By His Majesty's Grace (8 page)

“Excellent,” Henry said with satisfaction. “Tomorrow it shall be, then.”

What could either of them say to that? Rand felt Isabel’s tense reluctance, and even shared it to some extent. He had thought to spare her the shame of being wed to a suspected murderer. How soon might she be his widow, therefore ripe for another of Henry’s arranged marriages? To command them to the altar now in fine disregard of the outcome was an unwarranted interference in their lives.

Regardless, watching as Isabel inclined her head and dropped into another stiff curtsy of obedience to the royal will, Rand was grateful to have the decision made for him. His own bow was a profound gesture of compliance. And it was all he could do to conceal the sudden firestorm of anticipation that blazed through him, body and soul, as he thought of the wedding night to come.

5

I
sabel longed to voice her objections to this marriage as she stood beside Braesford, wished she could refuse Henry’s royal command outright. One did not defy a king, however, no matter how galling it might be to bow to his will.

She had been summoned specifically to hear his directive concerning her marriage, she thought. There could be no other reason for her presence. Unless, of course, the king wanted her to know the particulars of the crime lodged against Braesford? A bride should understand precisely why her groom was likely to be taken from her by the hangman.

The case seemed dire. Someone must have arranged for the Mademoiselle d’Amboise’s escort and forged the papers presented at Braesford. That person must necessarily have knowledge of the court, of Henry’s signature and seals. Well, or have influence with those who did.

That was supposing her future husband had not lied. They had only his word for what had happened. Some few among his men-at-arms might corroborate it, of course. Their loyalty was strong, as she’d noticed during their southward journey, making what they might say of him suspect.

As for the midwife and her suspicions, it was odd that such a piece of gossip had reached the king’s ears. It should not, ordinarily, have spread beyond the woman’s neighbors. More, by her own admission, the midwife had seen nothing truly damning, had only surmised foul play. Surely the king would have dismissed the matter out of hand at any other time.

Nonetheless, there was the disappearance of the Frenchwoman and her child. Where were they now, if they were alive and well? Yes, and why had this Mademoiselle Juliette not sent to inform the king of her whereabouts? It was always possible the lady thought he knew because Henry himself had arranged for her captivity. Prisoners did not normally send messages to their jailer begging for succor.

So many chances for betrayal. Isabel’s head hurt just thinking of them. She could see no clear way through them because she barely knew this man who was to be her husband.

She did not know him, yet they were to be tied together for all eternity.

The king’s mother stepped forward then, claiming Isabel’s attention, though she spoke to Rand. Removing her hands from inside the belled sleeves of her gown, she gestured toward a pair of bundles that sat beside the throne. “The king and I pray this matter that brings you before us will soon be settled, my good and faithful knight, and in a manner satisfactory to all,” she said in quiet precision. “In token of our faith that it shall be, and in honor of your wedding, we extend these gifts to you and your lady. A servant will deliver them to your separate chambers, betimes. It is our dearest hope that you will wear them with joy and the blessings of heaven upon your union.”

Rand said everything that was appropriate, and Isabel added her gratitude. Moments later, they were dismissed. Through lowered lashes, as she backed from the royal presence, she spared a glance for the gifts. Their wrappings appeared to be of silk and the contents soft. The king often presented his dependents and favorites with clothing at Christmas or for weddings, christenings and the like. This was, she felt certain, the nature of their gifts.

Nor was she wrong.

When she had returned to her chamber, and her portion of the king’s gift was delivered, Isabel hesitated to open it. She had ordered a gown of sanguine-red silk made for her wedding, had transported it northward and back again. This replacement had the feel of a bribe, at least to her mind. To accept it seemed the final submission to her fate. Yet refusing it would be a rather childish bit of defiance. Who would be harmed by it except herself? With stiff fingers, she slipped free the cord that held the wrappings.

Inside was a sumptuous silken costume in Henry’s colors of green and white. The gown was beautifully embroidered in a pattern of bracken fronds and gold vines on a white silk ground, with dewdrops among them made of pearls. Its sleeves, attached by ties at the shoulders, were also embroidered and so wide and full at the wrists that they draped nearly to the floor. Included was a girdle for her hipline that was worked with gold and set with a cluster of emeralds, also a fillet of woven gold wire to hold back her hair, which would be left uncovered on this one occasion of her life.

