By His Majesty's Grace

by Jennifer Blake

  As for what he had said as they made love, she would not think of it.

  She had not asked his meaning. She knew full well that he meant her to understand he preferred to die rather than that she should continue with what she was doing. To hear a fuller explanation would have been more painful than having the simple thought lodged in her mind. Though how it could possibly hurt more, she could not imagine.

  To leave him had been a wrenching agony. It was only made bearable by the knowledge that causing a scene might make it impossible for her to return.

  David waited for her at the end of the passage that led away from Rand’s prison chamber. Isabel pulled the hood of her lightweight cloak closer around her face as she caught sight of the lad. Though she had worn it to protect her gown against street offal and discourage unwanted attention, she was glad of the concealment it provided. She regretted nothing of the moments just past, but neither did she care to display the results to all and sundry.

  David glanced at her and looked away again as he fell into step beside her. They walked on for several yards before he spoke. “What had he to say?”

  The question was gruff. Rousing from her introspection, Isabel glanced at the young man beside her. He had grown taller and broader in the passing days, gaining a greater air of confidence. Time and responsibility had that affect, she thought, and worry.

  “Much as you predicted. I am to tend to my embroidery and leave him to die.”

  “But you won’t.”

  He spoke as if there was no doubt. In all truth, how could there be? “I shall not.”

  “Have you any idea of what you will do now?”

  “I must seek a person or persons who cannot be bribed.”

  His blue gaze was keen. “Is it a riddle?”

  “You could say so.”

  “But you know the answer?”

  She walked on for several steps, her mind moving in swift thought on that question. As she came to a simple, inescapable conclusion, she halted.

  “David?”

  “Milady?” He stopped beside her, his expression watchful as he glanced around them then looked back to her.

  “Who holds Sir Rand’s confidence beyond all others? Who would he trust with what he values most?”

  “You, milady,” he answered without hesitation.

  She flushed a little, but shook her head. “You, I think. And that being so, tell me, where were you reared before Rand came upon you on the streets? Where were you brought as a foundling?”

  “A convent, milady.”

  “Of which there are any number hereabouts.”

  “Aye.”

  “Aye,” she repeated, her voice soft, “so which convent?”

  He paled and uncertainty darkened his eyes as he gazed down at her. In the distance could be heard the moan and mutter of prisoners and the unlovely calls of ravens. A draft blowing down the corridor where they stood stirred his hair, lifted her veil. Finally, he sighed. Inclining his head in acquiescence, he told her what she wanted to know.

  David left her at the gates of the palace. Isabel was pensive as she made her way toward her chamber, trying to decide what must be done with the knowledge she’d gained. She well knew her first instinct, but not what was best. So deep were her thoughts that she failed to notice Gwynne approaching until she was almost upon her.

  “Milady, I came to warn you,” she called. “A visitor awaits in your chamber. Viscount Henley declares he will not leave without a word with you.” Hectic color flared in the serving woman’s face. She breathed in huffing rhythm that seemed as much from annoyance as from hurrying.

  “Does he indeed?” Such a visit was highly irregular. The only reason her stepbrother’s great oaf of a friend dared breach her privacy was because Rand was not able to call him to account.

  “I told him you would not see him, milady, but he insisted. If you care to stay away until he leaves, I will come tell you when it’s safe to return. Or I can summon one of the king’s guards.”

  Isabel was in no mood to endure a commotion or to be kept from her chamber and its amenities. “Did he say what was so important?”

  “No, milady.”

  “Mayhap it’s to do with Graydon.” It was also possible his purpose might have bearing on the inquiry she and Lady Margaret were pursuing. Though she had said nothing of it to her stepbrother or his friend, she was sure the activity had not escaped their notice. Indeed, the entire court, or what was left of it in Henry’s absence, must be aware of it.

  “And mayhap it’s not,” Gwynne said darkly.

  “We had better go and see, I think,” Isabel said, and walked on with militant firmness in her step.

  “Lady Isabel,” the viscount said in a bass rumble as he rose from a stool near the chamber’s single window to sketch a bow. “Forgive the intrusion, I beg.”

  “Certainly, if you bring no ill news.” Gwynne reached to untie Isabel’s cloak and take it from her, but she hardly noticed in her preoccupation with her visitor. That was until she glanced down and noticed again the wrinkles that marred the linen of her gown. The light in the room was dim, however, due to the leaden skies that hovered beyond the open window. It was possible her visitor would not notice. “Have you, perhaps, come from Graydon? I’ve not seen him in this age.”

  “Nay, milady, though he is well enough, up and about his affairs as usual.”

  “I am pleased to hear it,” she said, though with a mental grimace for what manner of affairs her stepbrother might have in hand. “And you, sir? What affair brings you here?”

  “A request, you might say.”

  “Of what nature, if you please?”

  He shifted in apparent discomfort, putting a foot forward, securing his hat closer under one arm. “I would that you might speak to the king about my suit when the time comes.”

  She stared at him for a moment. “Your suit.”

  “For your hand. I have wanted you to wife for long years, milady, and would not lose you again.”

