Some Stories Start with Blood: COURT OF LIES - Chapter One

The drumbeats marked his final steps, each hollow thud echoing across the square like the heartbeat of some dying beast. I stood motionless among the crowd, my face concealed beneath the deep shadow of my hood, as Lord Edmund Aubrey walked toward his death. A death I had orchestrated with careful precision.

"Traitor," someone whispered nearby, the word carried on the chill February wind. "They say he plotted against the king himself."

I did not turn to acknowledge the speaker.

Let them whisper. Let them believe what Henry Tudor wanted them to believe.

I alone knew the full truth of Aubrey's betrayal—not of the king, but of me. One letter intercepted, one meeting witnessed, one confession extracted through careful manipulation. That was all it had taken to condemn him.

The crowd surged forward as Aubrey mounted the scaffold. I remained still, watching from beneath the shadow of my hood as he surveyed the faces below, perhaps searching for allies, for sympathy, or for the person who had sealed his fate. Though I stood in plain view, he looked upon me as a stranger. How little he suspected that the widowed Countess of Poitier, who had shared his confidences over mulled wine just three weeks prior, now stood witness to his undoing.

“My lords, good people," Aubrey called out, his voice surprisingly steady for a man about to meet his maker. "I die today accused of treason against His Majesty King Henry, but I go to my grave with a clear conscience before God."

The executioner, a mountain of a man shrouded in black, adjusted his grip on the axe. Sunlight caught the blade's edge, sending a sharp flash of light across the crowd. Several onlookers flinched. I did not.

"I have served England faithfully," Aubrey continued, "and if my death brings stability to this realm, then I accept God's will."

Lies draped in nobility.

Aubrey had betrayed my father to Richard's men at Margaret Beaufort's bidding, taking a title and land as payment — a price measured in my father's blood and our family's disgrace. Now, years later, he had aligned himself with Yorkist sympathisers, corresponding with agents of the pretender Perkin Warbeck. But he had made the fatal error of believing I shared his Yorkist sympathies simply because of my family’s past allegiances. He hadn’t known who I was — not until it was too late. He had trusted me, and trust, I had learned, was the most dangerous weapon of all.

A small commotion rippled through the edge of the crowd. I shifted slightly, catching sight of Aubrey's wife and daughter being ushered to the front by a grim-faced guard—a final cruelty disguised as mercy. The girl, no more than eight years old, clutched her mother's hand, confusion and fear etched across her small face.

The sight undid something in me. Just for a breath.

That child's face—those wide, frightened eyes—stirred memories I had worked hard to bury. I knew too well what it meant to watch your world collapse while standing helpless.

I was eight when my father first let me accompany him to his library. The room had smelled of polished oak and old parchment, warmed by the crackling of the hearth. He had smiled at the sight of me near the shelves, my small fingers touching the leather bindings with reverence.

"Which book, Isolde?" he had asked, crouching to my level. His voice was always warm when he spoke to me—softer than the one he used with his councillors.

"This one," I’d said, tugging a heavy volume from the shelf. It had nearly toppled me, but he’d caught it and set it carefully on the desk. Of Remedies and Poisons. My father had laughed, the sound low and rich.

"Your mother will have my head if she learns I’ve encouraged you toward poison." He’d given me a wink.

"But you always said knowledge is power," I’d answered, climbing into his lap. His arm had curled protectively around my waist as we turned the pages.

"It is, but remember, Isolde—true power is knowing when to use it."

And he had used it—for York, for Richard—until a false charge destroyed him. There had been no mercy from Richard, no clemency for a loyal man falsely condemned.

Now I stood, decades older, hardened by loss, while another little girl watched her father die. The girl I had been—the girl who believed in knowledge and truth—was long gone.

But buried beneath years of grief, the child who had watched her father's execution screamed in silent communion with another child's pain.

Aubrey knelt before the block. His lips moved silently in prayer.

"I commend my soul to God's mercy," he said aloud, his voice finally breaking.

The executioner raised his axe while the crowd held its collective breath.

The blade fell.

I did not look away as Aubrey's head tumbled into the waiting basket, nor when the executioner lifted it by the hair to display to the crowd. The people gasped and murmured prayers. Some cheered. Some wept.

I simply watched, my face a mask of indifference while my heart hammered against my ribs.

Another betrayal sealed. Another step closer to the vengeance I craved.

As the crowd began to disperse, I remained motionless, watching the blood seep into the wooden platform. Power was built on blood, on carefully calculated moves, on patience. Henry Tudor knew this well; it was how he had claimed his crown. And I had learned from the best.

"Lady Courtenay."

The voice came from behind me, low and tinged with a Welsh accent. I did not need to turn to know who addressed me.

"Sir Rhys," I replied, keeping my voice even as I finally faced him. "I did not expect to see you here."

Rhys Vaughan, one of Henry's most trusted men, studied me with eyes as sharp and cold as the executioner's blade. "My Lady the King’s Mother thought you might be in attendance."

Margaret Beaufort, the king's mother. The most dangerous woman in England.

"I was merely curious," I said, offering a slight smile that revealed nothing. "One hears such rumours about traitors."

"Indeed." His eyes rested upon me a moment too long. Not with suspicion—but something quieter. Calculating. Watching me as though I were a riddle he might one day enjoy solving.

"Her Grace requests your presence at court. Immediately."

My pulse quickened, though I tried to hide any feelings. "May I ask the reason for such urgency?"

"You may ask Her Grace yourself." He handed me a sealed letter, the red wax bearing Margaret Beaufort's seal. “An escort awaits to take you to Westminster.”

I accepted the letter.

Had I been discovered? Had some thread of my own secrets unravelled? Or was this another task, another test of my loyalty to the Tudor cause?

"I shall go in a moment," I said, tucking the letter into the folds of my sleeve.

Rhys gave a curt nod. "I've been instructed not to leave your side, my lady. London is… uncertain these days."

A guard, then. Or a gaoler. The distinction mattered little.

As we walked away from the execution square, the small silver ring pressed cool against my skin—my father's ring, bearing the faded emblem of the House of York. The last remnant of the family Henry Tudor had destroyed.

Let Margaret Beaufort summon me. Let Henry Tudor test my loyalty.

They saw only what I allowed them to see—the useful widow, the converted Yorkist, the grateful subject. None saw the deeper game I played, the patience with which I moved my pieces on the board.

And Rhys? I hadn’t decided what game he played yet, but I intended to find out.

The drumbeats still echoed in my ears as we left the square.

Today's traitor had paid his price. Soon it would be my turn to collect.

Want to see how this deadly game unfolds? Pre-order Court of Lies for $2.99 (price increases on release day)

Note: I have been telling you for the last month about Venom's Kiss - this the same book but I am giving it a more suitable title- thanks to my readers who have given me their opinions on the title. Now I am happy with the one.

Pre- order Now

PS: If you enjoyed this chapter, consider sharing it with a friend who loves historical love stories!