Rivals for the Crown (7 page)

"We will see you anon, demoiselles." He leaned toward her from the saddle. "I look forward to it."

"As do I," Isabel said. She sighed as the knights rode forward.

"Is he not the most handsome man you've ever seen?"

"Is that de Boyer?" Alis asked. "I've heard of him."

"You do not know him?"

"No," Alis said softly, watching Henry ride through the gate.

"What have you heard?"

"That he is as delicious as he looks. I wonder."

Isabel gave her a startled glance, then hid her surprise. She'd been at court long enough to know courtiers talked like this— though never before to her.

Alis smiled slowly. "You will learn, Isabel, to take your pleasures where they lay. So to speak."

"Don't you always take your pleasures, Alis?" Lady Dickleburough asked.

"A wise woman does. As Isabel will learn eventually. She has excellent taste in men, does she not? Ah, our horses. Now we can be the ones doing the mounting instead of being mounted. Isabel, you'll learn what that means as well."

Isabel smothered her annoyance. She was weary of Alis's treating her like an ignorant child. She fell into place. The queen's retinue was long, and some of the streets were so narrow that they had to ride in a single file. Not everyone, it seemed, loved the queen, for several called insults as she passed. One imprudent soul even threw refuse from a window above, but it hit no one. Isabel saw the queen's guards burst through the door of the house; the man would pay dearly for that transgression. No one dared approach the queen, but the knights, including Henry, were kept busy riding along the procession in a show of force. When at last they turned onto the wider western road that led back to Westminster, Isabel was glad of it, and gladder still when Henry fell into step with her.

"Demoiselle, did you enjoy your ride?"

"Sir! How could I? I was filled with fear that the queen would be attacked at any moment. I am so glad we are out of the city."

"She is not a popular monarch, is she? But that is why we are with you, demoiselle, to protect you. And for the sheer joy of your company."

"Well said, sir," Alis said, bringing her horse alongside his. "You have a pretty way with words."

Henry bowed with a smile. "Pretty words are plentiful with such inspiration as you two, demoiselle."

Alis smiled and tilted her head. "How the women must love you, Sir de Boyer. Are you as good at everything as you are at flattery?"

"It is not flattery, demoiselle, simply saying what I see."

"Would you say more if you saw more?" Alis asked.

"I would see first, then say," he answered, laughing.

"Then let us see," Alis said, and she spurred her horse forward to engage Lady Dickleburough in conversation.

Henry watched her leave. "Who is she, demoiselle?"

"Alis de Braun," Isabel said sullenly.

"I have heard of her. Now I will remember her."

Isabel was taken aback by his remark.

Henry laughed. "Jealous, sweet? Do not be. She is lovely, yes, but you are beautiful. In ten years she will be bitter and haggard and you will still be beautiful. Hers is a beauty that fades with time. And use. Now, tell me, have you been visiting your grandmother?"

"Yes, often."

"I shall look for you on the river then."

He touched the brim of his helmet and left her, riding forward along the procession. He paused for a moment, leaning to say something to Alis. She smiled at him, seemed to hesitate, then nodded. Henry's smile was wide as he left her.

THREE

BERWICK-UPON-TWEED, SCOTLAND

H ere we are," her father said cheerfully.

Rachel Angenhoff, formerly Rachel de Anjou, stared in dismay at the building that was to be her new home, trying to find something good about it. It was standing. She could see no other virtue in it. She spared her father Jacob a glance, seeing the strain in his eyes that belied his jovial manner. But she dared not meet her sister Sarah's gaze, for Sarah was no doubt feeling the same horror she was.

The building was more than old; it was ancient. Its walls leaned precariously, its roof tiles were cracked and covered with mold. The wood of the doorjambs was riddled with wormholes; the steps that led up from the street were
grey
and sagging with age. Her father, she knew, would see none of that. He'd see the tall leaded glass windows that faced the street, the ones on the first floor above them, which leaned out over the street, letting lots of light into those rooms. He'd see the bustling street itself and the many

travelers who had already let him know they would welcome a new place to stay in Berwick. He'd see the freshly painted sign that looked so out of place above the grimy door. He would see the future, and she could not see anything now but an old building that needed years of work. Her father ran up the steps and pushed open the door, ignoring the creak of protest it made as it swung inward.

"Come in, come in," he said, as though he were inviting them into the royal apartments in London rather than this filthy and empty inn in Scotland that would now be their livelihood as well as their home.

That's one good thing about the inn, Rachel thought, not moving. It is not in England. But...

Mama walked gingerly up the stairs, holding her skirts high above her boots, then stepped into the gloom.

"Well," she said, her voice echoing out the door to where Sarah and Rachel stood waiting. "Well," she said again, in the tone that Rachel knew meant that Mama was not pleased. But she knew, as they all did, that the inn had already been purchased and that there was no sense in protesting.

"Yes, Jacob," Mama said, "we can make this work. Girls, come in and see. We need your ideas for our new home."

Sarah glanced at Rachel with raised eyebrows, lifted her skirts high, and entered the inn. Rachel paused, turning to look over her shoulder at the men who patiently waited to carry in their

possessions, then behind them, at the town of Berwick. Home, she thought, trying out the word. Never, although I may live here the rest of my life. Berwick was their refuge and where they would now live, but it would never be home.

It was not a dreadful place, this busy port town on the Tweed. None of them wanted to be here, but after two months of traveling and then a week waiting across the river while Papa searched for a place for them to live, they were all grateful that their journey was over. They'd arrived this morning on one of the ferries that constantly crossed the Tweedmouth estuary. She'd gripped the rail of the shallow ferryboat as they'd neared the city, studying it, hoping to find something to admire. She'd found little.

