By His Majesty's Grace (30 page)

“It was you who accosted me at the abbey,” she called in trembling recognition. “You assumed too much—my willingness to join your scheme, for one thing, my silence for another.” She was distracted, briefly, by the match between Henley and the king. It had come to an abrupt end as the king disarmed Henley. Shoving him backward so he stumbled on the solar’s Saracen carpets, Henry caught the viscount’s blade as it spun from his grasp, clutching the hilt in his free hand.

David, squared-off against Graydon to her left, fought on with the dissonant clank of beating swords and the scrape of blades, edge to edge, that showered blue and orange-red sparks to the floor. Graydon tried again and again to overpower the younger man, as if hoping to beat him down with sheer might. Still, between attacks and attending to David’s lightning ripostes, he exchanged a crafty glance with McConnell.

David, his movements armed with grace and economy, frowned to see it. And it almost seemed to Isabel, aching with fear for his safety, that the lad might have defeated her stepbrother handily except for the curb he put on his skill. It occurred to her that he could be reluctant to defeat Graydon in front of her, for fear of how she might react to his death.

Before she could fully grasp the impression, the struggle between Rand and his half brother reclaimed her attention again.

“Your lady wife will refuse me no longer when you are gone,” McConnell was saying with malignant satisfaction. “She will do exactly as I say or join you in your grave.”

“I believe not,” Rand replied, his face like iron.

Hard on the words, he whirled into an attack that drove his opponent back and back again, well away from Isabel. McConnell stumbled, recovered, though the move was jerky, almost uncoordinated. Regardless, there was no defeat in his face. It registered cunning instead. He seemed to drop back faster and farther than was necessary.

Isabel saw the trap in that instant. David had only tenuous control of his fight against a swordsman less skilled yet of superior weight and malicious cunning. A few more steps and Rand would be within reach of Graydon’s sword. All McConnell had to do was lure him forward enough for his confederate, pausing for a single instant in his bout, to make a fatal thrust.

Her heart caught in her throat. She screamed a high-pitched warning.

It was unnecessary. Rand saw ploy.

He closed abruptly with McConnell, stepping into his guard. Catching him in a travesty of brotherly embrace, he swung him toward Graydon and gave him a hard shove.

Graydon’s blade took McConnell in the back, driving upward. A single, guttural cry sounded in the throat of Rand’s half brother before he sagged to the floor. His knees hit first and he fell forward. His sword clanked upon the carpet-softened stone of the floor, then spun across the bright-patterned wool, coming to a stop against the stiff skirt hem of the queen’s gown. Elizabeth of York stooped to pick it up by its heavy hilt, holding it with the tip trailing to the floor.

The shock of what he had done stunned Graydon for a mortal instant. He jerked his blade up into guard position once more, but it was too late. David, leaning already into an attack, slid past his feeble defense and took him in the heart.

The stillness was so sudden, so complete, that the fluttering of lamp flames on their oiled wicks had the sound of a flight of birds. Then Henley’s curse scalded the silence. Slewing around, he dived for the queen. Before Henry could bring up his sword again, Henley jerked the carmine-stained blade of his confederate from Elizabeth’s hand. With a growl like the bear emblazoned on his tunic, he turned toward Isabel.

It was then that a shadow moved, circling from a darkened corner. Lithe, silent as death, it rose up behind Henley, casting over him a black pall that had within it a silvery gleam. A slender dark shape drew back an arm, struck deep with a slender blade. And when Henley sank down with a knife between his ribs, Leon, Master of Revels, was revealed in all his splendor of yellow doublet embroidered in black with musical notes. A knife of finest Spanish steel was in his hand and a smile of satisfaction on his beautiful mouth.

“For my sister,” he said, sparing a brief, encompassing glance for those who stood watching in attitudes of stunned acceptance, “and for Lady Isabel. The man was an animal, and deserved to die.”

Moving to the cradle then, he slid his arms under the girl child who lay mewling there and lifted her against his chest. He turned toward the door.

“Stay!” Henry commanded.

Leon turned back, simple inquiry in his face.

“You have our daughter there. You may not take her to become a pawn for France.”

