At the King's Command

by Susan Wiggs

  Still she ignored Stephen, her loving gaze fixed on Oliver’s red, contorted face, her gentle hands stroking and stroking, echoing the slow and subtle rhythm of the gypsy song.

  Stephen had no notion what to do. He could not very well grab the boy away from her—but neither could he sit by and watch her suffocate his son with her good intentions.

  “Please,” he whispered. “Juliana—” The words stopped in his throat, for something was happening with Oliver. An abatement of the strained wheezing. A calmness in the silver-blue eyes. A gentling in his chest.

  After only moments of suffering, the lad was breathing easier. Normally he took hours to recover. It was a miracle. A bloody miracle.

  “Son?” Stephen whispered. He reached out, caught himself, and dropped his hand. “Oliver? Are you better?”

  Oliver expelled a grateful breath of air. “Better now, Papa.” He lay relaxed, looking curiously wise and adult.

  “Juliana.” Stephen spoke past a thickness in his throat. “That attack ended so quickly.” The whirling fury of his emotions nearly overwhelmed him. In the span of an hour, he had gone from painful grief to cautious, shining joy.

  “Holding him close seems to calm him. The gypsy herb works far better than leeching and cupping. I know it is contrary to the doctor’s orders, but Dame Kristine has noticed it, too.”

  Oliver stood. He wobbled slightly. Stephen reached out to grab him, but Juliana held his hand back.

  “Look what I can do, Papa!” The lad went to the middle of the camp where the children had already resumed their game. Appalled, Stephen started after him.

  “No, wait,” Juliana said. “He knows he must not play too hard after an attack. Trust him, Stephen.”

  “You’ve done this before.” His anger was alive and writhing, choking him. How dare she? “How long have you been playing me for a fool, Juliana?”

  “Do you mean, how long have I been taking care of my stepson?” she shot back. “From the very day I discovered that you keep the poor child hidden like a dirty little secret. I have banished all those nasty quack-salver remedies and all that terrible food. I have held your son close, laughed with him and wept with him.”

  “And come close to killing him,” Stephen said.

  She flinched as if he had jabbed her with a pin. “Have I?” she demanded. “Look at him, Stephen. Look at him for a moment and tell me he is close to death.”

  Oliver had joined in the game in a modified fashion. Rather than running for the ball, he flung out an arm and shouted something. Pavlo streaked amid the running children.

  “What’s that he said?” Stephen asked.

  “Go fetch. I am teaching him Russian.”

  Jesu. She was teaching his son bloody Russian.

  Pavlo dove into the herd of running children. Canine yelps and merry laughter erupted from the brood. Then the dog broke free, returning with the ball to Oliver.

  Oliver laughed with a clear, sweet voice. Lustily. Joyously. As if he had not just survived a life-threatening attack.

  She had done it, Stephen thought in wonder. When doctors and astrologers and alchemists had failed, she had found a way to bring the episode to a fast end. He was not so foolish as to believe Oliver was cured, but she had shown him that a loving touch alone could be more healing than any medicine.

  As Stephen turned to Juliana, he knew his face was naked, knew his heart was in his eyes, knew his smile was ablaze with gratitude and amazement. And before he could stop himself, the words burst forth from the depths of his soul.

  “I love you, Juliana,” he said.

  * * *

  “I hate you, Papa!” Oliver said in his most churlish tone. “You always put everything your way. I want my bed here.” He planted his skinny leg on a sun-flooded spot beside the oriel window of his new bedchamber.

  Stephen gritted his teeth. Bringing Oliver to live at Lynacre Hall was something he had never dared to contemplate. Yet here he stood in the room Juliana had chosen. It was an airy little chamber situated in the upper level of the hall, off the center of the open walkway. His long muzzle between his paws, Pavlo lazed on the floor in a bar of sunlight.

  Juliana had convinced Stephen that this move would help Oliver feel less like an invalid.

  Oliver was doing his best to behave like an infuriating, ungovernable little boy.

