Rivals for the Crown (15 page)

And then he saw them, two younger women, one blond and pretty, her cupid's mouth pursed, her blue eyes anxious. And the other, taller, with a regal manner. Her lovely face was framed by a wimple of creamy white and topped by a headdress of the same material, brown hair curling softly around her temples. She had a very fine body, lithe, the curves of her breasts and waist revealed by the line of her
grey
gown, the same
grey
as her eyes. Her sleeves were a deep yellow, almost golden in color, a bright spot in this sea of
sombre
hues. She turned her head, showing him her profile and the line of her jaw, smooth and feminine, then nodded at something said to her and hurried forward, propelled by the guards behind them.

He nudged Kieran and gestured to them.

"I'm thinking the blond one," Kieran said.

"Wager?" Rory asked, not from any conviction that the brown- haired lass was Isabel but more to see what Kieran would do.

"Wager."

The entire world, it seemed, would attend Queen Eleanor's funeral. Leaders from every known country had been invited. For weeks London had been filling with people eager to see history made, and now that the day was here, the streets had been almost impassable. Isabel had watched the crowds from her spot in one of the many royal carriages.

She had not expected to be here. She'd thought she would be dismissed upon their return to London, but instead, both she and her mother had been instructed to continue as they had been before. Her mother, distraught at the queen's death, had been astonished, and
honoured
to be asked to help
in the creation of the draping
of Eleanor's casket. They had been told to keep their rooms in Westminster. But all Isabel could think of was the price Walter Langton would demand.

Even more surprising, Isabel had been instructed to be in court every day. No one ever told her why, or what she was supposed to do there, but she had attended as told, most days doing nothing more than being present at the meals, sitting with the other courtiers as the more foolish jesters and minstrels tried to amuse the king, and the wiser ones simply performed. Every day she'd woken with the expectation of being called to the Wardrobe Tower. And each evening she'd sighed with relief. It would not last, she knew.

The king already had plans underway to construct twelve great crosses, one at each town where the funeral procession had spent the night, and the court was filled with architects and stone craftsmen, who met with Edward to plan them. Eleanor's tomb, bearing the same pose as her great seal, had been ordered years before, and until it was completed, her body would rest in a grave

near the high altar at Westminster Abbey. But that was months, perhaps years, away.

Eleanor's heart had been removed in Lincoln, carried to London, and buried with a sumptuous ceremony at the Dominican priory at Blackfriars. Isabel had attended with the rest of the queen's ladies. Langton had been there, but he'd given no sign of having noticed her, and the band around her heart had loosened. Perhaps he had forgotten her. As Henry had seemed to do.

She saw him almost daily now, for he'd been moved to rooms near the queen's ladies' apartments. She would wave, and he would smile, and sometimes he'd even take a moment to chat with her. He was always friendly. He never failed to compliment her. But they said nothing of importance to each other, nor were they ever alone. Which was fitting, she thought, for both of them had to be mindful that the court was in deep mourning. She was sure he felt the same, and that when the mourning period had passed, they would see more of each other.

Until one rainy December day.

She had gone to visit her grandmother and was hurrying through the wet streets to the ferryboat that would take her back to Westminster when she saw them. Henry had his back to her, but she would know him anywhere, his dark hair just over the collar of his
armour
, for he was in uniform.

He held the reins to his horse in his right hand, but his left was pressed to Alis's back, holding her against him. Isabel stopped,

seeing Alis's bright hair over his shoulder, and Henry's lowered head. She did not need to get closer to know he was kissing her. She stood rooted to the ground.

What a fool she had been! She'd told Alis where she was going this day, had told her the time she would return. Alis had planned this. And then all the other times Alis had asked her schedule, seemingly innocent questions about Isabel's comings and goings. And Henry.

They'd talked about Henry constantly, leaning together at meals and watching him with the other knights. Sitting at tournaments, cheering him when he'd defeated his opponent. Dancing with him at the royal festivities. She'd known Alis had been flirting with him, and he with her, but Alis flirted with everyone. And no one had told her anything of this. But then, who would have? Lady Dickleburough. She must have known. Of course she did. The entire court did.

She had been such a fool. How could she not have known that Alis found Henry as desirable and exquisitely male as she herself did? And of course Alis was pretty and flirtatious, and Henry had noticed it. He'd told her himself that he thought Alis was lovely. He'd told her she was beautiful, and she'd chosen to believe it. She'd also chosen to believe that his flir
t
ation with Alis meant nothing. All the knights flirted with Alis. And many with Isabel, or any woman they met. It was a game, a faux wooing, that amused the court, something to pass the days. Courtly love. But not real. Not love. Or so she had thought.

Now it was time to face the truth. And them. She'd had no choice. She must pass them or stay where she was and let the boat go to Westminster without her. And somehow find her way back in the dark. Overhead, thunder rolled, and she had pulled her cloak hood tighter, bending her head and hoping that they would be too occupied to notice her.

They were lifting their heads and looking deeply in each other's eyes until just the moment she had reached them. It was Henry who had seen her first, his cheeks staining with sudden color, his gaze sharpening as she passed. Alis had turned then, with Henry's arm still around her, and she smiled at Isabel, a self-satisfied smile that let Isabel know that Alis was well aware of shattering Isabel's foolish dreams.

"Isabel. Dear child, how are you?"

Isabel had ignored her, continuing on to the boat, giving the boatman her fare and climbing carefully aboard.

"I must go," Alis had said loudly, pulling away from Henry, then darting back to kiss him one last time. "You are delicious. As always."

