By His Majesty's Grace

by Jennifer Blake

  “But this charge is not the same. It says here…”

  Rand knew what it must say. Regardless, the knowledge that she had seen it was like acid scalding his heart. His fists clenched on the linen that covered his thighs. A soft, ripping sound fretted the silence.

  “Indeed,” McConnell answered, his face grave as he continued in gruff tones. “The charge now is double murder. I regret to tell you that Mademoiselle Juliette d’Amboise, mother of the child your husband is accused of burning to death, has also been killed. She died last night at a place some distance from Westminster. Her body was discovered after a man answering Braesford’s description was seen fleeing the place of the murder.”

  As McConnell spoke, Graydon limped forward a step. He leaned on his stick while he plucked from the floor the sodden shirt, doublet and wrinkled, wet hose Rand had discarded. “Aye, and here is proof he was outside the palace. ’Twas late when he came to bed, I think, as his squire has not dealt with this mess.”

  McConnell shrugged. “It is all that’s required to set the seal on it.”

  Isabel made a gesture of dismissal, though she was so pale her skin appeared almost transparent. “Withdraw, all of you. Withdraw and allow my husband to be dressed.” She glanced from Graydon to Henley, who stared back with an avid look in his eyes, then to the open door where David had appeared, hovering with desperate worry in his face. “He will join you when he leaves his squire’s hands.”

  “We cannot risk it, I fear,” McConnell said in grim tones.

  “But you have Rand’s pledge…” she began.

  “Which he has broken, as he was seen outside Westminster. You should realize—”

  “Have done,” Graydon interrupted, slinging the wet clothing at Rand so water splattered as it hit his chest. “He can wear what’s to hand or go without. It’s all one to us.”

  McConnell looked pained. Rand wondered if it was an act. He had not the time to consider it, however. Graydon and Henley would be glad of an excuse to drag him naked from the bed and the chamber, and he would not give them that pleasure. Nor would he shame Isabel by such an undignified departure.

  He slid from the bed and quickly donned the wet shirt and hose, tied up enough points for decency and pulled on his doublet. No sooner had he tugged it down than a pair of men-at-arms advanced on him. He was jerked around and his arms pinned behind him. They started toward the door, hustling him between them.

  With a single hard wrench that pulled both men-at-arms with him, he turned back to face Isabel. “I killed no one,” he said, speaking fast and low for he knew not how much he would be allowed to say. “Trust to David. Have a care for yourself alone. Believe nothing that doesn’t come from me.”

  “I will go to the king as soon as may be,” she said, the words hardly more than a whisper.

  “You can try,” he said. “But if it’s to no avail—”

  “Don’t!” she cried, putting a hand to her mouth while tears gathered along the rims of her lashes.

  He was stunned to see that evidence of concern for him, so caught in disbelief at the sight that it was a moment before he could find his tongue again. “If it avails nothing, remember this. I have no regrets.”

  They wrestled him around again then, half dragging, half marching him from the chamber. David scooped up his boots and hurried after them. Rand looked back, trying to see between the armored guards that fell in behind him and his captors. Isabel sat where she was, upright and stiff with shock in the bed they had shared, the linen sheet and her cascading hair her only protection from the glances of the detail. It seemed she hardly noticed their lascivious interest. She looked appalled, horrified.

  But Rand saw one thing more, something he had learned to recognize since making Lady Isabel his wife. It was a thing that caused a low laugh to shake him and his heart to leap high in his chest.

  It was the dawn of fury, elegant, ladylike, yet deadly, in the rich green fastness of her eyes.

  14

  Few men returned from imprisonment in the Tower.

  Isabel, sitting upright in bed while the tramp of booted feet faded away, was struck to the heart by fearful rage. She could not catch her breath. Her hands trembled where she clutched the sheet to her. That Rand had been taken away to be lodged in that prison by the Thames, once an ancient palace, was a devastating blow. At the same time, it seemed inconceivable. There had to be some mistake.

  Henry and his mother had known Rand for years. He and the king had shared the misadventures of exile and the triumph of winning a crown on the field of battle. Henry would not permit this new accusation to stand, would not allow Rand to hang.

  Surely he would not?

  Recalling the doubt in Rand’s eyes as she said she would go to Henry, and the acceptance in his low-spoken words, she sensed he lacked faith in royal intervention. No matter. It would be forthcoming.

  She would see to it because she could not bear that whoever conspired against Rand in this despicable way should win out over him. It was neither fair nor just that he should suffer for a royal transgression and its results. Her intentions had nothing to do with what she might or might not feel for him. Certainly not. They would be undertaken out of the loyalty due a husband. That was all.

  For a single instant, she felt a near-desperate urge to sling the bed curtains closed, pull the sheet up over her head and seek oblivion in sleep. Surely the arrest would be revealed as a nightmare when she woke again.

  No, and no again. There was no time for sleeping or hiding away. She must be up and doing. Rand’s life could depend on it.

