By His Majesty's Grace

by Jennifer Blake

  It was necessary to try the new gown and girdle, so she and Gwynne might make any necessary alterations. None were required, so Gwynne insisted, though Isabel could hardly tell from her reflection in the pie-size round of polished steel held by the serving woman.

  “’Tis a marvel of a gown, fit for a princess, milady. I’ve never seen silk as soft or as fine,” Gwynne said, spreading the sleeves so they draped just so, then standing back with her head cocked to one side to view the affect. “The king did well by ye, he did.”

  “Yes. I wonder why.”

  “Ye be his ward, and it’s his duty to dress you for your wedding. Should there be aught else?”

  “There usually is, I fear.”

  “You think it a reward? But for what, think you? Unless…”

  “The ordeal of marrying beneath me, no doubt.”

  “Yet yon knight can hold his own with any.”

  This was true, something that caused an odd, heated heaviness beneath the gold mesh of her girdle when she thought of it. He had stood tall and unbowed during their audience with Henry, showing proper respect but no subservience. She had seen nobles of rank display far less dignity in the face of kingly frowns.

  Such thoughts were far from comfortable. Deliberately, she said, “But he is only a knight.”

  Gwynne lifted a brow. “You will receive a third of Braesford as your dower right. What else is needed?”

  “You know very well.”

  “An earl or a duke as husband, ’stead of Braesford? And I suppose ye’d take a hobbling old rake with title attached, instead of yon fine piece of manhood? Indeed, milady, I say ’twould be a sorry bargain.”

  Isabel gave her a jaundiced look. “You have ever had an eye for a nice pair of shoulders. There is far more to a man.”

  “So you noticed his shoulders, did ye? And his legs, too, I’ll be bound—strong as oaks they be. As for what he’s got between them…”

  “That isn’t what I meant!”

  “But you won’t claim ’tis nay important.”

  No, she could not say that, though she tried not to think overmuch about that part of Rand, or of what would happen on their wedding night. She was less than successful. In truth, she had tossed and turned in her litter after he left her, trying to forget the strength of his hands, his arms, the way he seemed to fill the small, swaying space they had shared. Yes, and the brief intimation of what it might be like to feel his weight upon her, his power inside her.

  His hands had been gentle as he cradled her injured finger at Braesford, before he had ruthlessly pulled the broken bone ends back into place so they might set properly. Would he be the same behind the curtains of their marriage bed, gentle at first but merciless as he possessed her?

  With a quick shake of her head to dislodge the disturbing thoughts and the light-headed feeling that came with them, she said, “The richness may also indicate the value of the alliance to Henry.”

  “What way would that be?” Gwynne inquired with a frown.

  “Because of the signal service Braesford performed for him some weeks ago, one that went awry.” She went on to explain in full, having no compunction about discussing the matter with Gwynne. The woman had done her best to protect both the girls and their mother during her second marriage, lying for them, making excuses, bringing them food and drink when they were shut away as punishment for some error. She had despised the Earl of Graydon and blamed him for their mother’s death, had rejoiced when he died. She was no fonder of his son and heir, their stepbrother.

  “Aye,” Gwynne said with a wise nod. “I heard some such in the servants’ hall at Braesford. All there knew the lady had been the king’s mistress, knew men came and took her away.”

  “And the baby?” Isabel asked sharply.

  “The lady carried a bundle when she went. At least, so ’twas said after the charge of infant murder was spouted off in the great hall that night. Some swore they’d seen the babe, though no one went in and out the lady’s chamber except the maid she’d brought with her.”

  Was this something the king should know? Isabel wondered if he would listen, or if, having such a network of spies in various parts of the realm, he knew it already.

  “The king mentioned rumors spreading here.”

  “I heard a snicker or two, though none have said much to me. That’s the way of it, see. They fear to say anything to my face, being as you and Braesford have the king’s goodwill.”

  “Do we indeed?” Isabel gave a small, mirthless laugh.

