by Lisa Shea
Philip’s eyes were shadowed. “Then let us head out. While we may have escaped Talbot’s net, there are plenty of other dangers on the streets of London after dark. The sooner we reach the tower, the better.”
Isabel held in a smile. This was her back yard. She had been out countless times with her soldiers at her side, to see a passion play or to enjoy music. But she held her place within the group as it moved its way through narrow alleys and past boisterous taverns. Every step brought her closer to her beloved father. Whatever safeguards the men wished to take, she would agree with them to the letter.
At last the towering walls loomed above them as they approached the gate. Isabel pulled her cloak even more tightly around her face. She did not want any of the guards to know she was here. Not until their mission was complete.
Philip pulled back his hood and moved to the guard. “I need a private audience with the Constable of the Tower. It’s personal business and it’s urgent.”
The guard looked him over with a sharp eye. “Who shall I say is here?”
Philip looked down at his hand and pulled a ring off his finger. “Be sure that this is returned to me,” he instructed in a low voice.
The guard took it and nodded. He waved down a guard from the wall and, once the position was taken, the first guard vanished through the door.
The minutes passed, and Isabel’s heart beat faster with worry. Was she too late? Had her father already reached the point of being unable to leave bed?
Then there was a movement and the door opened. It took all her will to stay still as her father came through the door, his eyes bright with joy. “Alexander! Alexander, my old friend, it is you! It has been years! And they said you were in bed with consumption. You look hearty and hale!”
Isabel blushed crimson. She had known her father was fading, but now he was seeing old friends in strangers’ faces?
Philip accepted the hug with gentle patience. As her father stepped back, he quietly corrected, “You are thinking of my father, Alexander. I am his son, Philip.”
Her father’s eyes sharpened, and he looked at Philip with fresh attention. “Yes, yes, you are the spitting image of him. He must be proud at the man you have grown into. But come, come, bring your friends in and let us sit down. It is so good to have you back.”
The group followed her father into the main courtyard, and Isabel’s heart swelled.
Home.
Everything was just as it had been. The high central keep with its narrow windows. The stables to one side; the barracks to the other. She could have walked the path to her father’s offices with her eyes closed.
Philip was saying, “Back? Have I been here before?”
Her father waved a hand. “You were but a lad of ten, and your father was criss-crossing the country in those days, barely stopping to breathe. It’s no wonder you don’t remember your visit.” He chuckled. “Ah, but you made an impression on my young Izzie.”
Isabel blinked in surprise.
They were passing the massive keep, now, where King John would often stay when in London. Philip barely seemed to see it. “Izzie?”
Her father smiled. “My beloved Isabel. She was all spit and fire when she was young. You should have seen her swinging her wooden sword around, chasing after the soldiers. But when you arrived, it was as if the world fell away and only you existed. She was six, then, and you became her universe. She followed you everywhere.”
He chuckled. “And you, my lad, were as gallant as they come. Never a harsh word to her. You let her tag along as you squired for your father. You answered her countless questions. I tell you, when your father announced it was time for you both to move on, Izzie sobbed as if her heart would never mend.”
Philip’s voice was low. “I’m sorry to have put your daughter through that pain.”
They had reached the stairs now, and her father carefully made his way up the steps. “It was no fault of your own, lad. Your father was just that way. Running off on a moment’s notice, not one to stick around. You were caught up in the wash of his ship. You were none too happy about leaving, either, let me tell you. But go you did, and Izzie was inconsolable. Cried herself to sleep every night. Her cheeks were wet every day. It broke my heart to see it.”
He pushed open the door to his office. “Finally, one of the hunting dogs gave birth and the strongest pup of the lot was up for bid. It cost a pretty penny, but I bought it for my Izzie. She named him Hillie, after you. She couldn’t pronounce your full name, you see, with the hard P sound. So Hillie is who you were, and Hillie the dog became. The two were inseparable after that.”
His mouth turned down. “Well, until the fool girl chose to marry that wastrel Diggory and follow him off to France. I haven’t heard a word from her, either, since they left our shores. I worry that she’s all right.” His eyes shone. “But she’s got spirit to her, that girl of mine. She’ll find a way to make it through.”
The office was lit by several candles on shelves, and a large, wooden desk set before a bank of windows. A scattering of chairs and couches filled the remainder of the space.
Her father went over to a shelf which held several decanters of wine on its top. “Let me pour you something to drink. And here’s some fresh bread. Don’t mind Hillie there, he’s deaf and half-blind. He’ll just sleep away by the fire; I doubt he’ll even know we’re here.”
Isabel’s heart stopped.
There he was. Her beloved Hillie. And she now knew that she had named him after Philip, all those many years ago. She couldn’t remember anything concrete about that summer; only a feeling of joy. Of complete contentment – and then shattering heartache. And then the puppy which helped her find a fresh footing.
Hillie raised his ancient head and looked at her. The frayed end of his tail moved in slow rhythm.
Isabel’s voice broke. “Oh, Hillie!”
