At the King's Command

by Susan Wiggs

  And in the bed, sound asleep and oblivious to Stephen’s wild grief, lay a beautiful, golden-haired child.

  In a flash, Juliana remembered the limnings she had discovered in her husband’s room. She had found portraits of two children, half-grown, though Stephen had sworn one died at birth.

  In the moments since she had entered the room, she had forgotten to move. To breathe. Her mind filled with the image before her: Stephen, her magnificent husband who was always so full of swaggering confidence, hunched like a defeated man over this sleeping angel of a child.

  Juliana finally found her voice. “S-Stephen?”

  In one swift motion he stood and turned, his face stark with shock, wet with tears, ravaged with grief. And deep in his eyes burned a violent fire of pure hatred.

  “Get out,” he said, his voice deadly yet low, for even in his state of grief he seemed mindful of the sleeping child. “Get out, Juliana, before I kill you.”

  Stephen had never made a more sincere threat in his life, and he knew his intent was evident in his voice, in his smarting eyes. And so he waited for Juliana to flee for her life. Just as everyone else fled from his wrath.

  Instead, she remained standing inside the door. Her small figure caught the light from the long golden flame of the taper. She wore a net coif, but strands of her hair escaped it, making a frame of sable curls for her pale face. And she looked at him, truly looked at him in that unique and unsettling way she had, taking him apart by inches, probing deep, seeing all the way into his soul.

  Finally she moved. She did not flee, but glanced down at the small knife in her hand. “I shall not be needing this after all,” she said, half to herself, and put the blade back into the jeweled sheath pinned to her bodice.

  She took a step toward him.

  “By all that I have, Juliana,” he said, “I mean that. I command you to leave. I want you to forget about this place. I want you out of my house, Juliana. Out of my life. Forever.”

  She winced, and he felt a twinge of regret. He was not by nature a cruel man, but a moment of pain was preferable to inviting this ravishing stranger into his heart.

  “I will not leave,” she said. “Not yet, at least.” Then she did the unthinkable. She went and sank to the floor beside the bed, her skirts pooling around her.

  “Stay away from him!” Stephen hissed through his teeth.

  She did not even look up. Her low-lidded gaze was fixed on the child. “What is your son’s name?”

  Shaken, Stephen looked at his beautiful child. His beautiful, dying child.

  “His name is Oliver, and if you don’t get away from him, I’ll remove you by the scruff of the neck.”

  She brushed her fingers over the little lad’s brow, the gesture so sweetly maternal that Stephen’s throat filled with fresh sorrow. Meg had never even held him in her arms. The golden head stirred a little.

  “Remove me?” Juliana murmured. “A moment ago you were going to kill me. We are making progress, my lord.”

  “Damn it.” He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to her feet. “I do not permit anyone to touch him.”

  She jerked away from him, and defiance blazed in her eyes. “This child is feverish, Stephen.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that, you meddlesome bitch? He’s feverish nearly every night, damn your eyes—”

  “Stephen,” she whispered, “you are hurting me.”

  He glanced down at his hands. His strong fingers dug deep into the flesh of her upper arms. With an effort of will and a sigh of self-loathing, he released her.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said wearily.

  “I had a right to come here. I am your wife, and I grew tired of your disappearances each night.” A tiny smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Believe me, Oliver is the last person I expected to find with you.”

  He remembered her drawn knife. “Just what did you suppose?”

  “Another woman. A mistress.”

  He almost laughed. “Would you have used the dagger on me, or on her?”

  “You will never know, my lord.” She gazed down, misty-eyed, at Oliver. The lad stirred, coughing softly and then turning on his side and tucking his hand up under his chin.

  How thin and frail he was, thought Stephen with a lurch of his stomach. He thought of the robust village children with their bright eyes and muddy bare feet. Even the poorest tinker’s child outweighed Oliver.

  Before Stephen could stop her, Juliana bent and pressed a kiss on Oliver’s brow. Her lips lingered there, and for a moment she squeezed her eyes shut and caught her breath.

