By His Majesty's Grace (15 page)

Leon did not appear. He had changed his mind, or else been prevented from coming.

Isabel rose to leave, making her way toward the great front door. She was some yards from it, just passing a darkened alcove, when a voice spoke from the shadows.

“Well met, milady. Stand where you are and listen. No! Do not turn.”

That voice, she would swear, was not the melodious baritone of the Master of Revels. She strained to identify it, but the timbre was no more than a rough whisper. “Who are you?” she asked, staring straight ahead as directed. “What do you want?”

“I bear a message. If you would free yourself from your unwanted marriage, you must act. Someone will tell you what is required. Be vigilant. Wait for their coming. It will not be long.”

The speaker did not linger for an answer. Footsteps receded, moving quickly. Though she whirled at their echo, she saw only a shadow flitting away in the gloom. A side-entrance door creaked open and closed again with a solid thud. The abbey was quiet once more.

Isabel shivered as if with a winter chill. She took a step, and then another. Abruptly she broke into a run. She did not slow until she was through the great doors of the abbey and out in the late-afternoon sun.

“Sweet Saint Catherine, Isabel! Where have you been? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

It was Cate who called out to her as she came toward her down the palace corridor with Marguerite on her heels. She moved swiftly to catch Isabel’s uninjured hand, holding it between both her own. Marguerite hastened to her other side, putting an arm around her waist.

“What happened to you?” her younger sister echoed. “You were not at dinner just now, nor was Braesford. We wondered if he was keeping you prisoner.”

That possibility, being so far outside the mark, surprised a small spurt of nervous laughter from Isabel. “No, no, he would not stoop so low.”

Immediately, she wondered how she could be so sure. She knew not, but she was sure indeed.

“He need not stoop at all, as far as I can see,” Marguerite said in tones of gloom. “He has broken the curse now so has nothing to fear. Nor has any other man.”

Isabel put her arm around Marguerite and began to walk again, gathering Cate on her other side. “Something has happened, it must have. Surely marriages have not been arranged for you already?”

“No, but nearly as bad,” Marguerite complained. “We are being besieged, I do swear it. I have had six invitations to share a place at table. Never was I so glad to have a sister to fall back on as an excuse to refuse.”

“Two ballads and a chanson have been dedicated to me, and four gentlemen have said they mean to speak to Graydon.” Cate shook her head.

“We are doomed,” Marguerite said with a moan, lowering her head to Isabel’s shoulder and closing her eyes.

Isabel touched her cheek to her younger sister’s head, resting it an instant against the small cap under her veil. “I wish there was something I could do, but…”

“You can’t protect us forever, though you have watched over us like a ewe guarding her lambs since Mother died,” Cate said with a sigh. “We must give thanks that we escaped being married off for so long.”

“Or thank Graydon’s greed,” Isabel said with some asperity. “But really, I would think the rumors surrounding Rand would make your suitors think twice.”

“He still has the freedom of the palace, which is no discouragement at all.” Marguerite scowled. “Unless you believe he will soon be taken to prison?”

“No,” Isabel said sharply, and was surprised at how painful the idea was to her. Had she not been half wishing for the same thing not so long ago?

“What has become of Braesford?” Cate asked. “Has he been taken ill, perchance? Were his injuries worse than they seemed? That might put off the others, you know.”

“He has great powers of recovery,” Isabel answered, avoiding her sister’s eyes as she considered the proof she had of that statement.

“Or could we say, at least, that the curse resulted in a Tobias Night?”

Isabel shook her head.

“You mean— Oh, Isabel!”

“We are truly wed,” she said with a small shrug.

“I told you we were doomed,” Marguerite said to Cate with grim satisfaction.

“Not entirely, not yet.” Isabel went on to tell them what had occurred at the abbey.

“It almost sounds as if this man, whoever he may have been, expects you to do something to be rid of Braesford,” Cate said with a scowl. “Has he bothered to look at him? Can he really think you able to harm such a fearsome knight?”

“Even if I would!”

“Does that mean you would not?” Cate leaned to search Isabel’s face. “Do you like him as a husband?”

