Suzanne Robinson (10 page)

H
e had lied to Honor and her father. Galen had never meant to attend the banquet and other festivities surrounding the marriage of the king’s ward. Such an appearance would bring him into the king’s presence before he could decide what to do about the Tower vision. He had intended to slip into Westminster, talk to Rob de Mora, and introduce him to Sir Walter. Then he would return to Durance Guarde.

The idea had been that, once in London, Honor would be deluged with suitors. A young woman with a fortune, perfect skin, and hair like molten red-gold would never lack suitors. If she didn’t like Rob, surely one of the others would please her, and thus she’d have no time to pester him, to be where he was, to infect him like some erotic plague. Just
as important, he could go back to Durance Guarde without having to see the king.

It was painful to him to be with Edward, knowing what he now knew. Edward was a good king, and Galen wanted to protect him and his sons. The king had two young sons, Edward and Richard, who were barely out of the nursery. It was the possibility that he might be seeing their fate that tortured him so. Yet in the vision the boys were much older than Edward’s sons were now. He could be wrong about the identity of the boys in the Tower. Or, as time passed, the vision might change. That sometimes happened, but not often. As long as he was uncertain, he couldn’t take action. So Galen had intended his visit to be short.

He hadn’t counted on being waylaid by Edward’s heralds when he came out of his town house two days after he arrived. They’d spirited him into the palace. Two guards had escorted him to the royal apartments, and stuck him in a small room that overlooked the king’s private garden. They’d left him alone, but the men were outside the door. Edward had no intention of allowing him to slip away as he had done before.

Galen paced back and forth, but the floorboards creaked irritatingly, so he leaned on the windowsill and looked down at the garden. White roses bobbed in the wind. They grew in profusion along with scarlet lilies, carnations, cowslip and crown imperials. The place had been deserted, but the garden gates swung open, and a man strode
into view. Tall and golden-haired, with hooded eyes and an alert expression, Edward Plantagenet moved at the head of a cluster of noblemen in robes brighter than the flowers. Galen recognized the king’s brothers, Richard of Gloucester and George, Duke of Clarence. Clarence directed a raptor’s gaze at Earl Rivers, the queen’s brother. Richard was talking gravely with one of the powerful Percys of Northumberland.

Galen shook his head. Edward had married a commoner, Elizabeth Woodville, and elevated her numerous brothers and sisters to offset the power of great barons like the Earl of Warwick and the Percys. But he’d gone too far, and now most of the powerful men in the country hated the Earl Rivers and anyone by the name of Woodville.

As he watched the interplay of look and gesture, elegant bows and secret glances filled with vitriolic envy, Galen felt the sunlit scene recede. Shadows closed in, and he glimpsed the river Thames, hurtled into the Tower, into blackness, into a small chamber filled with the sweet breath of two innocent, doomed boys. As suddenly as the vision came, it vanished, leaving Galen disoriented and gasping. He opened his eyes and found himself clutching the windowsill. He blinked rapidly at the sunlight.

God’s mercy, he thought blindly.

He straightened and pressed his forehead against the glass panes. Desperate to rid himself of the vision, he summoned images of a copper-haired little
nuisance, her disheveled gowns concealing a body designed to provoke a far different kind of madness. He’d seen her yesterday from a distance at an archery contest, one of the festivities that surrounded the banquet. Evidently Sir Walter had persuaded her to abandon her widow’s weeds in favor of green silk and cloth of silver. She’d been wearing one of those conical headdresses so popular among the ladies of the court. Unfortunately she’d walked beneath the branch of a tree and whacked the steeple-shaped contraption right off her head. He had wanted to go to her when everyone started laughing, but she had vanished into a tent reserved for ladies. When he saw her next, the headress was gone, which was best. She’d plaited her hair and fastened it at the nape of her neck. Galen would have told her to wear it loose, but widows didn’t do that, he supposed. He drew in a deep breath and held the image of Honor Jennings in his mind. As long as it was there, the vision remained a hazy cloud of menace in the background of his thoughts.

In the garden Edward was still holding council with his great barons. One of the guards that had escorted Galen appeared near the gate. Edward glanced at him and nodded. Galen cursed as the king dismissed the noblemen who attended him and left the garden.

