By His Majesty's Grace

by Jennifer Blake

  “I am ordered to take the field,” he said evenly. “Henry, I do believe, sees it as a trial by ordeal.” Rand thought of it, rather, as a good way to speed the long day of celebration that lay ahead so the night might come sooner.

  “You can’t mean…”

  One corner of his mouth lifted in mirthless acknowledgment of her amazement. “If I am killed or seriously injured, then I must be guilty. If I live, it will be a sign from God of my innocence. Victory will not, you understand, preclude a legal trial in the King’s Court at some later date.”

  “That is barbaric!”

  “It is tradition, though I may be giving myself too much importance, and the royal purpose is merely to provide entertainment for the common folk who will crowd the field to watch. Henry is learning the uses of public display, you see. Nothing so convinces the populace of a king’s might as seeing his knights ride out onto the field.”

  “Or dressing those he favors in silks and satins,” she said with a brief gesture toward his wedding costume that, like hers, was a study in Henry’s white and green.

  “We make a fine pair, do we not?” he drawled. “Like matching tomb effigies.”

  A choke of laughter left her. At the sound, Henry, walking ahead with his queen on his arm, looked back. Isabel was immediately solemn again but the king was not fooled. He smiled benignly, no doubt pleased at the sign of accord between them.

  Rand was also glad to see some of the stiffness leave his bride. Her hands had been like ice in the chapel, and had not warmed during the entire ceremony. Her touch through his silk sleeve was warmer now, almost too warm for his ease of body or mind, and soft color tinted her face where it had been deathly pale before.

  They walked on a few steps. Isabel stared straight ahead while the amusement faded from her features. She drew a quick breath after a moment, speaking without looking at him. “Some newly wedded couples, so I am told, observe the custom of Tobias Night.”

  “They may in the country.” Rand hoped Graydon and McConnell, trailing somewhere behind with Isabel’s sisters, were not listening to this exchange. It could too easily spread through the court as a coarse jest. Tobias Night was an ancient rite sometimes observed by the devout. In addition to fervid prayers while kneeling on hard stone floors, it involved refraining from intimacy on the wedding night in honor of Saint Tobias, known for his stringent celibacy. The prospect did not recommend itself to him.

  “To become used to each other under its influence seems civilized,” she persevered.

  “It seems very torture to me, if you mean sharing the same chamber, the same bed, without touching.”

  “Such trials are good for the soul.”

  “Whose soul would that be, mine or yours?” he asked. “Yours, I daresay, requires no purification, and the blasphemy I’d surely commit would blacken mine. Besides, the king commanded a bedding as well as a wedding.”

  Her glance would have scalded the hair from a boar’s hide, though a flash of something like dread struck through it. “You will obey his will, in spite of the possibility of leaving a child behind should this charge of murder go against you?”

  “Or because of it,” he replied evenly. “Braesford will be yours if there should be a child of our marriage to inherit it, and I have come to think you will be able to hold it.” He had thought, for a short while, of protecting her in that regard. Henry had decreed otherwise. Now he longed to see her large with his child, as serenely beautiful as the Madonna herself.

  If she appreciated his confidence in her, or recognized his dream, she did not show it. “So you will not agree.”

  “I will not.” The words were calm, though he could, if required, be more forceful.

  “Then I don’t believe I can present my favor to you for the tourney.”

  She thought to reserve her public favor if he would not agree to forgo the private one accorded him by their vows. Anger at the threat heated the back of his neck, pounding in his blood with an odd roiling pain.

  It would avail her nothing to spurn his request, or him. He realized she would have misgivings and fears about the bedding, but he was not a brute to take his pleasure while giving none in return. He had waited longer than he wanted to make her his wife. Did she not realize that he could have had her the night before, taking her there in the castle garden in a bed of mint or parsley? He had delayed for her sake, because he thought she would prefer comfort, privacy and sanctity. He would wait not an instant longer than necessary.

  She had miscalculated if she thought to withhold anything from him. He would have her favors this day, all of them, one way or another.