Isabel had refused to look at them, did not want to see Henry's expression as his lover left him, or Alis's triumphant look. "Coming from a lover's tryst?" he had asked her that first day. She had cursed herself for being so easily taken in.

A moment later Alis had plumped herself beside Isabel, wiggling to be sure that she was noticed, then sighed contentedly. She had sighed again, the sound infuriating. Isabel had clenched her hands beneath her cloak.

"Some day you will understand," Alis had said.

Isabel had glared at her, then slowly turned away, as though she found Alis beneath her notice. "You did that intentionally."

"What, sit beside you? It's a small boat, Isabel, and we know each other."

"You know what I mean. Henry. You took him."

"You never had him, Isabel. You dreamed of him, but you never acted on those dreams. I did. You offered nothing but smiles. I offered him much more. And he took it. In time you will understand."

"I understand now, Alis. You had not noticed him until I admired him. Of all the men at court, all those you could have picked, you chose to pursue him."

"He pursued me, Isabel."

"I know what you are. All of London recognizes you for what you are."

The boatman had snickered.

Alis's eyes had widened, then narrowed. "You are a fool to speak to me thus. You are no more than a spoiled child who has been denied a treat, Isabel."

"A child with tales to tell," Isabel had said, knowing she was creating an enemy. "And the will to do just that. The whole country will be gathering for this funeral. I will see many of those we visited on our journey. I am looking forward to renewing their acquaintances and perhaps introducing them to each other. And to Henry."

Alis had stared at her. "I have my own tale to tell. You are a bastard."

"I have made no secret of it. I am a bastard by birth. You are one by choice."

The boatman had laughed aloud.

It had been a moment Isabel had been paying for ever since. Her brave words had been only that—she'd not said anything to anyone about Alis. But Alis had spread tales about Isabel immediately, saying that it was not her grandmother Isabel went to visit in the City but a married man of low birth. Isabel held her head up, but she was ashamed of the bits of gossip about herself that Lady Dickleburough repeated to her, in great detail. Isabel had rarely been more miserable.

When she had visited her grandmother she had hated worrying that she would see Alis and Henry together again. She had gone often nevertheless. Her grandmother was grateful and laughed softly when Isabel poured out her story.

"He is a man, Isabel. And gentleman enough to know that you are not offering yourself to him. Alis de Braun is. There is an Alis in every woman's life, a woman who knows from her earliest day how to attract men and what to do to keep them. It will not last. He will tire of her, or she of him. And when he is ready for marriage, or a meeting of the minds rather than of bodies, he will look elsewhere. As will Alis de Braun. But she will be that much older. Soon she will have nothing to offer and she will become another Lady Dickleburough. Her days are numbered. When they are through, she has nothing. Beauty fades even for the most beautiful."

"Henry said she was lovely. And I was beautiful. It meant nothing."

"As you are. Do not hate him, sweet. He is but a man, and as your mother will tell you, they are all weak."

"I don't hate him," she had said. "I have tried. But I cannot."

Her grandmother had smiled. "There are other men, sweet. Find one."

She had avoided Alis. Difficult, since they slept in the same bed. And today they had shared a royal coach on the way to Eleanor's funeral.

They had sat silently in the coach for what seemed like hours, even longer during the interminable ceremony. She'd been relieved when the choir had begun to sing and then the trumpets outside blared to the world that the king had arrived.

Edward had made his way up the North Aisle, slowly. How strange this day must be for him, Isabel had thought, for Edward and Eleanor had been married in this abbey, and had been the first king and queen to be jointly crowned here. This was where Edward had raised a monument to his father, Henry III, and where his son Alphonso was buried.

Men from every part of Edward's life had followed him. His old friend Sir Otes de Grandison, who had been with Edward in the Holy Land. Gloucester, Lancaster and Warwick were there, with magnates from all over England and Scotland. Barons and knights and wealthy merchants who were among Edward's
favourite
s. His six children, from the child prince Edward, to the newly married Joan on the arm of her husband Gilbert de Clare, to the eldest, Eleanor, who had traveled far to come to her mother's funeral.

Isabel had paid little attention to the ceremony itself, for the sights and sounds of it had been mixed with her sorrow—and her worry for what the future would hold. At the conclusion of the hours-long service, the king and his entourage had filed out first, then the nobles who had sat near him. And then Isabel and the rest

of Queen Eleanor's ladies had walked down the North Aisle only to wait at the end of the Nave while the crowd outside dispersed. She looked at Alis, then away, and met the gaze of a man standing near the door. He was blond, Irish, perhaps, or Norse, for he was quite tall.

His eyes were very blue, his hair pale and drawn back from his striking face. His nose was straight, his cheekbones were sharp, his
jaw line
well defined, his mouth wide, with lips pressed together as he examined those leaving. He looked like a warrior, but he was dressed as a noble, his wide shoulders covered by a beautifully woven cloak with a circular golden brooch set with jewels. He glanced at the others, then looked into Isabel's eyes. And smiled. And suddenly the noise of the people around her disappeared, the slow shuffling as they moved forward now unnoticed.

She smiled in return, and his smile widened. Handsome man. Golden-haired man who lit the dark space he stood in. And then he was gone, his face blocked by a tall man who moved between them. She was hurried forward by the guards, through the crowd, and into the coach. She peered through the open door until it was slammed, looking for him, but it was impossible to find one tall blond man in the crush.

The funeral meal was overlong, and all those who had not had a chance to talk to Edward before or at the funeral itself
clamoured
for a moment now. He ignored most of them, sitting with his closest companions at the dais, speaking little and eating less. But none could leave until he did, and so they sat and waited.

"Are you in need of anything, demoiselles? Isabel?"