Rivals for the Crown (16 page)

She recognized Langton's voice at once but pretended she did not hear.

"Isabel?" His tone was insistent. "Is there anything you need?"

She forced a smile. "Thank you, my lord. But I am in need of nothing."

"Be sure to visit me soon. I insist." Langton patted the hand of the woman whose arm rested on his, then continued to his seat with the other officers of Edward's household.

Isabel shivered, trying to mask her revulsion. The man terrified her.

"Langton, Isabel?" Lady Dickleburough asked. "Have you not been warned? He is a snake, and you would not be the first to be devoured by him."

"I am careful, madam," Isabel replied.

"Wise." Lady Dickleburough emptied her wine glass. "I have a weapon for you. It is an interesting tale about Alis to share. I give it to you as my gift. But a gift you must share." She pulled a piece of swan meat off the platter before them and chewed it, licking her fingers. "Did you know that Alis has a daughter?"

Isabel shook her head.

"She'd not want you to know. She thinks no one knows, but people talk, and there is no such thing as a secret. Yes, it's true. The girl must be six, or seven, perhaps now, for she was born not long before our Prince Edward's birth. Which is why Queen Eleanor's attention was distracted from Alis's absence."

"I've never heard her mention a child."

"Nor will you. Nor will you ever see the child. She is in Gascony, where Alis left her four years ago. Simply walked away and left the child with its nurse."

"And the child's father?"

"Dead, killed in the king's battles. Although some say it is Walter Langton."

"Did she not send for her daughter?"

"Oh, no. Nor does she visit her. She's not seen the child since the day she left." Lady Dickleburough leaned forward. "So when she spreads the tales she invents about you, you can respond with this one. The child's name is Miriam. I hear she's been sent to a convent now."

"How do you know this?"

Lady Dickleburough smiled slowly. "I hear everything, Isabel. Everything."

Isabel was miserable. Her days were long, and she either suffered Alis's presence or agonized in her absence, wondering if Alis and Henry were together. She visited her mother, who complained bitterly of having nothing to do. When she told her mother to be glad they had roofs over their head, her mother asked what she would know of earning a roof over her head. And Isabel bit her tongue before she shouted out her fear of Walter Langton.

The next time she visited her mother they argued again; her mother accusing her of being cosseted while she lived in one tiny room. Isabel thought of the bed she shared with Alis. And the apartment she shared with the rest of the queen's ladies. And said nothing.

Two days after the queen's funeral, a guard came to fetch her where she and Alis sat in their apartment, doing embroidery.

"There are men here to see you, Demoiselle de Burke," he said.

Isabel looked up. She was expecting no one. "Who are they?"

The guard's disdain for the visitors, or for her, was obvious. He examined his nails and waited for her reply. "Foreigners, but aren't they all these days? I could not understand their names."

She sighed with relief. It was not Walter Langton, or his men. She exchanged a glance with Alis, their uneasy truce since the funeral still untested.

"Don't bring them here," Alis said. "Go to them instead."

Isabel nodded, tempted for a moment to ask Alis to accompany her, then thinking better of it. "They asked for me by name?"

"Which is why I am here, demoiselle."

She stood, her irritation flaring. "Take me to them," she said, tossing her needlework onto the cushion, and wondering how quickly word would get to Lady Dickleburough.

The guard did not answer but led her down the stairs and through the corridors to one of the anterooms used by the queen's household for meeting with trades
people. He paused outside the door, looking down at her, then thrust the door open and waved her inside.

There were two men waiting there, both tall, both outlandishly dressed, their cloaks well-tailored but of a fashion she knew was not from London. They wore high boots and long saffron shirts and tunics of finely woven wool, with a pattern that featured lines crossing themselves. Gaels, she thought, knowing them now for what they were. One was dark, his black hair well-brushed and just below his shoulders, his blue eyes curious. A handsome man. He bowed, smiling.

