Chapter Twenty-Two
April 4, 1533
“First Iris and now Rupert!” Sandhurst exclaimed incredulously, throwing up his hands. “Why don’t we just have a ball and invite the whole of London?”
Throgmorton coughed, uncertain whether a response was desired by the marquess. “I—uh…”
“Never mind, Throgmorton. It’s certainly not your fault and I appreciate the warning. We shall be down presently.”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you.”
When the door was closed, Andrew rubbed tense fingers over his face. “Argh!”
Micheline couldn’t help smiling. “Didn’t you say that Rupert is a twit? Poor thing. He probably worships you.”
Rolling his eyes, Sandhurst returned to the bed and threw himself across it. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“You ought to make an effort to be kind to him.”
“Don’t say things like that until you’ve spent an hour in Rupert’s company. He’s absolutely—” He searched in vain for a word to describe his half brother.
The sight of him sprawled on his back across the sun-drenched bed was more temptation than Micheline could resist. Mischievously she hitched up her skirts and crawled over to rest her face against his neck, breathing in the clean scent of his pleated white fraise. His arm rounded her back, drawing her near until her breasts pressed his ribs.
“I don’t want to go downstairs,” Sandhurst stated flatly.
“We must.” Micheline caressed the soft camlet doublet that covered his chest.
“I have all the sustenance I need right here.” Turning on his side to face her, he slowly ran his right hand down Micheline’s spine, then explored the curve of her derriere through the fabric of her gown and petticoats.
They shared a sweet, lingering kiss.
“You have a guest, my lord,” she reminded him, even as arousal coursed through her veins.
“The devil take my guest,” he muttered. He kissed her again, then a third time. “As for dinner, you are infinitely more delicious than mere food.”
Micheline pushed weakly at his chest. “I thought you said that we would not make love again until we were married.”
“I’ve reconsidered my position on that matter.”
His mouth seemed to scorch her throat, and her breasts were already tingling within her bodice, but Micheline summoned all her powers of resistance. “I would rather stay here with you, Andrew, but this is my first day in your home, and the impression I make could be lasting. I really think that we ought to go downstairs before your staff—and your half brother—form a poor opinion of me.”
Sandhurst sighed heavily and released her, sitting up. “You’re right, of course.” He shook his head dazedly. “I must be going mad.”
Crossing to the mirror, Micheline laughed and surveyed her radiant reflection. A quick application of her brush tamed the few wayward curls that flowed loose down her back. Andrew was waiting in the doorway.
“After you,” he said with an ironic flourish, following Micheline into the corridor.
Downstairs Andrew tucked her hand around the crook of his arm and led her into the parlor, where Rupert Topping sat alone at a long table set for three.
Micheline smiled with an effort, for she was more inclined to gape. Was it possible that this thin, pasty, ferret-faced person could be a blood relation of Andrew’s? The young man who approached them, smiling madly, was barely taller than she, with lank brown hair, small nervous eyes, long teeth, and a receding chin. He wore a doublet of apple-green satin, rings, neck chains, sleeve brooches, and garters set with rubies below bony knees. His large feet, encased in spade-shaped shoes, pointed outward when he walked.
“Sandhurst! You’re home! Everyone’s been so worried about you! Where’ve you been?” he exclaimed loudly, arms outstretched.
Andrew extended his hand, avoiding the brotherly embrace Rupert sought. “Hello, Rupert. Allow me to present Madame Micheline Tevoulere, my future wife.”
“What? What?! Did I hear correctly? Wife?” Letting out a rather manic laugh, he turned to Micheline. “Bun-jar! Ha-ha, as they say in France, what? Well, well, I must say, this is a surprise!”
Somehow she managed to disguise her true reaction, smiling instead and replying, “It is a pleasure to meet you, M’sieur Topping.”
“I say!” Rupert ejaculated, peering up at Sandhurst. “She speaks English! Well done, old boy!” He then turned to grab Micheline’s hand and kissed it wetly. “None of this monseer folderol for us! I’m family, after all! You must call me Rupert and I’ll call you Micheline.”