  “Now, son,” Stephen said, his voice rusty with repressed impatience, “that’s too close to the window. You’ll catch a chill on cold nights.”

  Oliver thrust out his lower lip. “I like being by the window. I want to be by the window. I hate y—”

  “What an impossible little snot you are being.” Juliana breezed into the room like a breath of spring after a dark winter. She looked particularly ravishing this morning in a gown of blue-flowered damask and a pretty winged coif. At moments like this, Stephen believed she could actually be the princess she claimed, and he realized he did not care one way or the other.

  I love you. Had he really spoken those words to her only the day before?

  Aye, and the jewel-bright feeling came rushing back. Had Oliver not been present, Stephen would have spoken them yet again. He would have swept her up into his arms, twirled her around, and shouted his declaration a hundred times.

  She kissed the top of Oliver’s white-blond head even as she scolded, “Of course you may not have the bed right next to the window, brat.”

  Oliver licked the palm of his hand and smashed down his cowlick. “Why not?”

  She dropped her voice to an ominous note and said something in Romany or Russian; Stephen could not tell which.

  Oliver’s mouth dropped open. “Truly?”

  “Truly. Now, take Pavlo and help Dame Kristine at the garden gate. I just saw her arrive with a barrowload of your toys.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Oliver patted his thigh and spoke in Russian. Pavlo lurched to his feet. The boy and the dog raced from the room and clumped down the stairs.

  Stephen scratched his head. “What did you tell him to make him so agreeable?”

  She laughed. “Something my grandmother Luba told me when I was very small. If a child sleeps too close to a window, a demon will come and snatch his soul out through his nostrils.”

  “Oh, that’s helpful.”

  “It was a bald lie. I knew it when I was small, and Oliver knows it.”

  “Then why did he give in to you?”

  “Because I did not dictate to him nor try to force my will on him. I gave him a reason to agree without losing his pride.”

  Stephen went to the window and pressed the latch. Oliver and Pavlo cavorted near the garden wall while Dame Kristine ordered retainers about.

  “I’ve much to learn about my son,” he said.

  “I do not know all the answers, Stephen.”

  “He says he hates me.”

  “He adores you. Trust me.”

  “We’re awkward together.” He turned from the window. “We don’t … fit.”

  “That takes time. And patience and understanding.” She leaned her cheek against the carved bedpost and looked at him with the world in her eyes.

  I love you. The words sang out from his heart and seemed to hang, still unspoken, between them. It was as if they both saw them written in the air.

  “Juliana, what I said yesterday …”

  “Yes?”

  “It was the wrong time.” Aye, the right words, spoken at the wrong time. “I had no call … I should not have said it.”

  “Why not?” She regarded him placidly, as if she did not care what his answer was.

  He flexed his hands, feeling clumsy with his unwieldy emotions. “I promised you an annulment. Is that what you still want?”

  She bit her lip. “Is it what you want?”

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “We never got a chance to speak in all the excitement over bringing Oliver to live at the hall.”

  Her mouth curved in a smile that did not reach her eyes. “It took you half the night to expla
in to the servants and convince them that I am not a witch who simply conjured Oliver out of thin air.” She pushed away from the bedpost and took a step toward him. “Stephen, what will happen now that everyone knows you have a living son?”

  “You ask that now.” Bitterness flavored his words. “You should have wondered that before announcing Oliver’s presence to the world.”

  “You can still protect him. If he is summoned to court, you can simply refuse.”

  A bark of ill humor escaped him. “Nothing is simple where King Henry and Thomas Cromwell are concerned.”

  “Never mind the king and Cromwell. You and Oliver must learn to get on together.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Everything is simple to you.”

  Shouts came from below. They heard footfalls on the stair and the clicking of Pavlo’s nails.

  Juliana seemed relieved by the interruption. “We will find time to speak of this later. For now, think of your son. The two of you are strangers.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “The gypsies could help, I think.”

  “For the love of God, Juliana, then tell—”

  “Look at this!” Oliver stopped in the doorway. He formed a hoop of his arms and yelled a command. Pavlo leaped through the hoop, knocking the boy to the floor. Stepping over the giggling boy, servants arrived with more of Oliver’s belongings.

