By His Majesty's Grace (18 page)

Before he was missed, David meant. It left little time for contemplation. But what was the point of that when all was said and done? He could not ignore the possibility that Mademoiselle Juliette had need of his aid.

“It seems you could not have found me in a more appropriate place,” he said in dry approval as he reached to thread his fingers through Shadow’s forelock.

“We are going, then.”

“I am going. You will remain.” He hesitated. “You said nothing of this to Lady Isabel?”

“Nay, never.”

David sounded insulted, as if his loyalty had been impugned. Or else it was the refusal of his services as a squire that set him on his high horse. “I prefer that you stay by my lady,” Rand said, placing a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “I cannot protect two gentlewomen at once.”

David sighed, then squared his shoulders. “As it pleases you, sir.”

“Excellent,” he said, infusing his voice with assurance. But in truth he was not pleased at all.

Where was Rand?

Isabel had not seen him since their exchange earlier in the day. The time since had dragged past with leaden slowness. She had pricked her finger so many times while embroidering that she feared the wall cloth under construction by the queen’s ladies would forever bear the stains of her blood. The tunes played on lute and clavichord for their pleasure as they worked had seemed off-key and insipid. She dined with Cate as a companion of the plate and goblet, but had expected to sup with her husband. That he had not appeared as evening drew in was worrisome, raising suspicions that he stayed away because she refused to be bedded at his convenience.

When the long, mist-laden twilight turned slowly to darkness and still he had not appeared, she began to fret in earnest. Where could he be? On the king’s order, he must not leave the palace and its environs. He was not in the great hall, not in the tiltyard, not in any of the taverns snug within its commodious walls, for she had sent David to look. He did not attend upon Henry, for everyone knew the king had been meeting with his council for most of the day. What did that leave?

Rand had gone to another woman, that was surely it. She did not doubt any number of them would take delight in stroking his injured pride along with his manly parts, but how could he go from her bed to theirs so blithely? How could he strip naked and caress some other female with the same hands, lips and tongue he had used to stall her heart and turn her bones as liquid as melted wax?

She did not care, of course she did not, she told herself as she paced up and down their chamber. It was insulting, all the same, that he made no distinction. She had thought she was something more than a body to be used for his pleasure. She was his wife, after all.

Why did he not return? How long could it take to—what was that word?—
tup
some compliant female? But no, she would not think of that. It could take all night, as she had learned to her amazement. It was not a question of stamina but of dedication to the task, of deliberately tended responses and infinite caring allied to insatiable need. Rand had been so…

She wouldn’t think of that, she would not.

David, being Rand’s shadow, must surely be aware of any adulterous affair. That such a thing could be kept from him was unlikely even if his master wished it. Add the lad’s extra attentiveness to her in the past few hours, as if to make up for lack of her husband, and the thing became painfully clear.

The palace had grown quiet for the night, though revelry could still be heard from the town taverns and chanting from the abbey, when Isabel sent for David. Gwynne opened the chamber door to him, then busied herself brushing a velvet bodice and changing its lacings. Isabel stood at the open window, staring out into the thunderous night, until she was certain her features were composed. She turned then to face Rand’s squire.

“Where is he?”

“Milady?”

“Don’t act the simpleton with me. I know well you were searching for him this afternoon. Did you find him?”

“Aye, milady.”

“Where?”

He told her but added no details, nothing that might allow her to guess what her husband did now or what he intended. He set his jaw when he finished speaking, his blue gaze focused somewhere over her head.

“Did he leave the palace?”

Uneasiness brushed the lad’s features, as if he realized any answer he might make would plunge him into deeper trouble. “I can’t say, milady.”

“Can’t or won’t? Never mind. Why did you not go with him?”

“He said I was to stay and look after you.”

“Did he now?” She clenched her teeth, trying to think how to dislodge information held in loyalty’s grip. “Did he venture out to see another woman?”

“Milady…”

She pinned him with a stern gaze. “Did he?”

He folded his lips in a firm line, saying nothing. It was as damning as any admission.

She had not thought it of Rand, not really. She realized that now as pain swept in, surrounding her heart. She had thought him steadfast and true, chivalrous, loyal, kind—the very reflection of all the knightly virtues. It was devastating to be proven wrong.

