The new queen of England, younger by several years than Elayne herself, seemed to have no such difficulties. As her splendidly dressed ladies pinched and smoothed her royal train into place, she moved with confidence under a looming creation the height and breadth of a tympan-drum, encrusted with jewels and topped by a golden crown. But such fashionable elegance earned Queen Anne no love among the chilly English noblewomen. The royal match was not a popular one.
The English complained that the girl and her retinue were too foreign, and too great a drain on the King’s purse. Feeling foreign herself at Windsor, Elayne found it easier to like her young Majesty. She admired the way Anne kept an earnest smile always on her round face, bravely ignoring the poisonous unkindness of her new court as she tried to make acquaintance of the English ladies. She seemed pleased at Elayne’s ventures to speak in her native tongue, though it was speedily plain that the parlance Elayne had learned of Libushe was more suited to a peasant than a lady. When the Queen learned that Elayne was bound for Prague, she had proposed that they make a trade of study—courtly Bohemian for English. To her wonder, Elayne found herself rapidly elevated to one of the Queen’s favorite companions, with a daily invitation to the royal presence-room.
In spite of Anne’s benevolence, Elayne could not be so charitable in her feelings toward all of the girl’s retinue. As the Queen stepped up to her throne, aided by two gentlewomen, Elayne began to wish that she did not command so much of the Bohemian tongue after all, did she have to listen one more day to the tiny lady who spoke too shrill, her voice often rising above the rest as she talked excitedly of her betrothal to such a handsome English knight. Only the trumpets announcing the King’s approach could seem to silence the Lady Katherine Rienne on the matter of her coming wedding.
The fanfare seemed tremendous to herald a mere boy. Elayne had seen King Richard before; he came often to visit his queen, running in to embrace her with all the fondness of an adolescent youth for his sister, but this day was a formal visitation. Everyone fell to their knees as he entered, a slender figure flanked on one side by his mother and on the other by his uncle, the Duke of Lancaster. He looked too slight and young to bear the burden of the ermine robe that lay across his shoulders. But he met his queen with a happy smile, and the two of them clasped hands like bosom friends, heads bent together in instant concert.
Elayne had not expected to see the Duke of Lancaster arrive with the King. Quick fear seized her, that she might see Raymond among his entourage. She bowed her knee in a deep courtesy like the rest, straining her neck to balance the headpiece. As the courtiers arranged themselves, she rose and walked backward in her turn—a skill that she had never mastered and mismanaged badly, becoming so entangled in her train that a page had to hold her elbow while she freed herself.
In a mortified flurry she found herself pushed out by the others coming after her, pressed bodily into the waiting throng in the anteroom. Just outside the Queen’s chamber, attendants from three noble households and Anne’s Bohemian retinue were packed together like gaudy sheep. The rumble of voices echoed to the heavy rafter-beams. She glanced over brightly clad heads and shoulders, looking about the crowded chamber with a growing sense of dread.
Lancaster’s men wore the red-and-blue of England quartered with France; but so also did the attendants of the King’s mother and the King himself. The room was full of like costumes. The English colors merged with the purples, silvers, and blacks of Anne’s retinue, creating a flow of bright confusion. Elayne felt hot and flustered with the press of people and alarm at the chance that Raymond might be near.
She did not believe that he was. She thought she would know instantly if he were within a league of her—her heart would know of its own accord. More and more people seemed to be pushing into the room. The air was warm and stifling. Even above the clamor she could hear Lady Katherine’s voice in a giggling complaint that she could not see her own feet.
Elayne had never been in such a close and crowded quarter. A rising unease gripped her throat, a powerful sensation that she must get herself free. She began to edge toward the entry to the great hall, holding her hand to her headdress in an attempt to avoid entangling herself with the elaborate peaks and horns of the other ladies.
It was a vain effort. She found herself caught in the netting of an Englishwoman’s steeple-crown. With forced smiles, they worked to free themselves of one another and gave stiff, upright courtesies to avoid repeating the predicament.
