Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “My Micheline.”

  *

  No sooner had Andrew ridden off than Micheline encountered the rest of the party from London as they entered the courtyard after inspecting the keep. Among them were the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk, Thomas Wyatt, and Robert Cheseman, the king’s falconer. Richly garbed ladies of the court accompanied them, and Micheline went forward to offer greetings.

  Though she continued to feel that these members of the English nobility were inspecting and even looking down on her, it mattered little. The memory of Andrew’s voice and touch lingered, infusing her with a dreamy glow.

  The others went inside after hearing that French games were the order of the afternoon, but she decided impetuously to remain outdoors and ride over the Yorkshire hillsides. A groom provided a sweet-tempered mare who cantered past limestone walls, fat sheep, black-stockinged lambs, and groves of trees where tiny long-tailed tits sang ze-ze as they searched for insects.

  At length Micheline dismounted, deciding to pick a bouquet of exquisite bird’s-eye primroses and tender buttercups to make a wedding garland for her hair. However, it was impossible to resist the other spring flowers that abounded on the hillsides. Soon her arms were filled with bright scented blooms: globeflowers, dainty yellow cowslips, wild pansies, daisies, and pale pink lady smocks. In shaded hedges she discovered a profusion of violets and the star of Bethlehem, which had opened its white petals amid fern and ivy.

  The afternoon was waning when Micheline remounted the patient mare and started back toward the castle. Suddenly it occurred to her that the king and Anne Boleyn might be arriving shortly, and she ought to be present to greet them. Urging the mare into a reluctant gallop, Micheline tipped her head back, enjoying the sensation of the cool air, scented sweetly with vernal grass, against her face. Pipits, wheatears, and twites chirped and hopped along the winding limestone walls.

  Her feeling of contentment was such that she barely noticed the odd flash of light from the trees on a hill above, but the mare was not so preoccupied. It caught the horse by surprise, blinding her so that she reared back abruptly, sending the unsuspecting Micheline flying into the air. A lesser horsewoman would have been gravely injured, or even killed, but she instinctively curled up and relaxed all at once before striking the ground. When she sat up and tested her bones, she saw that she’d come inches from hitting one of the stone walls. Her heart began to pound as she considered the flash of light. What else could have caused it except a mirror?

  For a long moment she closed her eyes against the terror that washed over her, then made up her mind to put it aside. It seemed that whoever it was that wanted to harm her hadn’t the courage to approach her directly, and it was still possible that all that had happened so far at Aylesbury Castle was not a direct threat but merely the product of her imagination. In any case, Micheline resolved that nothing and no one would interfere with her happiness on the eve of her wedding.

  Still trembling, she regathered her scattered bouquet, then went over to the mare, stroking her neck and whispering words of reassurance to herself as much as to the horse. Eventually, when both of them were calm, they rode slowly back to Aylesbury Castle and crossed the two drawbridges that led to the inner courtyard. She’d been hoping that Andrew might return before she had to go back inside, but now she told herself that everyone would still be engaged in game-playing and would pay no attention to her if she slipped into her chambers. With Rupert as the instructor, the games seemed likely to go on until supper.

  Climbing the spiral staircase to the family apartments, Micheline felt her fears dissolving. Perhaps it had all been a simple accident. Certainly it was better to believe that than to allow herself to be terrorized on the eve of her wedding!

  She expected to find the living quarters of the castle filled with activity, and wondered at the absolute silence in the corridor. A need for distraction mixed with curiosity, and Micheline tiptoed down to peek around the corner of the solar.

  “Hmmph!” grunted the Duke of Aylesbury. “What are you doing lurking about? Thinking to spy on someone?”

  Micheline started at the sight of him, all alone in the sun-washed chamber. The old man sat in his favorite chair, wearing a nightgown faced with rabbit and overlaid with a worn gray silk coverlet.

  She stepped into the open. “Of course not, Your Grace! I only wondered if the others weren’t still enjoying their games. I confess that I tried to remain undetected because I feared they would ask me to join them, and I didn’t want to appear rude by refusing.”

