By His Majesty's Grace (25 page)

“You are quite sure of it? You know this in spite of being shut away here since Mademoiselle Juliette was killed?”

“As sure as any man may be.”

She paced away from him, turned with a swing of linen skirts and retraced her steps to halt in front of him. “Few places are truly safe. Any person may weaken, in spite of everything, if the bribe is large enough.”

“And some have no need for riches,” he said with certainty.

“What if you are wrong?”

If he was wrong, then the child would become the pawn she was intended to be. Those who had possessed her would achieve their ends. Either France would force Henry to stand aside while it annexed former English territories, or the Yorkists would create a scandal that, like the deaths of the princes in the Tower, might doom the Tudor reign before it had well begun.

It was not impossible, of course, that whoever was behind it intended to accomplish both aims. Or that an extra one could be to see Isabel widowed and a new master installed at Braesford Hall.

“If I am wrong,” he said deliberately, “it will make little difference. Henry either will or will not acquire new allies, new alliances. He will or will not keep his throne. You will either be the mother of my heir, therefore empowered to hold Braesford in our child’s name, or else a childless widow available to be married again to Henry’s advantage, with or without Braesford as your dowry. Your life will go on and mine…”

“What?” she demanded, searching his face.

“Mine will not.”

“For the love of heaven, Rand, do not be such a martyr!” she cried, clenching her fists as she moved closer to him, raising them toward him while anger flashed like green fire in her eyes. “Does your motto of Undaunted mean nothing?”

“It means everything.”

“Why will you not fight? Do you not care to live? Have you nothing worth living for?”

Rage, trapped deep inside him for weeks, sprang free to meet hers. He reached for her, grasping her arms and pulling her against him so she was melded to him from breast to knees. “You,” he answered, the word so harsh it scraped his throat. “You are the reason I would live.”

He kissed her as if he meant to devour her, plundering her sweetness, licking the tender, quilted inner surface of her mouth, the polished edges of her teeth, capturing her tongue. He enclosed her in the circle of his arms and still could not get close enough. Swinging with her, he put her back to the wall next to the door so anyone peering through the iron grille could see nothing. Pressing close, he moved into the soft juncture of her thighs, glorying in the feel of her against him, in the sensation of her breasts flattened upon the hard planes of his chest.

She did not resist, but met him in a fury of her own, sliding her arms around his neck, clutching his hair in her fingers. He shuddered with the scrape of her nails on his neck and his scalp, groaned aloud as he felt her arch against him and move sinuously in her own need.

She was temptation and beguilement, comfort and every promise of surcease he had ever known. Half-crazed by the feel and the scent of her when he had feared never to touch her again, he had no thought of restraint. Nothing, nothing mattered except to have her, take her, fill her, become lost in her, never again to be found.

He framed her breasts with his hands, teasing the nipples while he licked and sucked the fragile skin of her neck, took her earlobe between his teeth until she gave a small cry and turned her mouth to his once more.

He smoothed one palm downward and around, kneading the fullness of her hips, grinding her slowly against his aching body, lifting her to the tips of her toes for a better fit. Blind, deaf, uncaring of where they were or who was near, he gathered folds of her skirt in his hand, grasping for more, dragging it up until he reached the hem. Burrowing underneath, he skimmed the warm, firm flesh of her thigh, found her softness.

God, she was wet and hot, so hot, burning tenderly into the palm of his hand as he cupped her. He used the heel of his hand and wrist to stoke her desire, felt the tight bud of it harden against his pulse that throbbed there. She gasped on a tried sound of need, shivering in his hold. He loosened it a fraction, enough to bend his head and tongue the neckline of her gown, find the strutted nipple that pushed up beneath the fabric. And with a sudden thrust, he pressed a long finger home.

She clenched upon it in abrupt, hot reception, while internal muscles caressed, invited in liquid surrender. He needed nothing more. Raising his doublet, ripping aside points, he pushed down his braies to free himself. Lifting first one of her legs and then the other, he draped them over his arms while bracing her against the wall, and then he drove into her.