“I have my sister’s child, my own niece—though I once claimed her as my daughter in hope of keeping her safe. She was dearly loved by Juliette, just as she is dearly loved now by her uncle. Think you some matter of state was why she was conceived?”

“Was it not?” Henry asked in grim doubt as he avoided the steady gaze of his wife.

“Not on my sister’s part. She loved you, though she died with the sin of it upon her soul. If you would know who took payment from France, look to the good viscount. It was Henley who succumbed to the bribes of France while jaunting about the Continent from one tourney to another. He had need of it, being without lands or estates to go with his title.”

The king’s chin had a stubborn tilt to it, though he cleared his throat before he spoke. “Who took French coin matters little. The use this small body may be put to now concerns us. Can you guarantee she will never be harmed because of her birth, that she will not be held as a hostage for our goodwill? Yes, and even if she is well guarded, what can you give her compared to the riches of our court, or the marriage we may arrange for her one day?”

Leon glanced from the king to the baby in his arms and back again. Indecision crept like fog into the night darkness of his eyes.

Isabel stirred as if rousing from a bad dream. Taking a single step forward, she spoke in soft reason. “Dear Leon, how will you keep a child while you wander from one court to another? What safeguards can you place around her, indeed, if others would use her for their ends? The king has the power to keep her secure. Would it not be best to allow it?”

“As he kept her secure this night?” Leon asked with a twist to his smile, never taking his gaze from his niece.

“The fault in that was mine.”

Rand made a sound of denial, striding forward as if to support her until halted by an abrupt gesture from the king.

“What if it happens again?” Leon demanded. “More than that, what if, in his fascination with his heir, Henry forgets little Madeleine’s existence?”

“It is unlikely, especially after tonight.” Isabel’s somber gaze skimmed the bodies of the fallen whose bright lifeblood was soaking into the solar’s rugs.

“Who will love her, hold her, teach her to dance and to sing?” Leon went on as if she had not spoken. “Who will show her joy, make certain she knows how to laugh and to love? Who will see she is given to a husband who will treat her gently and well? These things matter, you see. They matter to me.”

“I am certain—” she began.

“I am not. A king has other cares, other intentions that may loom as more important than the life of one small girl child. Such an uncertain fate cannot be allowed. I will not leave her unless…”

“Unless what?” Henry demanded, scowling, as well he might, considering the insults he had endured.

“Unless Lady Isabel is given charge of her,” Leon said, turning a limpid yet unseeing gaze on the king. “She can be trusted to see to her, to give her the love a child requires. For protection, she has the sword arm of Sir Rand behind her, and his example of honor and chivalry before her. I could bear to leave her with the two of them, with your gracious permission.”

“We rejoice to see you accord us some authority,” Henry said in sardonic ire.

Isabel, ignoring that small sign of disagreeableness, turned toward him. “The responsibility is great, sire, but I would accept it should it be your will.”

“As will I,” Rand said, moving to her side in spite of the king’s prohibition.

Henry stood in frowning thought for long moments. Then Elizabeth of York moved to his side with a soft whispering of silk skirts. “It is not my place to interfere in this matter, and yet, my dear husband, it seems agreement would be a kindness.”

Henry looked down at his queen, his brow still furrowed. “I am seldom kind.”

It was a sign of his perturbation that he had forgotten the royal plural, Isabel thought.

“So you would have it,” Elizabeth said simply, “yet I know otherwise.”

They stood for the space of several breaths while beyond the solar could be heard the tramp of marching feet. Then Henry reached to take Elizabeth’s hand, lifting it to his lips before placing it on his arm. “How am I to refuse the mother of my son and heir?” he murmured. He released an audible sigh, squared his shoulders and resumed his royal persona like donning a cloak of great weight. “Enough. Have it as you will, our Master of the Revels. Only you must leave England and never return. We can endure no more of your tragic
danses macabre,
no more sad music and sadder tales.”

Leon bowed his curly head.

“As for you, Sir Rand,” the king went on as he turned to him, “we are in your debt yet again. When next we are at Westminster and you with us, we will invest you with the honors and privileges of the Order of the Garter given to you before. Then we shall discuss a barony to properly reward one whose strong arm, and stronger heart, is most prized by us.”