  “Later,” Juliana said, and laughter danced in her eyes.

  Stephen could not believe he had agreed to Juliana’s mad plan. Mounting his horse in the stableyard, he felt his stomach churn at the thought of the solemn Romany rite he was about to perform. The gut-deep feeling reminded him of his pagan marriage. Though all his moral instincts and Christian principles clamored a denial, he felt himself being drawn into the mystique of the ceremony.

  As he rode Capria out through the postern gate, he could not escape an onslaught of memories. It was as if each part of the estate now held a memory of her. Of Juliana.

  It wasn’t supposed to be that way. She was his temporary bride. He was supposed to recover from his feelings for her and then be immune forever. He should not be thinking of her at all.

  Yet as he rode along the ridge of a hill, he recalled her first glimpse of Lynacre Hall. He had expected the slack-jawed awe of a beggar for her betters. Instead he had gotten a cool, faintly disdainful acceptance. As if Lynacre were less grand than manors she was accustomed to.

  To the northwest he could just make out the spires of Malmesbury. Only a few short months ago it had been an abandoned abbey crumbling to ruin. Thanks to Juliana’s inspiration, the abbey was now a prosperous weaving factory.

  He passed the copyhold of the widow Shane. The fields were neatly cut and gleaned, awaiting the autumn sowing, thanks to the gypsy laborers. Stephen had no idea how Juliana had wrung the toil from them. Normally they fled from farm labor like demons from red garlic.

  Though it never should have happened, Juliana had become part of Lynacre. The imprint of her accomplishments would last long after she left. Stephen would forever remember the one brilliant summer of the gypsies, a rare time of hope and possibility—when he had dared to love again.

  He tried to banish his thoughts as the gypsy camp came into view, but the panorama only inspired a fresh wave of aching memories.

  He had agreed to the gypsy wedding because he had known the pagan ritual would mean nothing to a Godfearing Christian.

  Instead, it had been a surprise. It had touched him in places he had never explored within himself. He remembered it as if it were yesterday—his veiled bride, unhesitatingly shedding a drop of blood onto a bit of bread. She had danced for him as though he were the only man alive. Something mystical had happened that night. Aye, the ritual had been pagan, but the magic had been real.

  And that, he told himself, riding into the camp, was why he had agreed to the ceremony today. Because he and Oliver desperately needed the magic.

  “Are you ready, Gajo?” asked Laszlo as Stephen dismounted.

  “Aye.” He tossed his reins to a lad. “Should I have brought anything?”

  “Nothing but your own flesh and blood.” Laszlo made a broad showman’s gesture toward the people milling about. “The Rom believe a man must acknowledge his son before the world. It is simple enough to know a child’s mother; there can be little mistaking that. But to identify the father …” Laszlo sent Stephen a sidelong glance. “Ah, that, my friend, is an act of faith.”

  A sudden chill rippled through Stephen’s blood. To identify the father … an act of faith.

  “Gajo?” Laszlo interrupted his thoughts. “You look pale as a ghost.”

  Stephen cleared his throat. “Let’s get on with it. Shall I—”

  He never finished, for as he turned he saw the most amazing sight. Lined up at the edge of the camp were his friends and household retainers. He had not expected them.

  He knew he should feel embarrassed to be seen participating in yet another Romany rite, but instead he grinned and walked over, nodding at Jonathan and Kit and Algernon.

  “I should apologize,” he said to Jonathan.

  Jonathan scratched his head. “Apologize?”

  “I won your sympathy because you thought I was childless. You sent Kit to me for fostering to fill that void in my life.”

  Jonathan’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he gave his son an affectionate cuff on the head. “Mayhap I sent the baggage to you because he gave me a pain in the neck.”

  Stephen smiled, grateful Jonathan was willing to make light of the deception. “I misled you. I am not a liar by nature, and I especially mislike lying to a friend.”

