Free The Accidental Bride by Jane Feather

these days.”
    “How bad is it?” Cato gazed into the middle distance over the other man’s head. Giles was a good half a head shorter than his lord.
    “Worse fer the old folks and the youngun’s with babbies, I reckon.”
    Cato clasped the back of his neck, deep lines corrugating his brow. “Why wasn’t I told of this?”
    Giles looked puzzled. “Was you interested in knowin’, then, sir?”
    He hadn’t been, of course. “I am now,” Cato said shortly. “Send some men into the village to find out how they can be of help with farm labor and suchlike.”
    “Right y’are, sir.” Giles raised a hand to his hat in salute. He half turned and said casually over his shoulder, “We’ll be ’eadin’ out fer the siege at Basing House soon, then, shall us, m’lord?”
    Cato understood what was implicit in the question. Giles Crampton did not consider farm labor appropriate for his highly disciplined and drilled troops. He’d been kicking his heels for the four weeks since the wedding but now clearly considered that the honeymoon should be over.
    “We’ll leave in the morning. Just tell the men to do what they can for today,” Cato said and was rewarded with a broad beam.
    “Aye, m’lord. I’ll get right onto it.”
    Cato nodded and went in for dinner.
    “D ivide and conquer.”
    All eyes turned to Sir Jacob Astley, who stood beside an arched window overlooking the quadrangle of the college of Christ Church. He drummed his fingers on the thick stone sill. The ruby on one finger clicked against the stone.
    “Not sure what you mean, Astley.” King Charles raised heavy-lidded eyes and turned his head towards the man at the window. The king’s fine-featured face was weary in the lamplight, his thick curling hair lank on his shoulders. He’d ridden into the city of Oxford the previous afternoon, hotly pursued by a cavalry brigade of Cromwell’s New Model Army. It had been a narrow escape and His Sovereign Majesty had still not recovered his equilibrium. To be pursued by his own subjects, to escape capture by inches, had brought home to him as almost nothing else had done, that he now reigned England in name alone.
    “I mean, Sire, that if we could cause trouble among Parliament’s leaders . . . if we could somehow arrange for them to fall out among themselves, then we would find them easier to deal with.” Sir Jacob turned from the window, his eyes in his pale face ablaze with conviction.
    “Aye, Sire. And I heard talk already of some dissension among their high command.” Brian Morse stepped out of the shadows, where he’d been standing silent up to now, listening and awaiting the moment when he could draw himself to the king’s attention.
    King Charles regarded the young man with a slight frown, trying to place him. The slender frame clad immaculately in dove gray silk was vaguely familiar, the little brown eyes, hard as pebbles, more so.
    “Brian Morse, Your Majesty.” Brian bowed low. “Forgive me for speaking out.”
    The king waved a hand in vague disclaimer. “If you have something useful to say, sir, don’t stand on ceremony.”
    “Mr. Morse was responsible for bringing the offer of munitions from the king of Orange, Sire. You may remember congratulating him on his return from Rotterdam.” The duke of Hamilton spoke up from the window embrasure at the far end of the paneled room, opposite the window looking onto the quadrangle. He was chewing at his thumb, carefullypeeling back loose skin with his teeth and spitting it onto the floor at his feet.
    The king seemed to consider this for a minute, then he smiled. It was a smile of surpassing sweetness. “Indeed I do remember. You have served us well, Mr. Morse. Your counsel is most welcome.”
    Brian felt a surge of triumph. He was there, at last. Into the holy of holies. He stepped a little further into the chamber. “My stepfather is the marquis of Granville, Sire.”
    A pained frown crossed the king’s countenance. There had been a