Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “What do you mean?”

  He sighed. “Nothing. I’ll explain it all to you later, after we’ve left Hampton Court.” As much as he longed to confide in Micheline, he did not want to add to her distress by detailing his potential problems with the king. She had more than enough to deal with on this first day with the English court. “All that’s important now is that you understand that there are more burdens involved in becoming my wife than just tolerating my relatives.”

  She dropped her head, pressing her cheek to his strong, damp hand. “Sometimes I wish you were just plain Andrew Selkirk after all.”

  “No more than I, my love, I can assure you! However, fate dealt me a different hand. If I were a commoner, I would not only be free of royal obligations, but I could also close the door on my past. As it is, if you marry me, you shall always have to contend with women I knew before you and I met. I’m a dozen years older than you, Michelle, and I’m a man. Iris is not the only ghost from my past who will haunt us. Unfortunately the court abounds with females who once hoped to become the next Marchioness of Sandhurst.”

  “You needn’t boast!”

  He smiled, encouraged by her flash of humor. “I’m trying to be honest. I want you to be aware of the possibilities, in case you should decide that the negative aspects of marriage to me outweigh the positive. It would devastate me to see you unhappy later on.”

  Now Micheline was ashamed of the harsh words she had spoken. She gazed at Sandhurst, achingly aware of his lean-muscled naked body so near to her. The firelight only accentuated his sculpted good looks, and suddenly she realized that this was the first time she had ever seen him fully unclothed in the light. Not that she was brave enough to look beyond his hard arms, tapering chest, and the handsome legs he propped on the lower rim of the bathtub. Sighing a little, Micheline thought that it would be wonderful if she could shed her costly gown and climb into bed with him, forgetting about the royal assemblage downstairs.

  But Andrew was right. She had to make the best of their time at Hampton Court. Nothing would be solved if Micheline continued to alternately rage and sulk.

  “I see your point, my lord,” she told him sincerely. “I must learn to cope with Lady Dangerfield and her ilk on my own. I apologize for behaving like a spoiled child.”

  “No apology is necessary.” Gently he drew her near until their lips touched, parted, then touched again. “Besides, I could never love a saint. You are never more ravishing than when you’re angry.”

  Tears stung her eyes. Reluctantly she whispered, “I suppose I should leave you to dress.”

  He arched a wicked brow. “If you stay, I shouldn’t dress at all…”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  April 6-7, 1533

  Supper passed pleasantly enough. In the great hall, which had been recently rebuilt to feature a towering carved hammer-beam ceiling and a fanciful minstrels’ gallery, the court feasted on fish of every description, from salmon and flounder to salted eels and whiting. Micheline, as the newest guest, was seated in relative security between King Henry and Andrew. The king was kind to her, though from time to time he gazed at her bosom in a way that made her vaguely uneasy.

  The king’s table was reserved for the court elite. It reposed on a raised dais, while the rest of the company supped at tables that ranged down the length of the hall. There was an open hearth in the middle of the floor near the dais; the smoke found its way up into the roof and out of an elaborate louvre.

  Seated near Micheline were some of the luminaries of Henry’s court: Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk; the Earl and Countess of Oxford; the Duke of Suffolk; Thomas Wyatt, the dashing poet who was said to love Anne Boleyn; and, most prominently, Thomas Cranmer, the newly consecrated Archbishop of Canterbury, and Thomas Cromwell, the king’s dour-looking new chief minister, who was assuming the position vacated by Cardinal Wolsey. Micheline watched and listened carefully and soon began to connect names with faces and form opinions about their owners.

  Finally sweets were served. There were jellies of all colors and shapes, plus sugared nuts and candied nutmeg and lemons. Then two liveried pages carried in an enormous rabbit made of almond paste and marchpane mixed with isinglass and sugar. The confection had been dredged with cinnamon to resemble a real rabbit, roasted. Anne Boleyn laughed in delight when the counterfeit hare was placed before her.

  “My sweet Anne has been craving rabbit for several days,” Henry whispered to Micheline. “Until Lent is behind us, this will have to suffice.”

