by Susan Wiggs
She pushed at his chest. “Damn you, Stephen de Lacey. Damn you for a selfish rogue.”
“Denying myself the full pleasure of making love to you is selfish?” With jerky, frustrated movements, he donned his clothes. “How so, Baroness?”
The cruel lash of his irony stung her. “You want me on your terms. You seek to alter fate. What about all the times we did not use the sheath, Stephen? Even now, I could be carrying your child.”
His face drained of color. He looked panicked, a cornered animal, scared and dangerous. “Get rid of it,” he said in a frantic whisper. “The midwife can help you, or perhaps the gypsies have a remedy for—”
“Remedy?” she shouted. “A child in the womb is not a sickness, but a blessing from heaven.”
“It is a curse, damn your eyes!”
She turned her head to the side as if he had slapped her. “I thought I had found happiness with you.” She jumped up, backing toward the door of the shed. “I thought I could abandon my quest to find the killers of my family. I was willing to give up my identity and my need for justice—everything I have lived for for the past five years. For you, Stephen. I would have given it all up for you.”
“Never sacrifice for me.” He stuffed his feet into his boots. “You should know better than that.”
“Yes, I should. You still have the annulment papers, don’t you?” She drew a deep breath, then spoke from the bitterness in her heart. “I want out of this unnatural marriage.”
He raised his arm, and his hand closed in the empty air between them. “Juliana—”
“Your lordship!” The garden gate creaked open. “Your lordship!”
Juliana rushed out of the shed. Stephen pushed past her.
Skirts hiked to her knees, chubby legs pumping, Nance raced across the apple yard toward them. “Oh, do come. ’Tis Master Oliver. He’s collapsed and cannot breathe!”
Stephen sent Juliana a look that was as fleeting and lethal as lightning. Then he raced toward the hall.
Juliana paced the passageway outside Oliver’s bedchamber. Stephen had been in there for hours. The door was half-open and she could see him through the light fog of camphor mist, sitting against the headboard of the bed with Oliver limp and gasping in his arms.
Stephen’s head was bent, his golden hair obscuring his face. His big hands stroked the boy’s back, his shoulders, his frail, convulsing chest.
Agony squeezed her heart. Stephen had stunned her with his insistence that she remain childless. Now she began to understand his terror. This was the worst attack Oliver had suffered since she had known him. Simply watching was torment.
My beautiful son died in my arms.
Her mother’s heart, awakened by her love for Oliver, rose into her throat at the thought of losing him as Stephen had lost Dickon. She closed her arms protectively across her middle.
No. No. No.
In truth she did not know whether or not she was quick with child. Her menses might simply be late. Foolishly, she had never thought to count the weeks.
Get rid of it.
How could he? How dare he pronounce a death sentence on his own child? Surely he could not mean it. Surely, surely not.
“My lady?” Pale, with a tuck of worry in his brow, Kit approached her. “There’s a royal messenger in the hall.”
Juliana’s blood ran cold with apprehension. “What does he want?”
“He has a summons for his lordship.” Kit started into the room.
Juliana hauled him back by the arm. “You are not to disturb him, Kit. Do you understand? He is not even to know the messenger has come.”
“But it’s a summons from the king.”
“I said no, Kit. My husband has worries enough without this. I shall deal with the messenger myself.”
Kit scuffed his feet in the rushes. “Are you asking me to keep this a secret?”
“No. I am commanding you to.” She saw his stricken look and softened. “Oliver is very sick. Stephen is doing his best to help him through it. It takes concentration. It takes all the love in his heart. If he is distracted for one moment, and something happens to Oliver, who will he blame, Kit? Who?”
“Himself.”
“Now do you understand?”
“Aye, my lady.”
She went down to the hall and she heard the message. And when it was done, she knew what she had to do.
She said her farewells to Lynacre in secret. No one save Kit knew she was leaving, and she had sworn the youth to silence.
In the garden, she felt the cold bite of the coming winter. Leaves scurried across her path, and a brisk wind tore seed pods from the flowers.