It was necessary to try the new gown and girdle, so she and Gwynne might make any necessary alterations. None were required, so Gwynne insisted, though Isabel could hardly tell from her reflection in the pie-size round of polished steel held by the serving woman.

“’Tis a marvel of a gown, fit for a princess, milady. I’ve never seen silk as soft or as fine,” Gwynne said, spreading the sleeves so they draped just so, then standing back with her head cocked to one side to view the affect. “The king did well by ye, he did.”

“Yes. I wonder why.”

“Ye be his ward, and it’s his duty to dress you for your wedding. Should there be aught else?”

“There usually is, I fear.”

“You think it a reward? But for what, think you? Unless…”

“The ordeal of marrying beneath me, no doubt.”

“Yet yon knight can hold his own with any.”

This was true, something that caused an odd, heated heaviness beneath the gold mesh of her girdle when she thought of it. He had stood tall and unbowed during their audience with Henry, showing proper respect but no subservience. She had seen nobles of rank display far less dignity in the face of kingly frowns.

Such thoughts were far from comfortable. Deliberately, she said, “But he is only a knight.”

Gwynne lifted a brow. “You will receive a third of Braesford as your dower right. What else is needed?”

“You know very well.”

“An earl or a duke as husband, ’stead of Braesford? And I suppose ye’d take a hobbling old rake with title attached, instead of yon fine piece of manhood? Indeed, milady, I say ’twould be a sorry bargain.”

Isabel gave her a jaundiced look. “You have ever had an eye for a nice pair of shoulders. There is far more to a man.”

“So you noticed his shoulders, did ye? And his legs, too, I’ll be bound—strong as oaks they be. As for what he’s got between them…”

“That isn’t what I meant!”

“But you won’t claim ’tis nay important.”

No, she could not say that, though she tried not to think overmuch about that part of Rand, or of what would happen on their wedding night. She was less than successful. In truth, she had tossed and turned in her litter after he left her, trying to forget the strength of his hands, his arms, the way he seemed to fill the small, swaying space they had shared. Yes, and the brief intimation of what it might be like to feel his weight upon her, his power inside her.

His hands had been gentle as he cradled her injured finger at Braesford, before he had ruthlessly pulled the broken bone ends back into place so they might set properly. Would he be the same behind the curtains of their marriage bed, gentle at first but merciless as he possessed her?

With a quick shake of her head to dislodge the disturbing thoughts and the light-headed feeling that came with them, she said, “The richness may also indicate the value of the alliance to Henry.”

“What way would that be?” Gwynne inquired with a frown.

“Because of the signal service Braesford performed for him some weeks ago, one that went awry.” She went on to explain in full, having no compunction about discussing the matter with Gwynne. The woman had done her best to protect both the girls and their mother during her second marriage, lying for them, making excuses, bringing them food and drink when they were shut away as punishment for some error. She had despised the Earl of Graydon and blamed him for their mother’s death, had rejoiced when he died. She was no fonder of his son and heir, their stepbrother.

“Aye,” Gwynne said with a wise nod. “I heard some such in the servants’ hall at Braesford. All there knew the lady had been the king’s mistress, knew men came and took her away.”

“And the baby?” Isabel asked sharply.

“The lady carried a bundle when she went. At least, so ’twas said after the charge of infant murder was spouted off in the great hall that night. Some swore they’d seen the babe, though no one went in and out the lady’s chamber except the maid she’d brought with her.”

Was this something the king should know? Isabel wondered if he would listen, or if, having such a network of spies in various parts of the realm, he knew it already.

“The king mentioned rumors spreading here.”

“I heard a snicker or two, though none have said much to me. That’s the way of it, see. They fear to say anything to my face, being as you and Braesford have the king’s goodwill.”

“Do we indeed?” Isabel gave a small, mirthless laugh.

Gwynne shrugged. “Mayhap you can tell what’s what by the costume Braesford has from the king.”

It was a point, Isabel reflected. The clothing, if it was as fine as her own, might indicate his position as the king’s honored friend.