She had been naive. It was a mistake she’d not make again.

Her voice a rasp in her throat, she asked finally, “Have you any idea when he will return?”

“Nay, milady.”

“You may go,” she said, lifting her chin, turning away before Rand’s squire could see the tears that stung her eyes, threatening to spill over her lashes.

“He had to go, I swear it,” David said softly, “but he will come back, milady. He will come back.”

Yes, of course he would. He would come back and she would be waiting. He would slide into their bed and reach for her, pretending all was as it had been before. But he would be wrong.

He would be so very wrong.

13

P
urple-gray banks of clouds covered the evening sky, and the air had a damp feel to it. The gathering darkness was not as apparent while Rand and his guide wound their way through Westminster town where candles and lamps had been lighted. The glow from taverns or houses that leaned so close together that neighbors could whisper secrets across the narrow streets was sufficient for their needs. By the time they reached the open fields where straggling trails led off the road to scattered villages, however, it had grown dark indeed.

Smells of ripe grain and damp earth drifted on the night wind. A fine mist blew into their faces, though it never quite turned to rain. Dogs barked and a cow lowed now and then as they skirted the looming, humpback shapes of thatched cottages. They rode through the forest—land of some nobleman’s domain where the rustling, sighing leafiness closed above them like a tunnel. An owl called, a fox barked and then all was quiet again but for the thud of their horses’ hooves. That sound echoed back from the encroaching trees with a muffled echo like the distant sound of some mounted troop. It was an hour, maybe more, before they left the woodland behind. Afterward, the road stretched ahead, empty, deep trodden between hedgerows, absorbing the shadows and their hoofbeats into its soft mud.

The guide did not speak. Rand thought him the usual taciturn countryman at first, with his grunts and abrupt gestures. He soon realized his mistake. The man, of early middle age, square built and lumpish in his hooded tunic of weed-dyed wool and rough-cobbled shoes, had no tongue.

A man’s tongue could be cut out for talking treason, for spreading false rumors, slandering his neighbor or at the whim of his master. The tragedy of it was the same, regardless. Rand felt for his companion, but could not allow it to make a difference. What was important was that the villein knew where he was going even if he could not give the direction.

He did not say where that was, of course. Nor could he explain why he appeared reluctant to start out when Rand had first come upon him in a low tavern. He had jumped up, waving his hands and making sounds of protest. It seemed he had not expected Rand before midnight when everyone slept, felt they should wait until that hour to depart.

Rand lacked the patience. Mademoiselle Juliette had asked that he come without delay. He would not sit kicking his heels while danger closed in upon her. Besides, the sooner he and the guide were off, the sooner he could return.

He was troubled in mind over going back on his pledge to Henry. It was not something he undertook lightly; his word was sacred, not to be broken. But neither could he fail someone who depended on him. If he had to do penance to king or priest for riding to a lady’s aid, then so be it.

Leaving the palace had been no simple thing. As he could hardly mount Shadow and ride out the gate, some subterfuge had been necessary. He had loosened one of Shadow’s shoes as an excuse for taking him from the stable. David had then led the gray outside the palace gates, grumbling every step about a master too high-handed to wait for the palace blacksmith to manage the task.

Once the lad was away, Rand made for his chamber where he changed into his darkest, most sturdy clothing. He thought to see Isabel, perhaps to steal a kiss to see him on his way, but she was still occupied in the solar. Disgruntled, he left again, making his way through the maze of rooms to a rear servant’s stair. He skimmed down this, slipped through the kitchens and along an alleyway to the kitchen garden. With the aid of an ancient apple tree, he scaled the stone wall that surrounded it. When he dropped down on the far side, he was loose in the streets of Westminster town.

A number of servants spied him as he made his escape. Most of them being female, he had winked and smiled in hope they would think his intentions were dictated by the needs of his crotch. With luck, he would be back before he was missed so they would not be called upon to recount his movements.

David and Shadow had awaited him at the stable attached to the tavern and inn where Rand was to meet the guide. The two of them found the man deep in a tankard of ale. Rand had arranged with David to return to the tavern stable in the early-morning hours, in case of need. Then he had forced an immediate departure.