  Then, serene and in control, she picked up the candle in its holder. “Come below, my lord. I wish to talk to you.”

  Stephen told himself to grab the candle and send her on her way. But he kept seeing the look on her face when she had kissed Oliver. The tightly clenched eyes, the expression of heartfelt concern. In that moment, she had conquered something inside him, some fearful part of him that for years had not even let him speak of Oliver.

  His mind was ablaze with wonder: Juliana had found out about Oliver, and the world had not come to an end.

  “What is that herb I smell?” she asked. “It was very strong in his hair.”

  “Borage,” said Stephen. He moved like the walking wounded, mindlessly following the light in her hand. “It is supposed to correct the imbalance of black bile and yellow bile.”

  They reached the hall. Juliana set down the candle and faced him. The amber light imbued her features with a diffuse glow, flickering like a caress of fire across her high, proud cheekbones and the dainty wisps of hair brushing her neck. “So you have consulted a physician.”

  “Of course.”

  “And is your son getting better?”

  Stephen did not speak for a moment. He merely stared at Juliana, who stood only inches away, her face soft with a compassion so deep and real that his knees nearly gave way. Then, without thinking, he caught her against him. God, how exquisite she felt, how warm and vibrant. Somehow, she gave him the strength to speak the truth.

  “Juliana,” he whispered into her hair, “my son is dying. It is only a matter of time.”

  He heard her breath snag in her throat. Then she pulled back and raised herself on tiptoe. Her kiss was soft and brief, a glimmer of healing warmth against his dry mouth. “Are you certain?”

  Stephen nodded. “My first son, Dickon, had the same affliction. Most doctors and astrologers agree that the disease is an asthmatic fever of the lungs. Eventually Oliver will suffocate, as Dickon did.” The cold, unemotional words belied the raw soreness of grief in Stephen’s throat. “Dickon died in my arms. I could not slay that dragon for him. No matter how much I loved him, no matter how many prayers I said or candles I lit or doctors I consulted, I could not save him.”

  “Ah, Stephen.” She touched his cheek. “You take too much upon yourself. Why do you keep Oliver’s existence a secret? Why do you let everyone believe he died at birth?”

  “To protect him,” Stephen said fiercely. “My first son was summoned to court to serve as a page. Half a year later, he was dead. The rigors of court life drained the last of his strength.”

  “And you fear Oliver will suffer the same fate.”

  “Aye.”

  “Then you did a wise thing.”

  “No, I fear I did a very foolish thing.”

  Dropping her hand, she picked up a wooden whirligig from a shelf on the wall. He had made it for Oliver’s fifth name day. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, watching the wooden blades spin.

  “I’m not certain. Somehow, King Henry knows about Oliver.” Bitterness twisted Stephen’s mouth into a parody of a smile. “Haven’t you figured it out by now, Baroness? The threat to summon Oliver to court is the ax hanging over my head. It is the reason I married you.”

  She dropped the whirligig with a clatter. “You mean the king is using that poor child as a threat against you?”

  “Compassion is one of His Maje
sty’s lesser virtues.”

  She sank to a cushioned stool. In the wavering light of the candle, her hands trembled. Faintly from above came the sound of Oliver coughing. Stephen’s shoulders burned with helpless tension. Then the coughing subsided.

  Juliana raised her troubled eyes to him. “You should have told me.”

  He let out a bark of mirthless laughter. “ ’Twould have served nothing.”

  “I would have understood.” She reached for his hands and clasped them in hers, drawing him down to the stool next to her. “I want to understand.”

  He blew out a long, quavering breath. “After Dickon died, my wife perished giving birth to Oliver, our second son. From the very first breath he took, I heard the wheezing, and I knew he had the same affliction as his brother. It seemed simpler to allow everyone to believe Oliver had died at birth. That is the report that went out by mistake and I took no pains to correct it.”

  “Who else knows of him?”

  “Only my most trusted retainers. Old Nance Harbutt and her daughter Kristine, who lives here. She is an herbalist, convent trained and exceedingly learned. She oversees the place and tends to Oliver’s needs.”