And the other was the blond man from Westminster Abbey.

SEVEN

H er heart jumped. Who was this man? She was certain she'd not
seen him before the day of the funeral. She would have remembered a man who looked like this one. Did he think he knew her, on the basis of her smile? But how could she not have smiled at such a man? The two foreigners exchanged a glance.

"My lady," the blond man said, his accent telling her he was a Scot.

His voice was middle-
timbered
, his tone warm, his manner polite, nothing more. His face was even more striking at close range. His eyes were an amazing mixture of blues, banded at the edge with the deepest shade of all. His was a strong face, a masculine beauty that was arresting. His hair was very pale, drawn away from a wide brow and arched eyebrows. His jaw was firm. And his mouth. Dear Lord, look at his mouth. He wore the same cloak, pinned with the
bejewelled
brooch that she'd noticed before. She looked up at him, at his wide shoulders and tapering waistline, at his long fingers and strong legs. Something stirred within her, filled with yearning, something primitive. She felt like she needed to sit down.

"Please forgive our intrusion, mistress. We ken that ye dinna know us and that we may be overstepping ourselves. Are ye Isabel de Burke?"

She paused before answering. What difference did it make if they knew her name? A few well-placed coins would bring them the same information.

"I am," she said.

He bowed slightly. "I am Rory MacGannon. This is my cousin Kieran MacDonald. We bring you a message from Rachel Angenhoff."

"Rachel? You have seen Rachel?"

"Aye. In Berwick-Upon-Tweed, my lady. In Scotland."

"Scotland! I'd not thought of her there. Oh! But are you sure it's my Rachel? Her name..." Isabel stopped. She was being ridiculous. No other person named Rachel would have known to ask someone to find her. If Rachel and her family had changed their names, it must have been necessary, and she would keep their secret. The wonderful news was that Rachel was alive, and well enough to send these men with her message.

"Is she all right? Is her family well? How did you know to find

me?"

"They are all well. Her family owns an inn in Berwick," Rory said.

"An inn? Rachel's family owns an inn?" That was difficult to imagine, Rachel's mother serving ale and cleaning rooms for strangers. Her father, always a scholar, collecting money for meals. How unexpected.

"We stayed there for a fortnight," Kieran said. "When the news came of yer queen's death, she asked us if we were going to London. We dinna ken that we were, but..." He spread his hands wide. "Here we are."

The door opened suddenly. Henry stood there, armed, three men behind him. He looked from her to the Scots, his gaze meeting Rory MacGannon's.

"Is all well, demoiselle?" he asked. "I was told you had visitors."

"Yes, as you can see," she said. "They brought me a message... from...from my cousins. In the north."

Henry stepped into the room. "Gentlemen, I am Henry de Boyer. Knight of King Edward's household, of which Mistress de Burke is a part. Your business here with her?"

Rory MacGannon stood taller. "Delivering a message. As she told ye."

"Your names?"

"Rory MacGannon. Kieran MacDonald." Rory turned to her. "Thank ye for yer time, mistress. Yer cousin will be pleased we were able to deliver her message."

"Yes. Thank you," she said. "I am so pleased to hear from her."

"It was our pleasure," Rory said and moved toward the door.

"Wait, please, sirs! Will you be returning there? May I send a message to her with you?"

Henry made an impatient gesture. "Surely you will have no need—"

"A letter!" she cried. "I could write her a letter. You could carry a letter north for me, could you not? I will pay for the messenger to take it to her."

"You can do that from here, demoiselle," Henry said. "You do not need them as intermediaries. The king's men would be happy to carry it for you. I will arrange for it."

She ignored him. "Sir. My lord MacGannon, how will I find you?"

"Ask for the Comyns. We are with them."

She saw the flicker in Henry's eyes. Everyone knew the Comyn name and the power the family held in Scotland. Rory MacGannon gave her a slight smile.

"Ye ken where to find us, demoiselle, should ye need us. Farewell. Sir."

