manage her and whatever demonic connections she had?
But mostly, he thought of his newly born daughter. Rosalind … Thomas suddenly found himself swamped with an almost overwhelming protective urge. Marriage to Margaret, with all the attendant riches gratefully endowed by Raby and Lancaster, would be the most effective way of ensuring Rosalind’s safety.
He didn’t pause to think, safety from what?
Raby and Lancaster watched Thomas with steely eyes. The past twelve hours had presented them with the perfect solution for their “what to do with Margaret”
problem. The past twelve hours and Thomas. If he hadn’t admitted he was the father of Rosalind…
“It is difficult,” Thomas said, with a rueful smile, “to wrap my mind about the concept that one moment I am a friar sworn to poverty and chastity, the next I find myself a rich man with a beautiful wife.” His smile widened slightly. “I think I should sin more often, if this is the result.”
Raby and Lancaster relaxed.
“There is something else we need to discuss,” Thomas said.
Lancaster’s face lost its good humor.
“Bramham Moor friary,” he said. Lancaster shot Thomas a warning glance: I have not told Raby about what you think about Richard.
“Yes. My lord, I am sorry, but the casket has gone. It was taken in December last year… by a ‘fair young lord’ wearing the Lancaster emblem.”
“What?” Lancaster jerked forward. Thomas knew he was utterly surprised—no one could pretend such flushed startlement.
“You don’t know who … ?” Thomas had to ask.
“Nay!” Lancaster’s face had continued to darken, now coloring with anger rather than surprise. “Who would dare pretend to be one of my retainers? A member of my household?”
Lancaster got out of his chair and began to pace back and forth before the fire. “I will have his balls when I find him!” he muttered.
He swung back to Thomas. “So … you have not knowledge of the contents of the casket?”
“No, my lord. But… the casket must still be in England. I feel it!”
“And this man was a lord, you say?”
“He spoke well, and acted with the demeanor of a lord.”
Lancaster shook his head, thinking. “No man can pretend nobility. It must be bred into him. Who can it be? Well, Tom, it is as well that I shall have you at court with me, for you must ferret out this coward who does not dare wear his own arms.” He fixed Thomas with his keen eyes. “I do hope that you shall not be reticent in demonstrating your full loyalty to Richard.”
Thomas knew to what Lancaster referred. He’d failed to furnish “proof” that Richard was the Demon-King, and now Lancaster would make no move against Richard’s coronation. “Not until I know better, my lord.”
Raby was glancing between them, curious. “Tom, what do you mean?”
“I’m sure,” Thomas said, “that my Lord of Lancaster meant I must give my full
loyalty to my king now that I no longer place my loyalty in the pope.”
“Well,” Lancaster said. “I think you must snatch some sleep, Tom. In the morning we will stay to witness your betrothal to Margaret, then we must hasten north.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Terce on the Vigil of the Feast of St. Gregory
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(9 a.m. Friday 11th March 1379)
THOMAS ROSE EARLY, breaking his fast alone in the hall, and chewing his food slowly as he thought over the plans Lancaster and Raby had made for his future.
Shortly, Lancaster and Raby would join him in Margaret’s chamber, to witness his and Margaret’s betrothal, and then all save Margaret and her newborn would depart for the north: Lancaster to escort his daughter to her new home, and ensure that the often rebellious north would not fail in its loyalty to its new king; Raby to settle his new bride in his main castle of Sheriff Hutton, and, presumably, also introduce her to his eleven children from his previous wife; and Thomas to tour the estates that his uncle would deed back to him so he could refresh his memory of their revenues and expenses.
Lancaster would be the first to return south, not wanting to long linger in the north.
Raby and Thomas would follow in mid-April after the Easter celebrations, arriving in London well ahead of Richard’s coronation on May Day. On their way south, they would collect Margaret and she and Thomas would take their final vows in London in a quiet ceremony after Richard’s coronation.
Then Halstow Hall for Margaret and court life for Thomas.
Lancaster was offering Thomas the perfect opportunity to not only discover which lord it was who had stolen de Worde’s casket out from under Thomas’ nose, but to also discover and mark the demons within England’s highest and most influential circles. Thomas could work the archangel’s will much better as a lord than as a humble friar. Doors would open and mouths would loosen for a convivial lord when they would slam shut for a judgmental friar. Understanding would be quicker reached when he stood as one of the decision-makers in the privy chambers of the king rather than hearing of the decisions third- or fourth-hand. The archangel had been wrong in wanting the baby girl to die, for, alive, Rosalind gave Thomas the perfect opportunity to infiltrate the demonic coterie at court.
Thomas did not like to question the archangel… it was just that in the very pit of his being he knew it was better that Rosalind live than she die. Perhaps he had succumbed to the sin of pride, or to too great and willful self-confidence … but whenever he thought of stepping back and allowing the child to die (after he had
allowed Alice and her child, his daughter, to die in the manner that they had.. . ) then such bleakness overcame his soul that Thomas knew he could not allow it. He resolved that he would pray for guidance and for strength… but he was glad he’d done what he had to save Rosalind’s life.
Neither could Thomas pretend to be dismayed at the arrangements that would propel him back into the magnificence of courtly and chivalric ritual. He sat back from the table a little, running his fingers gently over the rich fabric of his tunic and the stiff gold embroidery at its hem and cuffs. Thomas stilled, his gaze lingering over his fingers, wondering if Raby still had the topaz and garnet rings Thomas had surrendered into his uncle’s safe keeping when he’d taken holy orders.
Thomas’ mouth twisted a little ruefully. He would most especially pray for strength to overcome his inordinate gladness at the resumption of a life of material wealth and privilege.
Thomas sighed, and stood up. Lancaster and Raby would be here soon, and Thomas supposed he’d best talk to Margaret, and tell her of those arrangements which most concerned her.
He smiled as he walked—unwittingly in the loose-limbed arrogance of his former noble life—down the corridor toward her chamber. Thomas knew what she was; or at least, he thought he did. Margaret was no ordinary woman. Thomas was more than sure that Margaret had links to the demonic coterie at court, and might well be a demon herself. Whatever, Thomas knew that Margaret was one of the crucial clues in the puzzle that he must solve. Marriage to her would not only keep her close and under strict scrutiny (and was that not what God meant for all women? To be confined within the walls of marriage to repress their natural aptitude for evil?), she would also serve as a lodestone to the demons.
Margaret would be as important to Thomas as any other device he might use.
He frowned, hesitating at her door. He must make sure, however, that the mother’s aptitude for evil and sorcery did not touch the child.
Thomas knocked, then entered.
Maude was standing by the bed, and she dropped Thomas a curtsey.
Thomas nodded to her, then glanced at Margaret. She was awake, her head rolled on the pillow toward him, the blanket-wrapped child clasped in her arms.
“You may leave,” Thomas said to Maude, and the woman gave Margaret a small smile, then left, closing the door gently behind her.
Thomas sat down on the stool by Margaret’s bedside, remaining silent as he studied her. She was still white, and the flesh on her face still sunken, but she had the spark of life in her dark eyes, and her hands did not tremble as she cradled the child closer to her.
Thomas leaned closer and drew back a corner of the blanket that covered Rosalind’s face.
In contrast to her mother’s face, Rosalind’s had filled out a little overnight, and much of the redness and wrinkling had gone. Her breathing was easy and soft… but she was still so tiny, so vulnerable.
“I had her baptized Rosalind,” Thomas said. “We thought she was to die.”