  His eyes twinkled almost imperceptibly in reaction to her frankness. It was difficult to resist this fresh young beauty, with her spicy windblown curls, sun-pinkened cheeks, and arms filled with a haphazard assortment of wild flowers.

  “In that case, I don’t blame you for hiding, but it’s safe. They’ve all gone to their rooms to prepare for the king’s arrival,” he replied gruffly. “That’s quite a bouquet you’ve amassed. I hope you left a few on the hillsides.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, Your Grace! One would never know I’d picked these, there are so many more. Aren’t they lovely? You have many sorts of flowers here in England that I don’t recall seeing in France.” Her eyes were vividly blue as she selected some of the loveliest and crossed the solar to hold them out to him. “Won’t you take these for your chambers? They smell wonderful! You know, I set out to pick just a few, to make a garland to wear for the wedding, but I confess I was carried away.”

  The duke clasped the flowers in his bony hand, feeling foolish, yet unable to resist the girl’s enchantment. “So, madame, I suppose you consider yourself worthy to become Marchioness of Sandhurst, and one day Duchess of Aylesbury.”

  Conscious of his scrutiny, Micheline replied carefully, “To be perfectly honest, Your Grace, I haven’t given much thought to my title. All I know is that I love your son better than my own life, and I shall do everything in my power to make our marriage happy and prosperous. I certainly will be proud to be Lady Sandhurst.” She took a breath and impulsively reached out to touch the old man’s arm. “Your wise son has helped me learn to feel and live in the present, yet I can assure you that if and when he inherits your title, I shall try to live up to the example your wife set as Duchess of Aylesbury.”

  For a moment the duke’s throat closed up. He blinked, then looked away from Micheline. “Well, good,” he muttered, coughing. “Go on, then, child. I want to rest.”

  She walked away, but glanced back once before turning down the corridor. Andrew’s father sat hunched over, staring at the wild flowers clutched in his gnarled hand.

  *

  Micheline’s conversation with the Duke of Aylesbury drove all the dark thoughts from her mind. Perhaps there could be peace between Andrew and his father after all! Walking to and fro in her chamber, which was now crowded with vases of fragrant blooms, she waited impatiently for Sandhurst to return.

  A soft, lavender-rose veil of twilight covered the sky when Micheline heard the sound of hoofbeats on the cobbled courtyard. Looking out her deeply recessed window, she saw grooms wearing the king’s livery.

  Without a second thought Micheline went to greet King Henry and his entourage. The castle was no longer quiet. The sound of voices and footsteps followed her as she closed her paneled door and set off for the circular newel staircase. Her only wish was that Andrew might be by her side.

  She was used to spiral stairways after a lifetime in France, but this one was especially precipitous and Micheline had learned to take care with her footing on the treacherously narrow wedge-shaped steps. Today, however, her thoughts were elsewhere—on the arrival of the royal party and her impending wedding.

  She’d descended just a few steps when she vaguely noticed a shadow spill down from behind her. A moment later, Micheline felt an abrupt pressure against her back and was unable to keep her foothold. She raked her nails wildly over the smooth stone walls, searching in vain for something to save her as she pitched forward, screaming, down the stee
p staircase.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  April 19-20, 1533

  Micheline had tumbled headlong down the stairway, but an instant before her face crashed into the sharp edge of a step, Sandhurst caught her. The impact of her falling body sent him reeling against the curving wall, and he very nearly lost his own footing, but through sheer force of will he remained erect.

  A long moment passed before Micheline even realized what had happened, that the abrupt horror of her fall into what seemed certain death had ended in Andrew’s embrace. It was the harsh sound of his breathing and the thunder of his heart against her cheek that brought her out of her daze.

  “Andrew—how—where—?”

  “I had just started up the stairs when I heard you scream! Micheline, for God’s sake, what happened?” Sandhurst’s voice was as hoarse as if he’d just brushed death himself.

