At the King's Command

by Susan Wiggs

  “What?” Thomas Cromwell’s voice cut her off like a pair of shears snipping a hedge. He planted himself in front of Stephen. “Your wife has the sweat?” Lord Privy Seal, who had honed the craft of lying to a fine art, searched Stephen’s face.

  “Well, that’s not certain,” Stephen said, his head tilted, his eyes regretful. “I’ve yet to find a physician who’ll go near her.”

  The king swore and took a lumbering step back. “By God, Wimberleigh, if you’ve got the sweat here …” Henry’s face was death pale. For a moment Stephen almost felt sorry for him. Mortality was the only foe even King Henry could never vanquish.

  Then Stephen remembered saintly Thomas More, Exeter, Neville and Nick Carew, all put to death because the king was at his most dangerous when he was afraid.

  “Sire, I beg you. Just wait a little.” Behind him, he could hear Nance fanning Kit with her apron. “If it is truly the sweat, my wife will be dead by morning. If she lives, then it wasn’t that pestilence to begin with.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “How many Londoners were felled by the sweat last year … some several thousand, was it not?”

  Without taking his eyes off Stephen, the king said, “Cromwell, send the heralds on to Hockley Hall. We shall pass the night with Algernon Basset, earl of Havelock.”

  “Immediately, sire.”

  As Sir Thomas turned to give instructions to the heralds, Stephen slowly and inconspicuously started to expel a sigh of relief. He still had half his indrawn breath to go when two royal wardens burst through the iron gates, shouting for assistance.

  “Look what we caught poaching in the king’s wood,” Sir Bodely said.

  Stephen’s heart dropped with sickening speed to his knees. Between them, the guards held a furiously struggling gypsy.

  “Rodion!” Juliana whispered, pedaling with her elbows to scoot even closer to the window in the tower.

  “Rodion?” Her voice filled with concern, Jillie joined her in the recess of the window.

  Juliana sent her maid a sidelong glance. “He chose the wrong time to poach a deer.”

  Jillie’s chin trembled as the two of them lay belly-down in the window embrasure, watching the drama unfold in the courtyard.

  It was musty in their high loft, and it smelled of dry timber, old stone and woodsmoke. Until a few moments ago, Juliana had been arguing heatedly against the necessity of staying hidden.

  “I tell you, Jillie, I do not wish to cower like a thief in the night. And Steph—my lord husband has no right to force me to stay here. How dare he act like he’s ashamed of me!”

  Jillie, teary eyed from torn loyalties, had clutched the iron key that she used to lock the door. “I’m sorry, milady. ’Twas himself who ordered me to look after you. I’m not to let the king spy you at any cost.”

  “Stephen de Lacey is not my master!” Even as she shouted the declaration, Juliana was seized by memories of the afternoon she had spent with him, the desperate hunger of his kiss, the compelling touch of his hands. And her own ungovernable yearning …

  “He said ’twas for your own good. And begging your pardon, but the master is seldom wrong.”

  “He is this time.”

  “Milady, please. There’s something about the king, something he does … He’s a danger. It might be like the last time he came to Lynacre.”

  “The last time? What happened then?”

  Jillie had flushed an even deeper crimson shade than normal. She stared down at her large, thick hands, her fingers tightening around the key. “Can’t rightly say. I were but a child of ten or twelve back then, but …”

  “But what?” Juliana had forced herself to be patient.

  Jillie was not the sort to gossip and it was hard coaxing information from her. “Did the king hurt Stephen while he was here? Or the baroness?”

  “Hurt?” Jillie’s unhurried speech belied her quick and reliable mind. “Honest, my lady, I don’t know. But after the king’s visit, she were never the same, and he were a dark and brooding lord.”

  Juliana shivered. “She. The baroness?”

  “Aye.” Jillie dropped her voice to a whisper. “She were like a spring flower caught in a frost after that. Less laughter in the household. Less talk and merriment.”

  Juliana fell silent, remembering how she had found Stephen worshiping at the shrine of his first wife. How solemn he had been, mourning still, after all these years for his wife and child. One child. Only one had shared the crypt with his mother.

  Why? Why?

  And now Jillie was telling her that the laughter had gone out of Stephen even before he had lost Margaret and Dickon.

