The Crown of Destiny (The Yorkist Saga)

by Diana Rubino

  "This is my house and any message from royalty or whoever it is from belongs to me!" His words were slurred, running into one another so she could barely understand what he'd said.

  "You're soused, you lush, now give me that message or I'll kick you in your ball bag so hard, you'll have to open your waistcoat to find it!"

  She yanked up her skirts and bent her knee, ready to deliver a blow to his crotch. He staggered backwards and fell against one of the great oaks lining the path. He slid to the ground, his face flushed and bloated with drunken senselessness. The message fluttered to the ground and she swept it up, broke the seal and read its contents.

  The King was inviting her and Mortimer to court for Christmas. She immediately forgot about the intoxicated oaf lying against the tree as she entered the house, clutching the message to her heart, a prayer of thanks on her lips.

  She eagerly packed her trunks in anticipation of the court festivities that she had so sorely missed. She felt as if she'd been in this prison for years, although it had been merely months. Her heart leapt at the thought of the twinkling candles, the joyous music, the dancing, eating and drinking, all accompanied by the lively court banter and intrigue that had once been the nucleus of her life.

  She was folding her favorite velvet cloak into her trunk when she heard shouting beneath her window. She looked out to investigate and could make out the shadowy figures of two men shoving at each other, screaming at the top of their lungs, sidestepping around the great oak that stood before the house.

  Peering out the window carefully and snuffing out her candles to near- darkness, she recognized the figures below. It was Roland and Mortimer arguing, Mortimer's stout figure overpowering the taller but lankier Roland's.

  Then she saw a fist flying through the air and could hear the smacking of flesh and bone as Mortimer delivered a blow to his son's jaw, sending the boy reeling, knocking him off his feet.

  Roland's hands protectively covered his eyes as Mortimer straddled his prostrate son and began smashing his fists into the boy's face.

  Roland kicked, flailing with helpless awkwardness.

  Mortimer let out a hideous wail, and she could hear Roland's gasps as his father clasped his fingers around the boy's throat and began choking him.

  Amethyst fled down the stairs, flung open the front door and ran up to the dreadful sight, the icy wind whipping about her skirts, slapping her hair across her face as she leapt on her husband, trying to pry him from his gurgling son.

  "Mortimer, get off him, you'll kill him!"

  "Stay off me, wench! This bastard has wronged me for the last time!"

  Roland's hand shot out, his fingers splayed as if they would break, as he made a desperate grasp for Amethyst, begging for help. His eyes bulged in their sockets and she could see his face turning blue in the dim light sifting through the great hall's leaded windows.

  "Mortimer, please! 'Tis murder. Nay, stop it!"

  At her wit's end, she brought back her leg and landed a kick in her husband's ribs. He relinquished his grip on Roland and rocked back on his son's loins, causing Roland to scream in pain as he tried to shift his father's weight from his crushed genitals.

  She dashed out of the way as Mortimer staggered to his feet, rubbing his side as he did, still straddling his son, a foot on each side of the boy's ribcage.

  "Mortimer, I am sorry, but you know they will hang you if you kill him," Amethyst whispered, now gasping with fear, wondering why she'd even interfered. What would he do to her now? "What caused this? What did you do this to him for?"

  "That despised bastard. He took thousands of crowns worth of plate and sold it behind my back to pay for his loathsome ale and his filthy whores! He has never been a son of mine and he never will be! Get out of my sight, you pox-ridden sod. I should have killed you!"

  He spat upon his son, who rose to his elbows, wiping his father's spit out of his eyes. Mortimer stepped over him and delivered a swift kick in Roland's ribs, and the boy rolled over, clutching his side, moaning in pain.

  "Mortimer, he sold Honey from under my nose for money for drink, and as upset as I was at the loss of my dear pet, I did not resort to such abhorrence! You've nearly killed him!"

  "I should have, and I shall!" he screamed at his son, his eyes crossed in rage. "Get ye gone from here, or I'll have you swinging from this oak by sun up, you scurvy bastard!"

  With that, her husband stalked away, leaving Amethyst standing beside her despised stepson, staring after the fuming form of her husband. For a time she stood over the pathetic figure, staring down at him in confusion, still wondering why she had intervened.

  He echoed her thoughts. "Why...why did you save me?" His words came out in a rasp and he winced in pain with each utterance. "You hate me as much as he does."

  He looked up at her through swollen eyes, a trickle of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth onto the frozen ground.

  She sighed heavily. "I do not hate you. I have no reason to like you, though, now do I. Truth to tell, I know not why I saved you. I just abhor violence, I suppose. And detest murder. Anyway, .never mind, just get ye gone, or he really will kill you!"

  She stood over him for another moment, then offered him a hand up. He took it grudgingly and staggered to his feet, his face contorted in pain. The mouth, usually clamped into a tight grimacing sneer, now opened in a noiseless scream of agony. He limped over to the oak, holding his side, his other hand cupping his tortured crotch, and leaned against the trunk, still watching Amethyst intently.