She had so many memories bound up in this place. There, far in the distance, was Malmesbury. She remembered Stephen dropping down from the bell rope to settle a dispute between two children, then hurling a brick at the window King Henry had given the first baroness.
At the river’s edge, long pens were ready for the spring shearing, and down the lane was the tall hedgerow and wall that had once hidden the maze. Now the gate always stood open, and the maze and Oliver’s garden had become a favorite playground for the village children.
Just for a moment, she paused to look into the apple yard. The low door to the shed hung open, and she watched a heatless light creep across the area where they had last made love. She closed that memory into her heart, for it was the last time she would feel the touch of his lips and his hands, the last time their bodies would join in fierce unity.
She had thought, when she lost her family, that she had found a pain beyond enduring, but somehow this was even worse.
She moved swiftly to leave, extracting herself from Lynacre like a thorn from tender flesh. If she hesitated, she would talk herself out of doing what she knew was best for all of them.
All the way to London, with Laszlo riding at her side, she held the tears at bay. She did not shed them in her grand chamber of honor at Hampton Court. Dry-eyed, she accepted a bath and the fussy ministrations of the handmaids sent by the duchess of Bedford.
And a majordomo conducted her to the Privy Chamber, where only the best-favored guests were permitted. Ignoring incredulous whispers from robed councillors and silk-clothed nobles, she made a graceful obeisance to the king.
King Henry was at the zenith of his majesty, in full royal regalia—ermine collar, heavy gold chains, jewels on his fingers, clothing of figured silk and embroidered batiste. By some happy chance, rays of winter sunlight slanted through a high cloverleaf-shaped window and gilded him like a halo.
“What manner of man is your husband, madam,” Henry demanded, “that he would send you to court alone?”
“My husband did not receive your summons. I did.”
A rustle of interest swept the courtiers. Henry made a flinging gesture with his hand and sent them scattering like seeds broadcast to the wind. “Fools,” he muttered, glaring at his retreating counselors. “They want me to marry again. Cromwell has some Flanders mare in mind. A kinswoman of the duke of Cleves.”
There was an awkward silence; then Henry seemed to shake off his thoughts. He aimed his imperious glare at Juliana.
“Your coming here alone was a foolish thing to do.”
“Your summons,” she countered, “was heartless.”
“Since when has a king needed to have a heart?”
She would have laughed if he had not seemed so deadly serious. “I thought one was required of every great prince.”
“It is required of a prince’s subjects to obey!”
She suffered the blast of his temper with stony calm. It was as if Stephen had taken all of her emotions and locked them away in some sort of magic box, to be taken out at his whim, not hers.
“Your Grace,” she said, “you summoned Oliver de Lacey to court. Why?”
“I need not answer to you, nor to anyone.” For the first time, she noticed that the king was nervous, his eyes darting every few seconds toward a side door of the Privy Chamber. “So long as Wimbe
rleigh kept his son hidden away, I saw no need to force my will upon him.”
“Then why—”
“Silence!” Like a dragon’s flame, his roar filled the chamber. “It came to me that the lad—Oliver, is that his name?—is improving in health.”
“Not so much that he could tolerate—”
“Wimberleigh’s heir gets no special treatment. If I allowed that, my nobles would revolt. The lad will serve at court.”
A knock came from the side door. To Juliana’s amazement, the king’s florid face paled. “Come,” he said quietly, his manner subdued, almost deferential.
A page in green-and-white livery scurried over, followed by a man in a long, stark black robe. A physician.
The doctor whispered to the king. Henry’s chest rose and fell quickly, and Juliana felt a jolt of recognition. It was the same fear and panic she had seen on Stephen’s face when Oliver fell ill.
“It is the prince, yes?” she whispered when the physician had withdrawn.
“Yes.” He seemed shocked. Numb with terror. And suddenly less like a king and more like a man.
“Your Grace, why do you not go to him? Children heal best with a loving parent near.”
