At His Command-Historical Romance Version (10 page)

To his right stood a beautiful woman with large eyes and a rounded face in a rich, dark blue velvet gown, whom she assumed to be Queen Margaret. Her hair, reputed to be blond, was hidden beneath her headdress with an oval padded roll on top. To Henry’s left was the only empty seat she could see. Next to that she was relieved to see Nicholas.

Immediately her tight shoulders relaxed. Her breath came easier. She’d never seen him so richly dressed, in black velvet with silver thread at the collar. A sense of contentment washed through her, cleansing as a spring rain. She forced her gaze from Nicholas to seek out the page. How had he disappeared so quickly? There he was, almost at the high table.

The crowd sat, leaving her one of the few still standing except for servers carrying heaped platters hither and yon. Sensing many eyes upon her, she drew herself up regally and continued on, weaving gracefully around the tables. She knew she looked her best. The din quieted as Amice curtseyed to the king and queen. The sibilance of whispers rose above her pounding heart as the king raised her to her feet.

“Welcome,” Henry said, his voice nasal and thin. He looked down his nose at her with what seemed to be great disdain. He opened his mouth as if to say something else but turned to address the other guests instead. “We welcome Lady Amice Winfield.”

The whispers flourished with renewed vigor.

“Come, sup with Us so we can get acquainted,” Henry said, indicating the vacant chair. With that, he turned to his food, as if already uninterested in the new arrival.

Amice’s stomach was too squeezed to think of eating. She couldn’t stand the suspense another minute. Who was she to wed? When? As she drew breath to speak, Nicholas turned to her with a bright, clearly forced smile. So his court persona was yet another facet of him. Would she ever again see the Nicholas she had come to know, care for and already missed?

“Whatever we discuss, keep smiling…as though we spoke of the venison or some such thing,” he said.

“Where is he?” Amice demanded with an equally forced smile.

“He’s expected very soon.” Nicholas took a bite of roasted eel in red wine.

“Who did the king choose?” She picked up her small, chased silver eating knife, but the aroma of the sauce made her queasy.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I tried to find out, but Henry wouldn’t reveal his name.”

The servitor brought more wine.

“When is someone going to tell me something?” she asked angrily. “This waiting, the not knowing, is worse than what will be. You can’t make plans without facts.” Recovering with a stiff smile, she changed the subject. “I’m glad to see you, a familiar, friendly face. But why are we seated here? And where is my cousin Cromwell?”

Nicholas leaned close, whispering, “No matter what, smile.”

Her eyes widened, but she did as he bid. Many had stopped eating and appeared to be avidly studying the events at the high table. Amice hoped their expressions were bland enough to mask the true nature of their conversation.

“The question is, ‘When is your wedding?’” he said.

He looked so handsome, with candlelight brightening his eyes. She needed his comfort, but how? He couldn’t even take her hand or even say too much lest a neighbor overhear.

“When?” Her voice came out a whisper.

“In three weeks. The king and queen plan to attend.”

Her knife fell to the table and slid to the floor with a clatter. Henry turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

Amice knew she blushed as a server retrieved the utensil. Never had she felt so awkward, so unsure. In three weeks she’d wed a man she’d never met, whose name she didn’t yet know. How she wished to return to her satisfying life at Castle Rising. With Nicholas.

Henry said, “We’re certain you will be pleased with our choice.”

Amice clutched her jeweled goblet, her knuckles turning white as the stones dug into her palms.

He continued smoothly, “We see no need to waste time in this matter. The wedding will be in three weeks.”

She couldn’t resist a quick glance at Nicholas, but couldn’t read his expression. The man on his other side was leaning so far toward them that his hair dangled over Nicholas’s plate. Thankfully the king had spoken softly.

Amice had no choice but to risk Henry’s wrath. This might be her only opportunity to protest the marriage. Her only audience with the king and queen. She’d never forgive herself if she meekly accepted her fate, though ordered by the king. She had to try to change it, though her arsenal of options was limited.

“Your Grace, I am most honored that you think highly enough of me to select a husband for me and have made the effort to do so,” she began. “However, I would rather not wed.”

Henry turned in his tall chair to peer more closely at her. He seemed curious, not angry. “What say you?”

“I’m content to remain at Castle Rising, to continue managing it and the lands Edwin bequeathed me. I’ll gladly pay a fine for this privilege. Or perhaps I could make a generous contribution to Eton College, the school for poor scholars you established? I’ve heard how important education is to you, that you want students to learn both virtue and the sciences. Whatever amount you think appropriate….” She was babbling. Her courage faded faster than a winter sun at twilight.

Henry looked sympathetic, even as he shook his head. “What the individual wants is not important, but what is good for England and our Lord. I didn’t ask to be king, as you didn’t ask to be wed. But I am anointed by right and must do as I see fit. That is my duty. Your duty is to marry, to strengthen an alliance. God almighty, the Lord of all, is compassionate and merciful.” Henry shifted in his chair, as if he found the discussion distasteful. He turned to Queen Margaret, who’d been trying to overhear the exchange. A frown marred her brow.

Learning that Henry didn’t want to be king surprised Amice. Yet given the myriad problems he faced, such as France wanting its sovereignty, the arguing among his own advisors Nicholas had told her about, and Richard, Duke of York’s claim that he was the rightful king, combined with the pressure of weighty decisions, Amice couldn’t blame him. She strained to get another glimpse of the queen, whom she knew to be near her own age, and at last with child for the first time after seven years of marriage.

Henry had been the wrong one to approach. Maybe Margaret would help her.

The seemingly endless meal was almost over. Amice nibbled on a piece of bread, not as soft or flavorful as Castle Rising’s, making her miss home and Maia all the more. She surveyed the other guests. Most wore black, brown, or another subdued color. Why was she one of the only people garbed in a bright shade?