As she straightened, still trying to free her train from beneath someone’s slipper, she saw Raymond staring at her from not half a rod distant.
She lifted her chin, turning quickly away. It was evident from his expression that he was astonished to perceive her there. To her consternation, her passage toward the door had vanished. Her hem was still caught, no matter how she tugged. She could not move a step in the throng.
She tried to slow her breathing, feeling suffocated in the press. The need to flee Raymond and the entrapment of the crowd made her feel light-headed. She closed her eyes and then opened them wide at the touch of a hand upon her shoulder. She glanced back. He stood next to her, impossibly close.
"Elayne!" He bent to her ear. As she pulled back, his fingers closed on her arm. "Elayne, for Christ’s pity, why didn’t you tell me?"
She yanked her elbow free. "Do not speak to me," she said.
He let go, but a courtier forcing his way through the mass of people pressed her back against his chest. She arched upright, trying to shun touching him.
"You should have told me," he hissed in her ear. "I would have done all differently."
"God’s mercy, Raymond—what could I tell you?" she exclaimed between her teeth.
"Who you are," he said, his voice very low by her ear. She could feel his breath on her skin. "That you are Lancaster’s ward!"
She cast a glance back in spite of herself. "Lancaster’s ward! Don’t be foolish." She struggled to turn clear, her nose at a level with his chin. On all sides people pressed against her, shoving her inexorably against him. The din of talk made a tremendous roar in her ears. She began breathing in short gasps, trying to think beyond the growing sensation of being crushed to death. There was a strange horror welling up inside her; she was shaking, wishing desperately for clear air.
He frowned down at her, his mouth a set line. "Come." He gave the lady standing on her hem a brisk elbow in the ribs. The woman turned with a sharp curse, freeing Elayne’s skirt so suddenly that she tumbled hard against him. He began to move, his arm at her waist, using his leverage to breach an opening toward the door. Raymond was the last person she wished to converse with, but it was his strength that maneuvered them toward escape from the throng. She did not think she could endure this congested place one more moment.
They reached the entry to the anteroom. The guards allowed them out, pikes lifted and then lowered quickly to prevent access to any of the hopeful petitioners pressing forward from the great hall. Raymond guided her swiftly among them, sidestepping the King’s subjects of every class and description. He pushed her into a low doorway and up around the first curve of a spiral stairwell.
Elayne stopped there, overwhelmed with faintness and relief. She turned around, slumping her shoulder against the wall, feeling the blessed coolness of the stone under her flushed cheek. She drank in fresh air that flowed down from the tower above.
"Grant mercy," she said, taking a deep breath. Raymond’s hands were at her waist. She leaned against him, grateful for the support. "Depardeu—I was near to falling in a trance in there."
His hands tightened. She opened her eyes. He looked up at her, his features in a shadow that hid his expression. Suddenly his arms slid around her, and he pressed his face into her breasts. "Elayne," he whispered. "Oh, God forgive me, I have missed you."
She stiffened. The muffling blanket seemed to lift from her mind. She tried to push him away. "Raymond...don’t."
He released her with a faint sound. He took her hand
s between his palms, staring down at them. "I have been a very fool," he said hoarsely.
Her heart beat harder. In her wildest dream she had not hoped he would ever say so. But she pulled her hands away. "That is done with now."
He grimaced as if she had struck him. He looked up, his face tormented, and it was all she could command to prevent herself from leaning down and pressing her lips to his.
"Aye," he said painfully. "I did not know, Elayne. You should not have led me on so, to believe it was ever possible."
"Led you on!" she cried softly. "And what of me? Now that you have your banns and your widow for comfort!"
He scowled and looked away. "Don’t tease me for that, I beg you. What was I to do?"
"You might have stood by me," she exclaimed, "instead of disavowing me as meanly as you could!"
"Disavow you?" he said. "Nay, I never could. I never would, but my lord commanded me to abandon my suit."
"Commanded you? But your letter—you said me to make no presumptions upon you."
"Oh, that letter," he said. "I was angry. I meant it not, what a scribe wrote for me—you know that!"