“How so?” His black eyes pleaded with her.
“I saw this with Oliver. He needed touching and nearness. Every child does.” She bit her lip, wondering if she dared to refer to Henry’s beloved Queen Jane. “Especially a child without a mother.”
The king winced. “You’re saying I should fawn all over the Prince of Wales? His household is the richest in the realm, second only to my own. He has an army of physicians. Nurses, tutors, servants—”
“He has only one father, Your Grace.”
For a moment, Henry sat as still as a statue, save for the flash of the gold Tudor rose pendant on his chest, which lifted and fell with his breathing. Then he nodded once, curtly. His meaty hand grasped a summons bell and rang it.
“You Romanovs are a loud, impertinent lot,” he said.
While his gentleman pensioners scurried in to assist him in rising from his throne, Juliana stared in amazement. “When did Your Grace decide to believe I am a Romanov?”
Henry grunted as a pair of gentlemen gripped his arms and helped him to his feet. The layers of bandages on his bad leg made a bulge in his hose, and he touched his foot gingerly to the floor.
“Havelock told us about that, too.” He poked a fat finger at her brooch. “Cromwell did some digging. Turns out the design and motto are indeed Romanov.”
“Blood, vows and honor.” Juliana spoke the words in Russian.
“Not only that,” Henry said. “I’ve another surprise for you. I think you’ll be pleased. I know I was. Cromwell!” he shouted as he limped toward the door.
As if he had been in the antechamber listening at the door, Thomas Cromwell slipped into the room.
“Show our guest to the river garden,” said the king.
Though Juliana badgered Lord Privy Seal with questions, she got no answers. He led her out through a door, and a cold wind struck her face. She stood at the top of the garden. A terraced hill, laced with paths and arbors, slanted down to the river where barges and lighters plied the Thames.
Juliana glanced back, a question on her lips, but the dour, secretive Cromwell had withdrawn. The garden seemed empty, barren, the trees skeletal, and the evergreen shrubs dulled by a coating of London smoke.
A movement down the terraced steps caught her eye.
A man stood with his back to her, facing the river. His booted feet were planted wide, his crimson cloak thrown back over one shoulder. The late-afternoon sunlight glinted off his black hair.
For a moment Juliana simply stared. The tops of the man’s boots were folded down below his knees. A bright design of Byzantine crosses decked the bloodred lining of the cloak.
Her stomach churned. The world went out of kilter. A flash of awareness streaked like fire through her, and she must have made some sound—a gasp or squeak of disbelief—for the man turned.
She saw jeweled buttons on his chest. She saw gleaming dark eyes and a jet curl of hair tumbling down over a noble brow. She saw a handsome, familiar face light up with a smile.
As if in a dream, Juliana walked toward him. She tried to speak, but the only word she was able to form was his name.
“Alexei!”
Sixteen
“God help me, Jonathan, I miss her.” Blowing out his breath in frustration, Stephen scraped the edge of his rapier against the whetstone. Due to a sudden, early snowfall, he had canceled Kit’s fencing practice. The three men were in the armory, cleaning weapons and drinking ale. Oliver had recovered from his attack. Stephen could hear him outside in the armory, playing with his dog.
Jonathan Youngblood’s mug thunked with a clatter onto the worktable. Kit, who was washing a set of spurs in a basin of vinegar and sand, jumped at the sound. For the past several days, the lad had been uncharacteristically nervous.
“Sorry,” Jonathan said, using his fingers to wring out his bushy moustache. “That ale must be stronger than I realized. I thought I heard you say you missed your wife.”
Stephen scowled at the gleaming damascened blade. “I do. I know it’s crazy. We fought constantly—”
“Constantly?” Jonathan lifted an eyebrow.
A hot rush of memories engulfed Stephen. Her silken limbs wrapped around him. Her soft voice whispering in his ear. “Almost constantly,” he said.
Jonathan sighted down the thin length of his Spanish rapier. “You should not have run her off, then.”
