At The King's Command (15 page)

She gestured at Rodion, still struggling between the horses while Jillie Egan rolled up her sleeves, no doubt preparing to do battle with the men-at-arms.

“Sire, let that man go free,” Juliana pleaded.

The king’s men burst into a chorus of protests. But Henry smiled, his expression an echo of the sincere young prince he had once been. “You plead so sweetly. Who is he to so great a lady?”

Juliana stepped back, clearly stung by the lash of the king’s sarcasm. She clasped her hands together and studied the ground.

Chuckling, the king turned to Stephen. “Well, Wimberleigh. You’ve managed to dress it up, wash the stink off it. But have you turned it from gypsy to lady?”

Stephen crossed his arms. “She hasn’t stolen any horses lately.”

“I am proud to be Rom,” Juliana blurted out. “Rodion belongs to the tribe that took me in when I was homeless. For that, I beg you to let him go free.” She glanced at Jillie, who was turning a deeper shade of red by the minute.

“Besides,” Juliana added with surprising good humor, “he is well-liked by my maid, and she never harmed a soul.”

The king stroked his beard, then pointed a fat, beringed finger at the gutted carcass slung on a pole. “What of the deer he poached? Surely you understand its value. Not even my esteemed warden, Lord Wimberleigh, is allowed to hunt deer without a special license.”

Juliana looked at Stephen. What a world of emotion he saw in her beautiful face: pleading, regret, and a deep, steady pride. Without taking her eyes off him, she said, “Majesty, my lord husband will compensate you for the deer.”

“A pretty speech,” said Henry, while all present held a collective breath. “Well, Wimberleigh? You cannot marry this thief, as well. What will you give me to free the gypsy?”

Jaws dropped all around. Stephen turned himself to stone to keep from throttling his wife. First she proved him a liar when he had only lied to protect her. Then she humbled herself for Rodion—her gypsy lover, for all Stephen knew—when she should have known damned well he would not have allowed the poor sod to be yanked apart.
Now
she expected him to offer a fortune to save the gypsy’s worthless skin.

And yet there was something in the way she was looking at him, something hypnotic, startling. Her spell drew his will from him and compelled him to say, “My steward will give you a hundred crowns, sire.”

Gasps filled the air. That was ten times what the deer was worth.

“Done!” exclaimed the king, obviously delighted with Stephen, with Juliana, and with his own craftiness. “Let the Egyptian go, and make him leave my presence. Later,
I expect the gypsies to give me reason to tolerate their proximity.”

“They are great entertainers, Your Grace,” Juliana said quickly.

He patted his girth, his eyes fixed upon her. “We’ll sup on roast venison tonight,” he said, “and I’ll help myself to something sweeter for after.”

Seated at King Henry’s left side, Juliana watched in apprehension as he got steadily and determinedly drunk. Stephen sat on Henry’s other side and stared straight ahead, drinking just as steadily but staying determinedly sober.

The hall teemed with the king’s courtiers and retainers, all feasting at hastily set up tables. Their ringing laughter echoed off the magnificent woodwork of the ceiling beams. Iron coronas of candles hung from the rafters, joining with the roaring hearth fire to illuminate the great chamber. Above the dais, musicians played in a gallery.

For perhaps the hundredth time, Juliana stole a glance at her husband. She told herself Stephen was the same man who had held her in his arms and kissed her so ardently just this afternoon. She could not believe it. Only hours later, he was as cold and remote as the Russian steppes in the dead of winter.

And why shouldn’t he be? she asked herself. He had whisked her to the tower room and asked her to stay hidden.

Now, as she felt the king’s thick-fingered hand close around her knee, she knew why.

She stood abruptly, almost oversetting her narrow-backed chair. “Your Highness,” she said as courteously as she could. “I would very much like to dance.”

Stephen let out a snort of humorless laughter. Apparently he had convinced himself that she was throwing herself at
the king. Laughter erupted, seemingly from the depths of the king’s belly. “I want you to dance, my little tartlet. Alas, my bad leg plagues me.” He jerked his head toward Stephen. “Dance with your husband, and I shall watch.”