  Gwynne shrugged. “Mayhap you can tell what’s what by the costume Braesford has from the king.”

  It was a point, Isabel reflected. The clothing, if it was as fine as her own, might indicate his position as the king’s honored friend.

  It could also mean nothing more than that Henry would send him well attired to his death. And why that last idea should suddenly be so appalling, she could not say. She barely knew the man. Certainly, his death meant nothing to her. Nothing at all.

  Isabel’s sisters were out and about the palace somewhere. Though she would enjoy showing them her new wedding finery, there was no time just now. The evening meal was almost upon them. She would much prefer to take a little bread and wine and retire to her bed, but it could not be done. The coming wedding was certain to be on everyone’s lips before the night was over. To hide away would make it appear she was mortified or, heaven forbid, fearful of it. Pride was a great failing, but she could not abide anyone believing either of those things. Accordingly, she allowed Gwynne to remove the white silk gown and dress her in the gold velvet once more.

  The great hall was an enormous echoing space, the largest unsupported structure in the known world, with walls of cream stone lined with galleries for onlookers and topped by ranks of lancet windows under massive corbelled woodwork. At the moment, it was being set for the evening meal, with long rows of tables laid with ample cloths—plates and cups at the high table under its cloth-of-gold canopy, and trenchers and beakers at the lower ones.

  The task was enormous, as the kitchens at Westminster supplied food for several hundred on any given evening, and more were fed by the king’s almoner, who passed out the uneaten trenchers and meats to those who begged at the back gate. Menservants moved here and there with jugs of wine that had been decanted in the buttery, setting them out on side tables. Great baskets piled high with more trenchers, warm from the oven and smelling delectable, had been placed on the sideboards beyond. Courtiers and their ladies, diplomats from half a dozen countries, members of the king’s new yeomen guard, nobles, families from the country and hangers-on of all kinds lounged around the room. They talked and laughed in a low roar, playing at cards and dice and getting in the way of the servants who scurried about.

  Among the throng, Isabel caught sight of the bright heads of her two sisters. Moving easily, nodding and speaking to an acquaintance here and there, she wended her way toward where Cate and Marguerite sat on a padded bench.

  A gentleman stood next to them with one foot propped on their seat and a lute resting across his raised knee. His fingers moved on the strings in the faintest of melodies as he made some quick observation that brought trills of laughter.

  Cate glanced away from the troubadour just then. Her face lighted in welcome and she lifted her hand to beckon. The gentleman, following her gaze, looked over his shoulder. He straightened at once as Isabel came near.

  “Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, sketching a deep bow, “what felicity to see you among us! We thought you lost to us for months, perhaps forever, yet here you are again. I shall compose a madrigal for the event, one to astonish the company and make glad your girlish heart.”

  It was Leon, Henry’s Master of Revels, the gentleman who had so obligingly spread the tale of the Three Graces curse. A Frenchman of boundless charm, he gravitated naturally to the most attractive women in any room. Isabel, like her sisters, enjoyed his extravagant nonsense, but never made the mistake of taking it seriously. She sometimes
thought it was the reason he sought their company so often.

  “Spare yourself the effort, sir,” she answered with wry humor. “My return will no doubt be short-lived, and then where would you be? Possessed of a rare song with no occasion to sing it.”

  “A smile from your lips would make it worthwhile.”

  Leon’s gaze was meltingly tender. It was no wonder so many ladies succumbed to his blandishments. With dark hair that curled wildly over his head, eyes so black the pupils blended into their gleaming sable-brown and olive skin touched with hints of rose on his cheekbones, he should have appeared effeminate. He was, instead, like some archangel painted by a master, the very epitome of masculine beauty. He knew it, too, but made such a jest of it that it was near impossible to accuse him of vanity. His dress this evening was eye-catching, as always, a doublet of crimson velvet over hose striped in gold, and with a yellow-brown acorn hat on his curls that sported a pheasant’s iridescent feather. The lute he began to strum once more was fig-shaped and finely crafted, decorated with inlaid wood of many varieties in the Italian fashion.