  Isabel seethed quietly as she sat in her place of honor at the high table for the wedding breakfast. How she despised being a pawn in the king’s game, moved here and there, sacrificed at his royal will.

  Properly wedded and bedded.

  Those were the words Henry had used during the audience in his Star Chamber, the words which gave Braesford such authority over their wedding night. It was the king’s command that the union be consummated. That and tradition, of course. Women were supposed to be accommodating in these matters, giving their bodies into the hands of their husbands without the least protest or repining.

  It was insupportable.

  Nevertheless, she must support it. What else was she to do? She could not run away, for a woman alone on the streets or roads was at the mercy of every man. If she requested protection, any gentleman strong enough to snatch her away from her new husband could well be worse than Braesford. An appeal to the king was useless since it was he who commanded her to submit.

  The only person she could count on was herself. She might yet find a way to avoid what was to come. But if not, then she could at least make certain she was not the only one to suffer.

  “Wine?” her husband asked, offering the gold goblet they shared as the guests of honor.

  “Thank you, no,” she said shortly. It was impossible to eat, and she would not drink on an empty stomach. She needed her wits about her.

  “You have not swallowed a morsel. You will make yourself ill.”

  “I am touched by your concern, however belated.”

  His smile was as cool as her tone had been. “Your well-being is of great interest to me. I would not have a fainting bride.”

  “Then mayhap you will look elsewhere for a bed-mate.”

  “Or use extra effort to revive you. I wonder what it would take beyond a kiss. I could, for instance, bare a breast and lick my way from—”

  Shock, and something more virulent, coursed along her veins. “Please! Someone will hear you.”

  “And be entertained, I make no doubt, but what odds? We are wed, after all.”

  “I require no reminder,” she said with an edge to her voice.

  “I cannot agree. You seem in frequent need of it. Having Henry’s blessing, it will be my great pleasure to supply the lack daily, nightly, morning and noon. Come with me now and I will show you—”

  “Nothing! You will show me nothing, for the day has far to run before we must—”

  “Not so,” he corrected her, his features set and dark. “There is no appointed hour. And it is you who must, while for me it is otherwise. I will it. I long for it. I die for the lack.”

  It was not the morning heat of late August in the hall that suffused her. “Don’t be foolish.”

  “It is you who are foolish for depriving both of us, though not for long. Have you no curiosity as to what you are missing? Do you not crave a taste before the midnight feast?” He reached under the hanging edge of the table’s cloth to place a firm, warm hand on her thigh.

  The muscle of her upper leg leaped as if jolted by lightning. She thrust beneath the cloth also, clutching at his wrist. “I…I am content to wait.”

  “Why, when there is no need?”

  He was moving his fingers, gathering folds of her skirt under his hand, inching it higher with amazing dexterity. “Stop it,” she said in a desperate, hissing whis
per.

  “Give me a forfeit and mayhap I will,” he suggested, the daring in his eyes like the flash of a steel blade. “A kiss would be acceptable.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “You should recognize the ploy.”

  She did, though that did not make it more tolerable. He had reached her hem, for she could feel his warm fingertips gliding up her inner thigh. A heated shiver ran over her, along with a species of panic. She caught at his fingers but he eluded her grasp, inching higher toward the juncture of her thighs. It seemed everyone was watching the two of them, smirking a little as if they guessed what was taking place at the high table. They could not see for the overhang of heavy cloth on the side which faced them. Surely, they could not.

  “Desist at once!” she said a trifle breathlessly. “I beg of you.”

  “Kiss me,” he said, his voice a low murmur, his eyes holding hers.

  She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. It was too demeaning. And yet he was brushing across the sensitive bend between her thigh and upper body, questing toward the fine curls unprotected by braies in the summer heat, grazing the top of the small mound from which they sprang. Driven by desperation, she made a claw of her hand and dug her nails into his skin.

  He smiled. “So you are a scratcher in the throes of passion. Do you bite?”

