By His Majesty's Grace

by Jennifer Blake

  The so-called Star Chamber was a long hall hung with paneled walls that were softened here and there by hangings woven in biblical scenes, and featured a lofty, barrel ceiling painted with gold stars against a dark blue ground. It was here that Henry met with his most trusted councilors to mete out justice on matters of less than public nature. The king stood at a window as they entered, a tall man with a narrow face, flat yet sensual lips and forbidding mien. He was dressed in shimmering gray silk damask over a white silk shirt, with black hose and black leather boots. In token of the confidential nature of their audience, no crown sat upon his long, fair hair, but only a gray wool hat with a turned-up brim pinned by gold rosettes.

  As they were announced, Henry left the woman and two men with whom he had been in consultation. Striding across the chamber with a slender white greyhound at his heels, he seated himself on the heavy chair—cushioned and canopied with satin in his official colors of green and white—which rested on a low stone dais at the far end of the room. Lounging at his ease with the dog at his feet, he waited as they came toward him.

  “We are glad to see you finally arrived,” he said as he accepted their obeisance and waved them to a less formal stance. “We trust the journey was not arduous?”

  “If so, Your Majesty, it was due only to our haste in answering your command,” Rand replied. He could not quite accustom himself to Henry’s use of the royal plural after years of far less formal usage in exile. He often wondered that Henry had fallen into it so naturally.

  “Yet you have nothing to fear from it, we hope?”

  The king meant to get directly to the point, Rand saw with a frown. It did not bode well for an easy end to the business. “Not in the least.”

  A small silence fell. Rand glanced quickly at the others who had moved to join them, standing on either side of Henry’s makeshift throne. The lady was Henry’s mother, Margaret Beaufort, Duchess of Richmond and Derby, a petite and rather stern figure in her usual nunlike black gown and gable-top headdress with white bands around her face. Her nod of private greeting for him was a token of their many years of working together for Henry’s sake. Next to her was the squat shape of John Morton, former bishop of Ely and now chancellor of England. Beyond him was Reginald Bray, a Norman also faithful in the service of the duchess who had recently been appointed chancellor of County Palantine and the duchy of Lancaster. Not one of them smiled.

  “I have nothing at all to fear,” Rand repeated firmly, “being at a loss for the cause of the charge against me.”

  Henry pressed his lips together for an instant before making a small gesture of one hand. “You recently entertained a guest sent to you for security and succor in her confinement for childbirth. We are told she is no longer with you. Have you knowledge of this lady you would wish to impart to us?”

  Sick dread shifted inside Rand at the pronouncement. He felt Isabel stir beside him, but could spare no attention to discover what she made of the charge.

  “Unfortunately not, sire,” he replied in tones as even as he could make them. “The lady remained with me for seven weeks and was delivered of her child in due time. When last I set eyes upon her, she was healthy and hearty and on her way to you.”

  “To us?”

  “Under the guard of your men-at-arms sent to escort her to a manse described as a reward for her travail.”

  The king frowned upon him. “Take care what you say, Braesford. We sent no guard.”

  Beside Rand, Isabel drew a hissing breath. He could hardly blame her, for he felt as if a battering ram had thudded into his stomach. Glancing down, he saw her eyes were wide and her soft carmine lips parted, though she instantly composed her features to unconcern again as she met his gaze.

  She was every inch an aristocrat this evening, he saw, standing with regal pride in a gown of some dark gold velvet almost the same shade as her hair, and which revealed an edging of her chemise that was embroidered in gold thread at the neckline and her sleeve ends. Her cap was the same, as were the edges of her veil, which came down to her elbows. His chest swelled with an odd pride at the fact that she stood at his side, however reluctantly.

  “Upon my honor, sire, a troop of men came for her,” he answered at last.

  “And the babe?”

  “Went with her, of course, held in her arms. I would have sent to let you know of their departure, but the message brought by the captain of your guard forbade communication for discretion’s sake. Besides, I thought you knew already.”