  “I am desolated, Leon,” Cate said in mock chagrin. “I thought you were composing a verse to my lips, comparing them to the sunset.”

  “So I was, my sweet, and have it still in mind. It will require no great labor, given such inspiration, so will be finished in a trice.”

  “When you are free from more important commissions, I suppose you mean to say. What a dastard you are.”

  “You wound me, fair one,” he complained, his handsome features taking on a lugubrious look.

  “Never mind that,” Marguerite said, pinning him with a stern look from her dark brown eyes. “You were telling us of your scheme for a future night of mummery.” She turned to Isabel. “It’s to be a fine piece with lots of screams and moans and fire.”

  “Vastly entertaining, I’m sure,” she said drily.

  “A critic, heaven protect me,” Leon moaned. “I must go labor to produce a new and better piece.” He tilted his head for a considering instant before resuming his play on the lute. “Or perhaps I will forgo future applause for the sake of present company.”

  “Forgo nothing on my account,” Isabel recommended with an airy gesture, well aware he had no intention of leaving them. Even as she spoke, however, she was aware of a drop in the noise level in the great hall, followed by a spreading whisper, like the sound of wind blowing over bracken. Glancing around, she saw the crowd around them parting, leaving a clear path down which a regal figure made her way. It was the queen consort, followed by a double line of ladies-in-waiting and the queen’s fool, a miniature woman no more than a yard tall.

  Turning fully, Isabel swept back her skirts and dropped into a deep curtsy. Her sisters did the same, while Leon doffed his hat with a most graceful bow.

  “Nor must you neglect your labors on my account, Monsieur Leon,” Elizabeth of York said as she joined their small group with the slow and somewhat cumbersome pace of a woman large with child. “The result is always a delight, no matter how onerous it may be to you.”

  “Your Majesty!” Leon cried in low pleasure, going to one knee before Henry’s queen in profound expression of gratitude for the compliment. “No task performed for your entertainment can be a labor. It must always be my greatest pleasure.”

  “Rise, Sir Rascal,” Henry’s queen said in her light, musical voice, “and say me no more flattery. I am immune, as you may see from my huge shape.” She turned to Isabel, raising her and her sisters with a gesture. “I was told you had come among us again, Lady Isabel. It is good to see you so well.”

  “And you, ma’am,” she replied with perfect truth. Elizabeth was a favorite with everyone, more beloved than Henry, who had not her ease of manner or, in all truth, her naturally royal air. It was not surprising, of course, as she had been trained from birth to be the consort of a king, even if it was meant to be at some foreign court. Some said Henry kept her from public view as much as possible for fear she would become too popular with the people. As the eldest daughter of Edward IV, her claim to the throne was far stronger than his.

  Though it was centuries since Britain had been ruled by a female, there was nothing in the laws of the land to prevent her from becoming queen regnant.

  Divinely fair in true Plantagenet mold, Elizabeth was the very embodiment of the current ideal of beauty, with her pale blond hair, fine skin and fragile bone structure. Her gown of blue damask—though simply made, having only a neckline edged with pearls—was the perfect foil for her blue eyes. The small circlet of gold she wore as a crown was set low on her forehead like a filet to hold the fine white veil that covered her hair. From her girdle, in place of the keys of a chatelaine, hung a small jewel of a book in a bag of silver netting. The beautifully painted wood cover showed it to be De Lorris’s story of love and redemption, Le roman de la rose. She appeared as blooming as that tale in her advanced state of pregnancy, in spite of Henry’s fears for her ability to carry his heir to term.

  “But how is it you are among us again?” Elizabeth asked with curiosity on her serene features. “I am sure I was told you had traveled north to marry, though now His Majesty makes other arrangements. Did some unforeseen circumstances prevent the nuptials?”