  “God ha’ mercy!” Jillie said, thumping Juliana in the ribs and startling her back to the present. “They’re going to kill Rodion.”

  Juliana rubbed the side of her fist on the thick, lozenge-shaped windowpane. The king’s men were tying each of Rodion’s limbs to the saddlebows of four horses. Stephen had planted himself in front of King Henry and was gesticulating wildly, his hand straying to the dress sword that slapped at his thigh.

  “Mother Mary,” she whispered in desperate, native Russian. “They are going to tear him apart.”

  She ducked out of the window embrasure and nearly tripped on her crimson velvet skirts. “Hurry, Jillie. Unlock the door. We must stop them.”

  Jillie did not hesitate. She tumbled the lock to the tower room door. With Juliana leading the way, they hurtled down the narrow, spiraling staircase and spilled out into the courtyard.

  One look at Stephen’s thunderous expression told Juliana she had made a grave mistake.

  I’ll kill her, Stephen thought as Juliana raced across the gravel path and plunged into a curtsy at the king’s feet. As soon as His Highness decamps, I will beat her raw and then strangle her with my naked hands.

  “Your Majesty, please, I beg you.” Juliana looked up at the king from the lake of velvet skirts that surrounded her. “Have mercy on this man.”

  The king looked awestruck, his mouth a red slash in the middle of his beard. Even the inscrutable Cromwell seemed nonplussed, coughing vigorously into his sleeve.

  “And who are you, my tenderling?” Henry extended his hand and drew her to her feet.

  “Do you not remember, Your Serendipity?” White-faced, Juliana stumbled over her words. “Er, Seren—never mind. We have met before. My name is Juliana Romanov … de Lacey,” she added almost as an afterthought.

  “Good God,” said the king, looking her up and down. “Marriage does agree with you.”

  Through sheer force of will, Stephen stopped himself from leaping between Juliana and King Henry to shield her from the king’s lusty attention. He knew he would be better served if he pretended not to care.

  Not to care. As the king complimented Stephen’s wife, memories hurled Stephen into the past. He saw again a young beauty, dazzled by a king’s favor. A vulnerable woman’s heart and a slumbrous royal passion.

  A slim, pretty hand tucked in the crook of the king’s proffered arm …

  No. Stephen nearly spoke aloud, but he choked back his protest. Henry was like a child with a toy: he coveted what his neighbor possessed, then lost interest when he won the object for himself. If he had the faintest suspicion that Stephen was afflicted with a secret desire for his gypsy wife, Juliana would be no safer than a rose in a windstorm.

  Henry glared at Stephen. “The sweat, was it, Wimberleigh?”

  “It’s a miracle! She’s recovered, praise be to God!” From the corner of his eye, Stephen saw Kit jump up hastily, Nance brushing at his breeches and doublet.

  Cromwell murmured in the king’s ear. Henry grinned like a wolf—no humor, all hunger. “Very clever, Wimberleigh. Very clever indeed.”

  Stephen despised the verbal games of which Henry was so fond. He yearned for the days of his grandsire, when disputes were settled by force of arms and a man earned his own worth. He endured that penetrating royal stare, waiting and watching for the king’s next move and silently cursing his wi
fe.

  The fool. Why couldn’t she have trusted him, taking his word that she was better off staying hidden in the tower?

  As she flashed a dazzling smile up at the king, Stephen’s remembrances pounced on him again—a beautiful smile, a sidelong look …

  Well, why not? he thought furiously. Why wouldn’t she harbor a passion for the king? She would not be the first to crave the benefits of becoming mistress to the most powerful ruler in Christendom.

  And, God knew, Stephen had given her precious little reason to be content at Lynacre.

  “Your husband told us you were indisposed,” Henry said.

  “She was,” Stephen said harshly, taking her by the shoulder. “You’d best return to your chambers before you suffer a relapse.”

  She put her wrist to her brow and swayed. “Lord Wimberleigh worries too much. I had a touch of the ague, that is all.”

  Cromwell and Henry exchanged a glance. She did not give them a chance to challenge her. “Surely, Your Serenity,” she said, “you will take pity on my weakened state and grant a very small request.”

