Rivals for the Crown (21 page)

"I thank you both for your attendance upon my granddaughter. She is my treasure and my hope is that the man she marries treasures her as well. No, say nothing. This is my house. I have the last word. Go with God, sirs. Isabel, a word alone before you leave."

She gestured the men out and they left together, waiting outside for Isabel.

"There is no need for you to stay, MacGannon," de Boyer said. "I will see her safely home. And safely to Norham."

"Will Alis de Braun also be on the journey?"

"I believe she will."

Rory grinned at him. "Should be interesting for ye, then."

De Boyer nodded and held out a hand. "I expect so. I would invite you to join me for a cup of ale, sir, but I have Isabel to care for. When next you come to London, do come and visit us."

Isabel came through the door, and de Boyer waved the coach forward.

"Thank you, Rory," she said, "for the delightful gifts. We are most grateful. You are very kind."

Rory bowed. "My pleasure, demoiselle. I hope to see you before we all leave on our journey."

"I do hope so. But if not, I shall see you on the road." She smiled again.

"Farewell, sir," de Boyer said, opening the door of the coach as it stopped. He handed Isabel inside and extended his hand to Rory.

Rory took de Boyer's hand. "Not subtle. Nor, unfortunately, effective. Dinna think to start the game without me, sir."

De Boyer smiled. "The game is well begun, Oak King."

"That was meant as a warning."

"And taken as such. But I have the lady's company, as you can

see."

He closed the door firmly. The coach lurched away.

Two days later Rory and Kieran were ready to leave London. They waited to follow the king north with hundreds of others—penitents,

merchants, sycophants, and those simply trying to attach themselves to the royal party for safety. The king's entourage had taken over an hour to lumber out of the Aldgate on their way north. Rory and Kieran watched the king's knights parade past in three contingents—those forward; then the king himself and bands of courtiers, both on horseback and in coaches closed against the light snow that floated down upon them; then a second group of knights and another set of riders and coaches. Behind them was the baggage train and last, another group of knights. Finally, the waiting crowd was free to jostle their way through the gate.

"I dinna see her," Kieran said as they inched forward. "Did ye?"

Rory shook his head and pulled his hood forward. If it was snowing in London, what would they find farther north?

It was hours before the snow slowed enough for Rory to search among the travelers for Isabel. He found Henry de Boyer more than once as the knight rode alongside the entourage, but none of the queen's ladies. The next time he came along de Boyer, sitting astride his horse at the side of the road, watching the slow progress of the travelers, he stopped.

"MacGannon," de Boyer said, glancing up at the sky. "Looks like more foul weather ahead of us."

"De Boyer. How goes the nursemaiding?"

De Boyer grinned. "That's exactly what it feels like. It will be a long journey at this pace. We'll be fortunate to be in Norham by Candlemas, in February."

Rory laughed. "More time for ye to spend with the lasses, de Boyer. Where can I find Isabel?"

De Boyer gave him a sharp glance, then looked at the travelers. "I assume she's here, but I've not seen her today."

NINE

Isabel watched the snow blow off the porch of the church in

whirling drifts, then started on her way home. She'd gone to light an advent candle as her grandmother had requested, and she'd lit another for herself. The day had been dreadful.

It had started so promisingly. The bustle and rush of the final preparations to travel north had taken hours. She had risen at dawn with the other queen's ladies, her leather satchel packed and placed with theirs to go in the baggage train, and she'd been waiting just inside the doors to hear whether they would ride in the small coaches or on horseback. She had chatted with the others, laughing about which was better, freezing to death outside or sitting atop each other in the cramped carriage. And then she and Lady Dickleburough had been called aside, but well within earshot of the others. The queen's household steward had told them that the two of them would stay behind while the rest of the royal party traveled north. The man had appeared a bit nervous as he'd imparted the change in plans but he'd provided no explanation.

She had endured the questions of the other ladies, had watched her satchel be pulled from the pile and placed alone near a wall, had seen the pitying glances the servants had thrown her way. But Alis's smug smile and gleeful whispers had pushed her beyond control. She'd run, like a small child, away from the palace, away from the excitement of the departure, and into the city. She'd wandered for a while through the small streets, looking at the shops and trying to match the cheerful mood of the Londoners as they'd slogged through the December cold. And then it had started to snow, and she'd made her way to her grandmother's house.

Grandmother had listened to her, sympathized, and fed her. And argued with her, begging Isabel not to return to the court.

"It could be dangerous," Grandmother had said.

Isabel had shaken her head. "Less so than before, Grandmother. Now I know where the dangers are. And who I am."

"But..."

Isabel interrupted. "I have no choice. I am contracted to serve the queen whether I accompany her or not. If I abandon my post, I can be thrown into jail. No, Grandmother, I will go back and be less of a fool than I was. I was left behind. It's not the worst that could happen."

Grandmother had nodded slowly. "I wish it were otherwise."

Isabel had given her a brave smile. "As I do."

Her grandmother sent her back to the palace with instructions to light an advent candle on the way home. Which she had done. But what now? None of it—not the long walk, not the church, not even Grandmother's kindness—had changed anything. She ached with the rejection. Rachel, she thought. Where are you? You would understand. You would make me laugh. But Rachel was so very far away, with worries of her own.

By now the royal party would be well away from the city. Alis would have already talked with Henry. And somewhere, not with the royal entourage itself, but nearby, with the hundreds who trailed the royal procession, Rory MacGannon would be riding north with his cousin.