“Nothing of the kind,” Isabel said stoutly. “It’s only that there are worse fates.” The memory of Rand as he hovered above her slipped through her mind, the sculpted perfection of his shoulders, the dark fastness of his eyes, his fierce concentration as he made love to her. To be denied that closeness, or the magic of his heat and power inside her, would be a loss. Not that it meant anything. Of course it did not.

Cate pursed her lips, but made no reply.

“What has this odd message you were given to do with Leon?” Marguerite asked. “Or had it anything at all?”

“I think it unlikely.”

“So do I, for what would it avail the Master of Revels to remove Braesford? The king would never allow you to marry a mere troubadour.”

“Nor would Leon expect it, which makes me think the request to meet was sent by someone else in his name.”

Isabel squeezed her sister’s slender waist as they walked. Though youngest of the three of them, Marguerite often had the clearest vision of people and the reasons for their actions. “Indeed, someone who noticed our friendship with him.”

“Unless Leon thought he might be doing you a favor by making you a widow,” Cate pointed out.

A frown crossed Isabel’s face before she waved away the suggestion. “Neither of you have seen him?”

“He has quite disappeared,” Cate said. “It’s worrisome.”

“I think he has been imprisoned,” Marguerite declared.

“Oh, come.”

Isabel gave her second sister a quelling look before turning back to the younger. “By Henry, you mean?”

“Or someone acting under his authority. It stands to reason, does it not? Leon could be prevented from saying what happened to his machine and who may have tampered with it. It could be made to appear he is in the pay of the Yorkists who want Henry deposed. And it would keep him secure, betimes, should he be required as a sacrifice.”

A sacrifice, a scapegoat.

That was precisely what she had thought about Rand, Isabel remembered. But if this was the way the wind blew, then did it not follow that the business of the fiery explosion and the disappearance of Mademoiselle Juliette were somehow connected?

What possible link could there be? Yes, and what could be the point of two scapegoats?

She and her sisters had reached an antechamber from which opened a number of the small chambers given over to courtiers, among them the one Isabel now shared with Rand. She glanced in that direction.

Her husband lounged in the open doorway with his back to the jamb and his arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes rested on her, and his features had a grim cast.

“Oh, dear,” Marguerite said under her breath. “He looks none too pleased.”

Cate lifted a brow. “He looks hungry, I would say, as if he missed his dinner and expects you to make up for the loss, one way or another.”

“Cate!” Isabel murmured in protest, though she could not gainsay her. A tremor of disquiet moved over her. Or could it be anticipation?

“Whatever his purpose, I believe we should only be in the way,” Cate said as she dipped a small curtsy in Rand’s direction. “Marguerite and I will leave you here, and hope to see you in the great hall this evening.”

“That is,” Marguerite added, “if he doesn’t eat you before then.”

Isabel made a small choked noise as the memory of Rand’s mouth upon her sent hot blood pounding through her veins, making her breasts swell against her bodice. Her sisters turned inquiring looks upon her, but she ignored them. “I will be there betimes, but…but you need not leave us.”

“Oh, I think we must,” Cate said hurriedly as Rand shifted his tall form, coming erect.

“Heaven preserve you,” Marguerite whispered.

Her sisters gave her a quick hug each and turned back the way they had come. Isabel moved on alone.

“Been saying your prayers?” Rand asked as she drew near, his voice like stone grating over stone.

“What makes you think so?” She entered the chamber with some wariness as he stepped back to permit it.

He followed her inside and closed the door. “Someone saw you at the abbey.”

How could she trust him to believe she had gone to meet Leon, a man he knew as her admirer, from mere friendship and concern? Oh, and how could she tell him that she had been promised her freedom without him asking whether she would seek his death to gain it?

She could do neither. The anger of men was to be avoided at all costs. She had learned that lesson long ago. Removing her cap and veil, rubbing at the soreness where their weight had pulled at her scalp, she spoke a half-truth over her shoulder. “I missed mass from lying so long abed.”

“It’s to be hoped that you did not say a prayer to be spared the attentions of your husband.”

His voice was close as he followed after her. He put his hands at her waist, halting her forward motion by pulling her against him. As she spoke, her reply came out in a gasp. “No. Why should I?”

