Suzanne Robinson (11 page)

“Nothing,” he said.

“His Highness says yer to come to the banquet tomorrow night, m’lord.”

“I’m not feeling well.”

“The king said we wasn’t to pay no heed to yer protests,” the man said. He was one of those large, stolid individuals who moved through the world with much deliberation. “If yer ill, I’m to fetch a stretcher and carry you to the feast.”

“Are you, by God’s mercy?”

“Aye, m’lord,” the guard said seriously.

“Then I’ll be going.”

“And so will we, m’lord.” The guard stood aside as Galen left the chamber and found the other sentry waiting. He glanced from one to the other. “You’re coming to my town house with me, aren’t you?”

“Aye, m’lord, and anywhere else ye might wish to go. I’m Miles and this is Cyril. Yer safe with us.”

Galen threw up his hands in exasperation. “I’m not in any danger. I don’t need you.”

“Shall I fetch yer ’orse, m’lord?” asked Miles.

Noting Miles’ imperturbable expression and massive build, Galen sighed and nodded. Miles stood aside and bowed.

“After you, m’lord de Marlowe.”

“God deliver me,” Galen muttered as he went past the man.

“If he don’t, m’lord, I will.”

N
INE
 

W
estminster, home of the royal government, was some distance from London, but it teemed with the city’s residents during times of celebration. The great hall at the palace of Westminster lay near the soaring cathedral. Larger than any hall in England, its crowning glory was the two-story stained-glass windows that cast jewel-colored beams of light throughout the chamber. Brilliant tapestries that stretched the full height of the walls lent richness to the surroundings, but Honor Jennings had availed herself of one of the hall’s more humble furnishings—a guarderobe.

She stepped out of the convenience, shut the door on the odors that lurked there and sighed. She’d survived two days of torture, even lived through that horrible incident with the hennin,
that God-cursed cone Father had insisted she wear. After she’d knocked it off and everyone had laughed at her, he had given up pestering her about the way she dressed. That was why this evening she was wearing no hennin, no forked headdress, no long veils supported by wires, or any other uncomfortable contrivance. She’d combed her hair, allowed it to hang loose and dressed it with a gold chain. Aymer had given it to her. Rather, he’d sent it to her one Christmas when he was at court and she was at home as usual. In the French fashion, a sapphire pendant hung from the chain at the center of her forehead, and that was the extent of the headgear she was willing to endure.

She made sure her skirts hung correctly. It wouldn’t do to trip over her hem. Then she headed for the great hall. So far she’d managed to find fault with every man Father had thrown her way, and to her surprise, the king showed no inclination to meddle in her marriage plans, or lack of them. She’d thought about this and decided he was simply too busy at the moment to spare her a thought. Her best course was to keep quiet and run back to Castle Stafford at the first opportunity.

Now, if she could just turn her thoughts from Galen de Marlowe, her troubles would be over. She’d lost count of the times she’d struggled with her feelings for that cursed man. He’d been unbearably high-handed, showing up at her home and trying to arrange a match with her father just to keep her from claiming Durance Guarde. And then to
touch her the way he had, right in the hall! She’d made a fool of herself with him, but she wouldn’t do it again. She didn’t understand him. He tried mightily to get rid of her, then acted as if he couldn’t keep from kissing her. She was beginning to suspect that he was toying with her—and worse, that she was allowing herself to be played with.

Honor shook her head as she walked down a long corridor lined with royal guards. She thought about Galen all the time now, and she was afraid of the craving the thoughts wakened within her.

He was trying to confuse her. He had some twisted plan in mind to defeat her, and part of it included enticing her with his lean warrior’s body. He’d succeeded, much to her alarm. The sight of him set her on fire. Such a thing had never happened to her before. She’d been so young when she’d married Aymer that her initial feelings for him had been more like vague yearnings. Nothing about the way Galen made her feel was vague. Ungovernable, violent, hot and heady sensations rampaged through her body when she beheld him.

