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Chapter One
Spain, 1624
Lord Lowell St. Denys stood in the shadows of the dank alley outside the seedy tavern in Madrid, waiting impatiently for his contact. He searched each face that passed, but none gave the grey-haired man a second look. That suited St. Denys fine. The last thing he wanted was to be recognized here, in this setting, except by the man he was supposed to meet. Teodoro Ciéza de Vivar had been recommended to him as a sword for hire, a mercenary with enough honor to complete the job, but not so much as would prove troublesome. With that thought in mind, St. Denys had worked out the perfect story to get the swordsman to go along with his plan.
Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. A man stood at the entrance to the alley, clothed despite the heat in dark leather over a paler linen shirt. The brim of his hat was wide and slightly tattered, and he wore a sword at one hip and a dagger on the other. As the man approached, St. Denys took note of the thick moustache that obscured his upper lip and the expressionless brown eyes that pierced even the deepest of shadows for any threat. St. Denys’s eyes lingered appreciatively on the breadth of the shoulders revealed by the leather jerkin, the trim waist, the narrow hips and long, long legs, a frown marring his face only when he reached the battered, mended boots. With a regretful shrug, the Englishman stepped out of the shadows. “Ciéza de Vivar?”
Teodoro Ciéza de Vivar had been watching the older man for some time before he was ready to approach him. His finances were always uneven, and the coin for this job, if he decided to take it, would be most welcome, but he had enough in hand at the moment that he could afford to decline the offer should it come to that. He did not always have the luxury to be so discriminating, though there were some undertakings to which nothing could compel him to agree; but this did not feel like one of them. Teodoro had learned that observing his would-be employers could often reveal to him whether he would agree to their task, even before hearing the details or the terms. His instincts told him that this richly-dressed, silver-haired gentleman would at least be worth hearing out. “I am Ciéza de Vivar,” he replied. “And you?”
“St. Denys,” the noble said with a courtly bow, seeing no reason to admit his title to the swordsman. It would likely only raise his price. “Lowell St. Denys. I’m hoping you can help me, señor. My friend is most distressed at his son’s behavior.”
“Shall we take some refreshment while you tell me of it?” Teodoro inclined his head toward the tavern—surely not the type of place his prospective employer would normally frequent, but even if he chose to decline the job, he could at least get a decent bottle of wine from the meeting.
St. Denys frowned a little, not accustomed to such common taverns, but he understood the game. He would buy the mercenary food and drink in exchange for being heard. The rest was up to his powers of persuasion. “I would be pleased to dine with you,” he said magnanimously. “Lead the way.”
The swordsman had met enough men of a certain type at this tavern that the barmaid knew to seat them at a quiet table against the back wall. Declining his prospective employer’s offer of a meal—he would have St. Denys’s measure first—Teodoro asked her to bring a bottle of their best vintage, then settled in his chair, stretching his long legs and turning his attention back to the Englishman. “Why is your friend not here to see me himself, if he is so concerned about his son?”
“He is still in England,” St. Denys explained. “His son was making his grand tour of Europe and was supposed to return last month to begin school. Instead, he has run off with his… friend… and refuses to return home.” In another place, St. Denys would not have minced words, but he had seen the burnings in the town square the week before; the Inquisition had no mercy on sodomites. Still, he was well experienced in concealing his own inclinations and would not hesitate to play upon the mercenary’s undoubted prejudice in that regard, if it would gain St. Denys what he sought. “His father asked me to approach him as an old friend of the family, but the boy will not be swayed. So his father requested that I employ whatever means necessary to separate the boy from the current bad influence in his life and return him to England at once. Thus, my message to you.”
“So the boy is not being held against his will?” Teodoro asked, frowning. “Is he of age?” The original message had implied that the lad in question had been kidnapped, but St. Denys was describing a spoiled runaway. If the boy was unwilling to return, Teodoro’s task would be that much harder—and his fee that much higher, he decided as he waited for the Englishman’s response.
“He is twenty-three,” St. Denys replied, “but his father retains control of his purse and his future until he is twenty-five, so it remains his father’s decision what he should be doing. If after that, he chooses to consort with… men like Hawkins, that will be his choice. For now, his father insists that he come home.”
There was a moment’s pause as the barmaid brought their wine, pouring them each a glassful and setting the bottle in the middle of the table. Raising his goblet to his companion in a silent toast, Teodoro took an appreciative swallow, letting the flavor of the rich red wine mellow his mood. “So I will be fighting both the… friend, and the boy himself?” the mercenary mused. “That will make the task more difficult, especially since I expect the father wishes them both unharmed.”
“Hawkins is unimportant,” St. Denys declared with a wave of his hand. “He is the reason the boy has neglected his duties in the first place. But I will increase your pay by half for dealing with him. All that matters is bringing Christian to me unharmed so that I can get him home where he belongs.”
