By His Majesty's Grace (26 page)

The rumors which said Henry had bedded his bride between the betrothal and the wedding had apparently been true. That, or else Lady Margaret was putting a good face on the news.

“I am delighted to hear it,” Isabel said. “Please extend to the queen my profound wishes for an easy confinement, also my warmest felicitations when her child is born.”

“I shall.”

“The king has been informed?”

“A herald was sent with all speed to where he wends his way toward Winchester in progression. No doubt he will be there before me.”

Isabel hesitated, hardly daring to speak yet afraid to be silent. “And…and this matter we have been looking into here?”

“I shall surely put it before him,” Lady Margaret said with a brief, harried glance, “later, after the heir is born and duly christened. My son and I will then pursue it with all the vigor at our command.”

It was as much as she had any right to expect, Isabel knew. She bowed her head in acceptance. “You are kindness itself to keep it in mind.”

They were nearing the front entrance. The major-domo stood holding the front door through which opening could be seen a spirited white palfrey surrounded by members of the king’s yeoman guard in their distinctive livery.

Isabel came to a halt, curtsied and moved to one side. “I must not delay you. Godspeed, Your Grace.”

“May He hold you in His hands,” Lady Margaret said in quiet answer. She moved swiftly on, gliding out the door and down the steps with her cloak flapping, blowing back from her narrow shoulders. A few moments later, she was gone.

Left alone, Isabel was not certain what she should do. Lady Margaret’s impromptu council was ended for the moment, and there was little she could achieve on her own.

Or was that strictly true, she thought, remembering the information she had received so short a time ago. Rand’s arrest had prevented him from doing more than hide Juliette d’Amboise’s child away. If little Madeleine could be brought forth and shown to the public, might that not aid his cause?

Why had Rand not delivered her to Henry? What reason could he have for hiding the child from its father now that Mademoiselle Juliette was no more? Was it possible he didn’t trust the king not to make a permanent end to the threat posed by this small babe?

Child murder.
The words had such an ugly ring.

Some said it was not Richard III but Henry who had arranged for the deaths of the young sons of Edward IV. Did Rand know it to be true? Was that why he had hidden the child away?

There was one other possibility. Rand had traveled from Brittany with the king’s forces, had been with Henry every step along the path of invasion. From the victory at Bosworth Field he had come to court, remaining long enough to be awarded the prize he sought. Afterward, he had left London and Westminster, burying himself at Braesford until forced to return by the king’s command. What if he had been Mademoiselle Juliette’s lover and the father of her child? Suppose it was he who had spirited the lady away under guard and later murdered her?

Oh, but why would he destroy the one person who could swear that the babe had been alive and well long after the midwife left Braesford? No, no, Isabel refused to accept it. He could not have made her his wife so thoroughly, could not have held her, loved her so well, if another woman had been in his heart.

Could he?

Rand had been suspected of the death of the baby, but arrested for the deaths of both child and mother. The charges had been fabricated for the dual purpose of embarrassing the king and putting an end to Rand’s life; it could be no other way. If the baby was produced, proving the first crime never took place, surely his guilt in the second must seem less certain?

If it was not safe to take the baby to its father, to Henry, there was still one other who could be depended upon to hold tiny Madeleine safe from harm, also to see that the implications in her being alive was presented in Rand’s defense when he appeared at the King’s Court. Lady Margaret, Duchess of Richmond and Derby, would serve admirably. She would keep this baby safe because it would benefit her son, but also because, like it or not, she was the child’s grandmother.

By the time Isabel had worked her way around to that conclusion, she knew exactly what she must do. She also knew where she must go. For the first, she had to trust to her heart. For the second, she need merely persuade David to take her to the only persons in Henry’s wide realm who had no need for riches.

18

T
he Convent of Saint Theresa, on the outskirts of London, was a complex of buildings in cream stone kept safe behind walls of the same mellow material. A world within itself with its chapel, kitchens and cloister from which opened scores of small rooms no larger than cells, it had also a wall garden replete at this season with vegetables and ripening fruit, the trills of birds and hum of bees. It looked a warm and welcoming place in the late-evening quiet, but the abbess was less than convivial.

Upright and proud, she stood before them with her hands tucked into the wide sleeves of her habit and her features under her wimple set in lines of stern authority. By what right did Lady Isabel seek possession of this child? she demanded. Young David there at her side was well-known to them, yes, but that counted for little. He had brought the child to the convent on guidance from God, one more orphan to join all the others. He had denied being the father, asking only for succor for her. The little one had been well fed and put back into swaddling. She had begun to thrive. To give her over to just anyone might not be in her best interests. The abbess must first be certain of His will in the matter.

It was dusk-dark with a ghost moon rising by the time Madeleine was handed over to Isabel and David at last. It might not have happened then except that Isabel had invoked the name of Lady Margaret. The duchess, it transpired, was a patron of the nunnery, and honored the abbess from time to time by staying within the convent walls for a few days of prayer. A most holy and gracious lady she was indeed. Why had Isabel not said at once that she had come from the king’s mother?