  “I have a husband,” she said in sharp rebuke.

  “But not for long.”

  “You can’t know that!”

  A stubborn expression closed over the viscount’s battered features. “It’s plain enough, I think.”

  She would not argue with him. It would serve no real purpose, and might seem to admit doubt. “Even should I be in need of another groom, you must know I have little say in the matter.”

  “Nay, but ye have the king’s favor and that of his lady mother, the Duchess of Richmond and Derby. Only see how you are consulted by Lady Margaret, a mark of favor indeed.”

  Something in his tone made Isabel think, suddenly, that the viscount might be curious about the association. He had not asked directly, but could be hoping to hear how it came about. Perversely, she was not inclined to tell him. “It means nothing.”

  “Yet tongues clack, saying the two of you hold your private councils as Henry does in his Star Chamber. With your sisters beside you, betimes, it becomes a womanish version of the same.”

  “I vow it’s no such thing. Lady Margaret seeks to aid her son by taking the burden of some minor judgments from him. You will grant, surely, that she has that right.”

  “As she put him on the throne, I daresay she can claim any right she chooses,” he answered, his deep voice as dry as tomb dust.

  Isabel’s smile was brief. “Just so. But nothing we have discussed in such councils has bearing on my future. Now if you will excuse me, I have had a tiring morning and would like to rest.”

  He scowled, making no more move to go than if he had been attached by roots growing into the stone. “Have you discovered aught? In these councils, I mean?”

  “Such as?” It might prove instructive, she thought, to know what he expected of them.

  “Why, who killed the Frenchwoman, if ’twas not your husband, and what became of her babe. Is that not what ye want to know?”

  Did he mock her? She had doubted he was capable of it. His stolid face
showed no glimmer of it now. “On these things,” she said carefully, “we have made little progress, to be sure.”

  “You being so close to the business, could be you’ve heard when Braesford will come before the King’s Court for his crime?”

  She was forced to swallow before she could reply. “Certainly not until after Henry’s heir is born and he returns to Westminster.”

  “Nay, but I suppose you’ll know how to answer when they ask where your husband was the night the king’s whore died, and how he appeared when you saw him later.”

  Isabel turned sharply away to hide her shock. Her gaze met that of her serving woman for an instant of silent communication. As she kept nothing from Gwynne, both knew the viscount’s words were amazingly like the instructions in the message she had received. Was it a coincidence, or did he have knowledge of it? If the last, was Graydon involved as his close companion? Had her stepbrother learned discretion, at last, that he thought to persuade her to do what he wanted instead of bullying her into it?

  Yes, and what did either man know of Mademoiselle Juliette’s death? Were they behind that terrible business, or only attempting to take advantage of it?

  It made no difference. She could not be cajoled or forced into helping convict Rand with lies. “I know exactly what to say,” she answered with perfect truth.

  “Ah, well. Then I expect all will turn out as God intends,” Viscount Henley said, sweeping the floor with his hat as he bowed. “Until next we meet, Lady Isabel.”

  He left her then, striding away out the door as Gwynne sprang to hold it open for him. Moving with the crude swagger of some hulking animal, he clapped his hat on his head and stamped along the corridor. He did not look back.

  Isabel stood unmoving as a multitude of thoughts and images swarmed in her head. Abruptly, she swung around, calling for Gwynne to hurry and bring bathing water so she might change her clothing that still held the Tower’s prison stench in its folds. The king’s mother must know of Henley’s and Graydon’s attempt to ensure that Rand hanged. It could make a difference, a dangerous difference.

  Hurrying along the corridors toward the king’s apartments a short time later, she frowned at the tips of her shoes as they flickered from under her skirt with her every step. Really, what was she to make of the viscount? He had always been there like a stool or settle before the fire, seldom noticed but made use of at need. Somehow she had seen him only as the bumbling friend of her stepbrother. Now, she wondered. He might be craftier than he looked. His awkwardness could be mere discomfort in her presence, or even artifice.

  Voices raised in babbling commotion made her look up. All thought of Henley was wiped from her mind as Lady Margaret turned a corner and swept toward her. She was dressed for travel in a serviceable gown of fine black wool covered by a dust cloak of the same that was embroidered in silver thread. Behind her came a gaggle of ladies and serving women, as well as her confessor, her steward and her personal guards. She threw orders over her shoulder as she walked, pulling on embroidered leather gloves at the same time.

  “Ah, there you are, Lady Isabel,” the king’s mother said as she caught sight of her. “I had begun to think I would not see you before my departure.”

  “You are leaving Westminster?” she asked in trepidation as, receiving a regal gesture, she rose from her curtsy and turned to walk beside Lady Margaret. Though it had been clear from the beginning that she could not be long away from the queen consort’s side, the plan had been for her to remain at the palace at least another week.

  “News has come from Winchester. Elizabeth’s physicians expect her to go into labor at any moment. She may be delivering as we speak.”

  The baby was coming early, by all accounting. Though August had turned into September while they held their councils, it was still no more than eight months since the king had wed Elizabeth of York. “You must go, of course. I trust there has been no accident, no difficulty?”