"Raymond," she breathed. "Do not make a fool of me."
"Make a fool of you!" he snapped. "I’m the one befooled, Elayne! I’m the one fool enough to plunge in love with a country chit, only to be told she’s royal blood! I’m the one who couldn’t buy her hand with all the gold I could beg or borrow in my sorry lifetime. I’m the one ordered to marry a woman twice my years and shrill as a peahen, and do it before St. George’s Day!"
"What are you speaking of?" Elayne whispered. "I believe you have run mad!"
"Mad enough," he growled, "when my liege told me who you were in truth."
"Who I am?" she echoed, baffled.
"Aye, you need not deny it now. I know all. I submitted to him for permission to wed, and gave his clerk your name and dwelling, and thought no more of it but to await his blessing and then go to the Countess Melanthe. I suppose you meant it to be a good jape, to let me find out that way. And shamed I was, Elayne, to stand before my lord Lancaster and be told I was too lowborn to think of you. He was kind enough, God assoil him, but he made it plain. You are his ward, and he has higher designs for you."
"His ward! What nonsense!" she exclaimed. "My ward belongs to the countess!"
"So I thought. But the clerk read it to me himself. Lady Elena Rosafina of Monteverde, that is you, is it not?"
She nodded. "Yea, my font name it is."
"Wella, then you are upon the rolls of widows and orphans in the king’s gift, and my lord John is appointed your guardian."
"No," she said. She drew in a breath. "That cannot be so. I know nothing of this."
"It is so."
"But—Lady Melanthe—she is my godmother. I always thought..." Her voice trailed away. "Raymond!"
He shrugged. "It makes no difference. You are a princess. I’m beneath you."
"A princess! Have you lost your very reason?"
"A princess of Monteverde." His jaw grew taut. "I believe there is some prince of the Italian blood he has in mind for you."
"No," she said faintly, bewildered.
He looked up at her. "You didn’t know?" he said, his voice wistful. "Truly?"
"I don’t believe it. There is a great mistake."
He smiled weakly. "That is something, at least," he said. "I thought you had done it all to mock me."
She sank down onto the stone step. "I don’t believe it."
"Ask your godmother. She must know."
Elayne stared at him dazedly. "I don’t believe it." She put her fist to her mouth. "Raymond, this cannot happen. It is a mistake. We must do something."
He looked hard into her eyes. "I have no means to change who I am, nor you."
"Do you have to marry her?" Elayne cried.
"I have no choice!"
"I can’t stand it!" she whimpered. "I can’t bear it."
He put his hand over hers. "We can pray to God for Providence to aid us. More than that...Elayne...fare you well." He turned.
"Raymond! Wait!"
She stood up, reaching for him, but he was already descended the curve of the stair and gone.
* * *
"I did not conceal her from His Majesty," Lady Melanthe said in a calm voice. Her tone was soft, but she sat very still in a carved armchair as she faced the Duke of Lancaster across a table laid with wine and sweetmeats. "She is not King Richard’s subject by blood or birth. Therefore her wardship was never eligible to be counted among the orphans in his gift."
Lord John glanced at Elayne huddled on her stool. "She greatly resembles you, my dear countess," he said, equally languid. "It is quite astonishing."
Lady Melanthe nodded. "So I am told, my lord. Though we are relations only of the fifth degree, through my mother’s descent."
The duke smiled slightly. He was a striking man, graying at the temples, with powerful shoulders and finely molded hands. His scarlet sleeve swept the table-carpet as he gestured toward a folded document that dangled many seals. He looked toward Melanthe. "I still hold your quitclaim to Monteverde, Princess— after all these years."
"It is yours, sir, and welcome," Lady Melanthe said.
"Mine?" He raised his brows. "But I have no income from it, nor sovereignty in your Italian princedom." He gave an amused snort. "Alas, I cannot even get a loan from the celebrated treasury."
"I did what I could to aid you," the countess said. "I regret that it was of no advantage to my lord’s grace."