Teodoro’s well-developed sense of self-preservation made him immediately suspicious of anyone to whom price was no object. Still, the Englishman met his eyes steadily, and what harm could there be in returning a boy to his own father? “Where can I find this Hawkins and… Cristian, was it?”
“Christian Blackwood, and they are in Málaga,” St. Denys replied. “He seems to think that by avoiding the typical sites of the Grand Tour, he can avoid his father’s disapproval. I am quite sure you can reach him faster than I would be able to get there to hire someone local.”
“It will take me some days to ride that far,” Teodoro calculated. “And no guarantee the young man and his… friend… will not be gone by the time I arrive.”
“You can be there in five days if you ride hard,” St. Denys countered. “If they have left by the time you get there, follow them. The boy’s father will pay you well to make sure he recovers his son.”
Teodoro fingered the end of his moustache, his thoughts troubled. The easy way the Englishman countered his every objection only strengthened his distrust. Still, the man was paying well—too well, his judgment told him, but he would be a fool to refuse to profit from the foreigner’s ignorance. “I will take your commission,” the swordsman decided. “How will I recognize the boy when I get to Málaga?”
“He should be quite easy to pick out of the crowd,” St. Denys assured the mercenary. “He’s reasonably tall, about your height, I think, with blond curls long enough to brush his shoulders and blue eyes. Hawkins is tall—very tall—dark haired, but also obviously English. None of the swarthy skin so common in Spain.”
“And what should I do with the young man once I find him?” Teodoro inquired.
“Bring him back to Madrid,” St. Denys instructed, his face carefully calm, only adding to Teodoro’s unease. “I will make sure he returns to his father from here.” He reached in his pocket and withdrew a purse. “Here is the first installment of your fee. I will have the rest for you when you bring me the boy.”
Opening the purse, Teodoro let the coins spill into his hand. As he expected, they were gold—enough to satisfy his obligations and to spare. Pushing aside the misgivings he could not afford to indulge, he nodded shortly. “If all goes well, we should return within two weeks,” he told his employer. “I will send word to you when we arrive.” Draining his goblet, the swordsman stood, his blade settling at his hip. “Until then, Your Mercy.”
St. Denys watched the mercenary disappear out the door and leaned back against the wall of the inn, his eyes closing. Close. He was so close. Surely, this time, his plan would succeed.
Teodoro climbed the stairs to his rooms in the upper level of the parochial residence of la iglesia de San Pedro—rooms he occupied at the insistence of his son’s uncle, though as often as he had needed to leave the boy in the priest’s care during his early years, there had been little choice but to accept. He found Esteban where he had left him, practicing his letters at the small table that served them as desk and dinner table as well, when he could afford to put food on it. “Fetch my saddlebags,” he told the youth. “I have a commission, one that will take me out of town for several weeks. Don Inocencio will see to you while I am gone.”
Esteban was full of questions, but he knew better than to ask for answers his guardian was unlikely to give him. “Sí, Teo,” he replied, rising from his seat and putting the items Teodoro was likely to need in the pouches. He returned with them and offered them to the swordsman. “Be careful,” he added unnecessarily.
“Stay out of trouble while I am gone,” Teodoro countered. The boy was at the age, no longer a child but not quite yet a man, when he was most ripe to get into any kind of scrape, but there was no way Teodoro could take him along on a journey where speed was of the essence—even if he could afford to hire a second horse. Reminded of his change in finances, the swordsman took the Englishman’s purse from his belt and tossed one of the gold coins to Esteban. “That should keep you fed while I am gone. I don’t want to find you’ve used it on anything else but food when I return!”
“What else would I spend it on?” Esteban asked innocently, pocketing the coin with a bland stare.
Teodoro lifted an eyebrow, his dark eyes kindling until the youth blushed and dropped his own. “You might buy a new shirt,” the swordsman observed. “You’ve nearly outgrown that one.”
“Food, and a new shirt,” Esteban agreed, cursing himself for the blush that gave him away. “Anything else will wait until you return, Teo, I promise.”
The swordsman nodded, ruffling the boy’s dark hair before dropping his hand to the hilt of his blade. He ran a checklist in his head—his sword, the daga izquierda tucked into the back of his belt, the smaller dagger hidden in the top of one of his boots. Sighing to himself, he crossed to the small clothespress and took out the box containing his pistol. It was a weapon he disliked, preferring the grace and elegance of the rapier, but his gut told him this affair was one in which he would need every advantage he could get. Pouring powder and shot into a small pouch, he tucked the pistol into his belt and gathered up his saddlebags.
“Two weeks, Esteban,” he said, as he headed toward the door. “Expect my return some time after that.” He did not mention what would happen should he not return—he no longer needed to.
“Be careful,” Esteban said again, softly this time, as he watched his guardian, the only father he had ever known, disappear out the door.
