By His Majesty's Grace

by Jennifer Blake

  She inhaled softly through parted lips. Her eyes turned sultry as they met his. It seemed she inclined toward him, leaning into his clasp.

  Footsteps, light and quick, sounded in the corridor outside. Her lashes swept down and she stepped away from him. “Don’t.”

  He allowed his hand to fall away. “It seems I must bow to your wishes once more,” he said quietly as David pushed open the door with an elbow to deliver two cans of water, hot from the kitchen cauldrons, into the chamber. “But it will not be so forever.”

  She left him to David’s ministrations, which was no more than he expected, also what he wanted while he was so vulnerable to her nearness. Though he could not be sure the time would come when he would actually be stronger. His trusty squire put three stitches into his brow with no more fuss than mending a tear in his hose, and was considerably less distracting while he went about it. The lad then brought an infusion of willow bark for his headache and a tankard of ale to wash down the sourness, and then dressed him anew as a bridegroom. By the time the trumpets blew to announce the midafternoon dinner, Rand was ready to take his place at the high table in Henry’s hall.

  David served them, seeing that he and Isabel had fresh water scented with mint and cardamom with which to wash their hands and clean toweling to dry them, pouring their spiced and watered wine, bringing them platters of meats and delicacies. They ate their way through smoked eel, roasted beef with broth, venison in red wine, pig knuckles with dumplings stewed in their juices, stuffed crane in its plumage, plovers in pies, cress sallet and peas cooked with honey and saffron. Meanwhile, the boy’s choir from the abbey sang a cappella, followed by a juggler who performed with a multitude of precious oranges. An Egyptian gave them wild music on the viele while dancers spun and stamped behind him. Marzipan and nougat were passed along with wild pears, soft cheeses, nuts and more spiced wine.

  Halfway through the meal, Rand noticed Henley among the lesser nobility at one of the side trestles, just down from where Isabel’s sisters shared a cup and plate. Graydon was nowhere in sight, not surprising as David had reported him laid up in bed with his tourney injuries. McConnell was apparently so far away as to be hidden by other diners, for he could not glimpse him either above the salt or below it. Regret touched Rand for that removal when his half brother should be among the nobles. Still, there was nothing he could do about it.

  Surfeited at last, he and Isabel washed their hands again in a stream of herb-scented water poured by David, dried them on the cloth provided, then leaned back in anticipation of the mummery. This acting of maskers in some allegorical play and other comical nonsense would no doubt be the final entertainment of the evening. Thank heaven for that small mercy.

  Leon, Master of Revels, introduced this offering of his own devising, standing with grace and confidence before them in a costume of stark black and white sewn with brilliants and hung with bells at the edges of his silken tunic and the seams of his sleeves. His bow to the king and Lady Margaret, Henry’s mother, was profound; that to his queen, Elizabeth of York, even deeper. His voice pitched perfectly to reach to the far corners of the echoing hall and the ears of every diner, he begged for their attention. He had created a special tableau for the occasion, one popular at the merry court of young Charles VIII of France under the regency of his sister, Anne. It had been improved upon somewhat, but time for preparation had been short. He asked their indulgence with its imperfections. Turning toward the end of the hall where a curtain closed off that section of entrances and exits to the buttery and pantries and timbered kitchen beyond, he swept an arm toward it with the discordant jangle of bells.

  “Your Majesties, noble gentlemen and lovely ladies,” he called in sonorous announcement, “I give you La danse macabre!”

  The curtain swept back, pulled by unseen hands. Behind it was revealed a group of men and women backlit by fat candles in floor stands. They were dressed all in black and white and wore mantles with hoods that covered their heads like shrouds. One was dressed as a pope, another as a king. Some were attired as nobles, some as merchants and some as freemen or peasants. Some had suffered gaping wounds while others appeared thin and wasted by disease. Among them were old and young, even children. Each one had a face washed with solid white, with black painted ovals for eyes and round circles of woe where their mouths should be.