  A royal eyebrow lifted. “And what might that be, my lady?”

  She gestured at Rodion, still struggling between the horses while Jillie Egan rolled up her sleeves, no doubt preparing to do battle with the men-at-arms.

  “Sire, let that man go free,” Juliana pleaded.

  The king’s men burst into a chorus of protests. But Henry smiled, his expression an echo of the sincere young prince he had once been. “You plead so sweetly. Who is he to so great a lady?”

  Juliana stepped back, clearly stung by the lash of the king’s sarcasm. She clasped her hands together and studied the ground.

  Chuckling, the king turned to Stephen. “Well, Wimberleigh. You’ve managed to dress it up, wash the stink off it. But have you turned it from gypsy to lady?”

  Stephen crossed his arms. “She hasn’t stolen any horses lately.”

  “I am proud to be Rom,” Juliana blurted out. “Rodion belongs to the tribe that took me in when I was homeless. For that, I beg you to let him go free.” She glanced at Jillie, who was turning a deeper shade of red by the minute.

  “Besides,” Juliana added with surprising good humor, “he is well-liked by my maid, and she never harmed a soul.”

  The king stroked his beard, then pointed a fat, beringed finger at the gutted carcass slung on a pole. “What of the deer he poached? Surely you understand its value. Not even my esteemed warden, Lord Wimberleigh, is allowed to hunt deer without a special license.”

  Juliana looked at Stephen. What a world of emotion he saw in her beautiful face: pleading, regret, and a deep, steady pride. Without taking her eyes off him, she said, “Majesty, my lord husband will compensate you for the deer.”

  “A pretty speech,” said Henry, while all present held a collective breath. “Well, Wimberleigh? You cannot marry this thief, as well. What will you give me to free the gypsy?”

  Jaws dropped all around. Stephen turned himself to stone to keep from throttling his wife. First she proved him a liar when he had only lied to protect her. Then she humbled herself for Rodion—her gypsy lover, for all Stephen knew—when she should have known damned well he would not have allowed the poor sod to be yanked apart. Now she expected him to offer a fortune to save the gypsy’s worthless skin.

  And yet there was something in the way she was looking at him, something hypnotic, startling. Her spell drew his will from him and compelled him to say, “My steward will give you a hundred crowns, sire.”

  Gasps filled the air. That was ten times what the deer was worth.

  “Done!” exclaimed the king, obviously delighted with Stephen, with Juliana, and with his own craftiness. “Let the Egyptian go, and make him leave my presence. Later, I expect the gypsies to give me reason to tolerate their proximity.”

  “They are great entertainers, Your Grace,” Juliana said quickly.

  He patted his girth, his eyes fixed upon her. “We’ll sup on roast venison tonight,” he said, “and I’ll help myself to something sweeter for after.”

  Seated at King Henry’s left side, Juliana watched in apprehension as he got steadily and determinedly drunk. Stephen sat on Henry’s other side and stared straight ahead, drinking just as steadily but staying determinedly sober.

  The hall teemed with the king’s courtiers and retainers, all feasting at hastily set up tables. Their ringing laughter echoed off the magnificent woodwork of the ceiling beams. Iron coronas of candles hung from the rafters, joining with the roaring hearth fire to illuminate the great chamber. Above the dais, musicians played in a gallery.

  For perhaps the hundredth time, Juliana stole a glance at her husband. She told herself Stephen was the same man who had held her in his arms and kissed her so ardently just this afternoon. She could not believe it. Only hours later, he was as cold and remote as the Russian steppes in the dead of winter.

  And why shouldn’t he be? she asked herself. He had whisked her to the tower room and asked her to stay hidden.

  Now, as she felt the king’s thick-fingered hand close around her knee, she knew why.

  She stood abruptly, almost oversetting her narrow-backed chair. “Your Highness,” she said as courteously as she could. “I would very much like to dance.”

  Stephen let out a snort of humorless laughter. Apparently he had convinced himself that she was throwing herself at the king. Laughter erupted, seemingly from the depths of the king’s belly. “I want you to dance, my little tartlet. Alas, my bad leg plagues me.” He jerked his head toward Stephen. “Dance with your husband, and I shall watch.”