  "Who is your father?" he whispered hoarsely.

  "He was the Earl of Warwick," she replied, plucking a lace-trimmed linen cloth from inside her bodice and tentatively reaching out to blot the blood that was congealing on his face. He took it from her and gave a tiny almost undetectable nod of thanks.

  "I never knew him. He was imprisoned for all but one day of his life in the Tower, and was executed when I was two years old. My sister and mother saw him dragged off to his death. My sister never forgot it, and will not let the rest of us forget it, either. He was in the way of the throne, and the Tower is where I was born and lived the first years of my life."

  He wiped his face with the cloth, balling it up and pressing it to his mouth. His breathing had become softer and even, and his eyes, although swollen nearly shut, were still regarding her intently.

  "They...they kill for their bloody thrones...they kill everyone in sight...they stop at nothing," he commented, and she had to strain to hear.

  "Aye, and my father was but a pawn in a sick power game. A more woeful life was never led on this earth."

  "Oh, you are wrong, Lady Amethyst, you are wrong." She noted that that was the first time he'd addressed her in a decent manner, "The biggest waste of life on this earth is I. I am the most unwanted, pathetic creature you will ever know. It is I! And as I live, so shall I die, a wasted, meaningless soul...with nothing.…. Now go back to your husband, before he beats you for talking to me. Get!"

  It was more of a warning than a command. She nodded, and pausing only to say, "Try not to take it personally. He never even tried to get to know you, it is clear. All you are to him is a symbol of the loss of his wife. People do all sorts of strange things when they are angry or grieving," she obeyed, leaving him leaning against the oak to sop up his blood with her lacy cloth.

  The next day Roland was gone, but a small section of the flagstone path leading to the house remained stained with his blood. She never mentioned his name again to Mortimer.

  He never brought up the fight, nor her kicking him, thank the Lord, and the matter was forgotten as they hurriedly packed their trunks for their visit to court.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Hampton Court Palace

  The palace was abuzz with preparations for the Christmas festivities when Amethyst and Mortimer approached the gatehouse in the grayness of dusk. Lights blazed from nearly every window and the brisk wind carried lively music to their ears from within the palace walls.

/>   They dismounted, and a page led them through the courtyard up to their apartments. "Tell the King that Lord and Lady Pilkington are here," she ordered the page, who scurried off to deliver his message.

  "They are getting younger and younger," she commented to her husband, removing her cloak and draping it over the bed.

  "Or are you getting older and older?" Mortimer countered, sitting on the edge of the bed, yanking off his boots.

  "Let one of the chamberlains do that, dear. You may break a hip or something," Amethyst said.

  "I like doing things for myself," Mortimer replied, pushing a silver lock of hair out of his eyes. The miserable old codger must have been handsome in a rugged sort of way many years ago, she decided, regarding his ruddy cheeks, weather-beaten from too many winters of riding against the biting wind. His rough masculine appeal would have turned a few female heads in the days of his youth. The bitterness over his wife's death seemed to have exhausted his joy for living, turning him into a seething pillar of resentment.

  The page returned the message that the King was holding a council meeting, but wished for her and Mortimer to meet him in the great hall for the evening meal.

  It was the first time she would see Henry since leaving court in disgrace, and she was nervous. How would they react to seeing each other again? How would Henry act towards her?

  The tension mounted as she descended the staircase and headed for the great hall. She longed for him, as she knew he missed her.

  She approached him slowly, holding out her hand. He'd gained a considerable amount of weight, being even more corpulent than before, but to him all it probably meant was more jewels sewn into his doublet, another yard of velvet, another ermine pelt for a longer trim. His hair had thinned out a bit more, and visible lines had appeared around his eyes.

  He regarded her with a frosty eye. The gold orbs did not sparkle as they once did when gazing upon her. He displayed no hint of a smile, no cordiality in his welcome, his hand cold and unyielding as they touched.

  "Sire."

  "Lady Pilkington."

  Oh, how she hated to be called that, and she was sure he knew it. Their reunion was formal, forced adherence to protocol—for she wanted to rush into his arms and tell him how good it was to see him.

  She dared to look up at him and captured his gaze. She knew she had him; aloof and distant as it was, he couldn't tear his gaze from hers. Their eyes locked and slowly, like the unfolding of a rosebud into flourishing bloom, once again she saw the warmth return to the cold glare as the eyes softened and began to glow, the look of longing that she knew so well, that she'd never forgotten in all those unfeeling, loveless nights in her husband's bed.

  "My lord, it is...so good to see you again," she whispered so only he could hear, as Mortimer stood by indifferently. He all but disappeared as she looked into Henry Tudor's eyes, seeing the jewels glitter upon his hulking chest as he heaved a great sigh.

  "'Tis good to see you again, too, Amethyst." His tone was low, intimate.