The prospect set her heart to thumping until she felt the pulsebeat in her temples. Stephen blinked, took an idle sip of wine and said softly, “I have better things to do.’

A flush rose in her cheeks, heated by the stares of the occupants of the hall. As nonchalantly as she could, she turned in the direction of Jonathan Youngblood. But the kindly man was facing away, deep in conversation with Thomas Cromwell. Perhaps Kit…but the youth had slipped away as was his wont these days, no doubt to spy on the gypsies.

She stood helpless, furious and pitiful as a jilted maid. As she was trying to determine the most graceful way to return to her seat, a young man took her hand and bowed over it.

“Algernon!” she said.

His merry eyes smiled into hers. “The pavane is far and away my favorite. It would be an honor to partner you.”

Juliana tried not to show her relief as she dropped her hand into his. She felt the eyes of both Stephen and the king on her. “Thank you, my dear lord of Havelock,” she said as they stepped out onto the rush-strewn floor.

“The pleasure is mine,” he said gallantly, lifting her hand and beginning the stately stroll around the perimeter of the hall. Then he ruined the gallantry by leaning over and adding, “I trow it was tempting to watch the drama play itself out. What
would
you have done had I not intervened, Juliana?”

She sniffed. “Believe me, my lord, I have faced graver humiliation before.”

Havelock shook his curls and loosed a jolly laugh. “Do
you know how delighted I am that Stephen has married such a singular woman? Our rustic life was so tiresome until you and your Egyptian friends came along.”

Juliana seized her chance. “Tiresome?” She emphasized her accent to show her disbelief. “That is the last thing I expected to hear about Lord Wimberleigh’s first wife.”

To her astonishment, Algernon blushed. And stammered when he replied, “The lady Margaret was far from tiresome. But she’s been gone a long time.”

“Seven years,” Juliana said.

Algernon lifted one eyebrow. “He speaks to you of Meg?”

“Seldom,” she said, careful to betray nothing to the inveterate gossip. But Stephen’s moods and his silences spoke loudly of his love for the young woman, of his obsession with her still.

The pavane ended and she turned to thank Algernon. She frowned when she spied the ornament he wore, an oval suspended from a black ribbon around his neck.

“What is this, Algernon?” she asked, touching the smooth limning.

“A bauble, no more,” he said. To Juliana’s amusement, he blushed.

“It is a portrait of you.”

“Allow me a bit of vanity.” He tugged at the ribbon, but she held it fast.

She turned over the limning and saw the artist’s name written in letters so tiny they must have been drawn with a single hair. N. Hilary. It was the same artist who had done the limnings of Stephen’s first wife and children.

He sniffed and pushed the ornament down into his shirt. “I had it done last year.”

She frowned. Last year? But Stephen had lost his son
long before that. Had the artist painted the child from a description? It seemed strange to Juliana. Everything about Stephen seemed strange to her.

Just as she was about to return to her seat, Algernon took hold of her brooch. She wore it fastened on her bodice, the bloodred ruby and creamy pearls bright against the emerald velvet.

“Tit for tat, Jules, dear,” he said. “I showed you mine, now you—” He broke off, astonished as the brooch came apart in his hand.

“God’s death!” he whispered. Moving more quickly than she ever would have credited him for, he yanked her into the shadow of a window alcove.

“Give me that,” Juliana said.

He held the dagger high out of her reach. The jewels caught the light from the coronas. “Not for a third ball,” he said, frowning in rapt concentration at the blade.

“Algernon, please!” She hopped up and down, snatching at the dagger.

“Do you know the penalty for coming within a yard of the king with a concealed weapon?”

“It is probably something disgusting. Dismemberment? Amputation? A cossack could take lessons from you Englishmen.”