Baron Braesford. It had an appropriate, noble sound to it, Isabel thought, even as she watched her husband flush to the roots of his hair, saw his bow of graceful acceptance and homage to his king.

Henry raised a hand in a gesture of farewell. He covered Elizabeth’s hand with his own where it lay on his arm. The king and queen, heads held high, quitted the room. The nursemaid, summoned by a terse word, scurried after them with young Prince Arthur in her arms. They walked away down the dim passage beyond the door until finally even their shadows were gone.

The incident, beginning to end, had taken much less time than seemed possible. No sooner had Their Majesties left the room than the king’s steward, drawn by the noise, appeared with a half-dozen men-at-arms at his back. In the confusion of explanations, Leon came to Isabel, kissed little Madeleine’s soft cheek, handed her over and made his escape. Rand raised his voice to bring order to the chaos of questions and threats, recommending that the steward apply to the king for explanation for the dead, the blood and the ruined carpets. Offering his arm to Isabel then, he led her from the solar with David, pale and grim of face after his first kill, trailing behind them.

When they had retrieved Gwynne and passed from the great pile of stone that was the palace, emerging into the fresh night air, Isabel tugged on Rand’s arm to bring him to a halt. “Where are we going?” she asked, keeping her voice low to avoid disturbing small Madeleine, who had quieted as she was held against her. “We have no place here.”

“To find a wet nurse or a goat,” he said. “Either will do. Then I thought we might set out for Braesford.”

“Braesford?”

“You object, my lady?”

“It is night, and the journey is far. And you are no longer a nobody, nor yet a mere knight who may go where he wills without thought.”

“No?” he asked, tipping his head.

“You are my Lord Baron Braesford of Braesford, or soon shall be, a man of rapidly increasing responsibilities that include a wife. Yes, and a growing family.”

He watched her for long moments, there in the dimness lit only by flickering torchlight that fell upon them from some distance away. The strain eased from his features then, and a smile curved the firmly molded lines of his mouth. “You are increasing?” he asked in quiet inquiry.

“Just so.”

“You are…?”

“With child, or so it appears. Gwynne declares it so and she is never wrong.” She waited with a hard knot of apprehension in her chest to see what he would say. He had been away from her for so long, so long.

A soft sound left him, as if he had been struck. Swooping down upon her, he caught her and Madeleine up together in his arms and whirled them in long steps down the corridor while laughter rumbled in his chest.

Abruptly, he stopped, carefully set Isabel on her feet. Steadying her with a hand at her waist, he reached to touch her face. “You are all right? You aren’t sick? I didn’t…”

The fullness in her heart forced tears into her eyes. “No, no. I’m perfectly well.”

“A father. I’m to be a father.”

“And a baron.”

He inclined his head. “With a new device, so my son need never carry the bend sinister on his shield, need never be a nobody.”

The child might yet be a girl, but Isabel would not remind him and so spoil his vision. It would come true in time, God willing, for there would be more children. For now, she honored him that his thought was for their child’s future rather than the riches and estates that would come with his new title.

“It has been some time,” she said in soft sincerity, “since you were a nobody to me.”

His chest swelled with the depth of the breath he drew and his hold upon her tightened. “I believe resting here for the night may be a wise move, my lady.” He swung toward David, who had followed after them, though remaining some few paces away. “You heard? We require space in an inn as well as a goat.”

“Or a wet nurse. I did hear,” David answered. “Though with so many here for the queen’s lying-in and the christening, we may be lucky to find a room anywhere.” Stepping around them, the lad went to carry out his errand. Still, he turned to look back at them with a smile tugging at his lips.

“I’d rather have the goat,” Rand muttered as they began to walk again, “if we are all forced to share a single chamber.”

So would she, if it came to that, Isabel thought, though she could foresee other problems. “Have you ever milked a she-goat?”

“No more than have you,” he answered. “Mayhap David…”

“Or Gwynne.” She glanced back at the serving woman, who followed after them with a resigned look on her face. An instant later, a frown pleated her brow. “But it could be your good squire will bring back a wet nurse who likes swift travel. He is really…really most efficient.”