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its mouth found nothing in the open hand. “One last one, then no more. Your friend here will get jealous, and I can’t show any favouritism. That would not be fair, would it? I must treat all my guests alike,” Catherine said, giving the horse an extra large handful.

“Assingham must be a tiresome place, Lady, if you find you have to resort to conversations with horses, and my horse at that.”

Catherine spun around to face the speaker. The voice, lazy and arrogant, was unmistakably that of Edward’s cousin, Richard. Catherine hurriedly brushed the stray strands of grass from her skirts, trying to regain her composure. Please let him not have heard all of that. The man must think me such easy prey.

“Why, Richard, good morning. I had not expected to see you at Assingham.” Catherine fought to keep her voice level.

“My horse is being stabled here for the time being, so I wanted to reassure myself he was suitably housed.” To her horror, Richard walked towards her down the narrow passage in front of the horses, blocking her exit.

Recognising his master, Corracha moved back to where he had stood earlier, his head now between Richard and Catherine, nuzzling affectionately at Richard’s hand.

“Well as you can see, perhaps this is not what he is used to, but I am sure he will be comfortable. If you would excuse me I have other things to attend do,” Catherine replied briskly.

“Of course,” Richard said absently. Rather than retreating down the passage to allow her out, he merely stepped to one side, leaving her no choice but to squeeze past. Skirts in hand, Catherine hurriedly closed the gap between them, turning slightly sideways to move away and make good her escape.

Richard caught her arm by the elbow, trapping her between him and the stable wall behind her.

“Please, Sir…” Her voice was high, holding the shake of nerves, but still, he held her elbow fast against her tugs. She felt his breath on her face he was so close. Suddenly, smiling broadly, he released her arm and turned away, leaving Catherine staring at his back. Red-faced, composure shattered, Catherine fled the stables in a flurry of skirts. She had met him three times and he had reduced her to tears on two of them.

Catherine avoided the courtyard, having no wish for another encounter with Edward’s cousin. The mere thought of him still made her anger rise, and the ever-present possibility of an unexpected meeting anywhere around Assingham made her nervous. Twice, whilst embroidering that evening, she had looked up, sure someone was watching her. The meeting that afternoon had more of an effect on her than she was prepared to admit.

 

†

 

It had been a difficult decision. Harry had wanted the snivelling piece of filth under his foot, a bleeding pile at his feet, but luck, it seemed, had saved him. Byrne was a name Harry had heard but, until now, he had never noted it. He knew that Byrne, like himself, was among the Duke’s supporters. And it seemed that Richard Fitzwarren and his men were the support Byrne hoped to offer. Harry, similarly placed by his own ambition, could not act. He needed his men near. Edward was ill. The country held its breath, knowing the king’s death could be upon them very soon.

The alternative was to wait, but Harry feared that Richard would disappear from Byrne’s side, or worse, he could perish in the fighting before Harry’s knife could be applied to him. Thus torn, he had decided to reap what immediate benefit he could from the information he had, and this decision brought him to the current conversation.

Invited by an urgent message, Robert Fitzwarren sat perched on a table edge while Harry poured him wine. Retrieving his own glass, Harry seated himself, though not too closely, to the other man.

“Well, Harry,” Robert raised the crusted cup and drained half its contents. “What’s so secret a tale as makes you dismiss your servants?”

“I have news,” Harry said slowly, “much to your liking I would think.”

“Don’t tell me that doxy, Annie, has a sister?” Robert was bored and it showed in both his manner and his voice.

Harry was annoyed. He had wanted to show Robert how clever he had been in tracking down Richard, but instead he blurted, “Your brother is back.”

“That had better not be spoken lightly,” Robert said menacingly.

Harry sensibly heeded the warning edge and avoided prevarication. “He is employed by Lord Byrne and resides at Hazeldene.” Harry gave Robert all the scant facts he had and then waited. Robert, hands clasped white-knuckled behind him, gazed from the open window at the pin-pricked night of London.

His words Harry did not hear.

“This time, Richard. This time…”

 

†

 

A nail-bitten hand turned the letter over again. Within the elaborate sentences was Northumberland’s decision to keep Edward’s imminent death a secret, and details of his supporters who were gathering forces to help the Duke hold the city. These she knew to be true. Edward still lived, teetering on the brink, but as yet he had not breathed his last. Mary lifted the page and, before she sent the sheet spiralling to the eager lick of the flames, observed the penned name once more: Richard Fitzwarren.

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

†

 

Jack took the offered card, storing it tightly behind the other three he held; a thumb and forefinger slid the edge to peek at him from the back of the hand. With great effort, he prevented himself from scowling at the three of clubs. His other cards were two lousy fives and an errant knave. Was he prepared to lay more on a pair of fives? Looking up, Jack hoped to read his opponent’s face, but instead he found a pair of grey eyes already watching him intently.