Still disoriented, Galen gripped the windowsill again and hissed, “By the saints, compose yourself.” He groped blindly, and his fingers touched the hard
stone of the wall beside the window. The polished surface was almost as smooth as Honor’s skin. He tried to recall her voice and grinned when the first memory that came to him was “Leekshanks!”

He inhaled slowly and opened his eyes. Pushing away from the window, he stepped to the middle of the chamber as the door swung open to reveal the king. Galen knelt and bowed his head. Edward stalked into the room, resplendent in a blue velvet robe trimmed with miniver. He stopped in front of Galen, his booted feet planted wide apart.

“So,” he growled, “I have to hunt you down like some forest outlaw. By God’s teeth, de Marlowe, if you hadn’t saved my hide at the Battle of Tewkesbury, I’d have clapped you in the Tower for running off like that.”

“Forgive me, your highness.”

“Why should I?” Edward asked. “Get up, man. If fawning pleased me, I’d have killed you long ago, by my troth. Besides, I’m going to forgive you.”

Galen burrowed his brow. “Sire?”

Swinging around, Edward planted his fists on his hips and barked a laugh at him. “I’m going to forgive you because I’ve discovered the real reason for your disappearance. By my faith, I never thought to see Galen de Marlowe brought low by a woman, and by such an odd little mite too. Lady Honor Jennings. I tell you, when I heard you’d spoken to her father, I nearly died of apoplexy. You, who swore never to marry again, allying yourself with that book-ridden, scatter-witted little magpie. Ha!”

Galen almost went slack-jawed. “No, no, no, your highness. This is a false rumor.” He scowled. “Who has been spying on me, Sire?”

“King’s don’t reveal their privy agents, de Marlowe. Was it not you who told me once that winning on the battlefield was only half the art of kingship, and that the other half consisted of knowing things before anyone else did?”

“Important things, your highness. Not false gossip and evil report.”

“By God’s teeth, you’re blushing.” Edward let out a loud guffaw.

“I didn’t leave court to meet Lady Honor, I left because I had—” Galen clamped his mouth shut, steadied himself and went on. “I left because I’d grown weary of intrigue and base maneuvering.”

“Then why were you seen courting Sir Walter Stafford’s favor?” Edward clapped him on the back. “Admit it. I see how you’ve languished away from court, my friend. You’ve lost weight, and you’ve grown shadows under those eyes the ladies are always simpering about. You’ve no other worries in this time of peace, so you might as well confess. Lady Honor is the reason for your decline. You’re lovesick.”

“I’m not lovesick,” Galen growled, adding, “Sire.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Curse it, what a miserable snarl his life had become. “I do not love that pestilence of a woman. She’s a nuisance. She wants Durance Guarde and
is trying to drive me off my own land. She even tried frightening me by posing as the ghost of Rowena. Upon my word, Sire, the woman is a shrew and mad as well.”

The king’s grin had grown wider.

“I swear it!” Galen cried. “She keeps bursting into Durance Guarde with her servants and masons and laborers. She said she would pull the keep down around my ears. She invades my peace with her tattered gowns and sunset hair, shrieking at me, tripping over tree roots, and …”

Galen’s voice trailed off as the king’s laughter filled the room.

“So you say, de Marlowe.”

“She’s a vexatious little shrew!”

Edward drew near and said, “What protests, my friend. Every complaint and insult you utter against this woman confirms what I said. I’m right heartily pleased to hear them. And do you know why?”

“No, Sire. The reason escapes me.”

“Because you’ve been a grievous impediment to several matches I wish to make among my nobles, old friend. Until you went away, I couldn’t convince the Countess of Elstow to accept the man I’d chosen for her. She pined for you and insisted I bring her to your notice, as her attempts had failed. And she isn’t the only one. The Despenser heiress, the widow of the Marquis of Blackstone and one of my own cousins, all of them have hinted to me about you. God’s mercy, I’m right glad you’re lovesick.”

Galen remained silent for a moment, then
repeated slowly, “Sire, I am not lovesick. I—I came here to beg you to intercede on my behalf and match her with someone quickly so that she can no longer berate and assault me.”

“You need my help against a woman? I don’t believe it.”

“I wish to avoid any unpleasant incidents, your highness. Sir Walter is a good man. It’s not his fault Lady Honor is so headstrong. Well, mayhap it is, but I don’t wish for this quarrel to grow into something more dangerous.”

