By His Majesty's Grace (9 page)

“Never mind that,” Marguerite said, pinning him with a stern look from her dark brown eyes. “You were telling us of your scheme for a future night of mummery.” She turned to Isabel. “It’s to be a fine piece with lots of screams and moans and fire.”

“Vastly entertaining, I’m sure,” she said drily.

“A critic, heaven protect me,” Leon moaned. “I must go labor to produce a new and better piece.” He tilted his head for a considering instant before resuming his play on the lute. “Or perhaps I will forgo future applause for the sake of present company.”

“Forgo nothing on my account,” Isabel recommended with an airy gesture, well aware he had no intention of leaving them. Even as she spoke, however, she was aware of a drop in the noise level in the great hall, followed by a spreading whisper, like the sound of wind blowing over bracken. Glancing around, she saw the crowd around them parting, leaving a clear path down which a regal figure made her way. It was the queen consort, followed by a double line of ladies-in-waiting and the queen’s fool, a miniature woman no more than a yard tall.

Turning fully, Isabel swept back her skirts and dropped into a deep curtsy. Her sisters did the same, while Leon doffed his hat with a most graceful bow.

“Nor must you neglect your labors on my account, Monsieur Leon,” Elizabeth of York said as she joined their small group with the slow and somewhat cumbersome pace of a woman large with child. “The result is always a delight, no matter how onerous it may be to you.”

“Your Majesty!” Leon cried in low pleasure, going to one knee before Henry’s queen in profound expression of gratitude for the compliment. “No task performed for your entertainment can be a labor. It must always be my greatest pleasure.”

“Rise, Sir Rascal,” Henry’s queen said in her light, musical voice, “and say me no more flattery. I am immune, as you may see from my huge shape.” She turned to Isabel, raising her and her sisters with a gesture. “I was told you had come among us again, Lady Isabel. It is good to see you so well.”

“And you, ma’am,” she replied with perfect truth. Elizabeth was a favorite with everyone, more beloved than Henry, who had not her ease of manner or, in all truth, her naturally royal air. It was not surprising, of course, as she had been trained from birth to be the consort of a king, even if it was meant to be at some foreign court. Some said Henry kept her from public view as much as possible for fear she would become too popular with the people. As the eldest daughter of Edward IV, her claim to the throne was far stronger than his.

Though it was centuries since Britain had been ruled by a female, there was nothing in the laws of the land to prevent her from becoming queen regnant.

Divinely fair in true Plantagenet mold, Elizabeth was the very embodiment of the current ideal of beauty, with her pale blond hair, fine skin and fragile bone structure. Her gown of blue damask—though simply made, having only a neckline edged with pearls—was the perfect foil for her blue eyes. The small circlet of gold she wore as a crown was set low on her forehead like a filet to hold the fine white veil that covered her hair. From her girdle, in place of the keys of a chatelaine, hung a small jewel of a book in a bag of silver netting. The beautifully painted wood cover showed it to be De Lorris’s story of love and redemption,
Le roman de la rose.
She appeared as blooming as that tale in her advanced state of pregnancy, in spite of Henry’s fears for her ability to carry his heir to term.

“But how is it you are among us again?” Elizabeth asked with curiosity on her serene features. “I am sure I was told you had traveled north to marry, though now His Majesty makes other arrangements. Did some unforeseen circumstances prevent the nuptials?”

It was a reminder, if Isabel needed it, that the queen was being kept in ignorance of the charges against Braesford. Nor should she know of Henry’s liaison with Mademoiselle Juliette d’Amboise, though it was Isabel’s experience that these things were always discovered. A coarse jest here, a laughing comment there, and soon the ladies-in-waiting were whispering in the queen’s ear. If the pretense of ignorance sometimes held protection for a woman of intelligence—and Elizabeth was that, having studied with a tutor from childhood so she sometimes translated Latin documents for her royal husband—that was another matter.

“It was the king’s request,” Isabel answered. “As for why, who can say? Mayhap he conceived a whim to be present for the marriage?”