  Juliana glanced at the stairway. “She never leaves him?”

  “No. Nor does she ever want to. She took her vows to heart, and the king’s break with Rome offended her deeply. Here, she can dedicate herself to study and prayer.”

  “How did the king find out your son lives?”

  Propping his elbow on his knee, Stephen winnowed his fingers into his hair. “Though Nance and Kristine and Dr. Strong swear they have kept their counsel, one of them must have let the secret slip.”

  “Where is Kristine now?”

  “She’s gone to fetch Dr. Strong from Chippenham. The fever worries me.”

  As if prompted by the words, Oliver began to cough. Stephen grabbed the candle to light his way. His ears were sharply attuned to the sound, and he was on his feet and climbing the stairs in an instant. Don’t think. Don’t feel.

  He heard the whisper of skirts on the stair behind him. “Stay back,” he ordered gruffly. “Seeing a stranger will only upset him if he wakes.”

  Resentment flared in her eyes but she nodded curtly and hung back in the shadows outside Oliver’s chamber.

  “Hush, son,” he whispered to the small figure on the bed. He lit a flame beneath the brazier. As he hurried to the cupboard, he saw from the corner of his eye that Oliver had lifted his hand, reaching for him.

  “Lie still,” Stephen muttered, even as some invisible part of him leaped toward the boy. Dr. Strong advised that Oliver not be touched or squeezed in any way, save when he was being bled. Resisting his own instinct to hold Oliver close until the spell passed, Stephen went to work. The routine was painfully familiar—chamomile, chopped and dried, ground arrowroot, and white vinegar that sizzled when it touched the charing bowl over the brazier flame. Though the smoke was noxious, the doctor swore it was beneficial to the lungs.

  Thankfully, a full-blown attack did not ensue. Oliver stopped coughing and never fully awakened, although for a second, his eyes opened and he stared dully at his father. Stephen’s heart twisted with helpless love, but he made no move toward the lad, not wishing to excite him. Best to keep his feelings in check. His emotions numb. His hopes ruthlessly suppressed.

  Oliver shut his eyes. He was twitchy and restless, but within a few minutes he was asleep. Stephen snatched up the candle and left the room.

  Juliana waited, her fist pressed to her mouth and her eyes shining with tears. She looked as if her heart were breaking.

  “You should have gone back to the house,” Stephen said, leading the way down the stairs. “I’ll thank you to leave now. Do not come here again.”

  She followed him meekly enough, but stopped in the hall. “When I was ill as a child, my nurse always pulled me into her lap and told me stories. I thought it strange that you did not touch your son, kiss him and tell him it will be all right.”

  “That, dear Baroness, would be a lie,” Stephen said furiously. He went to the door.

  Her face flushed. “I thought you left each night to visit a mistress.” She glanced at the stairwell. The strong herbal smell was beginning to pervade the house. “I had no idea, Stephen.”

  “You were not meant to.”

  “But if I had known, I would not have thought ill of you.”

  Suddenly the urge to hold her was so great that it scared him. It would be too easy to bring Juliana into his world, into his heart. Too easy to repeat the mistakes of the past—to sell his soul to a beautiful woman.

  With an effort of will, he pointedly yanked the door open. “Juliana,” he said, injecting a lethal dose of venom into his voice, “by now you should know that I care not at all what you think of me.”

  * * *

  A son. Stephen had a living son. The thought had kept pace with Juliana as she made her way back through the maze to the manor. She took the idea to bed with her and awoke with the image of the fair-haired child in her mind.

  She knew what she must do. “I will be away most of the day, Jillie.”

  The burly maid looped Juliana’s long hair into a net coif. “Working at the weaving house again, milady?”

  “No.” Juliana stepped into a pair of velvet slippers. “Perhaps your father could use your help in the dye shop.”

  “I trow he could. Since the weaving’s begun, he’s got work aplenty.”

  “Go, then. I’ll have no need of you today.” Juliana waited until Jillie left, then took out a large tapestry bag. In it she placed a lute, a book and a gypsy tambourine.

