“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 a
s 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?”
“Perhaps we should have said whom you have found?”
She had known it would be impossible to keep such a thing from him. Her dependence had been on his being too far away to hear of it before she made the arrangements she planned.
Anguish crowded the walls of her chest until she ached with it. She wanted to protest, to snatch Madeleine from her cradle and rush from the chamber with her, speeding away into the night. Instead, she moistened her lips, searched wildly for something, anything, to postpone the moment when she must present her.
“It is only a girl child, sire, hardly worth your valuable time.”
“We shall decide what is worth our time, Lady Isabel. Show us the child.”
There was nothing for it but to obey. With muscles so stiff with reluctance they felt as if they belonged to someone else, she turned to the cradle, picked up the baby. Young Madeleine woke at the movement, opening her eyes to fix her trusting, gray-blue gaze on Isabel’s face.
She touched her cheek, a brief brush of the fingers, while tears burned the back of her nose. Turning, she walked to Henry and knelt, holding the baby on her swaddling board carefully balanced on her forearms.
Henry took her, holding her up before him. The baby stared at the king, essaying a small smile that turned into a frown when it was not returned.
“Her name is Madeleine, we believe?”
“As you say, sire.”
“Madeleine,” he repeated. “It will have to be changed.”
She wanted to protest, wanted to take back the baby as she began to fuss at being held out so stiffly.
“We are pleased, Lady Isabel. You have done well.”
“I did nothing, sire. It was Sir Rand—”
“Your modesty does you credit, but we are aware he did not cause the return of this child.”
Isabel gathered her courage, lifted her chin. “But he did rescue her when her mother was killed. You will grant, I hope, that the fact that Madeleine lives proves him innocent of child murder.”
The king did not remove his gaze from his daughter. “That is merely the first charge. There is another.”
“If the first was false, then why not the second? Others had ample reason to harm Mademoiselle d’Amboise. My husband had none.”
“We approve your fidelity, as we said before.”
Anger flared inside her, exacerbated by the rising cries of the baby. “It is justice that concerns me! Rand should not be in the Tower. It is only just that you free him.”
Henry lowered Madeleine and placed her in the crook of his arm before giving Isabel a curious look. “Such intemperance might almost lead us to suppose a fondness for the husband we chose for you.”
“Sire?” she said, not quite certain she had heard correctly.
“Or even that you love him if your exertions on his behalf are included.”
“Love? Oh, no, it’s only that—”
“Such a thing is not beyond the realm of possibility. The love of a wife for a husband, or a husband for a wife, is greatly to be treasured, despite those who frown upon it. We are human, you know, have human feelings, human needs.”
Was he speaking of himself with his royal plural, of the two of them together, or of human beings in general? It was not possible to say, even less possible to ask for clarification. Still, she could not prevent the fleeting notion that Henry might have fallen in love with his queen. She was young, lovely and royal in a way that he was not. After years of lonely exile, she had given him legitimacy as a ruler and hope for the future. It would require a hard heart and immense ego to be unmoved by these things. Whether he could express them was another question. Kings could seldom afford the luxury of such weakness, could not risk being unloved in return. If Henry yearned for Elizabeth’s wifely affection, it could only add to his determination to keep the knowledge of his mistress and her child
from her.
Being a man and undeniably human, it would not occur to him that some secrets could not be kept. Being a king, he might well believe that nothing was as important as retaining the queen obtained with his crown. Any sacrifice would be considered well made, even the life of a friend. If it was a choice between Rand’s life and the throne of England, which would Henry choose?
There was, in reality, no question.
Oh, but did she love Rand as Henry suggested? Was this longing she felt to be close to him, this sickness inside at the thought of his death, the pangs of true love? How could she tell when she had been brought up to suppose only peasants and troubadours enjoyed such tumults of feeling? Yet she would gladly admit to the fault if it would soften the king toward her husband.
“Mayhap I do love him,” she said as heat burned its way to her hairline. “My husband is a good and honorable knight, and tender in his care of me.”
Henry watched her with a smile in his eyes, though it faded before it reached his narrow lips. “We will overlook your outburst for the sake of the avowal, also for the service rendered us this day. We recommend, however, that you not try our patience further.”
“If you truly believe that I have served you well…”
“Do not presume. It is unbecoming.”
She lowered her gaze. “No, sire.”
“We cannot allow you further liberty to interfere in matters of the realm. You will remain confined to your chamber while you reflect on the wisdom of keeping to your woman’s place. When you understand its limitations you may apply to rejoin the court, but will not be seen until then. Do we make ourselves clear?”
A curtsy was her only answer, for she did not trust herself to speak. It seemed to be enough. Henry swung on his heel and stalked toward the door. The steward leaped to open it, and then followed Henry from the chamber. Outside, the king made a royal gesture and the wet nurse came to him, trotting obediently after him as he disappeared along the corridor with the baby in his arms.
Isabel felt for the stool behind her and sank down upon it. Bending her head, she put her face in her hands while her whole body shook with violent tremors. She hated it, hated that anyone, even a king, could so discompose her. It was the power he held, she knew, the power to decide the life or death of others in an instant, to extend pain or joy, to shut someone away from the light forever or to set them free. No one should have such arbitrary control over another soul.
By His Majesty's Grace Page 27