Lord Of Danger Stuart, Anne (classic fiction .TXT) 📖

brat appearing in six months’ time. You’ll fill her belly once you’re wed and not a moment before, eh?” He put his thick hand on Alys’s stomach, squeezing, and she bit her lip to stifle a cry.

Simon moved then. He had enough sense not to put his hand on Richard—there was a limit to what his liege lord would tolerate, and he was too far gone in wine to be sensible. If it came to a fight Simon would kill him quite easily, but he wasn’t ready for Richard to die.

“My lord,” he said, and Richard wheeled around, forgetting his sister. Alys shrank back, a trembling hand pressing her stomach. “If you wish I can send the wench away.”

“Do that,” Richard said with a wave of his hand. “Can’t stand the silly creatures most of the time. They belong on their backs, you know, with their legs spread. Send the bitch away, and we’ll have a glass of wine and talk about the future.”

Simon had little choice in the matter. The seduction of Alys of Summersedge would have to wait. At the moment she looked both faint and confused, and if the reddening of her mouth had lessened, the reddening of her cheeks was still bright. Time would only be to his advantage. She’d liked that kiss—it was no false pride that told him so. He’d felt the softening in her flesh, the faint yearning that had begun to blossom. Given a few days to think about it, that yearning might come to full flower.

Before he could say a word Alys turned and ran, disappearing from his tower room like a frightened rabbit. She was an interesting mixture of bravery and fear. He had little doubt she’d face a dragon for those she loved. But for her own sake she was more than willing to run away and hide.

Richard, with his usual single-mindedness, walked directly past the damning desk with its page of illuminated manuscript. He poured himself a goblet of wine and tossed it down, ignoring the red trails that dribbled into his beard. “Damn me if you don’t have the best wine in the castle,” he said, belching. “I know that can’t be the truth of it, but every time I drink in your rooms it tastes sweeter.”

“Perhaps it’s the company,” Simon said in a dulcet tone.

Richard blinked at him drunkenly, missing the irony entirely. “As you wish,” he mumbled, waving an airy hand. “So you’re teaching m’little sister about herbs, are you? Knowledge such as that can be dangerous in the hands of the frailer sex.”

It was taking Richard a surprisingly long time to get to the point, but Simon was prepared to be patient. “Dangerous, my lord? How so?”

“Herbs can be wicked things. Dangerous, even deadly. What if a wife takes it into her head to choose a new husband? Couldn’t she administer something deadly in his wine, and no one would ever know?”

“It is always possible.”

“There are such things, aren’t there?” Richard pressed the issue, moving closer. He smelled of sweat, sour wine, and ever so faintly of vomit, none of which odors was unexpected. “Drugs that can be fed a man, or even a child, that would kill him without a trace.”

“Perhaps. Though most physicians and barbers could recognize the signs of poison easily enough.”

“But there are other potions, herbs and the like, that can simply put a man into a deep sleep, are there not? Nothing harmful, unless, of course, one made the mistake of taking too much. I remember hearing of such a matter. Prince Edward of Normandy’s wife was used to dosing herself with various herbs, and one night she simply took too much, and never woke up.”

“There were, of course, rumors that the prince assisted her in making such a fetal error,” Simon said gently.

Richard beamed at him. “Exactly! That can happen, can it not? A perfectly reasonable medical mistake, and the unwanted person is conveniently disposed of.”

“It’s been done since the beginning of time, my lord,” Simon said, lowering himself into the seat by the fire, his right hand hidden in his long robes. “And who is it you would have me kill?”

Richard blinked, momentarily disconcerted. And then he roared with laughter. “That’s my Grendel,” he shouted. “Always ready with a quip. Poison’s not my weapon—I prefer to meet someone on the field of battle. I leave the sneaky stuff to those best suited for it.”

“Such as myself?” Simon murmured.

“You came highly recommended, Simon of Navarre. An expert at exterminating… difficulties.”

Simon allowed himself a small, cold smile. “You still haven’t answered my question, my lord. Exactly what difficulty did you wish exterminated?”

“All in good time, my Grendel. All in good time. There do exist such potions, do there not?”

“Which potions do you mean?”

“Sleep potions,” Richard said irritably. “Elixirs which do no harm in moderation, but might prove dangerous if taken in excess. Herbal concoctions that might only make a strong man drowsy, but could kill a frail boy of twelve.”

The silence was absolute. In the ensuing stillness the only sound was the faint crackle of the fire, and the sound of the wind whistling through the arrow slits.

The king of England, Henry the Third, was a frail boy of twelve. Second cousin to Richard de Lancie, who was several steps removed from the throne. But those steps could be easily surmounted if the throne were rendered empty by a tragic accident, a fatal miscalculation of a herbal potion intended to soothe.

It was no more than Simon had suspected of his amoral liege lord. Murdering a child might be a hideous crime, but murdering a child-king was simply a matter of political expediency.

“It could be done, my lord,” Simon said slowly. “There are rare potions, spells that I learned in the East, that could bring about the desired results.”

“We must be very careful. We cannot allow such things to fall into the wrong hands.”

“My herbs are safe in my rooms,” Simon said. “No one would be able to touch them