  Then, when she felt certain no one was observing her, she went down through the long garden, out the gate and through the break in the hedge.

  A sense of resolve quickened her steps. For years her sole purpose had been to avenge the murder of her family. That had been a dark and furious goal, one that sapped her strength and sometimes frightened her.

  This was different. It was a task lit by the brightness of compassion and warmed by the radiance of hope. Her heart felt feather light as she and Pavlo made their way through the tangled maze and emerged into the sun-filled garden of the cottage.

  By day it was even more fantastical than it had been in moonlight. The creatures seemed ready to spring to life as they stood in eternal vigil by the fountain.

  She pushed open the door to the cottage and stepped into the room where she had left Stephen. There were the stools where they had held hands, where he had finally told her of his past, his voice shaking, his eyes haunted by darkness.

  It was here that she had faced the truth: she had fallen deeply in love with her handsome, tormented husband.

  And it was here that he had cut her off, so swiftly and so brutally.

  I care not at all what you think of me.

  She winced at the memory. Then she cast it aside, squared her shoulders and prepared to climb the stairs.

  A crash sounded from above, making her jump.

  “I won’t eat it!” came a shrill, angry voice. “I will not, and you can’t make me!”

  A feminine murmur came in reply.

  “You dare not!” said the child. “If you do, I’ll—I’ll tell my father you pinched me.”

  Juliana mounted the steps and went to Oliver’s chamber. The door was ajar. Oliver sat up in bed, the color high in his cheeks as he glared mutinously at the young, black-clad woman. Beside the bed lay the pieces of a crockery bowl, and grayish gruel oozed over the floorboards.

  “Master Oliver, please—”

  “Go and find him something else to break his fast,” Juliana suggested, stepping into the room.

  The woman gasped. The boy stared.

  “I am Juliana de Lacey,” she said calmly. “His lordship’s wife. And you must be—”

  “Dame Kristine Harbutt,” the woman said, her mouth agape as she bumbled through a curtsy. Like so many of the West Country women, she was strong of limb and broad of feature. She wore her
rich chestnut hair scraped back into a plain coif, and not a single ornament graced her drab costume save the heavy rosary beads at her waist. As she recovered from her surprise, keen intelligence shone in her face.

  “Nance told me about you,” Juliana said. “It is an honor to meet you. You may leave us now.”

  “But—but his lordship said—”

  “I am his wife, and I wish to acquaint myself with my stepson. Please.”

  Pale and shaken, Dame Kristine picked up the broken bits of pottery and hurried out.

  Juliana set down her bag and paused for a moment, looking about the room. Everywhere she saw gifts from Stephen—little clockwork animals, a chess table, stacks and stacks of precious books. A copybook lay open on a table; Oliver had been practicing his penmanship. At the end of the page the careful penstrokes had dissolved into a frustrated scrawl, and the lad had written Papa is a pysse-potte.

  Trying to look pleasant yet unamused, she crossed the room and pressed at the window latch to open it.

  “I’m not to breathe the outdoor air,” said a glum, suspicious voice behind her.

  “Nonsense,” Juliana said over her shoulder, pounding at the edge with the heels of her hands. The limewash crumbled and finally gave way, and the dormer window swung open. “It is a glorious day, and the herbs and flowers in the garden smell delicious.”

  She went to the bed and sat on the edge, smiling into the boy’s startled face. “So,” she said lightly, “you are Oliver de Lacey.”

  He seemed leery of answering her. He continued to stare, and she was amazed at how very like his father he was. Though Oliver’s hair was several shades lighter than Stephen’s, it seemed to be of the same texture, thick and wavy as a lion’s mane. Equally reminiscent of Stephen were the chiseled shape of the face, the serious mouth. And the strange, cold, moonstone eyes.

  Oh, God, she thought, he has his father’s eyes.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said at last. He had a raspy, little-boy voice, both wary and petulant.

  “Of course I am supposed to be here.” Juliana took care not to smile, for she knew at once that this was a proud, serious little boy who would not care to be patronized. “I am your stepmother.”