It could also mean nothing more than that Henry would send him well attired to his death. And why that last idea should suddenly be so appalling, she could not say. She barely knew the man. Certainly, his death meant nothing to her. Nothing at all.

Isabel’s sisters were out and about the palace somewhere. Though she would enjoy showing them her new wedding finery, there was no time just now. The evening meal was almost upon them. She would much prefer to take a little bread and wine and retire to her bed, but it could not be done. The coming wedding was certain to be on everyone’s lips before the night was over. To hide away would make it appear she was mortified or, heaven forbid, fearful of it. Pride was a great failing, but she could not abide anyone believing either of those things. Accordingly, she allowed Gwynne to remove the white silk gown and dress her in the gold velvet once more.

The great hall was an enormous echoing space, the largest unsupported structure in the known world, with walls of cream stone lined with galleries for onlookers and topped by ranks of lancet windows under massive corbelled woodwork. At the moment, it was being set for the evening meal, with long rows of tables laid with ample cloths—plates and cups at the high table under its cloth-of-gold canopy, and trenchers and beakers at the lower ones.

The task was enormous, as the kitchens at Westminster supplied food for several hundred on any given evening, and more were fed by the king’s almoner, who passed out the uneaten trenchers and meats to those who begged at the back gate. Menservants moved here and there with jugs of wine that had been decanted in the buttery, setting them out on side tables. Great baskets piled high with more trenchers, warm from the oven and smelling delectable, had been placed on the sideboards beyond. Courtiers and their ladies, diplomats from half a dozen countries, members of the king’s new yeomen guard, nobles, families from the country and hangers-on of all kinds lounged around the room. They talked and laughed in a low roar, playing at cards and dice and getting in the way of the servants who scurried about.

Among the throng, Isabel caught sight of the bright heads of her two sisters. Moving easily, nodding and speaking to an acquaintance here and there, she wended her way toward where Cate and Marguerite sat on a padded bench.

A gentleman stood next to them with one foot propped on their seat and a lute resting across his raised knee. His fingers moved on the strings in the faintest of melodies as he made some quick observation that brought trills of laughter.

Cate glanced away from the troubadour just then. Her face lighted in welcome and she lifted her hand to beckon. The gentleman, following her gaze, looked over his shoulder. He straightened at once as Isabel came near.

“Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, sketching a deep bow, “what felicity to see you among us! We thought you lost to us for months, perhaps forever, yet here you are again. I shall compose a madrigal for the event, one to astonish the company and make glad your girlish heart.”

It was Leon, Henry’s Master of Revels, the gentleman who had so obligingly spread the tale of the Three Graces curse. A Frenchman of boundless charm, he gravitated naturally to the most attractive women in any room. Isabel, like her sisters, enjoyed his extravagant nonsense, but never made the mistake of taking it seriously. She sometimes thought it was the reason he sought their company so often.

“Spare yourself the effort, sir,” she answered with wry humor. “My return will no doubt be short-lived, and then where would you be? Possessed of a rare song with no occasion to sing it.”

“A smile from your lips would make it worthwhile.”

Leon’s gaze was meltingly tender. It was no wonder so many ladies succumbed to his blandishments. With dark hair that curled wildly over his head, eyes so black the pupils blended into their gleaming sable-brown and olive skin touched with hints of rose on his cheekbones, he should have appeared effeminate. He was, instead, like some archangel painted by a master, the very epitome of masculine beauty. He knew it, too, but made such a jest of it that it was near impossible to accuse him of vanity. His dress this evening was eye-catching, as always, a doublet of crimson velvet over hose striped in gold, and with a yellow-brown acorn hat on his curls that sported a pheasant’s iridescent feather. The lute he began to strum once more was fig-shaped and finely crafted, decorated with inlaid wood of many varieties in the Italian fashion.

“I am desolated, Leon,” Cate said in mock chagrin. “I thought you were composing a verse to my lips, comparing them to the sunset.”

“So I was, my sweet, and have it still in mind. It will require no great labor, given such inspiration, so will be finished in a trice.”

“When you are free from more important commissions, I suppose you mean to say. What a dastard you are.”

“You wound me, fair one,” he complained, his handsome features taking on a lugubrious look.