  She could guess what he meant, but had not the knowledge to be certain of it. “No, I could not…”

  “Kiss me,” he whispered, his eyes turning darker as he touched her, burrowed gently into the small cleft he had found, pressing into soft folds with a small, insinuating motion.

  She caught her breath, sank her nails deeper. He seemed not to feel the pain. Appalled by the race of excitement in her veins, the peculiar sensation as if her very bones were dissolving, Isabel searched his face. Perspiration gleamed on his forehead and his chest rose and fell in deeper rhythm with his breathing. He was not unaffected by what he was doing under the table. It was some consolation.

  Holding her gaze, he probed deeper with a single long finger, there in plain view of the gathering of nobles, mere feet from the king and queen. Isabel could bear it no longer. She closed her eyes, made her decision. With a small sound between a prayer and curse, she leaned to press her lips to his.

  He opened his mouth to her, swept her lips with his tongue, slid between her teeth. And his invasion matched the small, twisting movements he made against the very center of her body. She gasped, shuddered, as fire raced over the surface of her skin. An instant later, the sensation coalesced below her waist, seeped in liquid heat against the palm of his hand.

  He stiffened beside her, the muscles of his shoulder where she leaned against him going as hard as stone. For long seconds, he did not move. Then his sigh brushed across her cheek. He withdrew by slow degrees, brushed the skirt of her gown back into place. She drew back while shielding her gaze with her lashes.

  In that same moment, she grew aware of the low murmur of voices with an undercurrent of laughter. Hot mortification assailed her. She longed to leap to her feet and leave the dais, to be lost among the lowest of those below the salt, to retreat to the chamber she shared with her sisters in virginal security and never think again of marriage or a husband.

  It was not possible. Some things must be endured, no matter the cost.

  She lifted her chin and straightened her spine, glared directly into the silver-gray eyes of her groom and forced her lips to form a smile. “You have had your forfeit, sir, and may it content you.”

  “Hardly,” he said with a lazy smile. “I fear my appetite has only been whetted for more. Such a tender morsel I discovered, I can hardly wait to taste it entire.”

  “Sir!”

  “Though I do believe, after what we just shared, that you might call me Rand.”

  He meant their shared vows; that was all. As for what he wished to taste, he could not mean—no, surely not! He was only attempting to discompose her.

  She could not permit him to succeed. Or, at least, would not allow him to know it. Controlling her imagination with fierce effort, she turned from him and picked up a small meat pie that rested on the plate between them. She bit into it, intent on appearing oblivious if it killed her. And so it might, she thought as she chewed and swallowed against the knot in her throat. She could not have said what was within the flaky crust. It tasted of nothing in her mouth except ashes and regret.

  The wedding tournament was held at Tothill Fields, beyond the confines of Westminster town. An open area set with copses of trees, it was the scene of a three-day fair every year, in addition to bull-baitings, bear-and-dog fights, cockfights and the occasional hanging. A pavilion, canopied for shade against the August sun, had been constructed for the king, queen, their attendants and honored guests, which today included Isabel and her two sisters. The billowing white tents where the knights and their horses would be armored for the contest stretched away beyond it. Everyone else straggled in an uneven row on either side, sitting their horses or perched on the seats of carts. Some few had brought Saracen carpets, stools and baskets of provisions for their greater comfort, also servants with fans to wave away the heat and the flies. Behind these titled personages, the people of the town gathered in a noisy, milling crowd. Ale and wine sellers moved among them, along with purveyors of cakes and pies and wild fruit, and the ever-present cutpurses and doxies.

  As Braesford had foretold, it was not to be a civilized joust with knights in plate armor tilting at one another with lances. Rather it was a true melee of a kind forbidden to mere nobles. Armor was restricted to light mail made of steel links for ease and maneuverability. Bodily injury was common in the heat of the contest, and feuds almost inevitable. By common decree, such meetings were restricted to the entertainment of kings in England and throughout Europe.