A sudden thought made Honor pause in the dark corridor. What if the tales she’d heard from neighbors and courtiers about him were true and Galen was a sorcerer? There had never been any incident to prove he was. No one had ever openly accused a de Marlowe of sorcery. All that had ever existed were rumors and vague suspicions. And Galen’s air of mysterious gravity that drove court ladies to distraction. Honor had always scoffed at
women who seemed attracted to men because of their dangerous reputations. But what if there was more to the de Marlowe reputation than mere titillating gossip? Had Galen cast some spell on her? Yes. That must be why he had this power over her. He’d worked some fell magic to enslave her.

“Heaven protect me,” she muttered. “But why?”

Why would he want to cast a love spell on her? He wanted to be rid of her. It didn’t make sense. Nothing about Galen de Marlowe made sense. Mayhap that was because he was a sorcerer. Sorcerers were enigmatic and complex beings. And if he’d cast a spell, these frightening feelings weren’t real.

“By my faith, that evil knave is trying to drive me mad!”

What a hideous plot.

“I’ll find him this moment and make him remove the spell.”

Honor charged into the great hall and paused as the din of hundreds of voices hit her. At one end, before the screen, the royal table had been placed on a dais. Dozens of trestles covered with fine white cloths sat at right angles to it. Each table bore gold and silver flagons, drinking cups of precious Venetian glass or gilded goblets. Before the dais entertainers performed—jugglers, minstrels, acrobats, conjurers, and dancers plied their crafts in the midst of a parade of enormous trays of food borne by royal servants.

A sewer, who would serve her at the table, appeared
before her and conducted Honor to her place at one of the trestles. She sat down next to an old lady who was busy dismembering a roasted quail. The place on her right was empty. Honor searched the tables for Galen de Marlowe.

He wouldn’t be on the dais, which was reserved for those of highest rank. The king sat there with the queen and the Dukes of Gloucester and Clarence, the Countess of Henlow and her new husband. Honor was craning her neck to see past lofty hennins that bobbed and weaved as their wearers moved. Without warning Galen sat down beside her and grabbed some manchet bread.

“Good e’en to you, Lady Honor.”

Honor gasped. “Don’t do that.”

“You’re not eating.” He filled a mazer with wine from a flagon and held it out to her.

She scowled at him. “How can you sit there and behave as if nothing has happened?”

“Nothing has happened.” He drank some wine and set the mazer on the table. “Not yet. Now, however, I am eating.”

He produced his eating knife, cut a slice of roasted egret and popped it in his mouth. Fuming, Honor watched him. He smiled and leaned close to her.

“I’ve missed you, my little sunset.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“By my troth, you’re testy this evening.”

Honor opened her mouth, but a blast of trumpets sounded to announce the next course. Servants paraded
into the hall to music. They carried large trays bearing peacocks and swans whose feathers had been replaced after the birds had been cooked. Each bird’s beak had been covered with gold foil. The sewer at their table carved a peacock and presented a steaming portion to them. Galen cut a few dainty slices and placed them on her trencher. Honor sniffed and turned up her nose.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You are too. Your mouth is practically watering, and …” Galen put a hand to his ear. “Yes, yes, I hear your stomach growling.”

“It is not,” she ground out between stiff jaws. The man was impossible.

Before she could tell him so, Isidore Jennings appeared. “Honor, de Marlowe, good e’en to you both.”

While Galen rose to greet her brother-in-law, Honor picked up a morsel of peacock and stuffed it in her mouth so she wouldn’t have to talk to either man. Isidore was a thin, dry man with the Jennings’ black hair and eyes that never rested on one thing for long. Those ever-shifting eyes made Honor uneasy. She remembered how he’d watched her for months after Aymer died. Watched her stomach, rather. He’d been fearful that she would produce a posthumous heir and he’d lose the Jennings’ inheritance. Honor couldn’t tell him his vigilance was unwarranted: She would never tell him, or anyone, of the tottering, cooing babes that peopled her dreams.

“I’ve heard rumors about you, Honor,” Isidore said.

“What?” Caught off guard, she realized both men were looking at her. “What rumors?”