He brought the dagger close to his face, angling it toward the light, and stared at the Romanov motto for so long that Juliana could have sworn he was reading it. Ridiculous, she told herself. She had not met a man in the whole of England who recognized Cyrillic characters. Certainly not a fool who thrived on gossip.

“Give it back,” she snapped. “It is a family heirloom, not a weapon. If I’m arrested and minced into a pie, it will be your fault.”

He leaned forward, poking his head out of the alcove. “I think I got us out of sight before anyone noticed. I am quick, you know. Your friend Laszlo has been teaching me the art of throwing daggers.”

“Throwing daggers?” She almost laughed. “You?”

“I’m quite good. Shall I demonstrate?”

“No!” She grabbed his wrist. “My lord, I must return to my table.”

Algernon gave the blade one last look, then handed it back, and she secured it in its jeweled sheath. As she returned to the high table, she could not help but notice how quickly Algernon found his way to Thomas Cromwell. The little gossip. He was probably telling Lord Privy Seal that the baroness of Wimberleigh was an assassin.

The thought fled as her husband appeared, all solicitousness, holding out her chair at the table haute. Only Juliana could see the sharp sparks of fury in his eyes.

“Enjoy your little tryst, my lady?” he demanded in a low voice.

“Tryst?” She frowned down at her hands, then remembered the word from the writings of the loathesome Saint Chrysostom. “Ah, a secret meeting of lovers.” She discovered an astonishing fact. Her husband was jealous.

She barely had time to ponder this amazing notion when she glanced at their royal guest and realized something else.

So was the king.

“By Christ’s knees,” Henry grumbled. “This is absurd, sitting in the damp cold outside. What is your wife about, Wimberleigh?”

Stephen feigned a grin of nonchalance. In truth he had no earthly idea. “She wished to see to Your Majesty’s entertainment.”

“Good. Lynacre’s such a gloomy place. Where in God’s name did you find those musicians? A charnel house?”

The royal entourage surrounded the king and they proceeded out into the west field, a grassy sward tucked into a broad bend of the river. Torchlight licked the darkness, and for a moment the orange flames were all Stephen could see. As his eyes adjusted, he realized what he was looking at.

“My God,” someone whispered. “What madness is this?”

Juliana’s madness,
thought Stephen. The pitch torches were set in a half circle, close enough to the water’s edge to reflect in the river so that, from a distance, the circle looked complete.

In the center of the makeshift stage stood Rodion, playing the pipes as a huge bear danced in circles. Most of the courtiers stood with mouths agape. The ranking members, starting with the king, filed toward the benches. Stephen saw Mandiva dart forward and furtively relieve Cromwell of his silver-gilt scent ball.

Henry slapped his thick thighs and barked with laughter. “Now that is entertainment!” he declared, and the rest of the court joined his hearty applause. Stephen then began to understand. Whatever else she might be, Juliana was no fool.

The king expected the gypsies to give him reason to tolerate their presence. This, then, was her way of proving the worth of her people.

It might work, Stephen thought. The gypsies were accomplished performers, creating a vivid torchlit tapestry of juggling, saber dancing, sleight of hand, whirling skirts and acrobatic feats. The company oohed and aahed and
occasionally huzzahed, and the king lifted his cup in a high salute.

Well done, little wife
, Stephen thought grudgingly. Perhaps indeed the display would convince Henry to leave the gypsies in peace.

His silent compliment came a moment too soon. The crowd of gypsies parted and Juliana rode forth on an agile white pony.

Stephen’s intake of breath was echoed by the gasps of the rest of the company. It was Juliana, and yet it was not. She had unbound her hair and dressed in Romany garb. Her feet were bare, her slim ankles circled by cheap tin bangles.

“Is she always this entertaining, Wimberleigh?” Henry asked.

Stephen thought of his strange wife: the horse thief, galloping off on Capria; the ragamuffin, sputtering like a wet cat in the millstream; the virago, furiously banishing gamblers from the hall; the gentle lady, offering her heart-melting sympathy; and finally, the lover, sighing and clinging to him with newfound passion.