While Bedford appeared to take no notice of Jamie’s lack of enthusiasm, his sharp-eyed uncle was more perceptive. “I can assure you Stafford’s daughter is a devout and virtuous lady, if that is your concern,” Bishop Beaufort said. “In sooth, it was her wish to join a convent.”
God had heard his prayer! Putting his hand over his heart, Jamie said, “If that is what the good lady wishes…”
“It is not what her father wishes,” the bishop snapped. “I assure you, the girl will marry.”
“There is one matter, however, that must be addressed before the marriage can be arranged.” Lines of worry showed on Bedford’s face as it settled into a serious expression. “What is this I hear about you challenging Pomeroy to single combat?”
“Is it not enough we have to suffer such foolishness from Humphrey?” the bishop said.
The comparison did Jamie no good at all. Burgundy had been so enraged at Gloucester’s military expedition into Hainaut that he had issued a personal challenge to Gloucester. Humphrey had accepted the challenge—then left his wife and set sail for England.
“We were able to persuade the pope to prohibit the two from dueling under threat of excommunication,” the bishop said. “But we could lose France over this yet. Bedford has been working night and day to repair the damage with Burgundy.”
“My challenge to Pomeroy could cause no such harm,” Jamie said. “I thought it a measured response to a grievous insult, but I can see I should have just run him through at the time.”
“You forget to whom you are speaking,” the bishop said with a steely look that probably sent small children running. The bishop turned to Bedford. “I thought you said he was a man of good sense.”
“James,” Bedford said, “you will have to withdraw the challenge.”
“I mean no disrespect, Your Grace, but you know I cannot do that. I am no coward.”
“Such stupidity.” The bishop raised his arms as if beseeching heaven. “To win a fight, young man, one must consider all the consequences.”
The bishop then proceeded to lecture Jamie while pacing back and forth in front of him. “The most likely consequences of pursuing this course are that you will end up languishing in prison or with your head on a pike. In either case, you can hardly claim to have prevailed over your enemy.”
“That may be true,” Jamie said, acknowledging the bishop’s point. “Still, it changes nothing. Honor will not permit me to withdraw the challenge.”
Bedford cleared his throat. “My brother complains that you have sent his friend Pomeroy several letters repeating the challenge.”
Jamie shrugged. There was nothing he could say to that.
“Am I correct in supposing,” the bishop said, “that honor would require you to allow Pomeroy to escape alive if he concedes during the fight?”
“Aye, he can concede at any time,” Jamie said. “Perhaps we can convince Pomeroy to apologize,” Bedford said. “Would that resolve the matter?”
Jamie did not like it. “I suppose it would have to do.” “Negotiating an apology will take time,” the bishop said, steepling his hands and touching his fingertips to his chin. “Unfortunately, Stafford will not proceed with the marriage until the matter of this challenge is resolved. That was the one point upon which he insisted.”
Praise God for that.
The bishop pursed his lips and looked at Jamie through narrowed eyes. “Still, I advise you to work the ground,” he said, tapping his fingertips together under his chin. “I hear the ladies find you appealing. I suggest you put your mind to charming both the girl and her father when you accompany them to Windsor.”
Jamie groaned aloud when he saw Gloucester, Eleanor Cobham, and their entourage preparing to board the royal barge at the Westminster wharf early the next morning. He stepped back, hoping he would not be invited to join them. God’s beard, he wished he was riding back to Windsor with Martin.
He had heard whispers about Eleanor in the short time he was in the palace. Apparently, another lady had fallen ill after Gloucester had shown her favor.
Eleanor snapped her head around and caught Jamie staring. When he acknowledged her with a slight nod, she cast a speculative look at him, head to toe. God have mercy, Eleanor examined him as if she were a man choosing a woman in a whorehouse. His repulsion must have shown on his face, for the look she leveled at him now was pure venom.
“You must be Sir James Rayburn,” a male voice said behind him.
Stafford. Jamie drew in a deep breath, then made himself turn to meet his traveling companions. Stafford was stout and had the florid complexion of a man who drank too much. Not a fighting man, that was for certain. Jamie had never seen a cloak that startling shade of green. He tried not to stare at the matching liripipe hat with its ridiculously long tail.
“Good day to you,” Jamie said. “You are Lord Stafford?”
“I am!” the man said in a voice so loud Jamie wondered if he was hard of hearing. “And this is the prize, my friend.”
Stafford turned and waved his arm at a young lady who stood a few steps back. “This is my daughter, Lady Agnes Stafford.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Agnes,” Jamie said, making a polite bow.