  She moved a step closer, her head just reaching his shoulder, and took his hand once more. His fingers tightened around hers and squeezed, his eyes widened, and she blinked back the tears that were bunching her lashes into wet clumps.

  "I missed you," she whispered.

  "We shall speak later, Amethyst," he said, quickly releasing her hand, a forced sternness returning to his voice. "Now is not the time. Go sit with your husband."

  That evening Henry summoned her to his chambers, and she could barely contain her excitement as she left her stodgy husband behind and scampered through the corridors she knew so well to meet the King.

  He was sipping wine out of a golden goblet, with another goblet set on the table for her. She approached him cautiously, fighting the urge to rush into his arms and feel his enveloping warmth, the touch that only he could give her. She was sure he felt the same way; she noted the anxiety in his eyes, the way he shifted uncomfortably in his elegantly carved chair and played with his pendant.

  She decided there was no reason to hold it back any longer. She walked up to him. He stood. Their lips met briefly, lingered for but a second, then pulled apart. He grasped her hands. It was like a slow, courtly dance, as their gazes locked once again. She could see the golden fire in his eyes, the longing, the many months of loneliness, the remorse.

  "I am so sorry, my lord, the way it all happened."

  "Never mind. How is your child?"

  "He is fine. His name is Harry."

  "I know. I received the letter."

  "Why did you not answer it?"

  He stared. "Answer it? Of course I did. I wrote to you several times, on the anniversary of Catherine's death, when I was sure you were going into confinement, when I was here alone in my chambers bored and lonely, after they all leave me alone for the evening...I wrote to you, Amethyst. Not a day went by that I didn't think of you."

  Her heart took an elated leap then plunged as she realized what had happened.

  "That miserable sod! He intercepted your letters!"

  "Mortimer?"

  "Nay, Mortimer would never care enough. His son, Roland. His mother died giving birth to him and Mortimer condemns him for it, making his life miserable. In turn, he spreads misery wherever he goes. Oh, sire, he has made my life hell! He has made advances toward me, and I worry so about baby Harry. I am so afraid he will poison him... He took all your letters. It had to be him!"

  The King turned away, deep in thought. Then he turned back to her. "I am sorry, Amethyst, that it worked out this way. But you cannot return to court with a child. Mortimer is your husband and you must learn to live with him. His son will grow out of it, I am sure."

  She shook her head. "Nay, my lord, he will not! It is because of you that I am married to a man I do not love. Do not make it any more of a hell for me. I waited all my life to get married because of you. Now I am married to someone I loathe and despise. I do not deserve this added humiliation. Please take that miserable creature of a son of his away from me!"

  "Perhaps I should marry him off."

  She shook her head again, more violently this time. "Nay, my lord, I would not force him upon anyone. He would make anyone's life miserable."

  "I can send him off to sea. He sounds like he would make a good sailor. The French are always threatening, and our navy is still but very weak."

  "Oh, my lord, I could live with Mortimer's indifference and his frosty countenance. But his son... He makes me miserable, and is a constant threat to Harry. I feel sure of it."

  "I shall take care of it. Luckily, of late, I have had another matter to contend with."

  "Oh?"

  "I am about to be married again."

  This she hadn't heard. There had been no lady next to him on the dais, no one flitting about. He dined alone, he danced with no one.

  "Who is she, sire?"

  "For a long while now, there have been some at court who seem to believe another politically based marriage alliance is in order for their king."

  "Just because of what they want, you considered marriage again?"

  "Nay. Cromwell considered marriage, and it makes good sense."

  "So who is it to be?" she asked through numb lips.

  "Between me and the first available princess from the Continent willing to depart from her homeland and brave the Channel."

  She felt a heated blush sting her cheeks. Was that all? "The Channel is not all she would have to brave, my lord."

  "She need not worry, Amethyst. My days of madness derived from passion are over. I seek only an alliance with Europe, as we have been isolated since the break with Rome, and therefore vulnerable. We need an alliance, but not with Spain, God forbid, for I wish not to relive a nightmare twice in one lifetime."

  "I see. So who are your best prospects?"

  "I ordered Holbein to procure likenesses of several ladies, Mary of Guise being the first, and then he is going to the Imperial court to paint the portrait of Christina, the duchess of Milan.
She need not be beautiful, but she need be appealing enough... For appearances' sake, you see."

  "Aye, my lord." She stifled a laugh, for she knew her Henry never lost his eye for a pretty girl. He would not settle for a queen that was not pleasing to his discerning eye.

  "I travelled to Calais, for Francis lined up some of the ladies of his court for me to inspect. Such tedious tasks," he sighed.

  "Aye, my lord, imagine, the King of England going out to the market square!"

  He slipped her a familiar sideways glance as they laughed comfortably together.

  "So what happened?" She was anxious to hear if he had made any progress in his quest for a French courtier. She sincerely doubted he would have met anyone who would strike his fancy; after Anne, how could the King ever bear to involve himself with another lady from the French court?