“That you’re to renounce your vows and marry,” Isidore replied. His gaze flitted over her head, over her shoulder, everywhere but to her face. “I hope your vows weren’t a ruse to avoid marriage with my cousin. An alliance with Sir Drogo Scattergood would be most advantageous.”

Galen picked up his eating knife and skewered a piece of meat. “Advantageous to you, mayhap. However, I doubt Lady Honor wishes to connect herself with a man who owes a prince’s fortune to the de Medici bank.”

“How did you—that’s a lie,” Isidore cried, his face turning the color of old beets.

Galen set his knife down, turned to Isidore with a sweet smile and said quietly, “By God’s mercy, my lord, are you calling me a liar?”

The beet color in Isidore’s face faded until it was nearly as pale as the manchet bread. He shook his head rapidly and took a step backward.

“No, no. But Honor must be guided by me if she renounces her vows.”

Galen shook his head, still smiling like a cherub, but his hand strayed to the gold and ruby hilt of his dagger. Honor rose and stepped between the two men.

“I’ve had enough of you two speaking of me as if I weren’t here.”

Galen said nothing and continued to stare at Isidore. For once Isidore’s eyes stopped wandering and fixed warily on his suddenly menacing adversary.

“Methinks I’ve been deceived,” Isidore muttered, but he looked at Honor when he said it.

“By my troth, you have not,” she said. “I intend to remain a vowess.”

“Dressed in blue silk with gold stars embroidered on it?” Isidore asked with a quick look at her gown.

Galen’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Honor’s future is none of your concern, Jennings, and neither is her manner of dress.”

“I’ll complain to the king,” Isidore vowed while his gaze began to dart in all directions again.

Honor’s heart tried to crawl up her throat. She swallowed hard and she gave Galen a look of mute appeal.

“Jennings, you vex me grievously,” Galen said in a low voice. “Keep your mouth shut regarding Lady Honor, or by my faith I’ll issue a challenge to you.”

Honor saw images of two knights thundering toward each other, lances couched. If their aim was off by a finger’s width, the lance tip could glance off plate armor and splinter. A splintered lance could shoot through the eye holes of a visor and pierce the skull, the throat—Galen’s throat.

“No!”

Without thinking she put her hand on Galen’s
arm, but he ignored her and held Isidore trapped in a killer’s gaze. Isidore’s jaw set, and Honor was certain he’d be foolish enough to risk a fight. Then his gaze strayed to the gold collar of honor gracing his opponent’s shoulders. Honor noticed it too for the first time. King Edward’s collar of honor. She almost smiled when Isidore cleared his throat.

“It’s not worth my trouble,” he said. “I’ll not dispute with you over so paltry a matter, de Marlowe. Good e’en.”

Honor sighed and said, “Thanks be to God.” She rounded on Galen. “What possessed you? Isidore isn’t a great warrior, but he doesn’t have to be. He fights most unchivalrously.”

“Am I to go in dread and fear intolerable because Jennings fights like a street thief?”

Galen glanced at her hand on his arm and something stirred in his eyes. Honor lifted her hand as if it touched a hot anvil, and Galen whispered to her, “By God’s mercy, little sunset. You were afeared for me.”

“I was not.”

Honor plumped herself back down on her stool and jabbed her spoon into a dish. It was a pottage of herbs—borage, kale, bugloss, parsley, violets and such in broth with hare meat. Galen sat down beside her and dipped his spoon in the dish too.

“You were,” he said.

“Was not.”

“You grew wan and near toppled over in a faint.”

Honor threw her spoon down and hissed, “Saints spare me, I’m sorely vexed with your ridiculous imaginings, my lord.”

Then she narrowed her eyes and studied him. He was eating calmly, his elegant hands moving with grace, his manners perfect. He seemed so certain. Was it because he’d caused her to quiver in fear for his life? She sucked in her breath. He was magicking her again! She wouldn’t have it. Not a bit longer. She felt his power even now, coursing through her body, making her want him, driving her. Making her crave the touch of his hands. God’s mercy, she couldn’t keep her eyes from those beautiful hands.