behind him met his ears. His brother must have caught up to him, His horse, Ebony, set a pheasant from its concealed retreat in the dried grass and thicket of the previous summer. She raised her head at the sudden squawking explosion. A loud neigh and sudden stamping of hooves came from the nervy and considerably more highly-strung Arab behind him.

Looking round at the horse’s exclamation, he found Corracha without his rider. A glance behind told him that Richard had taken no immediate fall. The Arab must have followed his own animal after its rider had departed from the saddle. Jack moved with practiced calm and caught the reins of the spooked horse, then began to retrace his journey.

Glancing back up the gentle slope he had descended, he quickly found what he sought. An untidy black heap some way distant on the grassy hill could be nothing else but his brother. Tightening his grip on the Arab’s reins and forcing his own tired horse back to a gallop, Jack made his way to the tangle of cloth that was now propped up on one good elbow, looking up at him. Jack supposed the delay in his arrival had allowed Richard to recover from the pain of his fall.

“Hello, nursemaid,” Richard called up cheerfully, his nonchalance feigned.

Jack remained on his horse. “Would you like a hand up?”

“No, I think I would prefer to remain here a while if that’s all right. The pretence will be that this spot provides a most excellent view. The reality is that I think I’ve broken my arm.” Richard’s words drew Jack’s eyes to the arm laying behind his back, the palm of the hand facing in entirely the wrong direction.

Jack dropped from the saddle, looping the Arab’s reins over the pommel of his own horse, relying on Ebony’s obedience to keep them on the hillside. Crouching down in front of Richard, Jack found he couldn't view the extent of the injury. In the fall, the cloak had wrapped around him and Richard now lay on the edges, his body trapped within the folds.

“You want me to help?” Jack said, rocking back on his haunches.

“Looks like I have little choice,” Richard said, a weak smile on his strained face.

Jack took hold of the front of Richard’s doublet and shirt, lifting him far enough to pull the tangled folds of the cloak free. Richard’s head was near his ear and he heard the pained gasp as he extracted the cloth. Instead of laying him back, he held him there, half sitting, propped against his own body.

“Well, it is both good and bad,” Jack said, giving his brother time to recover from the recent pain.

“Go on,” Richard said weakly, his breath still ragged.

“It’s not broken, which is good,” Jack said, running his hands over the unresponsive limb. “But the bad news is…”

Richard screamed, even though Jack attempted to make the replacement of the shoulder swift and clean, giving Richard no time to protest or struggle in apprehension. The shoulder back in place, Jack waited, supporting the lighter form of his brother against his right shoulder. Richard’s breathing was harsh and painfully uneven. After a time he tried to push himself away, but the strength he needed had drained from his remaining good arm, and he slumped back, his face again pressed to Jack’s shoulder. Jack smiled, knowing his brother was not enjoying his moment of helplessness. Levering him forward he sat