Stephen slammed his fist on the table, sending the whetstone to its death. Bits of shattered pumice littered the flagged floor of the armory. “I did not run her off.”
He lied, and he knew it. He remembered with stark clarity the awful hurt in her eyes, the disbelief, and then the utter devastation when he said he did not want her baby. He would have tried to make her understand the fear and grief in his heart, but then there was the emergency with Oliver. Afterward Jillie, with an accusing glare, had reported that Juliana had gone off somewhere with Laszlo.
Perhaps her gypsy blood ran true after all. She could not stay in one place.
No. She could not stay with him. With a man who placed no trust in love, no faith in the future.
Where had she gone? What had she been thinking?
“She’ll cool her heels and be back,” Jonathan said consolingly. “Though in sooth I thought it would be before now.” With a playful grin, he touched his son’s ear with the very tip of the sword. “A fortnight, it’s been, eh, Kit?”
The youth ducked his head and swirled the spurs in the basin. Before he could answer, Pavlo barked a sharp alarm outside the armory. Algernon Basset burst into the room. His cheeks bright red from the cold, his curls bouncing beneath a velvet Venetian cap, he paused inside the door.
Stephen eyed him coldly. “Havelock. Ever the loyal friend. Betrayed any good secrets lately?”
Algernon ducked beneath a beam over the entranceway. Battered helmets and shields from forgotten battles hung from the timber. “Stephen, I know better than to expect your forgiveness, though I do crave it.” He took off his gloves and shook his reddened fingers. “I have another confession to make.”
“Oh, this should be jolly good,” Jonathan muttered. He stood, flexing his rapier and eyeing Algernon wolfishly.
Algernon licked his lips. “It’s about your wife, Stephen. I told Thomas Cromwell about her brooch. The Romanov ruby, the family motto.”
“My,” said Stephen, “you have been busy.”
“ ’Twas months ago, and I merely thought I was passing on a harmless bit of gossip.”
“You son and heir of a mongrel bitch,” Stephen said as the rage boiled up inside him. “First you used a sick little boy to ingratiate yourself to the king because you could not win his attention on your own. And now this—this—” He cursed bitterly and turned away.
“What is this about a brooch?” Jonathan demande
d.
“The one Lady Juliana always wore. Having some small measure of competency as a linguist, I recognized the markings on the bauble. I thought it would help you save face, proving that you’d married a foreign princess, not a gypsy.”
Stephen planted his palms flat on the table and leaned across. “Since when have I been concerned about my face, dear Algernon?”
Havelock swallowed. “As it turns out, Cromwell arranged for a Russian ambassador to come to England.”
Stephen’s glance flicked to the narrow, unglazed window of the armory. Tiny windblown snowflakes obscured the view. A chill touched the base of his spine. “He’ll have no luck locating her. She’s run off with Laszlo. Add that to your stockpile of scandals.”
“Don’t you think we’d best try to find her?” Algernon asked. “After all, we don’t know what sort of man this Russian is.”
“The little pestilence does have a point,” Jonathan said.
“I don’t have the first idea where they might have gone,” said Stephen.
“My lord?” Kit stood, his hands shaking.
“We’ll organize a search,” Stephen said, feeling more alive than he had in days. “Jonathan, you get a party of men from the village. Kit, you—”
“I know where Lady Juliana went, my lord,” Kit said. His lips looked dry, almost bloodless.
“What?”
“Your wife. May God forgive me, I have known from the start.”
“Where?”
“To London, my lord.” Miserable guilt pinched the youth’s features taut. “To the royal court.”
Slumped over on her knees, her hands clutching the rim of a clay chamber pot, Juliana heaved violently. When her stomach had emptied itself, she came shakily to her feet and walked to the basin of fresh water on the table. She bathed her face and then bent to rest her forehead against the cool edge of the basin.
A fortnight earlier, she would have rejoiced over her symptoms. Now her heart was in anguish, her mind whirling with doubts. She could take no delight in the news that she carried Stephen’s child.