It was perfect entrapment. She surrounded him, absorbed him, took him deeper than he had ever gone, deeper than he had dreamed. Mindless with the delirium of it, he ground against her, plumbing her velvet softness. His skin felt on fire. It was too tight, too full, too sensitive to her every movement, her every contraction.

She sobbed against his neck, a small sound that carried his name. That was all it took.

He possessed her with furious strokes, each harder and deeper than the last. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, wanted to go on forever until they were one flesh once more, one body, one soul. He felt her hands upon him, grasping, holding, while her breath, her small gasps and cries, grew ever louder. He took her mouth again, mocking his movements with his tongue, drinking her sweet desperation, until abruptly she keeled forward, pressing her forehead into his shoulder with a guttural moan.

He exploded with the force of an overcharged harquebus, shuddering as his life, his hope and every dream pumped into her. He held her, chest heaving, heart thundering against his ribs, head pounding with the sudden return of blood, while tears burned the backs of his eyes.

“You,” he whispered against her hair, “you are the reason I would live. You are also the reason I would die. Undaunted.”

17

I
t was said by those who should know that a woman only conceived if she took pleasure in the act of procreation. Isabel was not convinced. Couplings witnessed in and around the barnyard, swift mountings protested by she-animals, gave little weight to the idea. So it had been as well with an incident at Graydon, where a serving woman had been set upon by drunken louts and left near death but still bore a child to one of her attackers.

Yet her pleasure had been fierce during the time spent with Rand. She had whisker burns on her face to show for it, also discolored splotches like bruises on her neck and wrinkles across the front of her gown.

Who could have guessed how much she would miss his touch or how easily he could prove it. His strength, his sure caress, had melted her will like a tallow candle in the sun. The ferocious concentration he brought to what he was doing, the powerful glide of his muscles as he moved against her, were reminders of his terrible prowess on the tournament field. He had taken her against the wall of his Tower chamber with the same determination to prevail.

And what incredible abandonment she had known at being held there like some servant girl coupling with a randy man-at-arms. Her face burned to think of how open she had been to him, how uncaring of anything except the fierce, hot joining. She had surged against his force, taking all of him she could get, wanting more, needing more still.

She could not help thinking she might be with child. A part of her viewed the possibility with dread; a woman with child was always at a disadvantage, restricted even more than usual in where she could go and what she could do, forced to have a care in all things for the life growing inside her. Regardless, she hugged the thought to her as tenderly as she might a newborn itself.

Rand had her wedding sleeve as his token still. He had tried to hide it, but she had seen. He kept it by him, one of a handful of personal items brought to relieve the tedium of imprisonment. It pleased her in some way she could not quite grasp.

As for what he had said as they made love, she would not think of it.

She had not asked his meaning. She knew full well that he meant her to understand he preferred to die rather than that she should continue with what she was doing. To hear a fuller explanation would have been more painful than having the simple thought lodged in her mind. Though how it could possibly hurt more, she could not imagine.

To leave him had been a wrenching agony. It was only made bearable by the knowledge that causing a scene might make it impossible for her to return.

David waited for her at the end of the passage that led away from Rand’s prison chamber. Isabel pulled the hood of her lightweight cloak closer around her face as she caught sight of the lad. Though she had worn it to protect her gown against street offal and discourage unwanted attention, she was glad of the concealment it provided. She regretted nothing of the moments just past, but neither did she care to display the results to all and sundry.

David glanced at her and looked away again as he fell into step beside her. They walked on for several yards before he spoke. “What had he to say?”

The question was gruff. Rousing from her introspection, Isabel glanced at the young man beside her. He had grown taller and broader in the passing days, gaining a greater air of confidence. Time and responsibility had that affect, she thought, and worry.

“Much as you predicted. I am to tend to my embroidery and leave him to die.”

“But you won’t.”

He spoke as if there was no doubt. In all truth, how could there be? “I shall not.”

“Have you any idea of what you will do now?”

“I must seek a person or persons who cannot be bribed.”

His blue gaze was keen. “Is it a riddle?”

“You could say so.”

“But you know the answer?”

She walked on for several steps, her mind moving in swift thought on that question. As she came to a simple, inescapable conclusion, she halted.

“David?”

“Milady?” He stopped beside her, his expression watchful as he glanced around them then looked back to her.