  An hour later, she left the chamber. Dressed in sea-green damask and wearing a lace-covered headpiece from which hung lace veiling that lifted like wings behind her, she strode toward the king’s apartment. Her time had not been wholly spent upon a toilette fit for a royal audience, however. She had also set David and Gwynne to collecting every comfort she could think of to soften her husband’s imprisonment, from dry clothing and boots to books, pen, parchment and a cake of ink, also a lute, wine and sweetmeats and coin to purchase more substantial food and drink from his guards.

  It meant nothing that she took such care, of course it did not. Simple kindness required it.

  The king was not receiving. He had taken his hawks and a favored few gentlemen and gone hunting.

  Anger sizzled along Isabel’s veins at the news. Her footsteps were brisk with it as she left the royal apartments and made her way toward the great hall. How dare Henry behave as if this was a day like any other? He must be as cold of heart as everyone claimed that he could ride afield while a friend faced death.

  Hunting, forsooth! Flinging a great raptor with talons like knives into the sky to dive upon defenseless doves and larks was scarce fair hunting in her view. It was, of course, typical of a royal sport wherein anything, and anyone, could die at the king’s pleasure.

  She very nearly strode past William McConnell without seeing him where he sat in conversation with another gentleman outside a cabinet room. It was only as he rose from his bench, bowing low, that she came to a halt.

  “Lady Isabel, a moment of your time, I beg you.”

  Her curtsy was so shallow it barely caused a fold in the hem of her gown. “Another time. I am upon an affair of importance, as you must know.”

  “Yes, unfortunately. You are acquainted with Derby?”

  She had barely noticed the man with McConnell. It was Thomas Stanley, Earl of Derby, third husband of the king’s mother. He received a deeper curtsy and a smile as she acknowledged the introduction. He paid her a handsome compliment, but excused himself immediately, pleading business elsewhere.

  “A fine man,” McConnell said as they stood watching the earl’s portly form retreat down the passage, “and one of excellent understanding.”

  “Oh, indeed. He apparently understands that it’s best not to be seen with the wife of an accused murderer.”

  “You are bitter, and who can blame you? But no, I meant because the earl allo
ws his good wife to live apart from him, attendant upon her son. It is said she speaks of petitioning the court for separate domicile. A strong step, you must agree.”

  To agree would be unwise, particularly if she wished to remain at court. Such slips of the tongue could mean instant exile. “I am sure,” she said evenly, “that you did not accost me to speak of Lady Margaret’s marital arrangements.”

  He gave her a faint smile as he gazed down at her. “Only in that they might reflect your own.”

  “Mine?”

  “If you so choose. You are free to return to the chamber you shared with your sisters, if you like, or even to Graydon’s protection.”

  “Why would I do either of those things?”

  “You are alone now,” he said gravely. “No one would think ill of it if you chose to leave the court.”

  He meant, she thought, to discover if she was grieved or relieved by Rand’s arrest. She would not give him the satisfaction. “Except, mayhap, the king, who seems to have made living apart from my husband a necessity.”

  “His royal prerogative. Have you come from scolding him?”

  “His Majesty was not available,” she said with a lift of her chin.

  “Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten. You may, if you like, vent your ire on me.”

  “On you?” He had to be fully aware that Henry was hunting, she thought. It would be his duty to know it. The wonder was that he had not gone with him.

  “I am sure you resent me for Rand’s arrest.”

  “If not you, sir, then certainly the part you played.”

  “I was but obeying Henry’s will, you know, when I invaded your chamber this morning.”

  A flicker of expression in the blue of his eyes made her suddenly aware that her husband’s half brother had seen her naked in her bed. She had been covered in part by a sheet, it was true, but he must have realized her state of undress. It was possible the scent of lovemaking had lingered around her, in token of how she and Rand had been disporting themselves only a short while before.

  Her cheekbones stung with uncomfortable heat. The feel of it annoyed her so she spoke without thinking. “As you performed your duty by interrupting the wedding at Braesford Hall?”

  “I rather thought you thankful at the time.”

  So she had been, though nothing would compel her to admit it at this moment. “It seems less than sincere to deplore a duty which may allow you to regain Braesford Hall and its lands.”

  “My position is not comfortable, I will admit. To fear for my half brother even as I escort him to prison, to pity his probable fate, though it may benefit me?” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “And yet Braesford holds all my childhood memories, has been the seat of my family for generations.”

  “Which your father lost due to his mistakes.”

  “Or for his loyalty to another Lancastrian king. A different thing, you will agree?” McConnell gave a wry shake of his head. “I suppose Rand has been before me with his version of the tale. I misdoubt it is precisely the same as my own, but cannot argue with the facts.”

  “Yet you served Edward IV, who ordered that king killed, and Richard of Gloucester, who may have done the deed.”

  “What would you? I was a penniless youth when Edward came to the throne. Even a nobleman must eat. Edward was strong and had sons to found a dynasty from his line. Who could guess he would die young, or that Richard would snatch the crown.”

  “Or kill his nephews to keep it.”

  “That, too, sadly enough,” he agreed with a sigh.

  “But then you abandoned Richard on Bosworth Field.”

  “But I did choose the right man to follow, so gained my present position.”

