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That outrageous piece of treason made Henry throw back his head and roar with laughter. "My friend, you've always known I deem marriage an excellent compromise. Did we not sit up late one night by a campfire at Bosworth Field, just the two of us? If you think back on the occasion, you'll recollect I told you then I'd offer my own sister to James if I thought 'twould bring peace."
"You don't have a sister," Royce pointed out shortly.
"Nay, but I have you instead," he quietly replied. It was the highest of royal compliments, and even Royce was not proof against it. With an irritated sigh, he put his chalice down and absently raked his right hand through the side of his hair.
"Truces and tournaments—that's the way to peace," Henry added, well pleased with himself. "Truces for restraint and tournaments to work off hostilities. I've invited James to send anyone he likes to the tournament near Claymore later in the fall. We'll let the clans fight us on the field of honor—harmless. Quite enjoyable, actually," he announced, reversing his earlier opinion on the subject. "Naturally, you needn't participate."
When Henry fell silent, Royce said, "Have you more to say to me, Sire, or may I beg your leave to retire?"
"Certainly," Henry replied good-naturedly. "Come to see me in the morn, and we'll talk more. Don't be too hard on your brother—he volunteered to marry the sister in order to spare you. Seemed not at all reluctant to do it, in fact. Unfortunately, that won't do. Oh, and Claymore, you needn't worry about telling Lady Hammel of your broken betrothal. I've done that already. Poor lovely thing—she was quite overset. I've sent her off to the country in hopes the change of scene will help restore her spirits."
The knowledge that Henry had proceeded with the betrothal, and that Mary had undoubtedly been subjected to tremendous humiliation as a result of Royce's notorious behavior with Jennifer, was the last piece of ill news he could tolerate in one night. With a brief bow, he turned on his heel and the footmen opened the doors. A few steps away, however, Henry called his name.
Wondering what impossible demand he was about to make now, Royce reluctantly turned to face him.
"Your future bride is a countess," Henry said, an odd smile lingering at his lips. "It is a title inherited by her through her mother—a title far older than your own, by the by. Did you know that?"
"If she were queen of Scotland," Royce replied bluntly, "I wouldn't want her. Therefore, her present title is scarcely an inducement."
"I quite agree. In fact, I regard it as a likely hindrance to marital harmony." When Royce merely looked at him, Henry explained with a widening smile, "Inasmuch as the young countess has already duped my most fierce and brilliant warrior, I think 'twould be a tactical mistake to have her outrank him as well. Therefore, Royce Westmoreland, I hereby confer upon you the title of duke…"
When Royce emerged from the throne room, the antechamber was filled with staring nobles, all of them visibly eager to have a look at him and thus assess how his interview with the king had gone. The answer came from a footman who rushed out of the throne room and loudly said, "Your grace?"
Royce turned to hear that King Henry bade him convey his personal regards to his future wife, but the nobles in the antechamber heard only two things: "your grace," which meant that Royce Westmoreland was now a duke, the holder of the most exalted title in the land, and that he was evidently about to be married. It was, Royce realized grimly, Henry's way of announcing both events to those in the antechamber.
Lady Amelia Wildale and her husband were the first to recover from the shock. "So," said Lord Wildale, bowing to Royce, " 'twould appear congratulations are in order."
"I disagree," Royce snapped.
"Who is the lucky lady?" Lord Avery called good-naturedly. "Obviously, it is not Lady Hammel."
Royce stiffened and slowly turned while tension and expectation crackled in the air, but before he could reply, Henry's voice boomed from the doorway: "Lady Jennifer Merrick."
The stunned silence that followed was broken first by a loud laugh that was abruptly stifled, and then giggles, and then a deafening babble of denials and amazed exclamations.
"Jennifer Merrick?" Lady Elizabeth repeated, looking at Royce, her sultry eyes silently reminding Royce of the intimacies they had once shared. "Not the beautiful one? The plain one then?"
His mind bent only on getting out of there, Royce nodded distantly and started to turn.
"She's quite old, isn't she?" Lady Elizabeth persisted.
"Not too old to snatch up her skirts and run away from the Black Wolf," Graverley put in smoothly, strolling out from the midst of the crowd. "No doubt you'll have to beat her into submission, won't you? A little torture, a little pain, and then mayhaps she'll stay in your bed?"
Royce's hands clenched against the urge to strangle the bastard.
Someone laughed to diffuse the tension and joked, "It's England against Scotland, Claymore, except the battles will take place in the bedchamber. My purse is on you."
"Mine, too," someone else called.
"Mine is on the woman," Graverley proclaimed.
Further back in the crowd an elderly gentleman cupped his hand to his ear and called to a friend who was closer to the duke, "Eh? What's all this about? What's happened to Claymore?"
"He has to marry the Merrick slut," his friend replied, raising his voice to be heard over the
increasing hubbub.
"What did he say?" called a lady far back in the crowd, craning her neck.
"Claymore has to marry the Merrick slut!" the elderly gentleman obligingly called out.
In the uproar that followed, only two nobles in the antechamber remained still and silent—Lord MacLeash and Lord Dugal, the emissaries from King James, who were waiting for the signed marriage agreement which they were to take to Scotland tonight.
Within two hours, word had passed from noble to servant to guards outside, and then to passersby: "Claymore has to marry the Merrick slut."
Chapter Fourteen
In answer to her father's summons, Jenny dragged her thoughts from the memories of the handsome, gray-eyed man who still haunted her days and nights. Laying down her embroidery, she gave Brenna a puzzled look, then she pulled her dark green mantle closer about her shoulders and left the solar. Male voices raised in debate made her pause on the gallery and glance down into the hall. At least two dozen men—kinsmen and nobles from surrounding demesnes—were gathered around the fire, their rough-hewn faces grim as death. Friar Benedict was there, too, and the sight of his stern, icy face made Jenny cringe with a combination of alarm and shame. Even now, she could recall every word of his blistering tirade when she confessed to him the sin she had committed with Royce Westmoreland: "You shamed your father, your country, and your God with your uncontrollable desires for this man. Were you not guilty of the sin of lust you' d have surrendered your life before your honor!" Instead of feeling cleansed, which she normally did after confessing her sins, Jenny had felt dirtied and almost beyond salvation.