  “Very thoughtful of you, sire,” she said, smiling. Meanwhile Micheline was thinking that this wasn’t so difficult. All she had to do was agree, smile, and compliment to get along in the English court. It was a small price to pay for loving Andrew, and she was comforted by the knowledge that he didn’t enjoy the situation any more than she did.

  It was late when the boards and trestles were removed from the great hall. Micheline stifled a yawn, hoping that she and Andrew could escape after a reasonable amount of time. However, everyone seemed to be leaving the hall, amid much laughter, and she watched in growing bewilderment.

  “The king has planned a masque,” Sandhurst explained, reading her thoughts. “We must go, too, and conceal our identities.” His voice was sardonic.

  “But that’s silly!” she protested. “I have no other gown but the simpler one I must wear tomorrow. Everyone will recognize me!”

  Laughing softly, he led her into the corridor. “We’ll just don masks, and even those have been provided for everyone—in Anne’s heraldic colors. The only person who must be entertained is the king. He imagines that he is anonymous in his costume and loves to make a game of finding his lady.”

  Once again Sandhurst was right. When they rejoined the rest of the court in the great hall, minstrels were playing gaily in their gallery, and blue-and-purple-masked dancers had begun to frolic. Before long another celebrant appeared in their midst. Clad entirely in green, from his jaunty feathered cap to his shoes, the man disguised as “Spring” was not only tall but barrel-chested and obese. His velvet costume was elaborately slashed and puffed, decorated with diamonds, rubies, and silken green leaves. Small eyes gleamed happily through an emerald-set mask, while their owner’s ruddy cheeks contrasted with fair skin elsewhere and a reddish-gold beard.

  “Hmm,” Sandhurst mused, “I wonder who that could be!”

  Micheline giggled. “I cannot imagine!”

  “Spring” stopped before every female flower in sight, kissing hands and nuzzling necks as he inhaled various scents. When he reached Micheline, it was all she could do to smile politely and suffer his investigation. As if by design, Anne Boleyn stood at the opposite end of the crowd, now wearing an extravagant jeweled gown of cloth of gold, its bell-shaped sleeves turned up to display sable linings. Her hair was hidden under a gold gable coif, and her blue and purple mask was set with rubies. When the king finally reached her, he pretended to be unsure. He pressed kisses to her throat and ran his hands over her bodice, then caught her up in a crushing hug and let out a gusty laugh of triumph.

  “How very peculiar,” Micheline observed softly. The musicians had begun to play and Henry led his future queen forward to lead the first dance.

  Sandhurst was about to reply, when a stocky, well-fed-looking young man appeared before them. Like King Henry, he could not conceal his identity with a simple mask, for his yellow hair and flushed cheeks were clues enough.

  “My lady, would you dance with me?” he inquired mysteriously.

  Micheline was too surprised to play along. “M’sieur Playfair, is that you?”

  “How ever did you guess?” Sandhurst laughed.

  “Yes, that’s what I’d like to know!” Jeremy fretted. “What’s the fun of these masques if everyone knows who one is? And, by the by, madame, my name is Culpepper, not Playfair!”

  “My pardon. Sir Jeremy,” she apologized. “I’ll not forget again.”

  “Speaking of remaining anonymous,” Sandhurst interje
cted, “how did you know who we were?”

  “You’re my best friend, aren’t you? Besides, you two are the handsomest couple here tonight, and I’ve seen you wear that doublet before, Sandhurst.”

  This elicited a burst of laughter from Andrew. “It’s good to see you here, Jeremy. When did you arrive?”

  “Late this afternoon. I saw the two of you at supper, but I was seated at the other side of the hall. Not everyone is honored with a place beside the king.”

  “I’d have preferred your company, sir,” Micheline told him sincerely. “And I’m awfully glad that you are Andrew’s friend and not his manservant.”

  “You aren’t the only one!” Jeremy harumphed. “I must say, though, that all the humiliation I suffered in France was well worth it if you two have worked things out. Word has it that you’re getting married after all!” He smiled at his friend and shook his head. “Only you could have managed to escape successfully from that coil you were wrapped in two days ago, Sandhurst! Charm will out, eh?”

