Julie Garwood
The Gift
(Джулия Гарвуд - "Дар")
Prologue
England, 1802
It was only a matter of time before the wedding guests killed one another.
Baron Oliver Lawrence had taken every precaution, of course, for it was his castle King George had chosen for the ceremony. He was acting as host until the king of England arrived, a duty he embraced with as much joy as he would a three-day flogging; but the order had come from the king himself, and Lawrence, ever loyal and obedient, had immediately complied. Both the Winchester family and the St. James rebels had protested his selection most vehemently. Their noise was all for naught, however, for the king was determined to have his way. Baron Lawrence understood the reason behind the decree. Unfortunately, he was the only man in England still on speaking terms with both the bride's and the groom's families.
The baron wouldn't be able to boast about that fact much longer. He believed his time on the sweet earth could well be measured in heartbeats. Because the ceremony was to take place on neutral ground, the king actually believed the gathering would behave. Lawrence knew better.
The men surrounding him were in a killing mood. One word given in the wrong tone of voice, one action perceived to be the least bit threatening could well become the spark needed to ignite the bloodbath. God only knew they were itching to get at one another. The looks on their faces said as much.
The bishop, dressed in ceremonial whites, sat in a high-backed chair between the two feuding families. He looked neither to the left, where the Winchesters were sequestered, nor to the right, where the St. James warriors were stationed, but stared straight ahead. To pass the time the clergyman drummed his fingertips on the wooden arm of his chair. He looked as though he'd just eaten a fair portion of sour fish. He let out a high-pitched sigh every now and then, a sound the baron thought was remarkably like the whinny of a cranky old horse, then let the damning silence envelop the great hall again.
Lawrence shook his head in despair. He knew he wouldn't get any help from the bishop when the real trouble broke out. Both the bride and the groom waited in separate chambers above the stairs. Only after the king had arrived would they be led, or dragged, into the hall. God help the two of them then, for all hell would surely break loose.
It was a sorry day indeed. Lawrence had actually had to post his own contingent of guards betwixt the king's knights along the perimeter of the hall just as an added deterrent. Such an action at a wedding was unheard of, yet it was just as unheard of for the guests to come to the ceremony armed for battle. The Winchesters were so loaded down with weapons they could barely move about. Their insolence was shameful, their loyalty more than suspect. Still, Lawrence was hard put to condemn the men completely. It was true that even he found it a challenge to blindly obey his leader. The king was, after all, as daft as a duck.
Everyone in England knew he had lost his mind, yet no one dared speak the fact aloud. They'd lose their tongues, or worse, for daring to tell the truth. The marriage about to take place was more than ample testimony to any doubting Thomases left in the ton that their leader had gone around the bend. The king had told Lawrence he was determined to have everyone in his kingdom get along. The baron didn't have an easy answer to that childlike expectation.
But for all of his madness, George was their king, and damn it all, thought Lawrence, the wedding guests should show a little respect. Their outrageous conduct shouldn't be tolerated. Why, two of the seasoned Winchester uncles were blatantly fondling the hilts of their swords in obvious anticipation of the bloodletting. The St. James warriors immediately noticed and retaliated by taking a unified step forward. They didn't touch their weapons, though, and in truth most of the St. James's men weren't even armed. They smiled instead. Lawrence thought that action was just as telling.
The Winchesters outnumbered the St. James clan six to one. That didn't give them the advantage, however. The St. James men were a much meaner lot. The stories about their escapades were legendary. They were known to tear a man's eyes out just for squinting; they liked to kick an opponent in his groin for the fun of hearing him howl; and God only knew what they did to their enemies. The possibilities were simply too appalling to think about.
A commotion coming from the courtyard turned Lawrence's attention. The king's personal assistant, a dour-faced man by the name of Sir Roland Hugo, rushed up the steps. He was dressed in festive garb, but the colorful red hose and white tunic made his imposing bulk all the more rotund-looking. Lawrence thought Hugo resembled a plump rooster. Because he was his good friend, he kept that unkind opinion to himself.
The two men quickly embraced. Then Hugo took a step back. In a hushed tone he said, "I rode ahead the last league. The king will be here in just a few more minutes."
"Thank God for that," Lawrence replied, his relief visible. He mopped at the beads of sweat on his brow with his linen handkerchief.
Hugo glanced over Lawrence's shoulder, then shook his head. "It's as quiet as a tomb in your hall," he whispered. "Have you had a time of it keeping the wedding guests amused?"
Lawrence looked incredulous. "Amused? Hugo, nothing short of a human sacrifice could keep those barbarians amused."
"I can see your sense of humor has helped you through this atrocity," his friend replied.
"I'm not jesting," the baron snapped. "You'll quit your smile, too, Hugo, when you realize how volatile the situation has become. The Winchesters didn't come bearing gifts, my friend. They're armed for battle. Yes, they are," he rushed on when his friend shook his head in apparent disbelief. "I tried to persuade them to leave their arsenal outside, but they wouldn't hear of it. They aren't in an accommodating mood."
"We'll see about that," Hugo muttered. "The soldiers riding escort with our king will disarm them in little time. I'll be damned if I allow our overlord to walk into such a threatening arena. This is a wedding, not a battlefield."
Hugo proved to be as good as his threat. The Winchesters piled their weapons in the corner of the great hall when they were confronted with the order by the infuriated king's assistant. The demand was backed up by some forty loyal soldiers who'd taken up their positions in a circle around the guests. Even the St. James rascals handed over their few weapons, but only after Hugo ordered arrows put to the soldiers' bows.
If he lived to tell the tale, no one was ever going to believe him, Lawrence decided. Thankfully, King George had no idea what extreme measures had been taken to secure his protection.
When the king of England walked into the great hall the soldiers immediately lowered their bows, though their arrows remained securely nocked for a quick kill if the need arose.
The bishop rallied out of the chair, bowed formally to his king, and then motioned for him to take his seat.
Two of the king's barristers, their arms laden with documents, trailed in the king's wake. Lawrence waited until his leader was seated, then hurried over to kneel before him. He spoke his pledge of loyalty in a loud, booming voice, hoping his words would shame the guests into showing like consideration.
The king leaned forward, his big hands braced on his knees. "Your patriot king is pleased with you, Baron Lawrence. I am your patriot king, champion of all the people, am I not?"
Lawrence was prepared for that question. The king had taken to calling himself by that name years before, and he liked to hear affirmation whenever possible.