Rexanne Becnel (24 page)

Her hair was excessively curly, more so than anyone else she’d ever seen. But then, she’d known that. But she now saw that the waist-length curling tendrils sprang from a brow wide and unblemished. Her eyebrows were the same light mahogany color as her hair, but straight with only the faintest arch to them. Thick lashes framed her eyes, which were a clear shade of green. Her mouth was full, and staring at her lips she could not help but remember how sensitive they had been to the caress of Rylan’s lips and tongue.

An unwelcome shiver coiled up from her belly. With a scowl she turned away from the mirrored steel.

“I’m ready,” she muttered, not caring any longer about Marilyn’s artful arrangement of her hair. What need had she to care for her appearance? It was not as if she sought a husband. Quite the contrary. “I’m ready,” she repeated. “But I’d rather wear my own clothing.”

“The queen sent your old tunic and kirtle to the seamstresses. She said they were to find some poor soul in need …”

Joanna did not reply to that. She could not. Somehow everything seemed so final. So decided. She’d not yet had her audience with the king, yet her fate seemed already settled.

Marilyn was silent after that. Joanna knew the other girl’s situation was hardly better than her own: a father was no more likely to solicit his daughter’s opinion than a king. Not when property was involved. But Joanna was not able to accept her fate so easily as Marilyn did. As they walked quietly down the hallway, then across an open yard to a covered portico, Joanna alternated between defiance and pure terror. First her father. Then Rylan Kempe. Now King John held her future at his whim. Neither of the first two men had considered her wishes. She did not hold out much hope that this third one would either.

But this time she at least had one weapon in her meager arsenal. She did not really wish to announce the loss of her purity, and she had decided to do so only if there seemed no other way. But if she must tarnish her reputation in order to protect herself, then so be it. She had fought her father. She had fought Lord Blaecston. If need be she would fight the king himself.

“T
HEY COULD HAVE EASILY
rid me of him. But no, they had to choose caution that day! The rogue yet remains free to torment me endlessly.”

King John paced his privy chamber, his hands fluttering in agitation; Even his beard seemed to quiver with anger.

“’Twould have caused you all manner of trouble had a man of his rank been cut down by the king’s men,” the queen commented, never looking up from the fish-scale file she used on a jagged edge of her thumbnail.

“And who was to know or spread the tale?” the graying king snapped.

Isabel raised her dark eyes to her husband. She spoke patiently and without anger, as if to a peevish child. “For one thing, there are the guards themselves.
You
may trust them to keep such information secret, but I do not. It takes but one drunken braggart to speak his part in the deed and the wrath of the barons would come fully against you.” She raised her nails for inspection, then when they met with her approval, tossed the fish scale into an embroidered basket. “There was also the girl. You cannot forget that she would have been witness to such a deed as well.”

“That fool Peyton could have sent someone back to do Blaecston in. She might never have known. And as for that, she is of no real value to me either. Oxwich is mine whether she lives or not.”

At last Isabel’s emotions flared. “Your complete lack of finesse will prove your undoing, mark my words. Killing Kempe or even the girl is no proper solution!” She took an angry breath and glared at him, but at his sullen expression, she relented. “There are ways and there are ways of dealing with the problem of Sir Rylan Kempe. He need not die to best serve your purposes.”

“Serve my purposes? Hah!” the king fumed. “He is ever there to say me nay. To sway the barons against me. To pester me with his treasonous notions. And they
are
treason! ’Tis my divine right to rule England—not the right of that bloody crowd of barons!”

“Of course it is, my love,” Isabel soothed. “But dealing harshly with him—having him killed—would only stir up the hornet’s nest to an even angrier pitch. Far better to play with him, to torment him before the eyes of the entire court.”

John’s brows raised slightly and he ceased his endless pacing. “Isabel?” His petulant expression was slowly replaced by a crafty smile. “What deviousness do you plot in that beautiful head of yours?” He strode over to her and tilted her face up with one finger beneath her chin. “Come now, tell me all.”