“Indeed, we are all kept in the dark,” Elizabeth of York said in dry response. “I am pleased that I shall see you wed, in any event. Sir Rand is quite a favorite, a fine and loyal companion to the king in his adversity and strong right arm on the battlefield.” Her smile softened. “He was also kind to me when I first appeared at court, when many were less so. You could not have a better gentleman as husband.”

Isabel hardly knew how to answer such praise, so did not try. “Braesford and I will be honored by your presence,” she said, going on at once. “I believe you will absent yourself from the court soon. When do you go, if I may ask it?”

“A few days after your vows are spoken, I believe. Such a to-do as there has been about it. I am to travel to Saint Swithin’s Priory at Winchester, as it was built by King Arthur of legend, or so they say. A fine conceit, yes?”

Isabel, meeting the warmth in the queen’s eyes, answered it with a smile of understanding. “And shall the child be called Arthur if it is a boy?”

“You’ve heard it’s His Majesty’s will, I suppose? I am agreed, though all Lancastrian kings to this day have been called Henry. It is Caxton’s fault, you know, for printing
Le Morte d’Arthur
last year as one of the first books brought forth from a press in this realm.” She put a hand on her belly in a tender caress. “And heaven for-fend it not be a son and heir. Henry has been promised it by his soothsayer, and I dare not disappoint.”

The words were lightly spoken, but Isabel thought them serious, nonetheless. Elizabeth of York, for all the crown she wore, was no more mistress of her fate than she was. The queen’s marriage was a dynastic union to a man long considered an enemy of her family, one ten years her senior whom she had not met until she was betrothed to him. He came to her bed as a right, his purpose to get an heir on her body. What was that like, Isabel wondered, and how did it feel to carry the child of a man who cared nothing for her and for whom she cared nothing?

It was possible she would soon find out. Her knees felt disjointed at the prospect.

“Does the king join us this evening?” she asked by way of distraction, for herself as well as Elizabeth.

“Most likely, though he has not yet made his will known.” The queen divided a smile between them all. “But I must not tarry. My dear mother-in-law waits for me to join her in embroidering a coverlet for the future prince. Until later.”

They watched her go, strolling slowly in the direction of the royal apartments and her private solar with the same grace with which she had appeared. Isabel, thinking of Elizabeth’s absence from the Star Chamber earlier, frowned a little. There was a reason for it, of course, yet the king’s mother had been present as if by natural right. It seemed Lady Margaret might be more in Henry’s confidence than his wife. How must that sit with the daughter of a king?

“A noble lady,” Leon said, heaving a sigh.

“You should write her story and set it to music,” Cate said, her blue eyes serious.

“I may do that,” Leon murmured. “I may indeed.”

Isabel turned away first, feeling herself unable to watch longer. “So,” she said with assumed vigor and a quick glance for Leon, “have you entertainment planned for this evening?”

“A group of Romani that has played before royalty west of the Rhine and which include, not incidentally, a dancer of rare skill, also a
jongleur
who eats fire and,
bien entendu,
the bel canto to your return that plays itself now in my mind.”

“Not the last, I beg.”

“By no means, if you dislike it,” he answered at once, “yet I must have some new inspiration now and then. Henry may grow bored with my songs played a thousand times otherwise, and send me on my way.”

“Never!” Marguerite exclaimed.

“The outcry and weeping among the ladies would be insupportable,” Cate declared with a roguish look from under her lashes.

“We can’t have that, so I shall certainly compose something new soon.” He tilted his head, his gaze on Isabel. “For now, I should concentrate on a grand theatrical for your wedding feast. It will be soon?”

“Tomorrow, I fear.”

“Fear?
Le diable!
Distraction is in order, then, to banish thought of the bedding. What will serve? A chorus of minnesingers chanting of marital bliss? A martial display of jousting and other games with blood and gore?”

“Neither, and it please you,” she said with a grimace. “Besides, there will be no time.”

“It must be my spectacle already planned, then, with only fire and thunder and moving parts.”

“Only?”

“You will like it exceedingly, I am sure of it.”

No doubt she would, Isabel thought as she smiled at the transports, or pretense of them, of her sisters over the coming treat. The Master of Revels had a genius for constructing machines capable of odd things, and of creating spectacles to amuse and amaze. He had served as an apprentice in Italy to an obscure master he called Leonardo the Procrastinator. Instead of using his inventions for practical purposes, however, Leon dedicated them to entertaining nobility and royal heads of state.