At that point she could not resist a bit of mischief. “How sweet of you, Roo-pair!”
He stared, then laughed nervously. “Perhaps you ought to practice that a bit, Micheline. In England we say Rupert.”
Andrew wanted to turn and leave right then, taking Micheline with him, but the servants were entering with platters of food. “I’m ravenous,” he said. “Let’s sit down.”
They took their places, with Sandhurst at the head of the table and Micheline and Rupert on either side, facing each other. Wine was poured, followed by mussel and fennel stew with dumplings.
“How different the food is here!” marveled Micheline after her first bite of dumpling.
Sandhurst smiled fondly. Her hair, set a-sparkle by the sun, tumbled down to frame an exquisitely lovely face. At that moment, however, his favorite feature was Micheline’s right cheek, which bulged out because of the dumpling she could not bear to swallow.
“You look adorable!” he chuckled. “Try to get that bite down, fondling, and then I’d advise you to try a slightly less adventurous approach to any foods you don’t recognize. You mustn’t expect to become English in one day!”
The affection in Sandhurst’s eyes made Micheline feel giddy. She forgot all else, swallowing the dumpling with ease, then realized what had happened and joined in his gentle laughter.
“You mean to say that there are no dumplings in France?” Rupert appeared genuinely distressed by that possibility. “Lucky thing I hate traveling! Couldn’t live without my dumplings!”
Remembering Rupert’s nerve-racking French accent, Micheline wanted to say that his unwillingness to leave home was lucky for France as well, but she held her tongue.
Sandhurst, meanwhile, gave his half brother a sharp sidelong glance. “That reminds me. Why are you here, Rupert? It really wasn’t necessary for you to come all the way from Yorkshire just to call on me….”
A salad of purslane, tarragon, and watercress was served, then fresh pink shrimp, and pike with gooseberry sauce. Rupert tasted everything before replying. “I’d travel any distance to call on you, Sandhurst! You know that! I’d go to any lengths, suffer any hardship, if it meant that—”
“I know, I know. Spare me the discourse on your familial devotion and tell me why you’re in London.”
“Well, well…” Rupert shifted uneasily in his chair and darted a look at Micheline. “You see, the duke sent me south to find out what’s happened to you. He was rather concerned that you might have, uh—flown the coop, if you take my meaning.”
“Fine. Now you can return to Aylesbury Castle and tell him that I only ‘flew’ as far as France. I wanted to meet Madame Tevoulere before sentencing her to a lifetime of my company. Fortunately for me, the lady seems to like me well enough.” Micheline laughed softly and reached out to touch his cheek. He caught her hand and held it before adding dryly, “I’m certain that Father will be vastly relieved to learn how happy I am with the arrangement.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure he will!” Rupert nodded antically. “He’s been brooding awfully about this, imagining that you were plotting some scheme to undo all his plans, but I did my very best to reassure him! I’ve always taken your side, Sandhurst, since you’re never there to defend yourself.”
“I’ve told you before that I’d rather you wouldn’t.”
“God’s toes, I’ll be so happy when Lent is over!” Rupert w
as exclaiming. “Fish, fish, fish! Not that you haven’t got a fine cook, Sandhurst, but I’m sick to death of the stuff. The castle gamekeeper brought down a magnificent red deer last week, and we’ve all been salivating in anticipation!”
Sandhurst met Micheline’s eyes, his brows flicking upward almost imperceptibly. A serving girl appeared with a covered dish of spinach fritters, one of which Micheline tasted tentatively. Under a fried batter, she discovered a mixture of spinach, bread crumbs, egg, and currants, flavored with ginger and cinnamon.
“This is very good!” When Andrew gave her a look of dubious amusement, she giggled. “Truly! I like this food extremely well.”
“At least they’re not fish,” Rupert put in.
Casting about for a topic that might be bearable, Andrew inquired, “How fares my sister Cicely?”
“Her health is fine.” Suddenly he was intent on his half-eaten pike.
“And otherwise?”