“Who holds Sir Rand’s confidence beyond all others? Who would he trust with what he values most?”

“You, milady,” he answered without hesitation.

She flushed a little, but shook her head. “You, I think. And that being so, tell me, where were you reared before Rand came upon you on the streets? Where were you brought as a foundling?”

“A convent, milady.”

“Of which there are any number hereabouts.”

“Aye.”

“Aye,” she repeated, her voice soft, “so which convent?”

He paled and uncertainty darkened his eyes as he gazed down at her. In the distance could be heard the moan and mutter of prisoners and the unlovely calls of ravens. A draft blowing down the corridor where they stood stirred his hair, lifted her veil. Finally, he sighed. Inclining his head in acquiescence, he told her what she wanted to know.

David left her at the gates of the palace. Isabel was pensive as she made her way toward her chamber, trying to decide what must be done with the knowledge she’d gained. She well knew her first instinct, but not what was best. So deep were her thoughts that she failed to notice Gwynne approaching until she was almost upon her.

“Milady, I came to warn you,” she called. “A visitor awaits in your chamber. Viscount Henley declares he will not leave without a word with you.” Hectic color flared in the serving woman’s face. She breathed in huffing rhythm that seemed as much from annoyance as from hurrying.

“Does he indeed?” Such a visit was highly irregular. The only reason her stepbrother’s great oaf of a friend dared breach her privacy was because Rand was not able to call him to account.

“I told him you would not see him, milady, but he insisted. If you care to stay away until he leaves, I will come tell you when it’s safe to return. Or I can summon one of the king’s guards.”

Isabel was in no mood to endure a commotion or to be kept from her chamber and its amenities. “Did he say what was so important?”

“No, milady.”

“Mayhap it’s to do with Graydon.” It was also possible his purpose might have bearing on the inquiry she and Lady Margaret were pursuing. Though she had said nothing of it to her stepbrother or his friend, she was sure the activity had not escaped their notice. Indeed, the entire court, or what was left of it in Henry’s absence, must be aware of it.

“And mayhap it’s not,” Gwynne said darkly.

“We had better go and see, I think,” Isabel said, and walked on with militant firmness in her step.

“Lady Isabel,” the viscount said in a bass rumble as he rose from a stool near the chamber’s single window to sketch a bow. “Forgive the intrusion, I beg.”

“Certainly, if you bring no ill news.” Gwynne reached to untie Isabel’s cloak and take it from her, but she hardly noticed in her preoccupation with her visitor. That was until she glanced down and noticed again the wrinkles that marred the linen of her gown. The light in the room was dim, however, due to the leaden skies that hovered beyond the open window. It was possible her visitor would not notice. “Have you, perhaps, come from Graydon? I’ve not seen him in this age.”

“Nay, milady, though he is well enough, up and about his affairs as usual.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” she said, though with a mental grimace for what manner of affairs her stepbrother might have in hand. “And you, sir? What affair brings you here?”

“A request, you might say.”

“Of what nature, if you please?”

He shifted in apparent discomfort, putting a foot forward, securing his hat closer under one arm. “I would that you might speak to the king about my suit when the time comes.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Your suit.”

“For your hand. I have wanted you to wife for long years, milady, and would not lose you again.”

“I have a husband,” she said in sharp rebuke.

“But not for long.”

“You can’t know that!”

A stubborn expression closed over the viscount’s battered features. “It’s plain enough, I think.”

She would not argue with him. It would serve no real purpose, and might seem to admit doubt. “Even should I be in need of another groom, you must know I have little say in the matter.”

“Nay, but ye have the king’s favor and that of his lady mother, the Duchess of Richmond and Derby. Only see how you are consulted by Lady Margaret, a mark of favor indeed.”

Something in his tone made Isabel think, suddenly, that the viscount might be curious about the association. He had not asked directly, but could be hoping to hear how it came about. Perversely, she was not inclined to tell him. “It means nothing.”

“Yet tongues clack, saying the two of you hold your private councils as Henry does in his Star Chamber. With your sisters beside you, betimes, it becomes a womanish version of the same.”