She ran to kneel at his side, drawing the frail dog tenderly into her arms. His tongue came out to lap at her face, and she found it was wet with tears. She could feel the bones through his skin, but his body was warm, and he fit within her arms as perfectly as always.
Her father turned in surprise. “What is this?”
She pushed back her hood and looked up at him with shining eyes.
He paled in shock. “Isabel?”
Then he was down with her, hugging her, and she was crying and laughing all at once. By the time they had finished, wine had been poured all around and she gratefully accepted a glass. Her father held his up to her. “To the greatest gift a father could ever ask for. The safe return home of his beloved child.”
Their glasses met, and she drank through a tight throat.
He eased onto the couch, and she sat at his side, leaning against him in fondness. His arm came up around her. “But how can this be? And where is your husband?”
She gave a wry smile. “You were right about him, Father, in everything you said and felt. He was a wastrel and a dissolute drunk. My life with him was a far cry from my hopeful imaginings. But he still did not deserve the end he received. About two months ago he was run down in the streets of Paris by a nobleman’s carriage. He died instantly. It took me this long to pay off his debts and find passageway back home.”
His brow creased in concern. “My dearest! But why did you not get word to me?”
She sighed, looking down into her wine. “I did try to write you, before he was killed, but he always found the letters and destroyed them. Then, after he was gone …” She shrugged and looked down at Hillie, who was curled up against her feet. “I suppose I was ashamed. Everything you had said was true. I had to come home and admit defeat.”
Her father warmly patted her shoulder. “Life is about learning and trying, my dear. We all make mistakes. That is how we grow. I am just glad you are home safe.”
He looked up at the four men arrayed around him. “And I am grateful to you four for seeing her safely to her home again. Whatever price you wish, it is yours.”
Philip
shook his head. “We need no payment. We are content that she has made it safely to her destination.”
Isabel turned to her father. “But you cannot tell any that I am here – and I cannot stay.”
His brow creased in confusion. “What do you mean?”
She drew in a long, deep breath. “We are on a secret mission.”
His eyes hardened, and he turned to Philip. “What have you gotten my daughter involved in?”
He put up his hands. “I advised against this. But she was bent on seeing it through.”
Her father’s shoulders eased, and he gave a low chuckle. “That’s the Izzie I know.” He turned back to her. “So tell me about this mission you are on. From the beginning.”
And she did. Isabel knew her father had an astute mind and had been through countless sieges and campaigns. She laid out every detail she could remember, from when Marianne had killed the two messengers to the planned sinking of the ship. From the pirates who had come to transport the lady to the machinations of Talbot. Philip and the others chimed in with their thoughts on the sequence of events.
The glasses had been refilled by the time the tale had been told. Her father sat back, his brow shadowed.
“And now you are planning to attend the Lord’s Masquerade Ball in two days. To see who makes contact with you about that message you carry.”
She nodded. “It seems to be what the next stage of this conspiracy was about.”
“It could be dangerous.”
She looked amongst the four men. “I trust these men with my life. And if what we do is in the service of our King, then I will gladly risk that.”
Her father fondly ran a hand down her hair. “If you had been born a boy, you might have been the greatest knight of the realm. Diggory never realized what a jewel he had in his hand. To think that he treated you so carelessly.”
Philip’s voice was low. “There are others who hold her in the highest regard.”
Her father’s eyes shone. “Yes, I can see that.”
Isabel glanced out the window. “We should probably get back. We have seamstresses arriving tomorrow and we want to be fully rested, just in case of trouble. There are still many opportunities for something to go awry between now and the ball.”
Her father stood and drew her into a warm embrace. “Be safe, my darling. And get word to me if I can help in any way at all. I will light candles for your safety until this is complete.”
She pressed a kiss to his faded cheek. “Thank you, Father. I will come home to you as soon as we have finished our work.”
She knelt to run fond hands along Hillie’s side. “And you, dearest Hillie, take care of my father for me until I return.”
His tail thumped on the floor, and his eyes held hers.
Philip put a hand down to her, and he helped her back up to her feet.
Her father clasped Philip warmly on the shoulder. “You have grown up into the man your father always wished. I am sure he is quite proud of you.”
“Thank you, Sir. Good health to you.”
The cloaks were reseated, Isabel gave her father one last hug, and then they were descending the stairs down into the courtyard. A few minutes later and they were out in the streets of London again.
Isabel glanced up at Philip, and the comforting feeling of warmth eased over her, as it had from the very first time she had seen him on the ship. She realized now that it had always been there, from her very earliest memories, and she had only been waiting for him to return to her.
She twined her fingers into his, murmuring, “My Hillie.”
His fingers tightened on hers, and his voice was rough. “Sweet Izzie.”
And all that was London faded into fogs and mists.
Chapter 11
Isabel took her time brushing out her hair in the glowing warmth of dawn. She could still not quite take it in. Philip had been a forgotten dream of her childhood. Her beloved Hillie was named after him. Her father held Philip in the highest of respect and warmly approved of him. It was almost too much to fathom.
At last she shook out the skirt of her dress and pressed open the door, walking the short distance down the narrow hallway to the main tavern room.