As they rose to leave, Queen Margaret motioned to her. “Lady Winfield, it’s most obvious you haven’t been informed of my husband’s preference for somber dress.” Her accent revealed her French heritage.

Amice grew hot with embarrassment, but held her head high despite chagrin that the first words the queen spoke to her weren’t of welcome but disdain.

“Henry dislikes colorful garments, and as you can see, most accede to his wishes. Once at a Christmas play, women were brought to dance before the king. Though it was the fashion, so much of their flesh was exposed that the king left the room. In future, please keep in mind that the king is quite modest and offended by such displays as you make with your gown.”

The whispers hadn’t been mere musings about the new arrival. They’d all been laughing at her. The maid who’d advised her on her choice of gown had known this would happen.

A painful way to learn a lesson. She’d be more careful whom she trusted in the future.

“As to your marital situation, do not anticipate assistance from me. We need you to make this marriage,” Margaret informed her. “Your wishes have no import.”

Worse and worse. Neither Margaret nor Henry cared to reconsider their choice of husband. This unpleasant beginning to her court visit didn’t bode well for things to come.

But Amice refused to be a pawn manipulated by king and queen. Somehow she’d find a way to make her own moves.

Near the other end of the hall, Belinda Carlisle observed the high table as best she could between bustling servers and pages blocking her view. When she saw Nicholas, her slow smile was quickly replaced by a frown. She couldn’t bear to watch his cheerful banter with the beautiful new arrival. Who was she to be so highly seated?

Envy sliced sharper than a sword. He hadn’t even let her know he’d returned to court.

After Belinda’s third husband set her aside, she’d sought out Nicholas, an exceedingly handsome favorite of the king, who gave her access to lords and ladies she wanted to know. Many a woman wished to claim him. The prospect of capturing a prize in the face of competition encouraged her to try harder.

She’d thought Nicholas easy prey; he was a man. But Nicholas spent time with her on his terms, not hers. Nor had he professed to have any feelings for her. Still, she enjoyed the pride she felt attending court functions on his arm, the envious looks from other women, questions about his prowess to which she offered only enough information to keep them asking more. The lack of a suitable replacement kept her from complaining too often.

She was only twenty-five, so perhaps there was still time to ensnare him completely. Perhaps she hadn’t tried hard enough, been bold enough.

Her smile returned as an idea came to her. How she adored having a plan.

Nicholas sighed as he entered his quarters. His head ached from the noisy hall and the strain of making polite conversation. Sitting next to Amice, ever aware of their impending separation, unnerved him. She’d looked so lovely despite concern and uncertainty about her situation. He’d wanted to ease her fears and bring a genuine smile to her face. To be alone with her and make her his.

He paced in the narrow antechamber.
I don’t want her to marry someone else.
He’d found the one woman who might change his distaste for marriage. He’d come to care for her, respect her. Desire her.

Why can’t I speak the truth to Henry? Why can’t I ask for her?

He answered his own questions. “Because Henry needs her marriage to benefit England, not his friend.”

The strength of his feelings for Amice weighed on him, but he didn’t know how to rid himself of them. Wanting what couldn’t be.

A noise from the next room broke his train of thought. Silently he unsheathed his dagger and stepped toward the door, wishing he were wearing his sword, now propped next to the bed. He looked into the bedroom, lit by a fire.

Someone was in his bed.

As he drew near, he heard a stifled giggle. Belinda’s blond head appeared from under the covers.

Nicholas jammed his dagger back into its sheath. “Belinda. What are you doing here? Do you think to cause some kind of scandal to force me to wed you?”

Her smile didn’t waver. “I wanted to welcome you home. You’ve been away so long,” she answered, as she slowly drew back the covers, revealing her nakedness.

Not even a stirring of interest.

Her audacity in coming uninvited to his rooms irked him. And he hoped she hadn’t overheard his musings. If anyone had seen her, he’d have to find a way to extricate himself from that quagmire. And if word got to Amice….

“I was going to tell you this tomorrow, but since you’re here….” He had to be blunt. No vague phrases that could be misinterpreted. “Whatever we had is over. I never made you any promises. I’m sorry if you believed something would come of it.”

She jumped out of bed, seemingly unconscious of the cold floor or her nakedness. Her smile changed to a snarl. “Is there someone else? That new woman? What can she offer that I can’t?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“I know you want someone you can’t have,” Belinda said. “Why bother with whoever she is when you can be with me?”

Belinda
had
heard him. At least he hadn’t mentioned Amice’s name. She didn’t have enough information to use against him.

Slowly, she walked forward, offering herself, pressing herself against him. Her scent seemed sickeningly strong. “Don’t make me your enemy, Nicholas. You’ll be much better off with me as your friend.” She ran a hand over his shoulder and down his arm.

Ignoring her veiled threat, somewhat surprised that her lush body no longer enticed him, he said, “Belinda. There’s nothing between us, nor has there been. Just leave.”

He walked around her, picked her clothes up from where they were piled neatly on a chest in the corner and handed them to her.

A knock sounded at the outer door. “Get dressed,” he ordered. “And be quiet.”

Nicholas opened the door to find Robert. “My lord,” he began.

“What’s amiss? Has something happened?” He regretted his harsh tone, not wanting to frighten the boy.

“N-nothing, my lord. It’s just that…here.”

Nicholas took the proffered note with some dismay, remembering his earlier request that Amice not risk undue gossip should a note fall into the wrong hands. But he smiled as he read it. Amice was worried that her precious servant would be corrupted by staying in the page’s quarters. How quickly she learned the ways of court.

And how clever she was. By entrusting Robert to his care, she’d be able to send as many messages as she wanted without arousing curiosity.