  “Not charm, but love,” he replied evenly.

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that.” Seeing the way Micheline gazed at her betrothed, he felt a twinge of envy. No wonder Sandhurst had succumbed at last to romance. “What about that dance, then?”

  The floor was crowded now. All the court seemed to be dancing, laughing gaily as they pretended not to recognize one another. Micheline found Jeremy very endearing, even when he made a wrong move from time to time and stepped on her toes. Across the room she glimpsed Andrew leaning against the paneled wall under a carving of Henry VIII’s royal arms impaling those of Anne Boleyn. He watched her affectionately, and it filled her with delight when she saw him shake his head after a figure she knew to be Lady Dangerfield approached him.

  Micheline’s dance with Jeremy was followed by two with Sandhurst. Thomas Wyatt begged for the next, and as he led her into the crush, she felt something slip up her sleeve. It seemed to be a piece of paper, but she promptly forgot about it as she chatted and danced with the poet.

  Long past midnight Sandhurst suggested that sleep might be in order, and they went to bid the king and Anne Boleyn good night.

  “When will your wedding take place, my lord?” inquired Anne.

  “In a fortnight’s time, my lady,” he replied, then looked toward King Henry. “I know that you had planned to attend, when first you and my father spoke of this marriage, but we realize that circumstances have altered in the interim. Doubtless the arrangements for the Marquess’s coronation as queen will prevent you from embarking on a journey to Yorkshire.” His eyes added his understanding of the fact that the king might not be kindly disposed toward him since their conversation earlier that day.

  Henry nodded slowly, raising an eyebrow in silent communication with the Lord Sandhurst. “Certainly we shouldn’t come all that way on your account, Sandhurst!” He took care to lace his jest with an edge of steel so subtle that only the other man would perceive it. “And you are correct. There is much to keep us near London through May. However”—the king turned to beam at Micheline, lifting her hand to his small pursed lips—“we feel that the enchanting Madame Tevoulere deserves special consideration, and there are others from our court who have expressed a wish to attend your wedding. We can make no promises, but if it is within our power, we shall make a brief journey to Aylesbury Castle to join in the nuptial celebrations.”

  “As always, Your Majesty demonstrates exceptional thoughtfulness and generosity,” said Sandhurst. “It would give us great joy to have you present at our marriage, and I know that my father would be equally pleased.” Sketching a bow before Anne Boleyn, he added, “My lady, I hope to see you in Yorkshire. Your arrival would bring new radiance to that district!”

  More courtly farewells were exchanged until, at length, Andrew and Micheline escaped, climbing the stairs to their quiet wing of the palace.

  “How I despise such artificial conversation!” he muttered darkly, his bright mask dangling from his fingers.

  “You seem quite adept at it, my lord,” Micheline teased him. Away from the crowd, she was suddenly aware of her own fatigue. Voices, faces, music, and all the day’s experiences continued to swirl in her mind; she would be glad for sleep if only to escape them.

  “I need to be adept to survive, I fear. I can only hope that whatever charm I can muster will be enough to counteract the displeasure I’ve incurred when I could not bring myself to behave as an obedient subject ought.” He glanced heavenward. “I’ve not the temperament for a lord of the realm, I fear. Obedience is not in my nature.”

  “Will you rebel against the bonds of matrimony too?”

  They had reached Micheline’s door, and he slid his arms around her slender waist. “This is the first time in my life I’ve faced a commitment to which it will be a pleasure to submit. Besides, you don’t want to rule me.”

  “That’s true.” She opened her mouth as they exchanged a sleepy, sensual kiss. “And neither will you rule me!”

  “If I imagined it were possible, I couldn’t love you as I do.” he told her honestly. “We think and feel alike, Michelle, and we understand and respect each other. Aside from that”—he paused to kiss her peacefully drooping eyelids—“there are other extremely pleasurable considerations. No doubt you’ll be relieved to learn that I’m too tired to press that issue now. My own fatigue is such that tonight I shall not lie awake, in tormented solitude, for very long.”