“Sir Rand chose well for a place to see Mademoiselle Juliette’s child safe,” she said to David when he had held her palfrey while she took the swaddled infant he passed up to her.

“Aye.”

“At your suggestion, I suspect.”

“There was no time to think long on it, and few places to turn.” He stood gazing up at her in the pale light that turned the world to shades of gray, in no hurry to mount Shadow, Rand’s destrier that he had taken for his use. The abbess had insisted on sending the woman who was Madeleine’s wet nurse with them, and they awaited her coming.

“You could—he could—have brought her to me.” That Rand had not trusted her enough for it was an ache deep in her chest.

“Not without everyone in the place knowing of it. It seemed best to hide her among many like her.”

“But to tell me nothing of where she might be,” she began in protest.

He shook his head. “I gave my word not to speak of it. As for Sir Rand, he feared you would not rest until you found some reason to…”

“To have her in my arms, yes.” It seemed Rand might know her better than she could have guessed. “I am grateful you answered my plea to know where she might be found, even if it went against your vow. To search every convent would have taken far longer.”

“I kept guard outside when you went to him today,” David said with a shift of one shoulder. “I heard Sir Rand tell you how he’d found the babe and made away with it—though did not stay to listen to the rest.” Color darkened his face, an indication that he had heard enough to know what she and Rand had been about.

“You realized then that I could guess the rest, so felt freed of your vow of secrecy,” she said to prevent added embarrassment for him. “I do understand. Thank you.” She had no right to be angry that he had not told her before, though it would have saved much time and trouble. A man’s word was sacred, or should be.

He made no answer. As silence fell between them, Isabel turned her gaze to the stone walls of the convent, considering their age and solidity before glancing down again at the sleeping babe. “Are there really so many like her here?” she asked.

“It’s the way of the world. People die easy.” At the sound of a squeaking hinge, he looked away toward where a plump, fresh-faced woman, the wet nurse without doubt, emerged from the convent gate on her way to join them. His shoulders lifted in a shrug that was not as careless as he might have wanted it to appear. “Those left behind live as best they may.”

“You were brought here like her.” Though Rand had mentioned the bare facts in passing, she knew no more than that.

“Not quite. I was older by some months, almost walking, when brought here from some country convent.”

“The abbess must have been paid for your keep as you were educated instead of being sent out early as an apprentice.”

“A small sum, mayhap, though I was finally put to learning the tanner’s trade.” He gave a short laugh. “Living hand to mouth on the streets, where Sir Rand came upon me, breathing that stench.”

“You’ve no idea who brought you, then?”

He shook his head so his curls gleamed in the light of a rising moon. “I was never told. Sometimes…sometimes I pretended to be the son of a king.”

He could have been a Plantagenet, she thought, as he had the same fine, strong body, the same clear blue eyes and fair hair. He might well be one of the many by-blows sired by Edward IV, or by his brother Clarence, who was equally prodigal with his embraces. It was a harmless fancy.

“You would have made a fine prince,” she said quietly, then looked away from the color that suffused the lad’s face because it hurt her to see it.

They rode out at last. Their pace was slow, in part because of the baby but also because the wet nurse sat her mule like a sack of grain. The animal she rode was not happy with the panniers fitted on either side of the saddle, either, one of which held provisions for the baby while the other was meant for the infant.

The woman offered to take the baby in her charge at once, but Isabel refused. She was by no means sure the wet nurse could control her mount and see to the baby’s safety at the same time. Besides, the feel of the small body in her arms satisfied something deep inside her. It pleased her to cover the small, sleeping face with her cloak against the cool night wind and hold her close.

It wasn’t, she would swear, that she actually hungered for a child as did some women. Regardless, she was aware, once again, of the small hope for one. It had nothing to do with Rand and his imprisonment or with the likelihood that his line would die with him otherwise. No, it was simply nature’s way. That was all, nature’s way.

“Halt!”

Two horsemen came at them from behind a copse of trees. Helmeted, wearing unmarked surcoats over chain mail, they crowded in from either side. They jostled against them, shouting, snatching for their bridles as if to drag them to a standstill. Isabel felt the baby she held start, straining against its swaddling bands as it woke with a strangled cry. In the same moment, she heard the hiss as David drew the sword he wore.

Rage poured through Isabel in a wild surge like nothing she had ever felt before. She jerked her palfrey’s head away from the grasping hands with such force the mare reared up, almost unseating her. As she came down, the way ahead was clear and Isabel kicked her into a run, bending over the precious burden she held.

Behind her she could hear the wet nurse screaming amid the curses of the two assailants, hollow behind their concealing helmets that had no identifying devices. Metal clanged on metal and horses whinnied in panic. Ringing above all was David’s hoarse shouts as he cleaved the air with silver flashes of the great blade he wielded with two hands.

“Ride, idiot woman!” he called out in angry demand. “Ride!”

He spoke not to her, Isabel saw as she stared back over her shoulder, but to the lumpish wet nurse, who ducked and wove on her saddle as one of the horsemen grappled with her, trying to pull her from her mule. David meant the attackers to believe the nurse had the baby strapped into the mule’s pannier like a peasant’s child. He whacked the animal’s flank with the flat of his sword so it bucked free and took off at a panicked gallop.