Riding through the darkness now, Rand was as jumpy as a hart in rutting season. He cursed the lack of moonlight while squinting against the dampness and wishing for a torch to light their way. Now and then, he drew up, staring back along the distance they had come while he listened for pursuit.

Nothing.

That did not mean he could let down his guard.

He had no idea how far they had to travel and could not extract the information from the man who slumped in the saddle beside him. The longer he was away, the more certain it was he would be missed. David would not raise the alarm if he did not return before daylight, but he feared Isabel might. His dependence was on his squire to prevent it, though he had no idea how the lad might go about it.

It was a little after midnight, he thought, when they turned off the main road, meandered some distance along an overgrown pathway and emerged before a stone gatehouse. It belonged to a darkened building that loomed above it, appearing to be a smallish castle so ancient it was falling into ruin. It had a stone curtain wall set on mounded earth and a drawbridge that spanned a dry moat. No one challenged them as they rode forward, no trumpets sounded and no one came out to greet them.

Their hoofbeats rattled across the loose planks of the drawbridge, and they ducked under a snaggletooth portcullis that seemed as likely to impale a friend as a foe. The fitful blaze of a single torch lighted their way into the bailey with its rough stone walls. Centering it was a great, battlemented pile of stone two stories high, with arrow slits instead of windows. Towers with conical roofs anchored each of its front corners and stone steps mounted to a center entrance. No attempt to soften its nature as a defensive bastion had been made, no gesture toward making it a comfortable place to reside. It was a fortress to hold against all comers, or one to imprison those its master wanted to keep.

The torch that shed orange-and-yellow light over the bailey was fixed in a ringed holder beside the solid entrance, gleaming on the wide door’s bronze nail heads and the sunken places on the tall stone steps where thousands of booted feet had trod. The place dated at least three hundred years back, possibly more. It might have served as a refuge at some time during the wars of the past thirty years, but the village it had no doubt protected seemed to have vanished, wiped out by plague or famine, so the castle no longer had a purpose.

Rand pulled up so sharply inside the bailey that Shadow reared back on his haunches. Settling the stallion with a firm hand, he stared around him. Nothing moved—not a sentry, not a single man-at-arms or bond servant. No pennon flapped to show who owned the keep, nor was there sight or sound of an animal of any kind.

His heart rattled against the walls of his chest. His every sense narrowed to near-painful alertness.

It struck him then, the question that had lain half-formed at the back of his mind from the moment he had opened Mademoiselle Juliette’s message. If she was a prisoner, and had been one since leaving Braesford weeks ago, how had she known to direct her plea to him at Westminster?

“Where is everyone?” he asked, turning in his saddle to seek counsel of his guide.

The man was no longer behind him. He had stopped just inside the gate. Swinging his mount now, he galloped back under the portcullis with his elbows flapping against his sides. The hooves of his horse pounded on the drawbridge, then thudded away into the dark.

Calm settled over Rand. He sat staring around him for a moment more, noting the crumbling state of the keep’s defenses, the sagging wood of a postern gate set in the rear wall, the litter of old leaves, moldering straw and ancient horse droppings that had settled against the bottom of the steps. Dismounting, he passed the bridle over the gray’s head and led him to a horse trough half-full of rainwater. He left him there as he eased cautiously up to the heavy entrance and knocked on its door.

No one came.

The place was far too quiet, as if no one had been there in years. Regardless, the torch that burned near his right shoulder, dropping soot and rosin down the wall, flared like a signal. Rand’s every instinct shouted that this was a trap. His best course, he knew with absolute certainty, would be to take to his heels in imitation of his guide.

He couldn’t do it. If any chance existed that Mademoiselle Juliette and her babe were imprisoned in this dismal ruin, then he could not desert her.

The door shuddered as he pounded upon it again. With the last blow, it bounced out of its frame, then creaked open a few inches. Rand hesitated with his fist still upraised. Giving it a quick push, he slid inside and moved at once to put his back against the near wall.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He was in a vestibule of sorts, he saw, one devoid of any kind of welcome other than a stone bench formed in one wall. Doors opened on three sides, the larger being straight ahead. He moved forward, his footsteps grating in the dirt that lay over the stone floor.