The four men were standing by the fireplace, waiting for her. She knew the faces as well as old friends by now. Luigi, narrow, slim, with bright eyes. Braun, thick, red, with a wide smile. Johann, scarred, gruff, but she could see the warmth within him.
And then there was Philip.
It took all her will not to run to him, not to fold herself into his embrace and never release him. Instead she measured her steps, forcing herself to look evenly amongst the group of men. Her voice was rough as she said, “Good morning.”
A murmur of responses came to her, and they moved over to a round table.
Trenchers of bread were laid out with sausage and ale, and they ate in comfortable silence. Around them were a mix of farmers and merchants, but she had no doubt that at least one ear in the room was in the employ of Talbot.
The remains were just being cleared away when a slender woman stepped in. She wore an exquisite dress of forest green embroidered with gold and silver ivy. She strode straight to their table. “My name is Jacqueline. Now that you are done, if you would follow me?”
Johann looked to Philip with a raised eyebrow, and then the group was in motion.
They worked their way down several streets, navigating the din of bread-sellers and goose vendors, until they reached an unmarked building with an intricately carved mahogany door. Jacqueline pressed it open and they followed her in.
The large room was divided into thirds by thick hanging curtains. Fabrics of all hues and textures were stacked in neat shelves along the walls. Four seamstresses, each dressed similarly to Jacqueline, were standing at the ready.
Jacqueline took Isabel by the arm. “Come with me to the last section, and we shall begin. Your men will each have their fitting in these other areas.”
Isabel glanced at Philip, and he nodded. This was all one big room, after all. She merely had to cry for help and she had no doubt that the four men would barrel to her aid, no matter their state of undress.
Jacqueline glanced down at the sword hanging on Isabel’s hip. “Your sword? You intend to wear it to the ball?”
Isabel nodded. “Andetnes stays by my side.”
Jacqueline smiled. “As you wish.”
And so it began.
Behind the shield of the thick curtain Isabel was bathed and scrubbed, lathered and rinsed. Jacqueline kept up a steady stream of questions about colors and metals, about flowers and motifs. Isabel answered each question honestly, figuring the chance of out-guessing what her alter ego would have wanted was beyond the powers of prognostication.
Soon she was toweled off and the selection process began in earnest. Fabric after fabric was brought for her to peruse, each more beautiful than the last. They agreed on a lush crimson design with gold highlights.
A team of embroiderers descended and began their work while others carefully cut and shaped. Icons of dog and sword were worked into the design. Wine and cheese were brought as pieces were held up against Isabel and reworked to fit more perfectly to her form. It was almost magical, watching the dress come to life before her eyes.
More embroidery. Lace was sewn along the edges. Beautiful ribbon was integrated along the hip and neckline.
And then it was time for the fitting.
Isabel held her breath as the buttons were carefully connected along her spine. She had never seen anything half as beautiful, never mind worn it. The final piece was the exquisite mask, decorated with rubies. It covered her eyes and cheeks, leaving only the lips available for view.
Jacqueline brought her over to a black velvet curtain. She drew back a rope to reveal a shimmering mirror behind. “What do you think?”
Isabel could hardly believe it was her. The dress was made for royalty. Every detail of the embroidery was stunning. She turned slowly around in a circle. “You
are magicians. I cannot imagine how you created this.”
Jacqueline smiled. “Oh, we were well paid for our efforts, believe me. For what we received, we would have placed the moon in your mask, if Eric had wished it.”
Jacqueline’s words brought a cold dose of reality back to Isabel. This outfit had a dark purpose, and she would do well to keep that in mind.
She turned in place. “Let me see how the men have been handled.”
Jaqueline raised a hand, and the curtain divider was drawn back.
Isabel’s mouth fell open.
She had thought of the men as handsome before, in their leather and leggings. They were soldiers and their gear had reflected it.
Now each man could have been the highest-born noble in his culture.
Braun wore a stunning tunic in deep green and ivory. Johann was in a thick furred cloak with ermine highlights. Luigi’s puffed jacket was gold and white with intricate pearls along the seams.
It was Philip who drew her in. He was in a black leather tunic with diagonal ribbing; crimson detailing highlighted the seams. Detailed embroidery along the cuffs and hems featured crossed swords alternating with attentive hounds. His belt featured blood-red rubies in small crosses.
The four men, each in a matching black mask, stared at her in shock. Johann’s mutter broke the silence. “God’s teeth. We will never be able to keep the noblemen away from her. She will draw them like bees to honey.”
Braun beamed. “I’m itching for a brawl anyway. And if there ever was a woman to stir one into life, she stands here before us.”
Philip took a step forward, his eyes transfixed on her. He put out a hand to her without a word.
She stepped forward, her hand fitting into his as if it were made for that purpose. Then she turned again to the mirror.
They were perfect. Simply perfect. Crimson and ebony. Functional elegance. The sword at his side, the sword at hers. The hound and sword imagery in their outfits.
Jacqueline put her hands together in satisfaction. “Good, good. You will return to the tavern and have a solid meal and sleep. We will finish our work on these tonight. Tomorrow you come back midday and we do final preparations for the ball. Come.”