Edward folded his arms and studied Galen. “I see.”

“I’m glad, Sire.”

“I shall think upon it.”

“I’m most grateful, Sire.”

“Of course, if you married her, there would be no quarrel.”

“No! I mean, that’s not the solution, Your Highness.”

“It is if I say it is.”

His alarm growing, Galen dropped to one knee. “I beg Your Highness to refrain from considering any matches for me. I—I can’t marry again.” He felt the king’s hand on his shoulder.

“I see the pain in your eyes,” Edward said quietly. “You still blame yourself for something you could not have foreseen.”

Galen winced, but said nothing. The king offered his hand. Galen took it and rose, avoiding Edward’s eyes.

Edward went to a table on which rested an enameled jewel casket. He removed a heavy gold chain from it. The links took the form of alternating suns and white enamel roses of York. From it hung a pendant of the white lion, Edward’s personal emblem. The king draped the chain over Galen’s shoulders.

“You went away before I could give this to you.”

Galen touched the white lion. “I’ve done nothing to deserve the collar of honor, Sire.”

“Did you not warn me that Louis of France was arming the Lancastrians again? I’ll hear no protests. You won’t let me give you an earldom, so you must take my gifts instead.”

“With earldoms come rivals, jealousy, and the possibility of having to fight to keep one’s position. I’m sick of war, Your Highness.”

“As am I, my friend.” Edward sat in the room’s single chair, which was draped with purple velvet embroidered with the royal arms. “Now, about Lady Honor. Isidore Jennings has complained to me that she’s become a vowess rather than marry the man of his choice or suitors such as Sir Lionel Titchwell or Lord Andrew Swan. The vows can be set aside, of course, and one of them should do.”

“Oh, no, Your Highness. Titchwell’s a bloody-minded bastard and Swan still has every ha’penny that ever entered his coffers. Neither of them is worthy of the lady, nor are they fit to govern the Stafford demesne.”

“Very well. I know of several knights in need of
land. There’s old Harold Tiptoft. And there’s the Marquis of Langford, and young Colin Wentworth will soon need a bride.

“Wentworth is but seventeen, Sire!”

“Is he?”

Edward’s gaze strayed to a silver flagon beside the jewel casket. He gestured, and Galen poured wine into a mazer drinking bowl. Handing the wine to the king, Galen continued. “And Sir Harold Tiptoft is fifty.”

“But spry,” the king said. He sipped his wine and grinned at Galen. “We went carousing together not a fortnight ago, and he outlasted all my younger companions.”

“I beg your forgiveness, Sire, but that’s hardly a recommendation. Lady Honor deserves a man who can …” Galen eyed the king. “Your Highness is mocking me.”

“Mayhap.”

Edward handed Galen the mazer and rose. “But you can’t have it both ways, old friend. Either you want the lady for yourself, or you want nothing to do with her. If you wish to have nothing to do with her, you can’t very well choose her next husband. That, my dear Galen, is a matter for her father and me.”

“But, Sire, I was thinking of Rob de Mora.”

“I have plans for Rob. In any case, his family would never agree to so lowly a match. No, Galen. There are many things to consider when making
such an alliance. I’ll speak to Sir Walter about it before he leaves town. We should be able to settle things quickly.” Edward opened the door and glanced at Galen. “I think Langford will do nicely. He’s a good fighter, not greedy, about your age.”

Galen’s mouth fell open. The Marquis of Langford had kept the same mistress for all twelve years of his first marriage. He had seven illegitimate children by her and would never love anyone else. Before he could protest, the king was gone. Galen slammed the mazer down on the table, and wine sloshed out of the cup.

“Damnation and siN!”

Rubbing his brow, he prowled the room. His plan had come to ruin, and he wasn’t quite sure why. He hadn’t thought beyond a way to extricate himself from this fell attraction he had for Honor Jennings. He had rushed into this scheme, clutching at it without thinking upon the implications. The result was that he’d thrust Honor into the path of the king, and she would become what she’d sought to avoid—a pawn in the shifting, treacherous game of political alliances that made the court such a dangerous place. It was said that often haste rues, and in this case, he was ruing his haste right heartily.

“What am I going to do?”

“M’lord?”

Galen turned to find that one of the guards had entered.