“Because it is destined to be unanswered,” he said in a low murmur, his breath warm against the side of her neck.

Shivering with reaction and what she barely recognized as remorse, she turned into his arms, slid her hands up the hard wall of his chest and twined them around his neck. He pulled her close and set his mouth to hers while smoothing his hands down over her hips to fit her against the hot, velvet-over-iron firmness between the columns of his set legs, hidden behind his doublet.

Neither partook of supper in the great hall during the long evening that followed, but it did not prevent them from feasting.

10

T
he court was not the same without Elizabeth of York, Rand thought as he bent over a lute he had found discarded on a bench in the great hall, plucking quietly at the strings. Though a gentle presence, she had exerted a beneficent effect that extended to its every corner. In her absence, the king was morose and short of temper. Courtiers exchanged sharp words over matters of procedure and precedence. Servants were slack in their duties and snappish with one another. The kitchen did not send forth its best efforts, whether to high table or low, and the silver and gold plate which graced the chests of the great hall had lost their sheen, turning dim with dust and fingerprints. Add the lack of a Master of Revels to arrange entertainment and the difference was complete.

Not that Rand blamed Henry for instantly removing his queen. She was meant to go, anyway, and who knew what tale someone might pour into her ears if she lingered? The king could give her some simplified version of the mystery of the missing child in future, but she did not need it now. Some said hearing of such an evil event could mark a child in the womb. That was without the fright caused by the explosion during the mummery.

A sense of strained anticipation lay over the palace. All waited for news from Winchester, of course, to learn whether Henry would have his heir or must undertake the onerous task of trying again. Still, it was more than that. Leon had not been found, though troops of men spread through the town and countryside, almost tearing it apart. No one had discovered how or why his hellish machine had belched flame and smoke, or who was meant to be the victim. No man came forward to accuse foe or friend. Whispers about plots to overthrow the king always drifted about, but no serious evidence of such a coalition had surfaced.

The more Rand considered the matter, the less he liked it. The machine had been a clumsy and uncertain method of eliminating the king. Far more deadly means of assassination had lain to the Frenchman’s hand, if such was his intention. Poison was one, and a favorite at the French court. The thrust of a well-honed knife was another. A harquebus shot from a tower, an asp in the royal bed, a stray arrow from a longbow during the hunt—any of these could have accomplished the deed if a man had no care for his safety. The Master of Revels might have escaped any whiff of blame with them, while his
La danse macabre
pointed squarely in his direction.

On the other hand, someone who wanted to be rid of the king could have seen the potential for destruction and acted accordingly. Leon, a man of swift intelligence, may well have discerned the plot as it unfolded and made his escape to save his neck from stretching.

There was one other possibility that Rand could see. The death dance of small souls within that fiery maw of steel and gears had borne a disturbing parallel to the newborn’s death by fire that was laid to his account. Had Leon thought to flay him, and by extension the king, with a reminder of that supposed destruction? Did Leon, a Frenchman, know Mademoiselle Juliette d’Amboise well enough to have a care for her fate and her child?

Rand, frowning over a complicated run of chords in the melody he played, considered how best to discover the answers to these questions. They must be found, else it could mean his life. Henry had stayed his hand these many days from past friendship and gratitude, but that could not last forever. If Mademoiselle Juliette and her child did not appear soon, the king would be forced to act.

A prickling awareness raised the hair on the back of Rand’s neck. He looked up, his gaze settling unerringly on Isabel as she traversed the great hall in the company of her two sisters, as usual. She inclined her head as she met his gaze across the room, but did not smile. It was not a slight, regardless of how it felt, but only recognition of court etiquette which said a lady should not publicly favor her husband. Nor did he smile, though it was hard to prevent the tilt of his mouth in secret pleasure as he surveyed her from top to toe, lingering on all the divers curves in between.

He had watched her dress just that morning, lying back in bed while Gwynne arrayed her for the day in sea-green samite over a linen shift with a ruffled neckline. It was he who had chosen the sleeves the color of an autumn sky that she wore with it, also the knots of blue and green ribbon that held them in place. Blue for fidelity, he had selected, a private conceit and secret pleasure.