Isabel smiled, letting her full curving lips slide over her straight white teeth. “You have stolen Blaecston’s little jewel. He must have hoped to marry her himself—the treasured centerpiece of his Yorkshire crown. He is not likely to stay long away from court if you flaunt her here. Added to that, she is a fair chit, and will attract many an eye. As her guardian, you must be very selective about a husband for her.” Her smile grew wider. “Poor Blaecston shall be beside himself with frustration. For once you will have the means to torment him. To make him look the fool.”

“I am not certain he meant to marry her. My spies have placed him in the company of Lord Santling and Lord Lawton—both men with only daughters and with considerably more property than the Preston girl.”

Isabel shrugged: “Even if he meant to wed her to an ally of his own, it does not signify. He wanted her but
we
have her. That is sufficient to paint him the buffoon.”

“But what if he does not come to court?”

“Trust me, milord. He shall come.”

John thought on that. Then his eyes narrowed as he took in his wife’s youthful appearance. “You seem to understand him very well, my dear.”

Isabel laughed, a soft delighted tinkle. She took John’s hand in hers and squeezed it as she stood up. “I do understand him,” she murmured silkily. “Just as I understand you—as I understand all men. For a woman to wield power, that sort of understanding is a necessity. Sir Rylan has his pride. Your possession of Lady Joanna Preston has dented that pride, and he is desperate now to undo the damage. But desperation makes men reckless. We have only to play to that recklessness.”

John stared at his queen—the child bride he’d flouted all political wisdom to possess. Were she not so devoted to him—or at least to his kingship—he would be dismayed at her brilliance. But she was his wife, and as he went so did she.

He cupped her face in his hands and planted a satisfied kiss on her unblemished brow.

“I trust you will take my new ward in hand, then. Outfit her suitably so that she will attract a following, especially among the men who mislike Blaecston and his ways.”

“As you wish,” Isabel answered, the picture of wifely duty and obedience.

“What of the other girl—Egbert Crosley’s daughter?” John asked as the queen moved to depart. “I will not want our courtship of her father to suffer for the games we play with Kempe. Her lands are of even greater moment than Oxwich.”

“’Tis already well in hand, my lord. I had Lady Joanna put into the Lady Marilyn’s care. Our shy little mouse is even now playing mother to our little nun.” She laughed once more and sent him a sparkling smile. “Suddenly our stay at this dull abbey looks promising indeed!”

Court was a dreadful bore. Joanna had been inordinately worried when she’d first followed Lady Marilyn into the queen’s solar. There she had met several of the ladies-in-waiting as well as three matrons. She’d been kindly enough received by them all, but once her reticence had been noticed, the group had gone on as before, stitching and sharing idle chatter, only now and again breaking into giggles over some amusing bit of gossip.

She had sat nervously, awaiting she knew not what. But the time had crept by with no break in the monotonous routine, and now Joanna could contain her fidgeting no longer. “Shall the king ever come?” she whispered impatiently to Marilyn.

“The king?” Marilyn looked up from her handwork. “The king never enters the ladies’ chambers. ’Tis the queen we await.”

“Oh.” Joanna pursed her lips. “But you said I was to be presented to the king.”

Marilyn smiled in understanding, and once more Joanna noticed how pretty she could be. “I forgot how new all of this is to you. Poor dear, the royal court is terribly confusing. I remember how awkward I was. Even now I am ill at ease more often than not.” She colored slightly, as if that admission did not come easily, and Joanna reached for her hand. Despite her misgivings at being thrust into the royal court, Joanna was certain she had at least one friend in the Lady Marilyn.

Marilyn smiled once more. “You shall soon get the rhythm of it. Whether the court is in London or travels about—as is more common—certain things remain the same. One approaches the king only at his command or at the express invitation of his first circle.”

“His first circle?”

“His closest advisors. That is, the queen, his treasurer, Sir William of Ely, and his justiciar, Geoffrey Fitz Peter. We await the queen, whom we shall escort into the king’s presence. She will tell you when to approach the king.”

Joanna digested that for a moment. “I shall meet him among the company of others, then. Will I have no opportunity to speak privately with him?”

Marilyn’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why would you
ever
wish to speak privately with him?” Then, when she realized the other women in the solar had paused at her shocked tone, she lowered her voice. “Why ever should you wish to do such a thing?”