He bowed and left, his cousin behind him. Henry gave her an appraising look.

"Who are they?" he asked.

She smiled. "Messengers. My cousin is faring well. Is that not wonderful?"

"How do you know they are who they say they are?" Grandmother asked the next afternoon. She crossed her arms over her chest. "You cannot visit them, sweet. You cannot. Do not even try to argue with me on this."

Isabel paced the floor. "But they will see my letter gets to Rachel."

"Send it with the king's men."

"It could be dangerous for her."

"Her family was expelled, not arrested. They have done nothing wrong."

"But it could be dangerous for her, and I cannot risk her safety. The Scotsmen have seen her. I know they will try to get my letter to her. Shall I go to them?"

"Of course not! Silly chit, you cannot appear at their lodgings like a woman of the streets." Grandmother shook her head, then sighed. "Send for them to come here. And if you tell your mother, we'll both regret it. Get the boy downstairs to fetch them. And ask him to stay here while we talk. I do not like this at all."

Isabel leaned to kiss her cheek, feeling how papery her grandmother's skin had become. "Thank you!" she cried.

She sent the boy off with her message, then waited impatiently for him to return. She pounced on him when he did. "Well? Will they come?"

"They are here with me," the boy said. "They're big!"

"Show them up," Grandmother said irritably. "Probably murder us both now. Isabel, I'm not pleased at this."

"They will not harm us, Grandmother. Truly. Wait and see."

Rory and Kieran walked into the room just as the church bells tolled, and stood, awkwardly, waiting until the last note sounded. They were armed and wary, but their manner relaxed a bit when they saw Grandmother.

"Thank you for coming," Isabel said, then introduced them.

Grandmother nodded. "Scots. Highlanders, both of you. Where are your homes?"

"The west of Scotland," Rory said. "I'm from Loch Gannon, and Kieran's from Skye."

"I see. And your purpose in London?"

"To attend the queen's funeral."

"But you bring a message from Rachel de Anjou."

Rory paused, and Isabel knew he was noting the change of name. "Aye, madam. She asked us to find your granddaughter and tell her that Rachel and her family are well. We are pleased to do

so."

"Sit, gentlemen," Grandmother said, as though she had just remembered her manners. "Bring some ale, Isabel, and my mead. Or would you prefer mead, sirs?"

"Och, no," Rory said.

Isabel almost laughed at his repugnance. "Ale, then."

"Ale is grand, madam," Kieran said. "Did ye attend the queen's funeral?"

Grandmother shook her head. "Oh, no. I spent the day safely here."

"It was very grand," Kieran said. "A fine funeral."

"Did you know the queen, sir?"

"No, but I feel like I did after hearing so much of her. Not all good."

Grandmother smiled. "She was not well liked. The king may have loved her, but his people did not. Still, she did her duty. We have a prince in line for the throne. Have you children, sirs?"

Isabel caught her breath at the abrupt change of topic.

Rory laughed. "No, madam, nor wives, nor any furtive motive. We are merely messengers between friends. Nothing more."

Grandmother smiled, and Isabel began to relax. They talked for almost an hour, about Scotland and England and the sea, which Grandmother talked of with a longing that surprised Isabel. And candles and Yuletide customs, and their siblings, the conversation easy and unforced. They made Grandmother laugh several times. When the church bells tolled again, the men rose to their feet. Grandmother extended her hand, and each of them bowed over it.

"I wish you a good time in London, sirs," she said. "And safe journey home."

"Thank you, madam," Rory said. "Demoiselle, do you have a letter for us?"

"I do," Isabel said. "I will see you out."

She led them down the stairs and opened the door to the street.

"I thank you for your forbearance. My grandmother is very protective."

"She is very fond of ye, lass," Rory answered.

"And I of her." Isabel handed him her letter. "I am grateful to you for taking this with you. And thank you again for finding me. I am so pleased to know where Rachel and her family are, and to know that she's safe. She is safe there, isn't she?"