  “The dead…”

  The whisper came in half a dozen voices, including that of Isabel. Rand, glancing at her, saw her face was as pale as the figures provided for their amusement. Following her wide stare, he saw why. One of the females was a new mother. She was identified by the stuffed doll she carried, one that dangled in her grasp with the limp nakedness of a stillborn babe.

  Looking beyond Isabel to the queen, Rand realized Elizabeth of York had not missed the implications of the piece. She held a hand to her mouth as if to prevent protest or illness, and her long, aristocratic fingers were not quite steady. Lady Margaret, on her far side, sat with an air of austere sufferance and her lips pressed together in disdain.

  Henry’s eyes narrowed as he turned them upon his Master of Revels. He threw himself against the high back of his throne while tapping its arm with a fingertip in a slow, steady beat.

  Now the sickening tableau was moving, forming a line, swaying to the slow and even cadence of a drum. A third of its members shuffled forward between the rows of tables, dragging their winding sheets behind, while several of the heftiest among them pulled and tugged at a boxlike affair that rolled with a dull rumbling and squeaking. As they got it moving, following the others, the last section of mummers followed behind it.

  This was hardly the joyous romp usually reserved for a wedding. The hair on the back of Rand’s neck tingled. Frowning, he came erect in his chair with every nerve alert.

  Lute, harp and psaltery picked up the drum’s dreary pace with a whining melody in a minor key. The morbid figures began to caper, to embrace and cavort in slow and lascivious parody. Some pretended to feast, smacking their lips. Some mimicked lovemaking. Some stabbed at one another repeatedly. A man toward the rear appeared to remove his head and tuck it under his arm.

  At one of the lower tables, a woman moaned. Isabel’s sister, Cate, grasped the hand of her younger sibling so hard her knuckles were white. Somewhere beyond them, a man mumbled a ribald comment and his companion gave a nervous laugh.

  The mummers approached the high table, stumbling, almost tripping as they bowed and curtsied in such exaggerated homage to the king and queen that it was mere parody. Henry’s mouth flattened, yet he stayed his hand.

  Rand could guess at the reason. The king had been called humorless in the past, and would not care to have it proven. If French royalty were able to find some vestige of entertainment in this ghoulish display, then Henry’s disdain for it would be suspect, charged to his dour nature rather than the play’s failure to amuse. Besides, it might yet change in midact to some tasteless yet humorous satire on wedded bliss.

  For his own part, Rand saw nothing comical in it. It did appear to have a point, however. All were equal in this pageant of the dead. Young or old, rich or poor, none escaped the reaper of souls, none found perpetual life. It was a sentiment that found resonance in his mind, though he could not think it fitting for a wedding feast. Nor was it suitable to present before a king whose reign was uncertain because he could prove no descent from a legitimate royal ancestor.

  It would be easy to see a Yorkist plot in it, or at least the hand of Yorkist sympathizers.

  Leaning a little toward Isabel, Rand said in soft query, “What think you?”

  “Vulgar,” she breathed so quietly only he could hear, “and quite horrid. I cannot think what Leon is about with it.”

  “It should be stopped, but I don’t see the Master of Revels.”

  She scanned the mummers, the tables and beyond. “He seems to have gone. I think… I believe Henry should take Elizabeth away.”

  “Suggest it to him,” Rand said in a fierce whisper.
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  She did as directed, reaching to let her fingers hover just above the king’s taut hand without quite touching to claim his attention, whispering into his ear after he had given her leave to speak. A moment later, Henry gestured to his mother, who rose and swept away without a backward glance. He then stood and offered his arm to his queen. They began to turn away.

  The mummers had reached the cleared area before the high table, spreading out so the large box that trundled along with grinding, clanking metal wheels was directly in front of the throne. As the king turned his head to look, one of the burly tenders of the box stepped forward and flung open the double doors that closed it.