  He was holding her so tightly she could scarcely breathe, and the muscles in his arms and chest were like steel against her face. “I don’t know. I must have just lost my balance. I was thinking about you, about the wedding, and I wasn’t paying proper attention to the steps.”

  “You aren’t hurt?”

  “No. No, I’m fine.” Micheline tried to pry her head loose enough to look up at him. “Because of you. You saved my life!”

  Suddenly she was free of his embrace only to be grasped bruisingly by each shoulder and confronted with the sight of his furious expression. Golden sparks blazed in his eyes, his nostrils flared, muscles clenched in his jaw.

  “You must never be so thoughtless again! Do you understand me? By not ‘paying proper attention,’ you’d be bloody well dead right now if I hadn’t happened to be in exactly the perfect spot to save you! My God, Michelle, if anything happened to you—” Tears glinted in his eyes before he crushed her against him once more. “Just be careful. Please!”

  Micheline’s reply went unheard as castle guests pushed past them on the staircase, hurrying to greet the king and Anne Boleyn. They had little choice but to join the assemblage in the courtyard, and, for the moment, Micheline’s brush with disaster was forgotten.

  For once, King Henry had traveled light. Only a dozen grooms and another two dozen assorted servants accompanied them, along with a large wagon packed with the necessary amenities.

  Henry and Anne had ridden in a magnificent coach, and the sight of them emerging into the twilit courtyard was dazzling. The Marquess of Pembroke was resplendent in crimson velvet trimmed with emeralds and ermine, while the king wore plum satin and cloth of gold. His fingers were a mass of jeweled rings, and around his neck was a gold collar from which hung a diamond as big as a walnut.

  “Your Majesty,” Sandhurst said, leading Micheline forward, “you honor us.”

  “Welcome, sire,” Micheline added with sincerity. She dropped into a low, graceful curtsy before the huge monarch, rising only when he reached for her hand.

  “It was worth the journey to gaze once more upon your lovely countenance, madame,” Henry told her.

  Greetings were exchanged with Anne Boleyn, then the castle guests came forward one by one to pay their respects. Finally Henry boomed, “I am ravenous! I hope your cooks have been busy!”

  Andrew smiled. “My father awaits us in the great hall, where you may sup immediately if you like, sire. Shall we join him?”

  *

  Sandhurst wouldn’t let Micheline out of his sight that evening, which pleased her tremendously. After supper the tired king and his lady retired to their chambers, so Andrew and Micheline were able to steal away early. He went with her to her room, where they played chess and piquet until midnight. When she began to nod over the cards, he bade her go to bed, averting his eyes as she undressed and slid between the covers. Although it was the eve of their wedding and he’d been randy as a stallion for weeks, tonight his mood was tense. It was as if he feared that fate might be conspiring to remove Micheline from him before they could be married, and he was determined not to allow that to happen. Irrationally Sandhurst felt that once she was his wife, no harm could come to her.

  Lying in bed, Micheline opened her eyes just enough to gaze over at his chiseled profile. Meanwhile, in the truckle bed across the room, Mary was making her usual variety of sleep noises.

  Many times that evening Micheline had thought of telling Andrew about the riding accident and the brief impression she’d had of a shadow and of something touching her back before she fell down the stairs, but it seemed that those revelations would cause more trouble than good, especially on the eve of their marriage. She had been so preoccupied on the stairs that it was impossible to be certain now if there really had been a shadow, let alone identify it, and the pressure against her back might have been the wall. Unless she could point to the person who had pushed her, what was there to gain by upsetting Andrew?

  Once they were married, Iris Dangerfield would have to face reality, Micheline thought drowsily as she closed her eyes. The woman would seek out another lover and leave them in peace.

  *

  At daybreak Micheline awoke to find Andrew sleeping in a chair next to her bed, fully dressed, his feet propped on the side of the bed. His handsome head was tilted to one side and sunlight glinted off the stubble of his beard. Birdsong filled the air.