  “Yes. We understand what you mean to say. Nevertheless, we have had another account from one who watches over the northern section of our realm. It adds to a rumor reported to us by a second source.”

  The king paused, his gaze inscrutable. Rand, meeting the pale blue eyes, searching the long, square-jawed face with its small red mole near the mouth, felt his heart bang against his ribs. “If I may ask,” he said after an interminable moment, “what would this rumor be?”

  Henry sat forward, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. “On the night this lady went into labor, she encountered difficulties. You sent for a midwife familiar with such complications. Do we have it correct thus far?”

  “Indeed, sire.”

  “The midwife arrived and the child was delivered while you remained close to make certain all was well. In fact, you were in the same room. Is this not so?”

  Rand inclined his head in acquiescence, though the dread of where this might be heading was like a lead weight inside him.

  “The midwife, a woman of middle years but with no problem with her eyesight, swears that a girl child was born in due time. She was perfect, in every particular, and cried lustily as she came into the world. The midwife swears that you, Sir Randall Braesford, immediately took the child and left the birthing chamber with it, walking into the next room and closing the door. She says that during the considerable time while she made the new mother comfortable and cleared away the signs of birth, the child was never heard to cry again.”

  “Young Madeleine, as her mother named her, quieted as I held her,” Rand began, but stopped at a regal gesture for silence.

  “We are not done,” Henry said with precision. “It seems the midwife was not permitted to remain with the lady, but was given a generous reward and hustled away as soon as her job was complete. And she claims that, as she went away, she recognized the stench of burning flesh from the rooms she had just left behind.”

  Isabel gave a small cry and put a hand to her mouth. The king’s mother looked ill, while Morton and Bray stood in grim-faced condemnation. Rand had to swallow on bile before he could speak.

  “No! A thousand times, no!”

  “You deny the charge.”

  “On my honor, I burned no child,” he insisted. “I cannot say whether the midwife lied or merely misunderstood what she saw and heard, but Mademoiselle d’Amboise’s infant daughter was asleep in my arms when the midwife mounted pillion behind my man and rode away. The child suckled at her mother’s breast later. She was well and most decidedly alive when she left Braesford. This I swear on God’s holy word and the wings of all his angels.”

  “Nevertheless, we have heard nothing from Mademoiselle Juliette since you sent to inform us that she had been delivered of a daughter. She has not appeared in her usual place, has not been seen since she entered the gates at Braesford. Where, then,” the king ended with quiet simplicity, “is the lady now?”

  It was an excellent question. Rand wished he had the answer. He swallowed, made a helpless gesture with one hand. “I can’t begin guess, my liege. All I can say is that a mounted guard of men-at-arms came and took her away.”

  “They had orders, we presume? You did not give the lady and her child up without a written directive?”

  “I was shown a scroll with your signature and seal,” he replied with a short nod.

  “You knew the captain of this guard?”

  “I didn’t, no. But as you surely understand, sire, I’ve spent many years beyond En
gland’s shores and no few months away from court. Not all your officers and men-at-arms are familiar to me.”

  “Nor to us,” Henry said drily. “But why would anyone mount such an elaborate and mysterious charade?”

  Rand opened his mouth to speak, but the king’s mother was before him.

  “It seems clear the intent is evil,” she said, her soft, even tones in stark contrast to her words. “The purpose can only be to embroil the crown in an affair with a whiff about it of the dead princes in the Tower.”

  “Yes.” Grim acceptance sat on Henry’s face.

  It was a pertinent thought. Given the shaky start to Henry’s reign, and his tenuous claim to the throne, anything which identified him with the murder of Edward IV’s young sons could bring on a groundswell of contempt that might well harden into opposition. In the right hands, it could even become grounds for blaming that three-year-old murder of the princes, if such it had been, on him, as well. Though he had been out of the country at the time, the members of his faction, including those ringleaders now in the room, had not. They could therefore be blamed for carrying out the deed in his name.

  “Another purpose could be to acquire a hostage against future need,” Isabel said in clear suggestion.