  Jonathan Youngblood blew out his breath, the air lifting the prongs of his moustache. “I could not have asked for better fostering for Kit.” He whacked his son between the shoulder blades. Kit, who had been gawking at the luscious Catriona, choked and came to attention.

  “Isn’t that right, Kit?” his father demanded.

  “Er, yes, sir, whatever you say.”

  With a snort of amused disgust, Jonathan shoved the youth toward Catriona. “You can look but don’t touch. In the eyes of a true gentleman, all females are ladies.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kit stumbled off.

  Stephen released a long sigh of relief. He had feared that Kit would be resentful or jealous upon learning of Oliver.

  “By God’s grace, Wimberleigh,” Jonathan asked, “how the devil have you kept such a secret?”

  “Aye, do tell,” Algernon said eagerly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You have us all agog.”

  “The moment he was born,” Stephen said, “it was clear to me that he bore the same affliction as my first son, Richard.”

  “Dickon—the one who died after serving at court,” Jonathan said gently.

  “Yes.” Stephen closed his eyes as Dickon came back like a flood of sunlight into his arms. He recalled the golden hair, the sun-washed scent, the frail body, the huge eyes far too beautiful to belong to a lad.

  “A lovely boy,” said Algernon. “So like Meg, he was.”

  “I could not let the same fate befall Oliver. And so—God forgive me—when the news went out that the babe had perished with his dam, I took no pains to correct it. Only Nance Harbutt and her daughter Kristine, the midwife, knew the truth. I sent Oliver to be cared for by Kristine. His existence was a secret—or so I thought.”

  “Someone found out?” Jonathan beetled his thick eyebrows.

  Algernon made a strange little eep in his throat, then studied the toe of his boot.

  “King Henry found out,” Stephen said, his voice low with long-held anger. “That was why I was compelled to wed Juliana. If I refused, Henry would have summoned Oliver to court.”

  “Oliver would be a tempting game piece for our king,” Jonathan said. “How did he find out? Surely Nance—”

  “It wasn’t her.” Algernon Basset spoke softly yet firmly.

  With a sick twisting of his gut, Stephen stared at his neighbor. “My God, Algernon.”

&
nbsp; Havelock raised pleading eyes to Stephen. “I’m sorry—”

  “I knew you for a wag tongue.” With all the force of his sudden, hot rage, Stephen smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. “I knew you had ambitions to advance yourself at court, but I had no idea you’d stoop to using sick children as pawns.”

  “I meant no ill, Stephen.” Algernon sounded desperate, his voice shaking with fear and remorse. “I had no idea about Dickon. I truly did not!”

  “How did you learn about Oliver?” Stephen demanded.

  Algernon shuffled his feet. Then he grasped the enameled badge that clasped his cloak at the shoulder and tore the bauble free. “ ’Twas the limning artist. Nicholas Hilary. The same artist remarked that he had also painted his lordship’s sons. Both of them.”

  Stephen remembered. It had been a foolish risk, but the traveling artist did glorious work. He had preserved the images of Meg and Dickon like precious jewels. Several years later the artist had called at Lynacre again. Oliver had been so frail … Stephen had hated himself for thinking it, but if he lost the boy he would have nothing to remember him by.

  “I commissioned him last summer and paid him to keep silent,” he said, glowering at Algernon. “I assume he called at Hockley Hall after he finished here.”

  “I employed him, as well,” said Algernon. “Found he had a taste for fortified wine. And one night he described the lad you had hired him to paint. Said the lad chattered like a magpie all through the sittings. Oliver de Lacey.” Algernon lifted miserable eyes to Stephen. “Your son. God help me, I told Lord Privy Seal that the babe your wife died birthing lives.”

  Jonathan curled his fist into the lace at Algernon’s throat. He gave one tug, and Havelock’s feet nearly left the ground. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone. You had to fly to the king with the rumor. And did it win you an invitation to court like you’d hoped?”

  “No,” Algernon said miserably. “Stephen, if I had known how weak the boy was—”

  “You little puff of froth,” Jonathan burst out. “I ought to show you how a man repays such a disloyalty.”