"Safe enough, aye. No one in Berwick cares that they were expelled. Her family is not alone in that. Many Jewish families came at the same time."

She looked at him with a startled expression. "And they were welcomed?"

"I canna say welcomed. Allowed to join the madness that is Berwick is more like it. It's a port town, mistress, with people from all over." He put the letter in his shirt. "I canna guarantee that it will get to her, but we'll do our best."

"And here," she said, holding out a handful of coins. "Money for the messenger to carry it from wherever you will have to leave it."

Rory shook his head. "I willna take yer money, Isabel de Burke. There is only one way ye can repay me."

Isabel stared into his eyes, wondering what he meant.

"I ask only one thing in return for carrying yer letter, lass."

She caught her breath as he leaned over her now with a gleam in his eyes and a smile flitting around the edge of his mouth. That mouth. A kiss, perhaps? Her heartbeat quickened. "Sir?"

"A walk, lass. Tomorrow. Nothing more. Ye can bring an army of chaperones, if ye wish. One walk in the sunshine."

She let out her breath and smiled. "You will have it."

His smile was wide and his eyes merry. He seemed to glow, and she thought, That's it, it is as though he brings light with him.

"Good. At the dock near the Tower, then?"

"Yes. At three."

"At three it is. I'll be there, lass, waiting for ye."

She watched them walk away, laughing with each other.

Rachel, she thought, another tie between us, these two men. I miss you so. She closed the door and hurried upstairs, knowing Grandmother would be counting the moments she'd been away.

"Handsome man," Grandmother said as Isabel rejoined her. "Both handsome men. Young. The MacDonald one is nice enough. But the other.. .many women will be noticing that one. A very memorable man."

"Yes, isn't he, though?"

"Here only for a short time," Grandmother said. "But much can happen in a short time. I saw how you looked at him. Be careful, sweet. He's the kind of man who can turn a girl's head without even trying. And when he is trying.. .he could be dangerous."

"You sound like Mother."

"She may be bitter, Isabel, but she's not always wrong. Rory MacGannon is a man to be cautious of."

"I am sure he will not harm me."

"You're seeing him again, aren't you?"

Isabel looked at her, realizing how easily she'd let that slip.

"Enjoy his company, Isabel. Guard your heart and your body. He's the kind of man who could take both."

Isabel nodded, her mind now filled with new images.

Rory waited in the rain at the Tower landing, where the ferryboat would bring her from Westminster. Two boats arrived, then a third, with her on none of them. He felt like a fool and stepped back under the cover of the nearest shop, telling himself that if she was not on the next boat, he would leave.

When the next boat came, she was on it. But not alone.

Henry de Boyer leapt to the dock, reaching back to help her out instead of the ferryman, who watched them with a crooked grin. She smiled at de Boyer and let him lead her to the small square near the street, where she stood in a pool of sudden sunshine. She pushed the hood off her head and looked left, then right, her simple skirts swaying from her hips as she moved, her light brown hair gleaming in the sunlight. De Boyer said something to her that made her laugh, and Rory peeled himself from the shop wall, striding quickly forward.

He stopped before her and bowed. "Mistress de Burke, I thought perhaps ye had forgotten."

She whirled to face him, her face brightening as she saw him. "Oh! Good! I thought I was too late and that you had gone. Or perhaps not come at all."

"I would not have missed this, demoiselle."

"I am so very sorry to have been delayed," she said, her words rushed. "I was asked to do several tasks, and everything seemed to take forever. I came as quickly as I could."

"I'm glad of it, mistress. And dinna worry about yer letter. I'm sending it north with John Comyn. He assures me it will be delivered to your cousin in Berwick."

"Even better news," she said. "You here and my letter on its

way."

"A cousin in Berwick, demoiselle?" de Boyer said. "One of your father's relations?"