He also knew precisely what she wore underneath her pristine splendor, and that was nothing whatever. He knew because he had dismissed her serving woman and taken advantage of that fact, taken his lovely wife by simply flipping up her skirts and draping her knees over his arms while she lay back upon their bed. He had made the bed curtains sway as if in a high wind, and felt still the imprint at his waist where she had clamped him to her with her slender legs.

She was stronger than she looked.

God’s blood, but when would he have his fill of her?

He could not think it would be anytime soon. It was all he could do not to rise up this instant, in imitation of his unruly rod, fling down the lute and take her straight to their chamber.

She fascinated him. He could watch her for hours, absorbing the way she moved, the tender curve of her cheek, the grace with which she sipped from their wine goblet or pushed her veil back from her face. The sheen of her skin, like the luster of a pearl, was amazing to him. Her soft yet firm curves, her warm, damp hollows, drew him as if by unseen bonds. Her mind was a mystery he yearned to solve. Steeped in reserve and private deliberations, she seemed cool, proud, given to calculating her every move. Underneath, however, she was warm and caring, quick to sympathize with the pain of others, fair and intelligent in her judgments. She had not a mean-spirited bone in all her fair body, nor did she speak ill of any soul.

She honored her vows, both in word and deed, coming to him in bed without shrinking or protest. And once there, her response to him was sweet beyond imagining, springing from a vein of sensual delight so wide and deep he had yet to find its limit.

He had sought it. Indeed he had, and, pray God, soon would again.

Without conscious thought, his fingers found the tune of a lascivious French ballad about a lad and lass who go a-berrying on a fine summer’s day, and all the ways they found to enjoy their berries, all the places they managed to stain with juice while resting in the shade. And he grinned as he saw a flush rise to Isabel’s cheekbones, saw the hot, leaf-green flash of her eyes, before she turned away.

He wondered if there were berries to be had in the pantries of the palace.

Isabel’s sister Cate, Rand noticed, leaned to whisper a comment as they strolled. On her other side, Marguerite smothered a laugh. They passed quickly through the room, though Rand noticed that their footsteps matched the tempo of the notes that trickled from his fingers. And as they reached the doorway that led to the queen’s solar, where the ladies of the court were still embroidering a bedcover for the much-hoped-for young prince, Isabel stopped. With one hand on the door frame, she turned, looked back and smiled into his eyes.

Rand half rose from his seat to follow her. He might have, might have taken her arm and walked her to their chamber, if not for a slurred voice that came from behind him.

“Lucky bastard, you are, for all ye don’t deserve her.”

Rand turned to see Viscount Henley gazing with glassy fixation at the place where Isabel had stood. His lips were loose and his eyes watery as he raised an ale tankard to his mouth. Sweat made circular stains under the arms of his shirt, the device of a bear embroidered on the tabard he wore was spotted by the remains of more than one meal and a sour, animalistic smell indicated that he had either been drunk for days or else had no affection for bathing.

Rage boiled in Rand’s veins and he straightened, took a step toward the viscount.

Henley slewed around toward him, took a hasty step back. A bench caught him behind his knees. He sat down with such a solid thump that ale sloshed into his lap. He looked, suddenly, as if he would cry.

Rand’s anger faded as he considered the man’s drunken misery. His first impulse had been to let holes into the big oaf’s skin with a few well-placed sword thrusts. Being the wedded husband of Lady Isabel, however, he could afford to be generous.

Added to that, Henley was seldom encountered when not at Graydon’s side. He was doubtless alone now because Isabel’s stepbrother was laid up with his tournament injuries. He would be at loose ends, and ripe for someone to share his drunken grievances.

“I could not agree more that I don’t deserve my lady,” Rand said in smooth urbanity. “No man could, as she is without peer.”

“She’d have been mine but for Henry’s interference.” The words were brooding, laced with impotent fury.

“Would she indeed?”

Henley wagged his great head. “Graydon gave me his hand on it. It was set in all but deed. Then…” He trailed off, buried his face in his tankard again.

“No contract had been signed, surely.” Propping his foot on the bench beside Graydon’s companion, Rand flipped Isabel’s favor that he yet wore tied at his elbow out of his way and began to finger the berry song from the lute once more. He listened intently, however, for marriage contracts could be binding, making any later ceremony null and void.