  Flames roared and leaped high inside the makeshift firebox. The king fell back, taking the queen with him, though he seemed spellbound by the fiery interior of the contraption. Swinging his head, Rand saw that within the conflagration were tiny figures made of metal—men, women and children. The rumbling mechanism caused them to writhe as if in agony, tortured by the searing heat.

  The box was a miniature hell, and its flames blazed higher and higher still.

  “Be gone, sire!” Rand shouted at Henry. “Now!”

  Henry backed away a long step, then another. He swung about, pressing the queen to move ahead of him into the rear passage that led to their apartments. Even as he moved, Rand grasped Isabel’s arm and pulled her to her feet, sweeping her around to follow the royal couple. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw David ushering Isabel’s sisters from their places, drawing them back from the high table.

  The firebox exploded with a great, muffled thud. Fire blossomed from it, reaching out toward the high table. Rand kicked out at the heavy board. As it fell, he caught Isabel and carried her with him as he plunged to the floor behind its protection.

  Screams of pain, shrieks of horror and moans of terror erupted on all sides. Shouts, oaths and desperate prayers rang under the high ceiling. Benches were overturned, more tabletops shoved from their trestles. The thud of running feet made a dull roar, while beneath it all was the crackle of flames.

  Rand leaped up, sparing a single glance to see that the king and queen had vanished down the back passage and Isabel was dazed but unscathed. “Halt!” he shouted at the panicked crowd. “Don’t run! Strip the cloths from the tables to beat out the fire. Bring the butts of wine and water. Stamp out where the rushes are ablaze. Set to! Do it now or the palace will go up in smoke!”

  Some few men paused, tried to turn back. It was not enough. Dragging Isabel to her feet, he commanded her to follow the king and queen, saw her slip away in that direction. He shouted to David where he had Cate and Marguerite safe against the wall, commanding his aid. Bending, he snatched up the royal tablecloth from where it had fallen. He leaped from the dais and began to beat at the crawling inferno.

  8

  Everything was ready. Steaming water filled the oaken tub with its lining of linen cloth. The screen to protect the bather from drafts stood nearby. A container of soap, scented with precious sandalwood, sat ready. Watered wine in a silver jug occupied a table near the bed. A clean linen shift of large size was draped near the fire to remove any dampness. All that was missing was the man for whom these preparations had been made.

  Isabel sent Gwynne away after the serving woman had helped with the bathing arrangements, then undressed her and made her ready for bed. David had also been dismissed. She would tend to Sir Rand alone.

  The role of handmaiden was not one she relished, yet was her obligation as a wife. More than that, she owed Rand some small recompense for saving her from fiery pain, and she paid her debts. He had spent a long, weary day in mock battle, sustaining at least one injury she knew of and perhaps more, then had single-handedly protected Henry, the queen and their unborn child from injury or death. He had then saved Westminster Palace’s venerable walls from the conflagration. The least she could do was see that he bathed away the smoke and grime, that his wounds from the melee and the fire were soothed and that he wanted neither for wine nor comfort.

  She would not think of how he might prefer to be comforted on the evening of their wedding.

  She had not seen him for hours. Once the fire had been doused and the servants set to putting the hall to rights again, he had attended the king in private audience. What had passed there none could say, though Isabel supposed Henry had expressed his gratitude in some manner. Afterward, Rand had joined in the search for the Master of Revels that was already taking place, fanning out from the palace into the streets of Westminster and its river landing, and even as far beyond the gates as London.

  At least this was the report David had brought her, along with the news that her sisters were unharmed and safe in their beds. She had received no word from her husband, nothing to show he remembered he now had a wife.

  She had bathed earlier, lathering away the stench of smoke and hot metal from her hair and her person. Dressed in her voluminous shift with its long, full sleeves and rounded neckline, as befitted a private chamber, she paced while a thousand thoughts ran through her head.

  Why had Leon devised such a gruesome exhibition? Was it connected in some way with the charge against Rand? Did it speak of murder by fire? Yes, and retribution for it?