“Well, you know I don’t like to carry tales, but I have to say that Cicely hasn’t been particularly agreeable lately. Patience, who is unwaveringly sweet-tempered, as you will remember, has tried to interest our sister in the coming wedding, yet the girl continues to sulk about the castle. I must say that she hasn’t done your case with the duke any good, for Cicely continues to insist that you won’t be getting married. She says that you didn’t want any part of it, and that you were very angry about the whole situation.” Flushing under Sandhurst’s cold stare, he cleared his throat. “Don’t suppose that was very tactful of me, what? My apologies, Micheline.”
She gave him a charming smile. Dinner had begun to take on the proportions of a comedy as far as she was concerned, and nothing could penetrate her amusement.
“Take heart!” Rupert reassured her. “There’s at least one person at Aylesbury Castle who will be kind to you, and that’s my dear wife, Patience. She has already begun airing her wedding dress in case you didn’t bring one from France!”
“We will not be needing Patience’s gown,” Sandhurst stated flatly.
Looking offended, Rupert tried to thrust out his nonexistent chin. “She wishes only to help.”
“Please, tell your wife that I appreciate her kind thought,” Micheline said. This fellow might be a twit, but clearly he couldn’t help it. She wished that Andrew would not make his loathing quite so apparent, at least in Rupert’s company!
Candied oranges and green walnut suckets, which had been made by dipping the nuts in boiling syrup, finished the meal. After a while Sandhurst suggested they take their spiced wine outside to the garden.
“I suppose you’ll want to be on your way back to Yorkshire this afternoon, Rupert,” he said when they were in the sunshine. Micheline winced a little.
“I thought I might go to Hampton Court first. The duke would want me to pass along the news of your return to King Henry.”
“Don’t bother. I plan to take Micheline there myself within the next day or two, and I will speak to the king then.”
Rupert glanced up at his half brother’s face, about to protest, when he saw a telltale muscle flex in Andrew’s jaw. “Well, all right, then. I meant only to save you the trouble.”
“I have said this to you over and over, but it doesn’t seem to sink in.” Sandhurst stopped on the pathway and stared hard at the smaller man. “It’s my life, Rupert. I’ll take care of my affairs as I see fit, whether they involve my father, the king, or my marriage, and I would appreciate it if you would turn your attention to your own life.”
For a moment Micheline was afraid that Rupert might begin to cry. His chin trembled as he nodded in reply, then looked away toward the river. She found herself pitying him in the same way she pitied children whose high spirits were doused by hard-hearted parents. She wished she might appeal to Andrew, but he was walking away from them down the path, and the taut set of his shoulders told her that he would not soften on this issue.
In the next instant Rupert seemed to forget the unpleasantness. “Look!” he cried in a shrill voice, pointing downriver. “It’s Anne Boleyn’s new barge!” Excited by the fact that he knew something Sandhurst didn’t, he rushed forward to provide instruction. “You see, it used to be Queen Catherine’s. Anne, I hear, grew so angry because the queen won’t accept her new position as princess dowager that she had her chamberlain seize Catherine’s barge on the Thames. The king knew nothing about it! Anne gave instructions that the queen’s coat of arms should be erased, so the barge was then decorated in Anne’s heraldic colors—blue and purple, with her own new coat of arms. Oh, my, how exciting! Can you see her at all? This has all happened in just the last two days. London is buzzing!”
Micheline shaded her eyes against the sunshine and tried to catch a glimpse of the barge’s occupant as it passed Weston House. The boat was filled with liveried servants, but the one female sat in shadows—until she stood suddenly and waved to Sandhurst.
“I say! That was Anne Boleyn herself!” shouted Rupert. “I nearly forgot! You know her quite well, don’t you, brother?”
“We’re acquainted.”
Micheline felt a sharp twinge of jealousy when he raised his hand in greeting to Anne Boleyn. From a distance the Marquess of Pembroke appeared quite attractive. Jewels sparkled in her dark hair, her figure was fine, and she had a pretty smile that looked decidedly flirtatious to Micheline. When Andrew returned that smile, the twinge in her heart intensified.
“Is it true that Anne and the king were married secretly in January? I heard no confirmation in France,” Sandhurst said.