Isabel had the baby instead, held close to her breast with one firm arm. The wee thing was crying, but the sound, muffled by the cloak that covered it, could barely be heard amid all the rest.

She would keep her, too, with luck and David’s valiant efforts. But though Rand’s squire was brave and strong, he had no chain mail and little skill to match against the blows of heavier, more experienced men-at arms. All he had was Shadow and the destrier’s strength and swiftness to aid him. She could not help him, though her soul shriveled with the knowledge. To honor his effort, she must take advantage of every second he gave her.

Isabel lowered her head and rode like a Viking goddess of old, plunging through the night with her cloak flying out behind and her hair, torn from its veil, streaming in the wind. She had meant to take the babe to Lady Margaret, but rode instead toward Winchester, where it was less likely she would be attacked in plain view of passersby. In moments, she could barely hear the tumult behind her. Soon all was quiet except for the thudding of her mount’s hooves, the squeak of leather and rattle of the bridle.

And in that quiet, with the echo in her mind of the shouts and curses hurled by the men who had appeared from nowhere, she understood two things with stunning clarity. Most paramount was the purpose of their attack, which had been to take the baby at all costs. Just as important was their identity. One of them had been Henley, the other Graydon.

It was on the outskirts of Westminster that David caught up with her. He rode with one hand while the other dripped blood. Still he grinned as Shadow drew even with her palfrey. Gladness that he was there and reasonably unscathed tilted her own mouth into a smile, though she sobered almost at once.

“The wet nurse?” she asked.

“They went after her, though they may regret taking her as she was screeching as if demented. I expect they will let her go when they discover she has no charge with her.”

“Pray God,” she answered.

“The baby?” His gaze rested on the bulk beneath her mantle.

“Asleep again. I believe she likes riding.” She paused. “Will you be all right until we reach the palace?”

He gave a nod. “And after. ’Tis nothing.”

“I will tend to it when everything is settled.”

David grimaced but did not argue. He had, it seemed, learned more from his master than how to handle a sword.

It was impossible to enter the courtyard where lay the king’s apartments without the steward on duty noticing that she had brought an infant with her. If the man was surprised, he kept it to himself. He even offered his assistance with arrangements. Within the hour, a cradle and every other accoutrement for tending a nursing baby had been supplied, including a scrupulously clean young wet nurse with a three-month-old child. Gwynne took charge, seeing that the new nurse was comfortable in a corner of Isabel’s chamber and the baby settled in her cradle while Isabel tended David’s injury.

It proved to be a slash down his left arm. Though ugly to look at and likely to leave an impressive scar, nothing vital had been touched; he could open and close his hand, raise and lift his arm. When he had been stitched, he murmured his excuses and left her. Isabel did not expect to find him sleeping across her threshold in the morning, but neither did she think he would be far away. He was faithful in pursuit of his duty. It was a trait she valued, especially as it had served her well this evening.

Exhaustion caught up with her before the door had closed behind the squire. She thought of sending to tell her sisters she had returned, but was simply too tired. Stifling prodigious yawns, feeling suddenly as if she might drop in her tracks, she allowed Gwynne to seat her on a stool so she could remove the veil that had become entangled in her hair. While she worked, Isabel slipped off her shoes, removed her garters and rolled down her hose. The serving woman had picked up a comb of carved horn to bring order to her long locks when a firm knock fell on the door.

Gwynne looked at Isabel, who simply shook her head. She put down the comb and moved to answer the summons.

It was the steward who stood outside. He stepped forward into the chamber as Gwynne backed away, then executed a precise half turn, coming to a halt to one side. Avoiding Isabel’s questioning gaze, he drew himself up as he intoned in quiet solemnity, “His Most Royal Majesty, King Henry VII.”

The quiet that descended was feathered by a single gasp. It was a moment before Isabel realized it came from her own throat. In that instant, Henry stepped into view.

He was resplendent in green silk sewn with pearls, white-and-green striped hose and shoes of bleached leather. His sandy hair was restrained by his favored acorn hat in green felt with a dagged brim like the points of a crown drawn by a child. Though he appeared to be dressed for an evening of merriment, no smile softened his features. His pale blue eyes expressed only the most deadly calm as he watched Isabel slide off her stool and drop into a curtsy.

Behind him, the steward jerked his head toward the door while staring at Gwynne and the wet nurse. When they passed through into the corridor, the man closed the door after them. He stepped in front of it as if to bar entry and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Rise, Lady Isabel,” Henry said, but added no gesture to ease the formality, much less to indicate friendship. “We trust you are happy to see us despite the lateness of the hour.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice made uneven by the frantic beat of her heart. “If…if I seem surprised, it is because I thought you on your way to Winchester.”

“We were constrained to take an alternate route,” he said without emphasis.

“I dare hope it is nothing which…which threatens the crown or your safety?”

“That remains to be seen. Intelligence brought to us indicates you have been busy on an errand outside these walls. We are certain you would wish to present what you have discovered, and this without delay.”

“Discovered, sire?”