  Had Leon intended his mechanism to blow up or had it been happenstance? If constructed as a weapon, who at the high table had been its intended victim—the king, the queen, Rand or herself?

  Yes, and why? Where was the logic in it?

  The Master of Revels was a purveyor of wit and song, a troubadour who moved from place to place at the behest of his patrons and his own whim. He had little interest in crowns, dynasties or power. The king of the moment was of no importance except that he provided him room, board and occasional largesse in exchange for entertainment. No reason existed for Leon to harm anyone, Isabel thought. To remove Henry would be to remove his livelihood, and she could not believe he would deliberately bring peril to Elizabeth of York.

  If the explosion was an accident, however, why could he not be found? Why had he not stepped forward, explained the error and begged forgiveness? The only explanation Isabel could see was that he feared to be accused, regardless of his innocence, feared to be hanged out of hand for endangering the king.

  It was possible he had reason. The prospect of hanging was too easily bruited about these days.

  Impromptu judgments of all kinds were common. Take the tournament this morning. Henry had commanded it as an ordeal by combat. Had he hoped Rand might be killed, putting a convenient end to the question of his guilt or innocence?

  It had not happened. Instead, Rand had won the tourney with his skill and courage.

  Her husband’s prowess on the field—the unrelenting strength of his arm, the force of his tactics, his command of his destrier and of the forces which fled before him—seemed imprinted upon Isabel’s brain. She had thought him a warrior when he appeared before her for the first time. He had proven her right. It was not something she would soon forget.

  Not that she was thrilled to mindless ecstasy by the sight of a peerless knight on the field with his opponents in flight before him, but she must give him his due. It was only fair.

  A quiet scrape at the door startled her from her reverie. She swung around in a billow of linen as Rand stepped into the chamber. He paused with his hand on the latch, his gaze moving from her unbound hair that cascaded over one shoulder, down her shift to her feet in slippers of samite embroidered with beads. Weariness and pain etched his face and lay in dark shadows under his eyes. His fine clothing was wrinkled and streaked with grease and soot. In spite of these things, or even because of them, he had never appeared so powerful, so armored in muscle and sinew.

  She opened her lips but could find nothing to say, could not make a sound for the tightness in her throat.

  “Why are you still up?” he asked in hoarse surprise. “I expected to find you abed.”

  She swallowed, found her tongue. “How could I sleep when everything is so unsettled? What said the
king? Did he…did he offer you pardon?”

  “For the sake of a few words of warning, you mean? No.” He closed the door, moving forward as he lifted a purse from the belt at his waist. “He did bestow this upon me for my efforts.”

  Upending the bag, he poured a gold chain into his hand. It glittered as the candlelight shimmered over it, highlighting its evenly spaced medallions in the shape of roses that were enameled in white and red, combining the symbols of York and Lancaster. Taking its weight in both hands, he stepped close to pass the chain over her head, settling the heavy gold links upon her shoulders so it lay upon the curves of her breasts.

  “It looks better on you,” he said with a smile lifting one corner of his mouth.

  She picked up a medallion of the chain. Frowned at it. “But is this not…?”

  “The Order of the Garter made to Henry’s new design? So it is, though I am not yet invested. Nor am I like to be unless Mademoiselle Juliette and her child appear soon.”

  “Henry must expect it,” she said almost to herself.

  “That may be, though with him it’s impossible to be sure. It could also be a boon that will cost him nothing if I am judged guilty.”

  “Don’t say that!” The protest was instinctive.

  He gave a short laugh. “Spoken like a true wife. Would that you meant it.”

  For that, she had no answer. She looked away, searching her mind for a distraction. “Were many injured by the fire?” she asked finally.

  “A dozen or so were burned, those nearest to the contraption, though they should thank God to be alive. By His grace, none were killed.”

  “Yes, a great mercy,” she said, her memory alive with the blast of fire, the roar of flames. She pushed the images away with an effort. “Come, water for bathing is ready. Allow me to help you undress.”