  Languorously Micheline stretched out a hand to lightly caress his cheek. Slowly Sandhurst’s brown eyes opened as his brows went up. Catching her fingers, he kissed them.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she murmured.

  “Go back to sleep, fondling. You’ll need the extra rest to stay awake”—he gave a wickedly drowsy grin—“later.”

  She smiled at that thought and dozed off again, dreaming that she was falling from a horse, sailing through the air, only to land safely in drifts of meadow flowers. Andrew waited for her there and both of them were naked. He smiled down at her, brushing aside violets and primroses from her breasts and belly, then bending to replace the flowers with kisses.

  “Time to wake up!” Mary was calling. “It’s your wedding day, ma’am!”

  Rolling over, Micheline opened her eyes. The chair beside the bed was empty. “Where’s Lord Sandhurst?”

  “Why, in his own rooms, I expect. Be patient, ma’am; you’ll have him next to you when day breaks again!” The girl sighed a little. “Just think, you’ll be the wife of the Marquess of Sandhurst. A more fortunate lady never breathed.”

  Micheline had no desire to argue that point, nor had she time to wonder what had become of Andrew, for Mary soon had her out of bed and into a steaming, scented bath. It was nearly ten o’clock, and there was much to be done before the wedding that afternoon.

  Midday found Micheline in her lacy silk chemise, petticoats, and shakefold, eating a plum while Mary finished weaving the coral-pink bird’s-eye primroses and rich yellow buttercups into an extravagant garland for her hair. When that was done, the little maid helped her mistress into her wedding gown. Mary had expected the marquess to order a sumptuous, jewel-encrusted creation from the best dressmakers in London, but as long as Micheline liked this gown so well, she held her tongue.

  Micheline was standing in her stocking feet before the mirror, ivory satin skirts flowing out around her, when Cicely came into the chamber.

  Andrew’s sister looked lovelier than ever, the budding curves of her figure accentuated by a gown of dark rose silk and gold brocade. Sapphires edged the square neckline and sparkled on the golden caul that tamed her curls.

  “Hello, Micheline,” she said. Color stained her cheeks. “I suppose I should wish you well.”

  Trying to ignore the rather backhanded nature of her blessing, Micheline crossed the room and gave her the warmest smile she could muster.

  “Thank you. I promise to take good care of your brother… and I have some news that I think you’ll like.” She took a chair near the window and motioned for Cicely to sit beside her. “I know how unhappy you have been here at Aylesbury Castle, and also how much it means to you to spend time with Andrew
. My situation was not so very different from yours when I was young, and I can understand what you are feeling. I’ve asked Andrew if you might come to live with us at Sandhurst Manor.”

  Part of Cicely wanted to throw her arms around Micheline, but resentment and wariness prevailed. “And?”

  “He has agreed, but there are a few conditions attached. He says that you may join us in London next month, in time for Anne Boleyn’s coronation. After that we will all return to Gloucestershire, where you will remain… providing you and I can live happily together. Your brother says that he will not tolerate hard feelings in our household, and I am inclined to agree with him. However, if you and I can learn to be friends—”

  At that moment Iris Dangerfield swept into the room.

  “Well, if it isn’t the almost bride and her almost sister! What a cozy family scene.”

  Micheline stood up, meeting the other woman’s acrimonious eyes with a level gaze. She was certain that Iris was behind all the menacing events that had lately colored her life, but she was equally certain that this day’s wedding would mark an end to those troubles. It still seemed to Micheline that Iris’s main purpose had been to frighten her into backing out of the betrothal; failing that, she had tried to harm her in a moment of desperation. She was a human being, with an obsessive weakness for the Marquess of Sandhurst. Micheline could understand that.

  “Good morrow, Lady Dangerfield,” she greeted her calmly.

  “So, the bride is garbed in her finery. I must compliment you on your gown, madame. That’s a very subtle approach—flowers instead of gems.” Iris herself wore a magnificent creation of cream satin and green velvet, studded with pearls and emeralds.