She walked quickly, pulling her cloak close to her body, glad of the fur lining and the thickness of the wool. She had been left behind. No matter, she told herself. She had been the last of the queen's ladies to be brought in and was the first to be left behind. There was no queen now; she had no official duties. She had no wealthy family nor husband to protect her, no ties of kinship to the king that had even been recognized. What had she expected? But... it hurt.

For a few months her future had seemed to be glittering. For a few months she had belonged with the shining people who made up the court instead of the invisible ones who watched them. For a few hours she had had two men dancing attendance on her. And then.. .but how could she complain, when she thought of those she passed sleeping in doorways or in crowded, unheated houses? Or Rachel, living in Berwick, instead of in her home here.

The guard at the palace let her through the gate without comment, and she was grateful to see her bag still waiting in the foyer. It looked forlorn and small against the high walls, as insignificant as she was, as unnoticeable as she herself must be to the nobles who had shared the same halls with her. She'd been a fool to think she could join them as an equal.

She picked up the bag and climbed the stairs, walked slowly through the corridors, and climbed again, and again, at last reaching the rooms the queen's ladies had shared. They were empty. Or so she thought at first. She tossed her bag on the floor and pulled off her cloak with a weary sigh.

"We are allowed to spend the night," Lady Dickleburough's voice came out of the dim doorway. "But in the morning we are to be out of these rooms. They will be closed, possibly forever. We have been dismissed entirely."

"And where are we to go?"

"'We'? 'We,' Isabel? You shunned me whenever possible. The only time you sought me out was when you needed information. 'We' are going nowhere. You will most probably go running to your mother. Who, by the way, came looking for you. I told her our happy news. I told her you had run away, probably to that Scotsman you've been with recently."

"I have not been 'with' him."

"Then you are truly a fool. He is young and virile and easy to gaze upon. You would do well to find him. He might feed you for a few months, before you bore him or he finds another more pleasing woman." She took two steps, then turned. "And the knight you long for, Isabel? Henry de Boyer? He is the father of the child carried by the girl you replaced. Had you not realized that by now? It is common knowledge in the court. We've all been wagering if you would become the next victim. Some say it will be Alis, but you and I know she is far too cunning to become his prey. I think it will be the reverse. Look at your face! You look as though I slapped you. How could you not know all this?" The older woman staggered away, her crackling laugh drifting back to Isabel.

She untied the sleeves of her bodice. Lady Dickleburough was quite correct. She was truly a fool.

The morning brought more snow, huge drifts of it that hid the shapes of buildings and blew across the open spaces around the palace, piling against the walls and gates. Isabel packed the last of her things in her leather satchel. The servants watched her with puzzled expressions, as though she were behaving strangely. Which no doubt she was, stopping as she did to wipe away her tears, or stand at the window and sigh, knowing she would never see this view again. She said nothing to them, not willing to face their sympathy, not able to answer if they asked why she had been let go. What could she say? She did not know what it was she had done to deserve
disfavour
, or how to rectify it.

She went to find her mother, only to discover that her mother was not at Westminster. She'd gone to Windsor. She'd been expected to return that day, but with this weather..., the woman said, spreading her hands wide. Isabel thanked her, then lifted her bag. She would go to Windsor and find her mother, and together they would plan the future. But not even that was possible, for the dock was empty and the ferryman gone; a man in the nearest tavern told her none of the boats would run this day. She had no way to get to Windsor, and her mother would have no way to return until the storm passed.

Isabel returned to the palace, mercifully unquestioned, and spent the night alone in her mother's rooms, waking to brilliant sun and a world that was frigid but sparkling. She straightened the room and left, carrying her bag herself—a sign of how far her station had fallen—and paused at the outermost gate to look back.

A few more steps and she would be on the other side of the wall, never again to have entry to her former life. She swallowed, thinking of Alis, riding north with Henry, seeing him every day, having the moments with him Isabel would never have. Alis, she knew, would be quick to entertain him. And Rory MacGannon, who would attract his own retinue, she was sure. Both men, and Alis, going north. For months, perhaps.

She stepped forward, then again, walking through the gate with her head high and her step rapid. She might be dying inside, but no one needed to know that. This time the boats were running.

The trip down the river to Windsor was brutal. She arrived, half-frozen, only to discover that her mother had already returned to Westminster in a coach. The guard took pity on her and led her into the gatehouse, giving her a cup of warm wine and a spot by the fire. She waited as patiently as she could for the next westward boat, reminding herself that she was warm, and the boat would not be.

"Demoiselle," the guard said, leaning through the door. "I have secured a place in a coach going to Westminster for you. Come, please."

She thanked him and climbed into the sumptuous coach, wondering how much she would have to pay for the luxury of the ride. The door of the coach opened again, letting in a bright shaft of sun and a gust of wind carrying snow. She narrowed her eyes against the glare, seeing only the shape of a man lifting himself into the coach. He sat heavily on the seat opposite her, adjusting his cloak around him as the door was closed. The coach began to move at once, and as her eyes adjusted, she stared, her heart thudding, at the man who now smiled at her.

"Isabel. How lovely it is to find you now, with the king gone to the north." Walter Langton's smile grew wider. "Cold? Come, share my blanket."

"No," she whispered. "Thank you, my lord. I am fine here."

Langton leaned forward, bending down to touch something on the floor of the coach, then rising swiftly, his hand sliding up her leg beneath her skirts. She screamed and jumped away, but his hand followed her, rising to her thigh before she was able to squirm out of his grasp. He leaned back, laughing softly, then lunged forward, grabbed her wrists, and leaned forward, his eyes glinting.

His kiss was moist, fetid, and mercifully short. He withdrew, his lips still gleaming. He ran his tongue across them, and she shuddered.