  In this imitation battle, ranks of knights were assigned to opposite ends of a field. At a signal, they would ride toward one another, meeting in the middle ground with a mighty clash. The only weapons allowed were swords blunted at the tip, along with shields to defend against them. A knight retreating from the fray could be chased down, captured and held for ransom. The man judged the bravest, strongest and most cunning in the fight would receive a grand prize from the king. And if bloody wounds and other bodily injury were not inflicted, the crowd would be sorely disappointed.

  The sun beamed down with piercing heat, dust rose from the feet of milling horses and the crowd buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Hardly a breath of air stirred under the canopy where Isabel sat as guest of honor. She fanned herself with a sheet of parchment set in a bent willow frame, but still felt flushed. Her most fervent wish was to be elsewhere. She had never been present at a melee, but had heard of them. She did not look forward to seeing who would be jeered from the field for clumsiness or cowardice, who sliced by a dull sword edge, knocked from the saddle and trampled, maimed or worse. That the king had ordered this event in token of her marriage to Braesford might be an honor, but it was one she could have forgone.

  It was inevitable, so it seemed, that her new husband and Graydon should be directed to opposite sides of the field. Viscount Henley’s bulk was recognizable at her stepbrother’s side, while Braesford’s half brother, William McConnell, seemed to be assigned to the same troop as Rand. She recognized a few more combatants by their colors and fluttering pennons marked by symbols and devices—such as Graydon’s boar, the viscount’s bear, Braesford’s raven—but could not begin to put names to them all. A part of the reason was that they did not remain in one place, but rode here and there to limber their muscles, to check the security of their equipment or shake the fidgets from their mounts.

  She kept Braesford’s pennon—of white and blue marked by a black raven with spread wings—in view. Along with his squire, David, he appeared to be examining the ground where the main clash was to occur. He rode with his gaze on the grassy earth, quartering back and forth, though she was uncertain what he expected to find. Perhaps it was merely to guard against su
rprises in the way of uneven ground or rabbit holes.

  He appeared satisfied at last, for a short time later he wheeled his mount, left his squire and rode slowly toward the pavilion. King Henry was just settling onto his throne, and Braesford gave him a formal bow from horseback before turning to her.

  “Madam Braesford, my lady,” he called out, saluting her with a gloved fist held at the level of his heart, dipping his head, which was covered by his mail coif but no helm as yet. “A thousand salutations to you on this our bridal day! I, a poor knight about to ride in tourney, beg a favor for my encouragement and protection in this fight. Will you not give it me?”

  She had told him she would not, yet here he was with a public request. She stared at him with compressed lips and indignation in her eyes, but he seemed unaffected—nay, undaunted—in accord with his personal motto. The man sat waiting, quite devastatingly handsome in his shining mail of metal links that was perfectly fitted to his powerful frame and covered by a pristine white tunic emblazoned with his device. He dared her to deny him, dared her to make him a laughingstock by proving that his bride would not present her favor and her blessing.

  She should refuse. It was what Braesford deserved for his stubbornness over her Tobias Night plea, and particularly after the dastardly advantage he had taken at the breakfast table. It was unlikely he required such a boon in any case. Let him do what he might without it.

  The king was waiting, as well, a frown congealing his stern features. Elizabeth of York appeared embarrassed. One of her ladies-in-waiting tittered, whispering to another behind her hand, while Cate and Marguerite murmured with their heads close together. At the end of the pavilion, leaning against the corner post, Leon, Master of Revels, strummed his lute and smiled ever so slightly. It was impossible to say, of course, whether his wry amusement was for her dilemma or only at the folly of mankind.

  It was in this strained moment that a small boy ran out onto the field. No more than three years old, blond and cherubic, he laughed in high glee at his escape into the open, while his chubby little legs churned beneath his short doublet and his fine curls gleamed in the sun. He looked back over his shoulder as if for pursuit from a woman who called in a high-pitched wail, paying no attention whatever to where he ran. He flashed behind Braesford, dodged a squire leading a stallion half-blinded by its protected armor and pelted straight into the path of a galloping knight.