Hugh Fitzroy, Earl of Montford, second in line for the throne after Thomas, sent back a cold response to Smythe’s humble request for a meeting. Hugh had deigned to see him, but he made it clear he was conferring upon Smythe a vast favor that he did not deserve, given that Smythe had kept him a prisoner in his own manor ever since the death of the queen.
Smythe was pleased. A man of principle would have told him to go to hell. The fact that Hugh had readily agreed to meet meant that everything Smythe had heard about the man was true. Hugh Fitzroy was much like his father, King Godfrey. He was venal, ignorant, and cunning. Such men were generally easy to manipulate.
Hugh and his younger brother, Jeffrey, now Bishop of Freya, were Godfrey’s illegitimate sons, the products of a scandalous affair with a married woman. Godfrey had acknowledged his bastards, provided them with fortunes and titles. He would have named Hugh his heir over his legitimate daughter, Mary, if Henry Wallace had not convinced him that such a move would have resulted in the downfall of the monarchy.
Hugh’s brother, Jeffrey, was a gentle, self-effacing man who had found refuge from humiliation and scandal in the church. The Reformed Church of the Breath allowed its ministers to wed, and Jeffrey had married young. He and his wife had one daughter, Ann. He had made peace with his half sister, Queen Mary, by sending his daughter to be raised at court. Ann had become a favorite of the queen’s and was now the wife of Sir Henry Wallace.
Smythe would have had Jeffrey placed under arrest, as well as Hugh, but the church was a powerful force in Freyan politics and Smythe was not yet prepared to open a war on that front. Smythe had investigated, and deemed Jeffrey harmless. The bishop did not live in Haever, nor did he have much to do with his daughter or her family. According to reports, Jeffrey kept his eyes fixed on heaven and left worldly matters to his underlings. Smythe contented himself with placing the bishop under surveillance, having him watched day and night.
Not surprisingly, Hugh had been Godfrey’s favorite son. He had made his fortune in iron. He controlled all aspects of iron production from mining to milling. He had made no secret of the fact that he despised his half sister, Mary, and believed that by rights he should have been king. Hugh had been confounded to discover that Thomas Stanford had a better claim to the throne than he did. He had tried to drum up support among the nobility to oppose Stanford, but he could not fight the powerful men and women who belonged to the Faithful, and he had sullenly given up.
Smythe traveled to Hugh’s estate in Chadwick to meet with him. Upon his arrival, he spoke briefly to the captain of the guard of the troops deployed outside Hugh’s mansion, which was as large as a palace and furnished with all the taste and elegance of a high-class brothel.
Hugh kept Smythe waiting, of course. He sat without moving in an uncomfortable chair in the antechamber for an hour, patient as a sniper, until a servant came to fetch him.
Smythe entered the room behind the servant and wondered if he had walked into a museum by mistake. The study might have been labeled: THE HISTORY OF IRON THROUGH THE AGES. The vast room was a monument to iron, featuring all the products produced by Hugh’s ironworks, from carriage wheels, barrel hoops, pistols and rifles to a replica of a bridge and a full-size twenty-four-pound cannon.
Hugh stood at one of the windows with his back to Smythe to let him know he was affronted. When the servant announced him, Hugh glanced over his shoulder, glowered at him, and greeted him with a grunt.
Smythe meekly swallowed the insult and walked over to join him.
“Damn fine view,” Hugh remarked.
Smythe looked out on the chimneys of a smelting plant belching forth smoke. Hugh inhaled a lungful of air.
“Smell that. Know what that is, Smithee? No, of course you don’t. It’s success.”
Smythe set his jaw. He had been introduced to Hugh at the queen’s funeral. The earl knew perfectly well how to properly pronounce his name. By calling him Smithee, Hugh was being deliberately antagonistic, hoping to make Smythe angry, put him at a disadvantage.
Smythe had learned self-control from his reverend father, who had quoted the Scriptures while beating his son with a stick. He was proof against such tactics.
“You are to be congratulated upon your success, my lord,” Smythe said, bowing.
Hugh was clearly determined to be offensive. “Why the devil are you here, Smithee? Come to gloat over your prisoner? Or maybe you’re going to lock me up in Offdom Tower. Oh, sorry, I forgot.” Hugh grinned unpleasantly. “You don’t have a tower. A dragon knocked the damn thing down.”
Smythe gritted his teeth and reminded himself of his objective.
“I have come to apologize, my lord,” Smythe said humbly. “My officers must have given you the wrong impression. I did not place Your Lordship under arrest. I placed the soldiers here for your protection.”
Hugh sneered. “Protection! From what?”
“Your Lordship knows of Sir Henry Wallace. I believe he is married to the daughter of your brother.”
“Wallace?” Hugh said, his demeanor changing. He seemed uneasy. “What has he been saying about me?”