  “Je t’ adore…” she whispered, gazing at him in wonder.

  “Go to bed.” Sandhurst laughed gently.

  They shared another sweet, drowsy kiss, then parted. Alone in her bedchamber, Micheline managed to unlace the back of her gown unaided. When she drew off the velvet sleeves, a small piece of parchment dropped to the floor, reminding her of that moment in the great hall when she had felt it slide against her wrist. Puzzled, she removed her gown, petticoat, and shakefold, then picked up the paper and sat down on the bed in her chemise to open it.

  Printed in tiny, barely legible characters were the words: “Leave England alone, or die.”

  She blinked in confusion. As the message sank in, Micheline’s heart began to pound and her hands perspired. Still, it didn’t seem real. Mechanically she walked about the huge, chilly bedchamber, removing her crispinette, brushing out her hair, washing her face, and even cleaning her teeth, all the while trying to block the ominous note from her thoughts. Perhaps it was someone’s idea of a joke. Perhaps it had fallen into her sleeve by accident and had not been intended for her at all.

  Finally she blew out the candles and crawled into the enormous bed, but sleep would not come. Over and over again Micheline considered waking Andrew, but there seemed no purpose. Her door was latched. Who would be foolish enough to harm her with Sandhurst in the next room? Moreover, who would want to harm her at all? Could Iris Dangerfield be that wicked? Perhaps, if she had written the note, the threat was empty—simply an attempt to frighten Micheline into running home to France… unmarried.

  An hour passed, and still her heart drummed against her breastbone. Occasionally there were footsteps and voices in the corridor. Each new sound made her start—and then, suddenly, when all was quiet, there came a soft scratching noise at Micheline’s door. No sooner did she sit up straight in bed, wide-eyed and terrified in the darkness, than the scratching stopped. A full minute passed during which she neither moved nor breathed, then… scratch-scratch. The sound was all the more sinister because it was barely audible, but then it grew to alarming proportions.

  Somehow, she made herself act. Scrambling off the other side of the bed, Micheline ran through the darkness, bumping into furniture. There was barely enough firelight remaining for her to make out the shape of the connecting door to Sandhurst’s room. Praying that no one had locked it, she found the latch, lifted it, pushed on the door, and it swung open.

  “Andrew!” she gasped. There was more light from his fireplace, allowing her to see the shadowed bed, and then a silhouette
as he sat up.

  “Michelle?” he wondered. Was this a dream? Wishful thinking?

  In the next instant she was upon him, clinging to him, trembling violently.

  “What is it? Did you have a nightmare?” He held her tightly, stroking her curls, rubbing her back through the thin fabric of her chemise. “I can feel your heart beating against my chest! Tell me what’s wrong. You’re safe now.”

  “C’est vrai, I know.” It was true; she felt a hundred times better in the shelter of Sandhurst’s strong embrace. She buried her face in the taut curve between his shoulder and neck, shivering in reaction. He continued to soothe her, kissing her brow and temple, speaking to her tenderly until Micheline relaxed enough to tell him what had happened.

  “Someone put a tiny piece of paper in my sleeve while I was dancing with Thomas Wyatt. I barely noticed at the time; I’d forgotten all about it until I removed my gown and the note fell out. It said—it said—”

  “You’re all right,” he reminded her. “You’re with me now.”

  “It said that I must leave England, alone—or die!” Her voice dropped to a whisper on the last word.

  “What?!” Sandhurst was incredulous. “Why didn’t you bring it to me immediately?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you might be asleep, and it seemed so ludicrous and impossible. At first, I told myself that it was some sort of mistake… or bizarre joke… but I couldn’t sleep, and then—just now, someone was scratching at my door!”

  “Scratching!”

  “To scare me, I suppose. It was a very tiny sound at first, but then it grew louder and louder till I was nearly terrified!”

  “No doubt,” Sandhurst said grimly. “Loose me a moment, fondling; I’ll light a candle and have a look around.”