  “None in the least.”

  The rumors which said Henry had bedded his bride between the betrothal and the wedding had apparently been true. That, or else Lady Margaret was putting a good face on the news.

  “I am delighted to hear it,” Isabel said. “Please extend to the queen my profound wishes for an easy confinement, also my warmest felicitations when her child is born.”

  “I shall.”

  “The king has been informed?”

  “A herald was sent with all speed to where he wends his way toward Winchester in progression. No doubt he will be there before me.”

  Isabel hesitated, hardly daring to speak yet afraid to be silent. “And…and this matter we have been looking into here?”

  “I shall surely put it before him,” Lady Margaret said with a brief, harried glance, “later, after the heir is born and duly christened. My son and I will then pursue it with all the vigor at our command.”

  It was as much as she had any right to expect, Isabel knew. She bowed her head in acceptance. “You are kindness itself to keep it in mind.”

  They were nearing the front entrance. The major-domo stood holding the front door through which opening could be seen a spirited white palfrey surrounded by members of the king’s yeoman guard in their distinctive livery.

  Isabel came to a halt, curtsied and moved to one side. “I must not delay you. Godspeed, Your Grace.”

  “May He hold you in His hands,” Lady Margaret said in quiet answer. She moved swiftly on, gliding out the door and down the steps with her cloak flapping, blowing back from her narrow shoulders. A few moments later, she was gone.

  Left alone, Isabel was not certain what she should do. Lady Margaret’s impromptu council was ended for the moment, and there was little she could achieve on her own.

  Or was that strictly true, she thought, remembering the information she had received so short a time ago. Rand’s arrest had prevented him from doing more than hide Juliette d’Amboise’s child away. If little Madeleine could be brought forth and shown to the public, might that not aid his cause?

  Why had Rand not delivered her to Henry? What reason could he have for hiding the child from its father now that Mademoiselle Juliette was no more? Was it possible he didn’t trust the king not to make a permanent end to the threat posed by this small babe?

  Child murder. The words had such an ugly ring.

  Some said it was not Richard III but Henry who had arranged for the deaths of the young sons of Edward IV. Did Rand know it to be true? Was that why he had hidden the child away?

  There was one other possibility. Rand had traveled from Brittany with the king’s forces, had been with Henry every step along the path of invasion. From the victory at Bosworth Field he had come to court, remaining long enough to be awarded the prize he sought. Afterward, he had left London and Westminster, burying himself at Braesford until forced to return by the king’s command. What if he had been Mademoiselle Juliette’s lover and the father of her child? Suppose it was he who had spirited the lady away under guard and later murdered her?

  Oh, but why would he destroy the one person who could swear that the babe had been alive and well long after the midwife left Braesford? No, no, Isabel refused to accept it. He could not have made her his wife so thoroughly, could not have held her, loved her so well, if another woman had been in his heart.

  Could he?

  Rand had been suspected of the death of the baby, but arrested for the deaths of both child and mother. The charges had been fabricated for the dual purpose of embarrassing the king and putting an end to Rand’s life; it could be no other way. If the baby was produced, proving the first crime never took place, surely his guilt in the second must seem less certain?

  If it was not safe to take the baby to its father, to Henry, there was still one other who could be depended upon to hold tiny Madeleine safe from harm, also to see that the implications in her being alive was presented in Rand’s defense when he appeared at the King’s Court. Lady Margaret, Duchess of Richmond and Derby, would serve ad
mirably. She would keep this baby safe because it would benefit her son, but also because, like it or not, she was the child’s grandmother.

  By the time Isabel had worked her way around to that conclusion, she knew exactly what she must do. She also knew where she must go. For the first, she had to trust to her heart. For the second, she need merely persuade David to take her to the only persons in Henry’s wide realm who had no need for riches.

  18

  The Convent of Saint Theresa, on the outskirts of London, was a complex of buildings in cream stone kept safe behind walls of the same mellow material. A world within itself with its chapel, kitchens and cloister from which opened scores of small rooms no larger than cells, it had also a wall garden replete at this season with vegetables and ripening fruit, the trills of birds and hum of bees. It looked a warm and welcoming place in the late-evening quiet, but the abbess was less than convivial.

  Upright and proud, she stood before them with her hands tucked into the wide sleeves of her habit and her features under her wimple set in lines of stern authority. By what right did Lady Isabel seek possession of this child? she demanded. Young David there at her side was well-known to them, yes, but that counted for little. He had brought the child to the convent on guidance from God, one more orphan to join all the others. He had denied being the father, asking only for succor for her. The little one had been well fed and put back into swaddling. She had begun to thrive. To give her over to just anyone might not be in her best interests. The abbess must first be certain of His will in the matter.

  It was dusk-dark with a ghost moon rising by the time Madeleine was handed over to Isabel and David at last. It might not have happened then except that Isabel had invoked the name of Lady Margaret. The duchess, it transpired, was a patron of the nunnery, and honored the abbess from time to time by staying within the convent walls for a few days of prayer. A most holy and gracious lady she was indeed. Why had Isabel not said at once that she had come from the king’s mother?