“No time to draw it up, so he said to me. He was talking to Henry behind my back, even then.”

Rand allowed himself a breath of silent relief. “But you remain comrades, the two of you. You rode to Braesford with Graydon, after all, as well as in the tourney. Truly, you have a generous spirit.”

Henley looked owlishly wise. His mouth worked for a moment before he found words. “Graydon said all I’d to do was wait. The curse of the Graces would get you, then ’twould be my turn.”

“Your turn to be done in by it? No great honor, that,” Rand commented as pleasantly as he was able.

“My turn with Lady Isabel. But the curse has not got ye yet, damn your eyes. Mayhap you’ve beat it.” Henley laughed, a rough, mocking sound, and flicked his fingers toward Isabel’s sleeve tied to Rand’s arm. “Or not. You wear your wife’s favor still. Could be you’re under her spell and don’t know it. Could be you’re to die by inches.”

Henley was swaying where he sat. Rand stopped playing, put a hand on the man’s shoulder to steady him. “It may well be that I am in her thrall,” he said in grim sincerity. “If so, I pray it continues. Well, and that no one decides to help this curse along.”

“Oh, aye, best watch out,” Henley said with a wink that made him look cross-eyed. He laughed again.

Rand put the lute aside. “So Graydon proposed the match between me and the Lady Isabel. It was not Henry’s thought.”

“Wouldn’t say that. ’Twas the king’s will, right enough.” Henley was silent a moment, lost in ponderous thought. “Graydon liked it, though. He’ll get more from Braesford’s rents, see, than from her inherited lands.”

The only way Isabel’s stepbrother could lay hands on the rents from Rand’s estate was if Isabel was left a widow with a child. As her nearest male relative and head of her family, Graydon would take control of her inheritance from a dead husband, at least until she re-married. If he gave her to Henley betimes, it was unlikely the viscount would challenge his continued use of the income, or at least so long as he shared it.

And if she was left a widow without a child, she would still inherit a portion of Braesford, though she must return to Graydon Hall and another marriage arranged by stepbrother or king. Braesford Hall and the majority of its lands would descend to Rand’s next of kin. As he had none other than his half brother, what were the odds that William would be handed the prize and the lady’s hand with it?

These thoughts were not new, but were less comfortable now than before he had taken Isabel into his bed.

A widow with no close male relative could claim much more independence. Barring interference from the king, she could collect her own rents, buy and sell property, invest in commerce and other such ventures. If he was to hang, Rand thought, it might as well be for a death he had caused. Perhaps he would see to it that Isabel was minus a stepbrother before he was gone.

“Graydon is unlikely to enjoy the income he covets,” Rand said. “You might tell him so.”

“Aye, and I have. Told him, too, that this curse of the Three Graces is a false tale made up among his sisters. He didn’t like hearing it.”

“Was that,” Rand asked in his softest tone, “when he broke Lady Isabel’s finger?”

Henley frowned. “He did that?’

“Aye, and took joy of it, used it to force her to marry.”

“Shouldn’t have.” Henley attempted to drain his tankard but found it empty. He sat staring into it for long seconds. Shaking his head, muttering something about more ale, he pushed himself off the bench and shambled away.

Rand let him go, though his gaze rested on the retreating figure. It was possible he had done more harm than good with his revelations.

No matter what came of them, the results would not be allowed to touch Isabel. He would see to that.

The morning passed with excruciating slowness. Rand chafed at the enforced inactivity. He might as well be shut up in the Tower prison as to be kept kicking his heels about the palace. He ached to be in the saddle, to be riding out with the men-at-arms that still quartered the meadows and marshes, hills and valleys outside town, searching for Mademoiselle Juliette and Leon. It almost seemed instinct would lead him to one or the other of them if he was allowed to join the hunt.

Midday arrived, tolled by the abbey bell. Dinner would not be long in coming. He made his way toward the chamber allotted to him and Isabel, in part to make sure his hands were clean before sharing food and drink with her, but also because he expected her to do the same and hoped to steal a kiss. Or something more if she was so inclined.