The torchlight behind him shed a muted, wavering glow through the open doorway, casting his shadow into the cavernous blackness of what appeared to be the keep’s great hall. Just inside, he paused again to listen while he scanned the hollow, echoing void.

Not a sound, at least nothing human.

He eased past the area from which opened the pantry, buttery and kitchen passage. Here, too, all was silent. No men-at-arms cast dice by the light of a tallow candle, no manservant snored on any of the trestle tables left set for a last dinner, no hunting dogs scratched fleas among the rushes. All he saw was a nervous mouse that skittered away, pausing only once to look for crumbs in a cracked wood platter. Nothing existed here except emptiness and the smells of stale ashes, moldering rushes, rancid grease and mice droppings.

Or was there something more, after all, some metallic, too-human odor? Rand’s stomach muscles contracted as his mind registered, belatedly, the scent of fresh blood. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it down again, swearing in a savage whisper.

Retreating back to the entrance, he snatched down the torch from its holder. With it gripped in a hard fist, he retraced his footsteps.

Juliette d’Amboise lay crumpled at the foot of the stairs that led to the private chamber of the keep’s master directly behind the great hall dais. Her eyes were glazed with death. Her head lay at an odd angle, but she had not fallen by accident, had not died of a broken neck or head injury. Her throat had been cut, sliced so viciously that her head was half severed from her body.

Her hair seemed alive, shining with coppery highlights in the flaring light of the torch he held over her, while her skin took on its rosy glow. Rand, remembering her laughter in the early summer, her courage as she gave birth and her joy and pride in being a mother, felt his throat close. He coughed, almost choking on rage and raw, unexpected grief. She had been so young, so cheerful in her awkward, uncertain situation, and had lived so briefly, so briefly.

The torchlight glistened also on the ends of her tresses where they trailed in a pool of blood. And though her skin still retained a faint trace of warmth, it made no difference. He had come too late.

He had come too late.

That was, he was too late unless this had been a fool’s errand from the start. Had her plea for aid been real, smuggled out of the keep in some fashion? Or had it been penned at the behest of whoever had killed her? These were questions that might never be answered.

Rand could do nothing for the lady. He might yet aid the child she had borne.

Rising, stepping over the body, he searched the chamber behind the dais. He found nothing, but did not despair. With grim endurance and rigorous method, he ranged through the remaining rooms of the keep, first those on the lower floor, then those above. No chamber, no chest, no armory built into the stone walls—no smallest nook or cranny—was left undisturbed. He found divers small items of clothing fit for a babe, found a crude oaken cradle of the kind used by villeins in their cottages, but no tender suckling babe called Madeleine.

It was as he crossed an upper passage, which had an arrow slit at its far end, that he glimpsed the flare of light. Reaching the slit in a few long steps, he held his torch low, standing to one side as he peered through.

A troop of men rode toward the keep, their heads bobbing in unison with the torches they carried. The flames gave a lurid, sulfurous glow to the dust that hung on their heels. They were armored, for metal cuirasses shone copper and gold with reflected light. Their lances and pikes bristled above them like the fur of some great beast.

The ancient keep was a trap indeed, and it had been well baited.

Rand shoved away from the arrow slit, slung himself from the passage and down the shallow stone stairs. Leaping into the great hall, he strode for the entrance.

He was almost there when he heard a mewling cry like that of a half-drowned kitten. Rushes skidded and shattered beneath his feet as he plunged to a halt. Lifting his torch high, he stared around.

A pale shape beneath a trestle table leaped to his sight. In an instant, he was on his knees beside it, dragging it from under the planks held up by rickety supports. It was a small, hard board, broader at the top than at the bottom and wrapped by yard upon yard of white linen. Attached to it was a weak and unhappy babe.

There was no time to lose. Drawing his knife from its sheath, he slashed through the linen bindings, dragging them from around the child, casting them aside. Juliette must have been carrying the baby when she was caught from behind, he thought as he worked. The swaddling board had protected little Madeleine from real injury, but she might have been stunned into silence by the jarring fall. Either she had been overlooked by the killer or left behind to die if no one answered her mother’s plea.