  Rand swung his head to stare at her in his surprise that she would speak for him. She met his gaze squarely, though a flush rode her cheekbones. The acceptance in the gray-green depths of her eyes made his heart throb against his breastbone. Turning back almost at once, he spoke in amplification of her thought. “Certain powers in Europe might be glad of such leverage, should they require allies in the conflict within the region.”

  “Or it may simply be a matter of ransom,” the chancellor of England said, rubbing the extra chin that hung below his jaw.

  Quiet fell in which could be heard the distant clanging of Angelus bells. Sunset was upon them. Though the long twilight of summer lingered beyond the tall windows of the room, it was dim inside the palace’s stone walls. A candle guttered on its wick, and Rand was abruptly aware of the scents of beeswax, perfume and sweat from Morton’s heavy ecclesiastical garments. He breathed with a shallow rise and fall of his chest as he waited for Henry’s pronouncement.

  “We must not be hasty,” the king said at length. “We will send out men to search suitable properties where Mademoiselle Juliette may be held. If she is found, and the child with her…”

  “I beg the privilege of joining the search,” Rand said, speaking past the relief that clogged his throat as Henry paused. “No one could have reason to look quite as hard or as long as I.”

  “Your eagerness and promise of diligence do you credit, but it cannot be allowed.”

  “I’ve given my pledge, and would not break it. Nor would I break faith with you, sire.”

  “We are aware. Still, the matter is delicate. Say you are correct, and the lady is being held against her will. What is to prevent those who have her from ending her life the instant you are sighted? She would be dead to us and unable to uphold your story, while you would be conveniently at hand to take the blame. More, the rumor which came finally to us is rife at court, so we were forced to make the charge and bring you here for this inquiry. We have also heard whispers that you might be killed in ambush to prevent any denial of it. It is this last possibility that caused us to send so swiftly after Lady Isabel, instructing that you both be brought under our protection.” Henry shook his head. “No, you will remain near us, Sir Rand. Besides, it would be unseemly for a new-made husband to be seen searching high and low for a woman not his bride.”

  “Sire!”

  It was Isabel who exclaimed in protest, cutting across Rand’s immediate words of gratitude for Henry’s thoughtfulness. As the king turned his basilisk stare upon her, she lowered her lashes. “I did not mean to speak. Forgive me. It was the…the surprise.”

  “Surprise, when you have known for some weeks that you will be Braesford’s wife?”

  “This affair of the child,” she said softly, “everyone said… That is, we were told it was a hanging matter.”

  “And so it may be if the lady is not found. Meanwhile, we have directed that you will be properly wed, and so it must transpire. Our fair queen consort looks forward to this day of celebration, of tournament, feasting, mummery and dancing, as the last merriment before she must leave us. She goes soon to her forty days of seclusion before birth, you realize, so there is no time for delay. Tomorrow will be auspicious for your vows, we believe.” He turned to the erstwhile bishop of Ely. “Is this not so, Chancellor?”

  “Extremely auspicious, sire,” Morton said in instant agreement.

  “But…but the banns, sire?”

  “Banns may be waived under special circumstances, Lady Isabel. So it has been arranged. You will sign the marriage contracts when you leave here. All that will remain, then, is the ceremony.”

  “As you command, sire,” she said with a small curtsy of acquiescence, adding under her breath, “though it’s all amazingly convenient.”

  Rand thought only he was close enough to hear that last. He could not blame her for that instant of derision. If Henry had decided to dispense with banns, then there was certain to be strong political incentive for it.

  What troubled Rand was what might lie behind the king’s determined preparation for this wedding. Sign of high favor or a screen for other things—which was it?

  “Excellent,” Henry said with satisfaction. “Tomorrow it shall be, then.”

  What could either of them say to that? Rand felt Isabel’s tense reluctance, and even shared it to some extent. He had thought to spare her the shame of being wed to a suspected murderer. How soon might she be his widow, therefore ripe for another of Henry’s arranged marriages? To command them to the altar now in fine disregard of the outcome was an unwarranted interference in their lives.