Hugh was a tall man, heavyset, with a red face and red-veined nose, who was said to like his port. He was accustomed to using his bulk and height to intimidate, and he crowded Smythe into a corner. “Wallace told you I wanted him to assassinate Elinor, didn’t he? That’s a damn lie! I asked him to do me one small favor, to see to it the woman didn’t press her claim to the throne. I meant only that he was to offer her money, that sort of thing. Instead Wallace twisted my words, made it sound like I wanted him to break her neck. I had to chuck him out.”
Hugh stared at Smythe, unblinking. Smythe had learned over the years that when someone holds your eyes with his gaze, he is trying to keep you from seeing the truth. Smythe smiled inwardly. So Hugh had wanted Wallace to assassinate his half-sister. Good to know.
“How did Wallace react, my lord?” Smythe asked.
“He was damn offensive,” said Hugh. His puffy eyes crinkled with cunning. “So you are telling me that the soldiers are here to protect me from Wallace. He wouldn’t dare harm me. The man is a coward. He spent his life hiding behind Mary’s skirts.”
“But if King Thomas had ordered him—”
Smythe abruptly stopped talking, as though he had inadvertently said too much. He tried to cover his mistake. “I have taken up too much of Your Lordship’s valuable time. The troops are here to protect you and your family, my lord. I am sorry for any misunderstanding. I admire you immensely and I want to be on terms of trust and friendship with Your Lordship.”
“Wait a damn minute,” said Hugh. “What was that you said about King Thomas ordering Wallace? Ordered him to do what?”
“I did not mean that the way it sounded, my lord—”
“You’re a damn liar, Smithee!” Hugh glowered at him. “Tell me the truth. What the devil is going on?”
Smythe cast a glance at the door. “The servants, my lord…”
Hugh walked across the room, flung open the door, and yelled, “Get out! The lot of you!”
He slammed the door shut. “There. Now we can talk.”
He sat down in a chair near the fire and pointed to a chair for Smythe. Once he was settled, Hugh reached for the decanter that was always close to hand. “A glass of port?”
“Thank you, no, my lord,” said Smythe. “My faith prohibits me—”
“Your misfortune, not mine.” Hugh drained the glass in a gulp. “Now talk.”
“His Majesty heard a report that Your Lordship planned to challenge his right to rule in court.”
Hugh thrust his chin out. “What if I did? Now that Mary’s dead, I should be king. The only reason I’m not is because the Rosians conspired to put this Stanford puppy on the throne.”
“I must say I admire your courage, my lord,” said Smythe. “The truth is, our young king fears that if the matter does go to court, he will lose. His Majesty was alarmed to hear of your challenge. He has spoken openly of sending you into exile or…”
Smythe hesitated.
“Or what?” Hugh growled. “You think he means to have me killed.”
“I cannot believe His Majesty capable of such a heinous act, my lord. Still, given the king’s close connections with the Rosians and secret meetings he held with Wallace, I deemed it better to be on the safe side. I sent troops to protect you and I issued a warrant for Sir Henry’s arrest. He was apprehended in a low drinking establishment. I was hoping to force the truth from him, but he was shot while attempting to escape.”
“Good.” Hugh grunted, nodding in approval. “About damn time someone shot him.”
“Unfortunately, I have reason to believe Wallace survived, my lord,” Smythe said. “The king still considers you a threat.…”
Smythe did not finish his thought, leaving the rest to Hugh’s imagination.
Hugh may not have been overly imaginative, but he was clearly worried. His face was flabby and he paled beneath the flush of the strong drink. He poured himself another glass of port and again gulped it down.
“Wait a damn moment, Smithee. Now that I think of it, these soldiers of yours arrested me the day after Mary died. Was this damn Stanford plotting against me even then?”
“Thomas Stanford has long feared you, my lord.”
“Ah! He has good reason to,” Hugh stated, pleased. “Wait until I tell my lawyer!”
“On the contrary, I would advise that you drop the challenge, my lord,” said Smythe gravely. “A pending court case would look bad, particularly if something were to happen to His Majesty.”
Hugh fixed him with an intense look, his puffy eyes glinting. “Do you think that’s likely, Smithee?”
“I’m sure we all hope and pray for His Majesty’s well-being,” said Smythe.
Hugh winked at him. “I guess we understand each other, then. I like you, Smithee.”
He slammed Smythe on the shoulder, nearly knocking him out of his chair, then poured himself another glass. He raised it in a salute.
“God save the king.”
Hugh laughed and gulped.
Smythe left soon after, satisfied with the meeting, for he now knew that Hugh was a dunderhead who could be cozened and blackmailed and would not hinder Smythe’s plans. And if worse came to worst, Smythe could always poison his port.