Joanna stared intently at Marilyn, wondering how closely she should guard her words. When she noticed the curious glances she was receiving from the others, however, she squelched her need to confide in someone. Another time, perhaps, but not now.

“You have a father to decide your fate—a man who knows you well and whom you know well. But I must rely upon the king in the matter of my own future. I only thought it practical that he and I share some limited discourse on the matter.”

Marilyn nodded at the logic in Joanna’s words, yet her face still reflected doubt. “I would be completely unable to utter a word should he request a private audience with me, and under no circumstances would I request it myself.” She stared at Joanna, a trace of wonder in her eyes. “You must be very brave.”

Joanna only smiled. Not brave, she thought as they returned to their stitching. Not brave, just desperate.

A few minutes later there was a commotion in the hall. The door flew open and two footmen dressed in the purple and silver of royal service immediately flanked the door. A stern-faced matron entered the solar next, but Joanna’s attention was drawn to the woman who followed her.

Queen Isabel was everything Joanna expected and more. As a child she’d heard of King John’s beautiful bride, but the serene, elegant woman who smiled and nodded to the women all standing attendance on her was exquisite beyond imagining. No wonder the king had risked angering the powerful Lusignan family by taking Isabel of Angoulême to wife. No wonder all of France had been so furious to lose her.

For all Joanna’s cynicism toward the holy state of matrimony and the limitations it placed on women, she could not help but be caught up in the sheer romance of it all. King John had risked much to wed this woman, and she looked supremely satisfied with the arrangement. If only it were always thus.

The queen waved one hand negligently, sending her women back to their sundry tasks, but her quick gaze swept the room, and when she spied Joanna she paused.

“Lady Marilyn. Do bring your charge into my presence. I would speak with her awhile.”

Marilyn gave Joanna’s arm a quick tug before Joanna reacted. For a moment she felt a shiver of apprehension. The queen was as beautiful as any woman could hope to be. Yet she was still the queen and bound to seek her husband’s best interest. The fact that she was a woman did not ensure she would be an ally. As Joanna approached Isabel, she bade herself keep that thought in mind.

“Good morrow, my queen,” Marilyn murmured with a deep curtsey. After only the briefest hesitation Joanna followed suit. She was determined to do nothing that might appear the least improper while she curried royal favor. Though she was ignorant of court etiquette, she vowed to watch and learn so that no one could fault her manners.

“Good morrow, my queen,” she echoed Marilyn’s words softly.

The queen peered at her. Though her expression was pleasant—her face was fixed in a smile—her close scrutiny seemed more than a little assessing, as if she looked beyond Joanna’s face to examine her innermost thoughts. Joanna swallowed nervously and clenched her hands together at her waist in an effort to still their trembling.

“You are quite lovely. Just as I thought you would be. Did I not guess well when I selected the dress? The size. The length. The color for your complexion and eyes. Here, turn.” She gestured with her hand.

Joanna did as she was told. Her eyes caught briefly with Marilyn’s as she pivoted, but that one’s face was carefully blank. When Joanna faced the queen once more, Isabel was smiling almost smugly.

“Who would have guessed such a bedraggled creature as you were but yesterday could be transformed into such a beauteous maiden?” She glanced over at her ladies-in-waiting who were all silently observing the queen and the new girl. “It makes one wonder how unpleasant might oneself appear without the benefit of fine garments, rich jewels, and the many beauty aids available.”

At once there was a murmur of protest from the other women in the chamber.

“You would be fair, no matter what.”

“Threadbare rags could never dim your luster, madame.”

“Nothing could disguise your beauty, my queen.”

Joanna marked well the queen’s smile of pleasure. If that was the lay of the land, so be it. She would be meek and agreeable. She would flatter and fawn if that was necessary to gain the queen’s goodwill. Anything so long as the queen—and consequently the king—looked with favor upon her request to return to St. Theresa’s.

Having appraised herself of the newest girl’s suitability, the queen began to circulate about the solar, granting a smile and brief comment to each of her ladies-in-waiting. She then seated herself on a richly upholstered chair and looked over her entourage with a speculative gaze.