  The prospect set her heart to thumping until she felt the pulsebeat in her temples. Stephen blinked, took an idle sip of wine and said softly, “I have better things to do.”

  A flush rose in her cheeks, heated by the stares of the occupants of the hall. As nonchalantly as she could, she turned in the direction of Jonathan Youngblood. But the kindly man was facing away, deep in conversation with Thomas Cromwell. Perhaps Kit … but the youth had slipped away as was his wont these days, no doubt to spy on the gypsies.

  She stood helpless, furious and pitiful as a jilted maid. As she was trying to determine the most graceful way to return to her seat, a young man took her hand and bowed over it.

  “Algernon!” she said.

  His merry eyes smiled into hers. “The pavane is far and away my favorite. It would be an honor to partner you.”

  Juliana tried not to show her relief as she dropped her hand into his. She felt the eyes of both Stephen and the king on her. “Thank you, my dear lord of Havelock,” she said as they stepped out onto the rush-strewn floor.

  “The pleasure is mine,” he said gallantly, lifting her hand and beginning the stately stroll around the perimeter of the hall. Then he ruined the gallantly by leaning over and adding, “I trow it was tempting to watch the drama play itself out. What would you have done had I not intervened, Juliana?”

  She sniffed. “Believe me, my lord, I have faced graver humiliation before.”

  Havelock shook his curls and loosed a jolly laugh. “Do you know how delighted I am that Stephen has married such a singular woman? Our rustic life was so tiresome until you and your Egyptian friends came along.”

  Juliana seized her chance. “Tiresome?” She emphasized her accent to show her disbelief. “That is the last thing I expected to hear about Lord Wimberleigh’s first wife.”

  To her astonishment, Algernon blushed. And stammered when he replied, “The lady Margaret was far from tiresome. But she’s been gone a long time.”

  “Seven years,” Juliana said.

  Algernon lifted one eyebrow. “He speaks to you of Meg?”

  “Seldom,” she said, careful to betray nothing to the inveterate gossip. But Stephen’s moods and his silences spoke loudly of his love for the young woman, of his obsession with her still.

  The pavane ended and she turned to thank Algernon. She frowned when she spied the ornament he wore, an oval
suspended from a black ribbon around his neck.

  “What is this, Algernon?” she asked, touching the smooth limning.

  “A bauble, no more,” he said. To Juliana’s amusement, he blushed.

  “It is a portrait of you.”

  “Allow me a bit of vanity.” He tugged at the ribbon, but she held it fast.

  She turned over the limning and saw the artist’s name written in letters so tiny they must have been drawn with a single hair. N. Hilary. It was the same artist who had done the limnings of Stephen’s first wife and children.

  He sniffed and pushed the ornament down into his shirt. “I had it done last year.”

  She frowned. Last year? But Stephen had lost his son long before that. Had the artist painted the child from a description? It seemed strange to Juliana. Everything about Stephen seemed strange to her.

  Just as she was about to return to her seat, Algernon took hold of her brooch. She wore it fastened on her bodice, the bloodred ruby and creamy pearls bright against the emerald velvet.

  “Tit for tat, Jules, dear,” he said. “I showed you mine, now you—” He broke off, astonished as the brooch came apart in his hand.

  “God’s death!” he whispered. Moving more quickly than she ever would have credited him for, he yanked her into the shadow of a window alcove.

  “Give me that,” Juliana said.

  He held the dagger high out of her reach. The jewels caught the light from the coronas. “Not for a third ball,” he said, frowning in rapt concentration at the blade.

  “Algernon, please!” She hopped up and down, snatching at the dagger.

  “Do you know the penalty for coming within a yard of the king with a concealed weapon?”

  “It is probably something disgusting. Dismemberment? Amputation? A cossack could take lessons from you Englishmen.”

  He brought the dagger close to his face, angling it toward the light, and stared at the Romanov motto for so long that Juliana could have sworn he was reading it. Ridiculous, she told herself. She had not met a man in the whole of England who recognized Cyrillic characters. Certainly not a fool who thrived on gossip.

  “Give it back,” she snapped. “It is a family heirloom, not a weapon. If I’m arrested and minced into a pie, it will be your fault.”