How he had come to Henry’s court was something no one knew, not because he did not explain, but because he told so many different versions of the tale that it was impossible to discern the truth. He was the grandson of a dethroned king, he claimed, now forced to make his own way in the world. Or he was a younger son who had fallen passionately in love with the wife of a nobleman and persuaded her to flee with him, though she died tragically in a storm at sea. He had killed a man of influence in an ordeal by combat and was forced to leave his homeland to wander the world. Then again, he was a priest who had loved a veiled novice too well, but not permanently. These were only the ones she remembered.

“I shall look forward to this spectacle,” she said, “though I hardly see how you will manage anything very grand.”

“Oh, I’ve worked on it for some time. It will please my heart to have such a fitting occasion to display it.”

Cate put her hands on her hips with an air of assumed affront. “See, Isabel? He hints and teases but will not explain what this contraption may be. Yes, and he works in a grain storehouse beyond the palace walls, allowing no one to enter.”

Isabel tilted her head. “I am honored, then, that it will be unveiled for me.” Even as she spoke, her youngest sister, Marguerite, touched her arm and tipped her head toward something behind her. Forewarned, she gave only a small start as a deep voice, layered with irony and grim forbearance, reached her ears.

“And I also, being the man who will sit at her side to share the spectacle.”

Leon, looking past her, grew pale around the mouth while a flash of something cold and hard passed over his face. Isabel turned with a swing of velvet skirts to face Braesford. At the same time, she became aware of whispers all around them, of nudges and grimaces and the shuffle of feet as those nearest to where they stood drifted away.

It was Leon who recovered first, his face clearing as if accepting an accused murderer into their circle was a mere nothing. “And a lucky one you are, if I may say so, for you will have the best seat in the hall—barring the throne, of course—at the side of the lovely Isabel.”

“Your pardon, but I put my lower seat over the most high.”

“Well spoken!” the Master of Revels exclaimed in approval. “You may even be worthy of her, though that doesn’t mean we will not mourn her disappearance into wedded servitude. Alas.”

“Oh, but we are still here,” Cate said, linking arms with Marguerite as she gave Isabel a meaningful look.

Isabel took the hint and introduced her sisters to her prospective groom. They were all smiles and appraising eyes as they performed their curtsies, though the quick glance Cate flung her way seemed to hold qualified approval. Not that this meant a great deal, as Isabel well knew. Her sister next in age appreciated a strong man. Moreover, any female given in marriage to a gentleman who still had his hair and teeth was to be congratulated, never mind the circumstances.

Braesford acknowledged Marguerite and Cate, asking after their health, before turning back to Isabel. “I regret taking you away from such congenial company, but there is a matter we should discuss.”

“Now?”

“If you please.”

The words were a mere courtesy. A command lay in the way he offered his arm, Isabel thought. She could refuse to go with him, but it seemed unwise. More than that, given the veiled animosity of those who surrounded them, she was willing enough to quit the hall. She placed her hand upon his sleeve, made her adieus and walked away at his side.

The outer bailey was a tempest of noise and activity in the gathering dusk, of hurrying pages and heralds, swaggering men-at-arms, horses being led to their stalls for the night and priests striding here and there with pale moons of scalp marking their tonsures. Men swore, dogs barked, a minstrel sang a bawdy song from inside the Boar’s Head tavern across the way and serving maids called back and forth while leaning from windows above the narrow lanes that led away from the hall.

Isabel and Rand skirted the great open space, making their way past the timber kitchen beyond the great hall, passing through a heavy gate between stone posts that led to a rear kitchen garden. Here, the clamor faded to a distant roar. All was lingering heat, the drowsy hum of bees and birdsong. Thyme, mint and sage gave off their distinctive scents as they brushed against the rampant growth that encroached upon the trodden path. A blackbird, startled from its search among great heads of cabbage, flew up ahead of them with a squawk of alarm. It landed atop an apple tree espaliered against the stone wall, where it watched their progress with a suspicious eye.