“Well?” Richard enquired.

Jack sighed. Releasing his grip on the cards, he let them tumble from his fingers. “It’s yours.”

Richard collected the discarded suits, placing them with the rest of the deck, and added to the pack the few cards he had held.

“Hey now, no!” Jack exclaimed. “It’s only sporting to let me see what I lost against.”

Richard smiled. “I think not.”

“The game is up. There is nothing left to win,” Jack protested.

“There is always something to win; there are always stakes left to play for.” Richard expertly split the deck in two and reunited the parts.

Richard moved to re-deal but Jack motioned to stop him. “Would you have me in penury?”

Richard stopped and shuffled the deck instead.

“What’s our move? Do you know yet?” Jack enquired, wondering if Richard would share his knowledge.

“We wait.” Richard idly started to sort the cards back into their houses.

“I begin to wonder if this is folly,” Jack muttered as he reached for the jug.

“I don’t see why that should bother you as we shall be paid either way, folly or not.” Richard was placing aces on top of the kings. “Another game?”

The game ended when Jack laughed bitterly at his misfortunes, casting the cards towards the victor in defeat. “I should have known better than to be further tempted. You are begotten of the devil…”

“We are our father’s sons,” was all Richard said flatly.

“Well, that’s true enough,” Jack accepted. And then, “What’s he like… Our father?”

“Arrogant, selfish, cruel, miserly are only a few of the words that come to mind… There is much of him in Robert,” Richard supplied.

“I often wondered what would happen if I turned up at his door. There’s always a possibility he might not turn me out on my ear. After all, he placed me in his brother’s household; a lot do worse than that, you know,” Jack sounded thoughtful.

“If I was in your place I could see how tempting it would be,” Richard observed. But William Fitzwarren is not a kind man and blood ties, as I know to my cost, don’t mean a lot to him.”

It was not the reply Jack had wanted. “It might not be like that.”

“Jack! Once, I turned back up at his door, cap in hand, and the man left me for dead! My own father! He had not an ounce of pity in his soul as he laid the lash on me.” Richard replied, his voice level, his tone patient.

“Jesus! It was your own father who put those marks on your back!” Jack blurted, letting Richard know his secret was no more.

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Dan told me I had had a midnight visitor. Nothing is bloody sacred. Anyway, that is my…our father’s handiwork.”

“Surely there must have been some reason for him to do that! You don’t set at someone like that without good cause,” Jack protested.

“There was, and brother, you are not going to find out tonight what it was, so don’t bother asking. But the crux of the matter is that you can expect nothing less if you cross his path, please believe me on that,” Richard spoke earnestly. “Being tied to the Fitzwarren clan is no way forward for us; the way forward for us is money.”

“And, as you can see, a surplus of gold coming out of my arse is one of my constant worries,” Jack replied sarcastically.

The reply, when it came, was five neatly dealt cards landing atop of each other. Reluctantly Jack took them into his keeping, meeting Richard’s mild enquiring eyes over the top of three knaves, and two smiling queens.

“Have my name, and all the curses it so rightly deserves, if you can win it.” In Richard’s hand was not a coin but a ring. Gold and black-crested, it was stamped with seeded rubies and emeralds. In the centre of the shield was a sun, represented by a cold diamond.

Jack smiled, his eyes sparkling with more warmth than the crushed coal. “I have, by your own hand, three knaves.” With precision, he laid them face up. “And two pretty queens.” He set them separate from the laughing trio. “I think the test for us both would be to see what you hold.”

“Nothing,” Richard laughed, loosing his hands he let tumble a poor array of unmatched low-numbered cards, not a painted face among them. “You look disappointed?” Jack indeed did. “You expected aces? I have none. This time you hold all the cards. It’s a game of chance, Jack.”

Richard had the final word. He rose from the table, leaving Jack alone with the disarray of cards and the sparkling monogram of power.

 

†

 

Catherine sat staring from the open shutters in her room as the day outside drew to an end. The trees in the foreground found themselves still painted by a dipping sun while those more distant had cloaked their branches already with evening shades.

A rider emerged, breaking the neat undisturbed edge where trees met meadow, and urged his horse on to a gallop, heading towards Assingham. He was too distant for her to make out the rider’s features. A messenger from her father, she thought, but then, no, it was only recently that they had received a letter from that quarter. Perhaps it was something from Judith, her neighbour at Hazeldene, but Judith’s home lay not in the direction he came from.

Puzzled, Catherine watched as the rider disappeared from the view afforded by her window. By now he should be in the courtyard. No one came. Leaning out of the window she saw