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

Navarre stood by the narrow window slit and stared out at the castle. He preferred his rooms in the north tower to all others—from his vantage point he could see the mountains to the east, and the thick, dark woods of Summersedge Forest which stretched for countless miles to the rocky sea coast He could see the rich, fertile valley below and the rustic buildings that comprised the town. And he could see across the rest of the castle, the battlements and windows, the towers.

His betrothed was still awake. Either she or her sister still moved about in the room in the east tower he’d manipulated Lord Richard into giving them. He’d chosen it for that very reason—that he could see it well from across the empty space over the rooftops and the battlements. He could watch her.

He was a wise, distrustful man, and keeping an eye on all those who might do him damage was a habit he’d learned early on. He told himself he had no other interest in keeping watch over Lady Alys. He cared not if she had a lover or two, as long as she was discreet.

Except that now he’d had a taste of her virgin mouth, he found he wanted to be the one to explore the rest of her innocence. He’d never been a man particularly attracted to virgins. They wept, they were almost impossible to pleasure, and they were usually ugly as sin, else they wouldn’t still be virgins by the time he got to them.

But for some reason he didn’t fancy the notion of some other man between her legs, taking her maidenhead, claiming her. He wasn’t a greedy man, having learned early on that most possessions were as easily lost as won, but he found that he had the most uncharacteristic desire to possess Lady Alys of Summersedge.

The soft glow of candlelight lit her deep window, and he thought he could see a woman’s shadow cross in front of it. There was no long ripple of hair, no flounce in the gait of the pacing woman, and he knew it wasn’t the younger one. The silly flirt, the supposedly pretty one.

He’d given Alys something to pace over, something to trouble her mind and her spirit. He wondered if it troubled her body as well. It assuredly troubled his.

There were women he could have, quiet, discreet women who knew how to share pleasure, but somehow he couldn’t summon up any interest in them. It was little wonder he wanted to possess Alys. For some reason she had managed to possess him.

He left the window, moving to stand by his partially completed manuscript. There were no pages describing what Lord Richard had asked for, and he wondered whether he would commit the ultimate, foolish act, and detail the herbal concoction that would kill a king. Complete with glowing colors and careful illustrations. He expected that he would.

He didn’t bother to look down into the courtyard to make certain his workshop was dark. No one dared enter the place—they were convinced that ghosts and creatures of the devil haunted the rooms when he wasn’t there. Of course, they believed that he was, in truth, a creature of the devil, so it made little difference whether he was there or not In daylight or darkness they gave his workshop a wide berth.

Of course he had lied to Richard about the poisonous concoction. It was simple enough to make, and the ingredients were to be found almost anywhere in England. The proper proportions were crucial of course, but it was something he was experienced in using. He’d killed twice using that herbal remedy, with care and forethought The patients had died, peacefully, an old woman with unbearable pain and rotting limbs as her only future, a middle-aged merchant who’d just beaten his second wife to death and wanted to ensure that he slept well before he wed his third victim.

They had died in their sleep, in no pain, though he might have wished that the merchant had suffered a bit more. He could only hope the hereafter, which he wasn’t sure he believed in, would take care of punishing the brutal merchant with suitable severity.

The young king would feel nothing, and it would doubtless be a kinder death than countless others had in store for him. Being a king was a profession filled with danger, and the life expectancy was almost as short as that of a sickly babe. Henry the Third would die sooner or later, probably sooner, probably painfully. In truth, Simon of Navarre would be doing him a service.

His own cynical laugh surprised him. He hadn’t realized quite how far he’d gone, down the spiral of death and evil. He’d never killed a child, either by malice or in battle. It had been the deaths of children, hundreds of them on that cursed crusade, that had sealed his own fate and made him who he was. And yet now he was ready to commit that very crime, to justify it, for his own ends.

Human frailty, his own in particular, always amused him. He sank down in his chair and stared into the fire, clenching and unclenching his hand. He would assemble the ingredients for the lethal sleeping draught. But whether he would actually let Richard the Fair administer it was yet to be determined.

Whether Simon of Navarre had truly lost his soul was still a question better left to those who judge. Brother Jerome would insist that there was salvation. Richard the Fair would bid him dance with the devil.

It was a simple choice. All the power and wealth that Simon had ever desired was within his grasp. The boy wouldn’t make it to manhood anyway, not in these perilous times.

But he wasn’t a man to be rushed into any choice. He would most likely do it, for the simple reason that it would give him exactly what he wanted. Perhaps he’d have Lady Alys do the actual mixing of the concoction.