"Ergo," the duke said, "it might be reasoned that you yet owe me."
"For what debt, my lord?" Melanthe asked instantly. She did not move, and yet Elayne thought her godmother grew taut as an unseen bowstring.
"Melanthe..." He said her name softly, like a mild reproof.
The countess smiled. "Come, do not deny me, Your Grace," she said lightly. "I’m old and vain enough to wish to hear that you regret me still!"
"Not so very aged, madam." He grinned, a sudden boyishness on his hard features. "I vow you could make a lovesick calf of me again, were we both free."
Elayne realized with amazement that they seemed to be speaking of some past connection between them. She felt a twinge of disapproval on behalf of Lord Ruadrik.
"We might have done much together, my lady," the duke said, his smile fading. "I have regretted it, from time to time."
"Nay, sir. You are made King of Castile and Leon by your Duchess Constanza, may God bless and keep her. What could I have ever brought you to match that?"
"Ha. Now you mock me," he said. "I have no more dominion in Spain than in your Monteverde. But you and I—and our lands united here..." He shrugged, then narrowed his eyes. "You do owe me a certain debt, my lady, for your love-match with my green knight."
"I do not see it," she said. "You dismissed Lord Ruadrik from your service into mine. None could foretell that God willed I would be wedded to him by and by."
He made a sound of discontent. "I dismissed him, aye. And nothing did go well for us after that cursed tourney at Bordeaux. By hap I should call him back to our service, and make some use of him to recover our losses in France."
Lady Melanthe said nothing. The duke looked at her long.
"Would that please you, my lady—to have your husband lead some archers into Aquitaine?"
"Lord Ruadrik is at the behest of His Majesty," she said, her eyes meeting his steadily.
"Do not forget it. You may argue that this girl is not our loyal subject, but do not fail to remember that you now are."
"Certainly," she said, unruffled.
He sat back, drumming his fist upon the table. He turned his look suddenly upon Elayne. "Have you a sweet, child." He pushed the platter of sugared nuts and tarts in her direction. She glanced toward Melanthe, who nodded. Elayne took a handful of lozenges and looked dumbly down at them.
"I don’t think they have been poisoned," the duke said dryly.
She ate several, forcing them do
wn against the anxiety in her throat.
Lancaster took up a parchment, narrowing his eyes and holding it out at arm’s length to read it. "You aver, then, that the King has no claim to her guardianship," he said.
"We do," Lady Melanthe said. "I am her guardian, appointed by my late husband the Prince Ligurio of Monteverde, God assoil him."
"Alas, His Majesty does not concur. He asserts that she has been given succor and safe harbor in England these many years since forsaking Monteverde, and therefore claims her as his rightful subject. By his good judgment, His Majesty has been pleased to affix responsibility for her lands and person upon myself until such time as she may be legally wed."
Elayne bit her lip, but her godmother did not flinch. "His Majesty may be interested to discover that Lady Elena has no lands nor income but what I intend to bestow upon her at my chosen hour," Melanthe said. "Will he persevere in his opinion when he learns of this?"
"He will," Lancaster said. He bowed his head toward Elayne. "He has a great affection and concern for the last princess of Monteverde, now that her location has been revealed to him."
"How much did you pay him?" Melanthe asked frostily.
He folded the parchment and smoothed the seals. "His Majesty would not entrust the young lady’s welfare to me for less than three thousand crowns. Of course her merit renders it but a trifling sum. Arrangements for her marriage and return to her rightful throne have been well in hand since Shrovetide." He smiled and nodded at Elayne. "We will do favorably by you, child, I promise."
* * *
From Lady Melanthe’s solar, Elayne watched the maidens of Windsor returning with their armloads of sweet blossoms and sheaves of greenery. For every May Day morning that she could recall, Elayne had woken before dawn and roused her little niece Maria. They had put on their new kirtles of linen and their summer gowns, and joined Sir Guy and Cara and the whole of the castle folk at Savernake, all decked in their fairest garments, to go into the meadows and green woods at sunrise to gather flowers.
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