Free Soldier of Fortune: The King's Courtesan (Rakes and Rogues of the Retoration Book 2) by Judith James Page B
Authors: Judith James
running toward him, their torches bobbing in the dark. A great screaming pain tore through him, rising through his blood and nerves, seizing his throat and ripping his heart. He threw back his head, letting loose a wounded-animal howl .
~
“Jesus!” Robert woke with a loud gasp, doubled over and clutching his midsection, trying to catch his breath. His dreams of Caroline were the worst. They had none of the distance of memory, none of the detached quality of his other nightmares. They hurled him back in time, forcing him to relive that night, a frightened child who failed his sister, over and over again. He groaned and went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.
“You needn’t ride me quite so hard, Caro. I’m doing the best I can,” he said to the empty room. But she never stopped. In the light of day he could push such thoughts and images away, but other than the occasional glimpse of a cheeky grin, violet eyes, and a muddy face, blood and horror hounded him most every night. He wished he was one of those lucky souls whose dreams did not pursue them when they woke. He wondered what her thoughts would be if she knew he had lost her home.
~
The second royal message, commanding his presence at Whitehall came two days later and was almost as great a shock as the first. Robert could imagine no reason for it, other than suspicion regarding his possible involvement with enemies of the crown. Some of those who fought for parliament during the English civil wars were fanatics. The Fifth Monarchists had been a powerful force. Men who saw the war and Charles I’s execution as a prelude to the start of a golden age where Christ and his saints would reign on earth.
They had once hailed Cromwell as a second Moses, leading God's chosen people to the Promised Land. Just three months past they’d launched an uprising in London resulting in a bloody street battle and forty deaths. One couldn’t blame the king for dealing with them harshly. Two of them were regicides and one a major general. His first thought upon learning his lands were forfeit was that he was suspected of being one of them.
It couldn’t be further from the truth. His war had been a personal one. And his brothers since then weren’t Puritans and preachers but the loose collection of steely-eyed soldiers who killed who they needed to to get the job done. They cared little for religion and had few scruples and their honor was to their fellows, their craft and their word.
Even as his staff stored three generations of family heirlooms, he contemplated rejoining the fold. Provided, of course, he wasn’t arrested for treason. They were, after all, among the most highly prized mercenaries in Europe, and there were opportunities aplenty in Germany, the Netherlands and farther afield.
Though he’d thought himself weary of war he couldn’t deny a prick of excitement. There was something about daring death head-on with only skill and luck to save you that could bring even the most jaded spirit sharply back to life.
He’d already claimed his two thousand pounds worth of goods in weapons, clothing and horseflesh. He would travel to London and satisfy his curiosity, trusting to his wits should things go awry. While there he would look to finding employment for his servants and a well-paid position with a company of mercenary for himself. Far better to be a soldier of fortune, than fortune’s slave. He’d also check amongst old friends and acquaintances, to see if he might pick up a trail grown cold.
CHAPTER SEVEN
London
Robert stalked the long stone gallery at Whitehall with a ground-eating stride. His clothing was sober but elegant, and an oversized sword, clearly meant for killing, hung easily at his side. There were offended sniffs and angry stares but people stepped aside. Prince Rupert, the king’s cousin, returning from His Majesty’s chambers, smiled and tipped his head as he passed, one military man to
~
“Jesus!” Robert woke with a loud gasp, doubled over and clutching his midsection, trying to catch his breath. His dreams of Caroline were the worst. They had none of the distance of memory, none of the detached quality of his other nightmares. They hurled him back in time, forcing him to relive that night, a frightened child who failed his sister, over and over again. He groaned and went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.
“You needn’t ride me quite so hard, Caro. I’m doing the best I can,” he said to the empty room. But she never stopped. In the light of day he could push such thoughts and images away, but other than the occasional glimpse of a cheeky grin, violet eyes, and a muddy face, blood and horror hounded him most every night. He wished he was one of those lucky souls whose dreams did not pursue them when they woke. He wondered what her thoughts would be if she knew he had lost her home.
~
The second royal message, commanding his presence at Whitehall came two days later and was almost as great a shock as the first. Robert could imagine no reason for it, other than suspicion regarding his possible involvement with enemies of the crown. Some of those who fought for parliament during the English civil wars were fanatics. The Fifth Monarchists had been a powerful force. Men who saw the war and Charles I’s execution as a prelude to the start of a golden age where Christ and his saints would reign on earth.
They had once hailed Cromwell as a second Moses, leading God's chosen people to the Promised Land. Just three months past they’d launched an uprising in London resulting in a bloody street battle and forty deaths. One couldn’t blame the king for dealing with them harshly. Two of them were regicides and one a major general. His first thought upon learning his lands were forfeit was that he was suspected of being one of them.
It couldn’t be further from the truth. His war had been a personal one. And his brothers since then weren’t Puritans and preachers but the loose collection of steely-eyed soldiers who killed who they needed to to get the job done. They cared little for religion and had few scruples and their honor was to their fellows, their craft and their word.
Even as his staff stored three generations of family heirlooms, he contemplated rejoining the fold. Provided, of course, he wasn’t arrested for treason. They were, after all, among the most highly prized mercenaries in Europe, and there were opportunities aplenty in Germany, the Netherlands and farther afield.
Though he’d thought himself weary of war he couldn’t deny a prick of excitement. There was something about daring death head-on with only skill and luck to save you that could bring even the most jaded spirit sharply back to life.
He’d already claimed his two thousand pounds worth of goods in weapons, clothing and horseflesh. He would travel to London and satisfy his curiosity, trusting to his wits should things go awry. While there he would look to finding employment for his servants and a well-paid position with a company of mercenary for himself. Far better to be a soldier of fortune, than fortune’s slave. He’d also check amongst old friends and acquaintances, to see if he might pick up a trail grown cold.
CHAPTER SEVEN
London
Robert stalked the long stone gallery at Whitehall with a ground-eating stride. His clothing was sober but elegant, and an oversized sword, clearly meant for killing, hung easily at his side. There were offended sniffs and angry stares but people stepped aside. Prince Rupert, the king’s cousin, returning from His Majesty’s chambers, smiled and tipped his head as he passed, one military man to
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