  It was true enough, though where the man’s loyalties truly lay was anyone’s guess. It was possible that, like others who swayed with the wind, he had none except to himself. “But you did not recoup your family lands,” she pointed out.

  “There is yet time for that.”

  “You must surely realize that even should they be taken from Rand, nothing guarantees they will be handed back to you,” she said with deliberation. “Ownership will revert to Henry, who may prefer the income over buying your loyalty.”

  If he caught the sting in her words, he did not flinch from it. “I must make myself more valuable to him, then.”

  “Doubtless you will find a way.” She sidestepped as if she meant to move around him.

  “Wait, please,” he exclaimed, setting a hand on her arm to halt her progress. “I would not have you look on me as an ogre in this business.”

  She lowered her gaze to his hand, standing stiff and silent until he had removed it. “How else am I to view you,” she asked, “especially after seeing my husband’s scars?”

  A puzzled frown appeared between his eyes, but cleared abruptly. “His scars, yes. That was so long ago it almost slipped my mind.”

  “As it had his, though I find it difficult to forget.”

  “It was ill done, I agree. But I was young and proud, and not used to sharing my father’s affections. Did Rand tell you the old man took the whip to me as punishment?”

  “He told me he was brought into the house to share your tutor.”

  “Also my chamber, my clothing, my hunting equipment and my dogs.” McConnell gave her a wry smile. “I was not happy, but grew accustomed. In time, we made up our differences, Rand and I. It was necessary to survive our tutor, who had a great fondness for the birch rod, also to survive Pembroke’s master of the tiltyard, who enjoyed seeing noblemen’s sons thumped by the quintain.”

  She caught his quick look that seemed to ask if she was familiar with this man-size practice target, one which spun around when struck by a lance, dealing a hurtful blow to anyone too slow to avoid it. Of course she knew it from her father’s tiltyard. Ignoring his sally, she said, “Yet you relegated your half brother to the lowly position of your squire the while.”

  “Really, Lady Isabel,” McConnell said with a shake of his head. “He was baseborn, after all.”

  It was so simple in his mind, she saw. It was difficult to fault him since it had been the same in hers not so long ago. “In spite of which Sir Rand won his knighthood, the friendship of a future king and the right to call himself Braesford of Braesford Hall.”

  William McConnell lifted his brows a fraction, possibly at her championship. “True, Lady Isabel, but now he is a prisoner in the Bell Tower, one of the more secure keeps on the Tower grounds. If convicted of the charges lodged against him, he will forfeit whatever he owns as well as his life. There is only one thing he can hold by God’s laws which any man must envy.”

  “And that would be?”

  He inclined his head. “You, fair lady, as his bride.”

  “Oh, please,” she said with a gesture of repudiation. Hovering at the edges of her mind was Rand’s assertion that his half brother had desired her. Did McConnell think to be given a wife to go with the family estate should it be returned to him, perhaps his half brother’s widow? The thought chilled her to the bone.

  “You are offended and I respect that. Nay, I honor you for it. I would have you know, however, that you shall not be deserted in this travail. I pledge to stand by you in all things.”

  “For Rand’s sake, I suppose,” she said, and did not trouble to hide her disbelief.

  “As I’ve seen to his welfare in his Tower chamber, ordering his confinement to be as lenient as possible.”

  “For that, at least, I thank you.” Her voice was quieter as she made that concession. Almost, she could be in charity with him.

  “I could do no less. His imprisonment may be long before trial is set.”

  “Or not, if Henry can be prevailed upon to see reason.”

  McConnell frowned. “Have you not heard? Henry leaves on progression in a day or two. He will be moving slowly westward for some weeks, fetching up at Winchester in time for the queen’s confinement.”

  Fear sliced through Isabel. “Surely he will
not…”

  “See Rand hanged before he goes? Unlikely. My half brother could, like Sir Thomas Malory and many another like him, enjoy the king’s hospitality for decades.”

  “He could also be released.”

  What he might have answered went unheard, for she moved away from him at a swift pace. He remained where he stood, though she felt his gaze on her back until she passed out of his sight.

  Isabel slowed, fighting an odd desolation, as she passed from the king’s apartments into a long colonnade that led from one section of the palace to another. The king was leaving Westminster. He might well go without seeing her. What was she to do then?

  One moment she was alone, and the next David appeared at her side. He made no great business of it, but simply slid from behind a post and fell into step with her.

  She glanced his way, noting the grimness that sat on his handsome young features. Her spirits dropped lower than they were already.

  “You saw him?” she asked, keeping her voice low so as not to be overheard by the courtiers who came and went around them. There was no need, with David, to say whom she meant.

  “Aye, milady.”

  “And he was well?” In the back of her mind was the fear that Rand might have been beaten, even tortured, to gain his confession to the accusations against him.

  “Aye, milady.”

  “You were able to give him the things I sent?”

  “Aye, milady,” he said, then catching the fulminating look in her eyes, answered more fully. “I gave them into his hands but was not allowed to speak to him. His chamber is small, though not a windowless cell, nor is he obliged to share it.”