Prologue

PROLOGUE

November

Year of Our Lord 1521

Deverill Castle, Wiltshire

B eneath a warm blue sky, a great escort of men in crimson and gold charged into the bailey of Deverill Castle. Men with great weapons, astride expensive and powerful horses, all of them riding with determination and focus.

But there was no man more determined or focused than the man in the lead.

Henry Tudor, King of England, had arrived.

A big man with long legs and a crown of auburn hair, Henry dismounted his dappled stallion easily and charged towards the keep of Deverill as if God Himself were waiting for the king within the old walls.

But perhaps it wasn't God, after all.

It was the devil.

In any case, Henry was on the move. He mounted the steps for the keep, shoving open the door and practically knocking the servant of the door on his arse. This was the home of the great and mighty Gaston de Russe, Duke of Warminster, a man known in his lifetime as The Dark One. He was the man who had helped win the throne of England for the Tudor dynasty, and there had been no one fiercer or more frightening on the field of battle, ever. Gaston was a man who could move mountains, tame wild beasts, and fight armies all single-handedly.

At least, that had been the rumor of his youth.

A rumor Henry had always believed.

But he wasn't here to praise the man, nor was this a social call. He'd been summoned by Trenton de Russe, Gaston's eldest son and heir, the Earl of Westbury. Something was terribly amiss with the sons of Gaston de Russe, one son in particular.

Cortland Henry Hubert de Russe.

It didn't matter that the man was named for Henry's father.

Henry was mad enough to kill him.

"Where is he?" he demanded as he burst into Gaston's solar, located near the entry of the keep. "Where is Cort?"

He was met by a room richly furnished in furs and comfortable chairs. A fire snapped in the hearth. There were only two men in the chamber, however, and neither one was Cort de Russe. Henry found himself facing Cort's oldest brother, Trenton, and a very old family friend. Matthew Wellesbourne, Earl of Hereford, set down his cup of wine.

"Your Grace," Matthew greeted calmly. "Welcome to Deverill."

Henry scowled at him. "Why are you here?" he said. "Do you think to ease my anger, Matthew? Because it will not work. I demand you bring Cort to me immediately."

Matthew had been Gaston's friends since the days of their youth. He was an astonishingly excellent warrior, a man who was as legendary as Gaston ever was, but he was also known for his calm manner, diplomatic ways, and benevolence. Exceedingly tall and well-built, with a head of pale blond hair that had mostly gone gray, he faced Henry steadily.

"He is not here," he said. "And I am here for Gaston, not you. If you stop shouting, Trenton will tell you about his brother."

Henry's focus shifted to Trenton. He looked exactly like his father; enormous, dark hair, dark eyes. A more formidable man had never lived.

"Your Grace," Trenton greeted calmly. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

Henry wasn't in any mood for men who didn't seem to appreciate his anger. He ripped off his leather gloves, tossing them onto the nearest table as he made his way to the wine pitcher on Gaston's table.

"Spare me your stalling tactics," he said as he poured himself a sloppy cup of wine. "Where is your brother who has failed me so miserably?"

Trenton's eyebrows lifted. "He failed you miserably?" he repeated. "It seems to me that you failed him when you sent him on this mission to begin with."

Henry's eyes widened. " Me? I failed him?"

Trenton's eyes narrowed. " You ," he said. "None of this would have happened if it had not been for you, so do not blame my brother for your actions."

Henry was so mad that he threw the full cup of wine into the hearth. "You dare accuse me of wrongdoing?"

Matthew, seeing this conversation was not starting well at all, put himself between the two men. "Now that we have the shouting behind us," he said pointedly, "let us speak calmly on this subject. We are speaking of a man's life, after all. Your Grace, Cort is not only your vassal, he is your friend. The two of you grew up together, so he is, in fact, your brother. We can become angry with our brother, but we do not hate him and we do not punish him. Quite the contrary; we love him, so this anger is out of love and concern. We all understand that."

Henry was still eyeing Trenton angrily, but Matthew was right and he knew it. Therefore, he forced himself to calm. He returned to the wine pitcher but there were no longer any cups so he picked up the pitcher and drank from it.

"I have spent two days riding from Winchester to Deverill," he said. "Two days of building up such a rage. You may blame me for what I asked of Cort, Trenton, but you cannot blame me for his actions. He made the decision to marry an Irish rebel himself. I did not tell him to do that."

Trenton started to argue with him but a pleading look from the man he knew as Uncle Matthew stopped him. Making a face at Matthew to let him know he thought the whole situation was infuriating, he took a deep breath and backed down.

"Nay, you did not," Trenton said. "Do you want to hear the story or do you want to continue yelling at me?"

Henry frowned, but he surrendered quickly. "Tell me what happened."

Matthew stepped back, allowing them to look at each other without his bulk between them now that he was certain they weren't going to kill each other.

"I have heard the story," he said. "I am going to sit with Gaston. Trenton, I will trust you to make sure everything remains calm. May I?"

Trenton rolled his eyes but he nodded. "You may."

Matthew nodded, turning to Henry. "And you," he said. "No more screaming?"

Henry plopped into the nearest chair, weary and frustrated. "Not unless I have a good reason."

"If I hear screaming, I will send Lady Warminster down here."

Henry simply held up a hand to indicate he understood, and Matthew turned for the chamber door. He winked at Trenton as he passed the man, quitting the chamber and closing the doors softly behind him. When the room was silent but for the gentle snapping of the fire in the hearth, Trenton turned to Henry.

"I will start from the beginning," he said. "This is the story as it was told to me by several different people, so I had to piece it together. It is accurate."

Henry nodded, the pitcher of wine still in his hand. "Trenton?"

"Aye, Your Grace?"

"I am sorry I yelled at you."

"I know."

"Proceed."

Trenton did.