"Rachel..." She heard her mother calling her from the doorway to the inn. Still she did not move. Below her, Berwick's wooden walls rose from the peninsula on which it was built, Berwick Castle rising higher still above the houses and shops that clustered around the welcoming harbor. The city faced the river rather than the sea, which sheltered its harbor from the harsh storms and tidal flows of the open ocean. Legend said Berwick had been founded by St. Boisel, a Saxon saint, for whom the cathedral presently being constructed had been dedicated 150 years before, but there was little that was saintly about the port that hosted ships from all over the world. How ironic it was that St. Boisel's Day was July 18, the very day that Edward of England had expelled them. The same day King Edward had signed the treaty that bound his son to his sister's granddaughter. But the child queen had died, and while that was sad, Rachel found some solace in Edward's plan being thwarted.

"Rachel, come in," Mama said.

Rachel lifted her skirts but paused a moment longer in the street. She told herself not to be so melancholy. They'd survived being ousted from their home, and the journey here, with their possessions intact. Her family had been fortunate. Jacob had been to Berwick years before, had stayed at the inn and talked with the innkeeper, who had no family and worried about keeping a roof over his head as he aged. The innkeeper had been on the brink of closing the inn and had welcomed Jacob's offer to buy it.

"Gilbert will stay on and help us in exchange for his room and board," Papa had told them last night.

Rachel had frowned.

"Do you want to continue traveling?" Mama had asked sharply. "Have you already forgotten what we went through to get here?"

"No," Rachel had said, thinking of the harrowing journey, of the many moments they'd lived in fear of their lives. She was ready to find a new home.

"But what about Shabbat?" she'd asked. "We cannot run an inn in a Christian manner and still observe Shabbat."

"We talked about that as well," Papa had replied. "Gilbert will work on Friday evenings and Saturdays when necessary. And we'll have to hire help. We will handle the rest of the week."

"Which means we do the extra work before Shabbat, or after it," Mama had said with a warning glance at Rachel. "Just as we always have."

Rachel had nodded, not at all convinced that the plan would work. Her father had never worked with his hands; it had been his mind that had fed them.

"It will be good, Jacob," Mama had said, with another stern look at her daughters. "We will make it all work. We'll learn how to run an inn. And even if we fail...." Mama had said, waving the hem of her skirt, "all is not lost."

Rachel had been comforted at that. Her mother, on the day of King Edward's edict, had sewn her
jewellery
and gold coins into the hems of their clothing. It was their buffer against starvation. None of it had seen daylight yet, but it was good to know they would not starve even if the inn failed.

"We will learn," Papa had said. "Now let us pray together."

Rachel had said the words of the prayer by rote. Her father prayed three times a day, as every devout Jewish man did, but she could not concentrate on prayer while their future was so unsettled. They would learn to change in order to survive. Now she stared at the inn, wondering what her father thought they could make of it.

At least here in Berwick they would blend in with the other immigrants. The city was full of Dutch and Flemish traders, and Scottish and English sheep farmers and wool merchants. The

French, while tolerated, had never been welcomed in the city, so the de Anjou family had become the Angenhoff family, and Jacob of Anjou had ceased to exist. But what matter? Names were not that important.

There were other Jews in Berwick, merchants and tailors and those who had fled north as they had at least one rabbi among them, which would mean there would be temple. Berwick, full of people from every part of the world, took them in with barely a notice. Sarah would blend with the Scots—her hair was fair, her eyes light blue. She could be from anywhere. Rachel, on the other hand, had the blackest of hair and pale skin. Her looks and her name would give her heritage away every time.

"Rachel!" Mama's tone brooked no argument now.

Rachel quickly climbed the steps and went inside. She tried to ignore the filthy rushes on the floor and the mice scuffling in the corners of the room. Not to be sickened by the smell of mold and mildew, of decay and disuse, of urine, and worse.

Mama gave her a brittle smile. "We'll get settled and start cleaning at once. Shouldn't take us long," she said as she moved to the back of the inn. "I think we can be open within a fortnight."

Sarah and Rachel exchanged a look.

"Look," Mama said, pointing to the tables and benches. "They're sturdy enough. All this place needs is a good cleaning and a new coat of plaster. The floor is firm and the walls may lean.

but they don't move. Jacob, tell them to bring our things in. We're ready to be home."

Home, Rachel thought. At least in Scotland they would be well out of King Edward's reach. They would be safe.

Rachel surprised herself, and no doubt her parents, by quickly learning the tasks required of her. They served their first meals in the tavern room a fortnight after their arrival, and a week after that the rooms upstairs were ready for visitors.

Since the Maid of Norway's death, the talk had been of nothing but who would succeed her. The
clamour
of rivalry filled Berwick's streets as the townspeople debated the merits of the competitors vying for the throne of Scotland. Thirteen of them there were, but the Scots narrowed it quickly to two rivals: Robert the Bruce, the elder, and John Balliol. Rachel listened to the bloodline arguments and decided that the choice was simple: anyone but Edward of England.

Strangely enough, her mother's mood had improved with their misfortune. She had not complained once on the voyage here, had not even mentioned their changed circumstances except in the most matter-of-fact manner. Her mother, Rachel had discovered, had inner strength that had seen them all through this transition. In London her mother had had servants, worn furs and gold
jewellery
, and managed a large household. Here she was learning to run an inn, keep the rooms clean, make sure the travelers paid in advance, and see that every cup of ale was counted. And doing it well.

Already the inn was prospering, but some of that had nothing to do with them, for all of Scotland seemed to be on the move.