“I vow it’s no such thing. Lady Margaret seeks to aid her son by taking the burden of some minor judgments from him. You will grant, surely, that she has that right.”

“As she put him on the throne, I daresay she can claim any right she chooses,” he answered, his deep voice as dry as tomb dust.

Isabel’s smile was brief. “Just so. But nothing we have discussed in such councils has bearing on my future. Now if you will excuse me, I have had a tiring morning and would like to rest.”

He scowled, making no more move to go than if he had been attached by roots growing into the stone. “Have you discovered aught? In these councils, I mean?”

“Such as?” It might prove instructive, she thought, to know what he expected of them.

“Why, who killed the Frenchwoman, if ’twas not your husband, and what became of her babe. Is that not what ye want to know?”

Did he mock her? She had doubted he was capable of it. His stolid face showed no glimmer of it now. “On these things,” she said carefully, “we have made little progress, to be sure.”

“You being so close to the business, could be you’ve heard when Braesford will come before the King’s Court for his crime?”

She was forced to swallow before she could reply. “Certainly not until after Henry’s heir is born and he returns to Westminster.”

“Nay, but I suppose you’ll know how to answer when they ask where your husband was the night the king’s whore died, and how he appeared when you saw him later.”

Isabel turned sharply away to hide her shock. Her gaze met that of her serving woman for an instant of silent communication. As she kept nothing from Gwynne, both knew the viscount’s words were amazingly like the instructions in the message she had received. Was it a coincidence, or did he have knowledge of it? If the last, was Graydon involved as his close companion? Had her stepbrother learned discretion, at last, that he thought to persuade her to do what he wanted instead of bullying her into it?

Yes, and what did either man know of Mademoiselle Juliette’s death? Were they behind that terrible business, or only attempting to take advantage of it?

It made no difference. She could not be cajoled or forced into helping convict Rand with lies. “I know exactly what to say,” she answered with perfect truth.

“Ah, well. Then I expect all will turn out as God intends,” Viscount Henley said, sweeping the floor with his hat as he bowed. “Until next we meet, Lady Isabel.”

He left her then, striding away out the door as Gwynne sprang to hold it open for him. Moving with the crude swagger of some hulking animal, he clapped his hat on his head and stamped along the corridor. He did not look back.

Isabel stood unmoving as a multitude of thoughts and images swarmed in her head. Abruptly, she swung around, calling for Gwynne to hurry and bring bathing water so she might change her clothing that still held the Tower’s prison stench in its folds. The king’s mother must know of Henley’s and Graydon’s attempt to ensure that Rand hanged. It could make a difference, a dangerous difference.

Hurrying along the corridors toward the king’s apartments a short time later, she frowned at the tips of her shoes as they flickered from under her skirt with her every step. Really, what was she to make of the viscount? He had always been there like a stool or settle before the fire, seldom noticed but made use of at need. Somehow she had seen him only as the bumbling friend of her stepbrother. Now, she wondered. He might be craftier than he looked. His awkwardness could be mere discomfort in her presence, or even artifice.

Voices raised in babbling commotion made her look up. All thought of Henley was wiped from her mind as Lady Margaret turned a corner and swept toward her. She was dressed for travel in a serviceable gown of fine black wool covered by a dust cloak of the same that was embroidered in silver thread. Behind her came a gaggle of ladies and serving women, as well as her confessor, her steward and her personal guards. She threw orders over her shoulder as she walked, pulling on embroidered leather gloves at the same time.

“Ah, there you are, Lady Isabel,” the king’s mother said as she caught sight of her. “I had begun to think I would not see you before my departure.”

“You are leaving Westminster?” she asked in trepidation as, receiving a regal gesture, she rose from her curtsy and turned to walk beside Lady Margaret. Though it had been clear from the beginning that she could not be long away from the queen consort’s side, the plan had been for her to remain at the palace at least another week.

“News has come from Winchester. Elizabeth’s physicians expect her to go into labor at any moment. She may be delivering as we speak.”

The baby was coming early, by all accounting. Though August had turned into September while they held their councils, it was still no more than eight months since the king had wed Elizabeth of York. “You must go, of course. I trust there has been no accident, no difficulty?”

“None in the least.”