  It was a reminder, if Isabel needed it, that the queen was being kept in ignorance of the charges against Braesford. Nor should she know of Henry’s liaison with Mademoiselle Juliette d’Amboise, though it was Isabel’s experience that these things were always discovered. A coarse jest here, a laughing comment there, and soon the ladies-in-waiting were whispering in the queen’s ear. If the pretense of ignorance sometimes held protection for a woman of intelligence—and Elizabeth was that, having studied with a tutor from childhood so she sometimes translated Latin documents for her royal husband—that was another matter.

  “It was the king’s request,” Isabel answered. “As for why, who can say? Mayhap he conceived a whim to be present for the marriage?”

  “Indeed, we are all kept in the dark,” Elizabeth of York said in dry response. “I am pleased that I shall see you wed, in any event. Sir Rand is quite a favorite, a fine and loyal companion to the king in his adversity and strong right arm on the battlefield.” Her smile softened. “He was also kind to me when I first appeared at court, when many were less so. You could not have a better gentleman as husband.”

  Isabel hardly knew how to answer such praise, so did not try. “Braesford and I will be honored by your presence,” she said, going on at once. “I believe you will absent yourself from the court soon. When do you go, if I may ask it?”

  “A few days after your vows are spoken, I believe. Such a to-do as there has been about it. I am to travel to Saint Swithin’s Priory at Winchester, as it was built by King Arthur of legend, or so they say. A fine conceit, yes?”

  Isabel, meeting the warmth in the queen’s eyes, answered it with a smile of understanding. “And shall the child be called Arthur if it is a boy?”

  “You’ve heard it’s His Majesty’s will, I suppose? I am agreed, though all Lancastrian kings to this day have been called Henry. It is Caxton’s fault, you know, for printing Le Morte d’Arthur last year as one of the first books brought forth from a press in this realm.” She put a hand on her belly in a tender caress. “And heaven for-fend it not be a son and heir. Henry has been promised it by his soothsayer, and I dare not disappoint.”

  The words were lightly spoken, but Isabel thought them serious, nonetheless. Elizabeth of York, for all the crown she wore, was no more mistress of her fate than she was. The queen’s marriage was a dynastic union to a man long considered an enemy of her family, one ten years her senior whom she had not met until she was betrothed to him. He came to her bed as a right, his purpose to get an heir on her body. What was that like, Isabel wondered, and how did it feel to carry the child of a man who cared nothing for her and for whom she cared nothing?

  It was possible she would soon find out. Her knees felt disjointed at the prospect.<
br />
  “Does the king join us this evening?” she asked by way of distraction, for herself as well as Elizabeth.

  “Most likely, though he has not yet made his will known.” The queen divided a smile between them all. “But I must not tarry. My dear mother-in-law waits for me to join her in embroidering a coverlet for the future prince. Until later.”

  They watched her go, strolling slowly in the direction of the royal apartments and her private solar with the same grace with which she had appeared. Isabel, thinking of Elizabeth’s absence from the Star Chamber earlier, frowned a little. There was a reason for it, of course, yet the king’s mother had been present as if by natural right. It seemed Lady Margaret might be more in Henry’s confidence than his wife. How must that sit with the daughter of a king?

  “A noble lady,” Leon said, heaving a sigh.

  “You should write her story and set it to music,” Cate said, her blue eyes serious.

  “I may do that,” Leon murmured. “I may indeed.”

  Isabel turned away first, feeling herself unable to watch longer. “So,” she said with assumed vigor and a quick glance for Leon, “have you entertainment planned for this evening?”

  “A group of Romani that has played before royalty west of the Rhine and which include, not incidentally, a dancer of rare skill, also a jongleur who eats fire and, bien entendu, the bel canto to your return that plays itself now in my mind.”

  “Not the last, I beg.”

  “By no means, if you dislike it,” he answered at once, “yet I must have some new inspiration now and then. Henry may grow bored with my songs played a thousand times otherwise, and send me on my way.”