“Oh, yes, it’s open knowledge now,” Rupert reported. “They say she’s with child.”
“I don’t doubt it,” interjected Micheline.
Looking down at her in surprise, Andrew watched as color stained her cheeks. Comprehension dawned, and he wrapped an arm about her. She nestled happily against his chest, hoping that Anne Boleyn still watched them.
Inhaling the fragrance of her hair, Sandhurst said to his relative, “You’d better be on your way, Rupert, if you’re going to take advantage of the daylight.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll go now. That reminds me—didn’t I see Lady Dangerfield leaving here as I arrived at midday?” He attempted a conspiratorial wink. “I’ll wager that’s one person who didn’t offer congratulations when told of your impending nuptials—though, of course, she won’t be the only lady in London with a broken heart, eh what?”
Sandhurst closed his eyes for a moment and smothered an expletive. “Goodbye, Rupert!”
*
Micheline sensed that this was not the time to speak to Andrew about Rupert, and she could see that he wanted to forget that his half brother had disrupted their peace at all. She decided that it would be better to approach him after a few days had passed, when his irritation would be just a memory.
They spent the afternoon riding. Sandhurst took her into the streets of London, which were so narrow and crowded with wagons, tumbrils, barrows, and drays that at times they couldn’t move at all. The Strand had been so lovely, lined with the homes of the rich, that Micheline was rather unprepared for the filth and congestion that awaited her deeper into the city, but she viewed it all as an adventure, especially with Andrew next to her.
Cheapside was one of the few wide streets in London, and also the sight of the city’s largest market. In a kaleidoscope of color and noise, country folk were wedged together behind trestle tables covered with baskets of their wares. The latter included everything from butter and eggs to sturgeon and shrimp. Micheline was fascinated by the sound of so many English voices as buyers and sellers haggled over the price and quality of the goods.
Sandhurst bought her a pretty box of comfits with a painting of London on its lid, then they turned back and slowly wound their way toward Weston House. Once in the Strand, however, he asked if she would enjoy some real exercise. Micheline grinned instantly and they rode on into the countryside below Charing Cross.
Before long they sighted a magnificent palace built
along the riverfront, while new buildings had been erected covering acres and acres on the other side of the public thoroughfare.
“This is Whitehall Palace,” Andrew explained. “It used to be Cardinal Wolsey’s York Place, but he turned it over to the king five years ago. All of this”—he gestured to the sprawling profusion of galleries, towers, lodgings, and halls on their right—“has been built since then.”
“Why would the cardinal give up such a splendid home?”
“Oh, it wasn’t the first time. Hampton Court was Wolsey’s too. This last gift, however, came at a time when the old cardinal had fallen from favor. The king expected him to efficiently arrange the divorce from Catherine of Aragon, and when that didn’t come to pass, it proved Wolsey’s downfall.”
“Did he go to… the Tower?” Micheline had heard that a gruesome fate befell anyone sent to the Tower of London. English kings could condemn men to its dungeons on a whim. The prisoners were kept in dark rat-infested ceils to suffer horribly from the use of evil instruments of torture. These spine-chilling tales had been confirmed for her by the sight of pirates hanging in chains from the Tower when they’d passed by that morning on the Thames.
“No,” Sandhurst replied, “but I’m sure he would have ended there if he hadn’t died first.”
A shiver ran down Micheline’s back. “It seems harsh punishment for something that the cardinal may not have been able to control. I mean, the pope has final say, does he not?”
“You’re right, fondling, but more than just the divorce brought Wolsey low. You know the intrigues that abound at a royal court. The cardinal was a shrewd, powerful man who made many enemies—and probably earned them.” He ran a hand through his hair and smiled grimly. “Be that as it may, I have never been intimately acquainted with the machinations of King Henry’s court. I stay away as much as possible, and prefer it that way.”
“Good.” As they passed under one of the bridges recently built to connect the old palace with its new wings, Micheline reached out to Andrew and he grasped her hand firmly. “I never felt comfortable at Fontainebleau. I like a cozier home… and the company of only a few people whom I love and trust.”
Lords of the Isles Page 50