  Regardless, watching as Isabel inclined her head and dropped into another stiff curtsy of obedience to the royal will, Rand was grateful to have the decision made for him. His own bow was a profound gesture of compliance. And it was all he could do to conceal the sudden firestorm of anticipation that blazed through him, body and soul, as he thought of the wedding night to come.

  5

  Isabel longed to voice her objections to this marriage as she stood beside Braesford, wished she could refuse Henry’s royal command outright. One did not defy a king, however, no matter how galling it might be to bow to his will.

  She had been summoned specifically to hear his directive concerning her marriage, she thought. There could be no other reason for her presence. Unless, of course, the king wanted her to know the particulars of the crime lodged against Braesford? A bride should understand precisely why her groom was likely to be taken from her by the hangman.

  The case seemed dire. Someone must have arranged for the Mademoiselle d’Amboise’s escort and forged the papers presented at Braesford. That person must necessarily have knowledge of the court, of Henry’s signature and seals. Well, or have influence with those who did.

  That was supposing her future husband had not lied. They had only his word for what had happened. Some few among his men-at-arms might corroborate it, of course. Their loyalty was strong, as she’d noticed during their southward journey, making what they might say of him suspect.

  As for the midwife and her suspicions, it was odd that such a piece of gossip had reached the king’s ears. It should not, ordinarily, have spread beyond the woman’s neighbors. More, by her own admission, the midwife had seen nothing truly damning, had only surmised foul play. Surely the king would have dismissed the matter out of hand at any other time.

  Nonetheless, there was the disappearance of the Frenchwoman and her child. Where were they now, if they were alive and well? Yes, and why had this Mademoiselle Juliette not sent to inform the king of her whereabouts? It was always possible the lady thought he knew because Henry himself had arranged for her captivity. Prisoners did not normally send messages to their jailer begging for succor
.

  So many chances for betrayal. Isabel’s head hurt just thinking of them. She could see no clear way through them because she barely knew this man who was to be her husband.

  She did not know him, yet they were to be tied together for all eternity.

  The king’s mother stepped forward then, claiming Isabel’s attention, though she spoke to Rand. Removing her hands from inside the belled sleeves of her gown, she gestured toward a pair of bundles that sat beside the throne. “The king and I pray this matter that brings you before us will soon be settled, my good and faithful knight, and in a manner satisfactory to all,” she said in quiet precision. “In token of our faith that it shall be, and in honor of your wedding, we extend these gifts to you and your lady. A servant will deliver them to your separate chambers, betimes. It is our dearest hope that you will wear them with joy and the blessings of heaven upon your union.”

  Rand said everything that was appropriate, and Isabel added her gratitude. Moments later, they were dismissed. Through lowered lashes, as she backed from the royal presence, she spared a glance for the gifts. Their wrappings appeared to be of silk and the contents soft. The king often presented his dependents and favorites with clothing at Christmas or for weddings, christenings and the like. This was, she felt certain, the nature of their gifts.

  Nor was she wrong.

  When she had returned to her chamber, and her portion of the king’s gift was delivered, Isabel hesitated to open it. She had ordered a gown of sanguine-red silk made for her wedding, had transported it northward and back again. This replacement had the feel of a bribe, at least to her mind. To accept it seemed the final submission to her fate. Yet refusing it would be a rather childish bit of defiance. Who would be harmed by it except herself? With stiff fingers, she slipped free the cord that held the wrappings.

  Inside was a sumptuous silken costume in Henry’s colors of green and white. The gown was beautifully embroidered in a pattern of bracken fronds and gold vines on a white silk ground, with dewdrops among them made of pearls. Its sleeves, attached by ties at the shoulders, were also embroidered and so wide and full at the wrists that they draped nearly to the floor. Included was a girdle for her hipline that was worked with gold and set with a cluster of emeralds, also a fillet of woven gold wire to hold back her hair, which would be left uncovered on this one occasion of her life.