At the King's Command

by Susan Wiggs

  Jesu, what if the poor lad died while he was away?

  “Please,” Oliver whispered between panting breaths. “Bring her back, Papa.”

  “The boy’s fate is in God’s hands,” Henry said. “But the fate of your wife might yet be up to you.”

  Dame Kristine wiped her hands nervously on her apron. “ ’Tis dangerous for her to go galloping off, and her in that condition.”

  “Condition?” Suppressing the tempest of emotion inside him, Stephen approached the young woman. “Condition?”

  Dame Kristine nodded. “My lord, I thought you knew. Your wife is with child.”

  Eighteen

  And so it was that Stephen de Lacey, baron of Wimberleigh, found himself riding hard for the coast at the head of the most singular army in Christendom.

  Jonathan Youngblood served as lieutenant, showing the bluff command and backbone he had exhibited in the Scots wars. His son Kit possessed both his father’s unwavering loyalty and the fruits of Stephen’s excellent training.

  Behind them rode Algernon Basset, curls bouncing beneath a battered helm and wearing a breastplate with the air of a penitent in a hair shirt. In the wide leather baldric around his waist he carried a short-sword and a selection of daggers.

  And all around them, in a formation no military tactician had ever imagined, ranged the gypsies and one notable addition: Jillie Egan.

  Dark thoughts nipped at Stephen’s mind as he forged ahead at a merciless pace. He had left his son’s bedside. He could only pray he had made the right choice in going after the mother Oliver had come to love.

  Stephen cursed himself a hundred times for a fool. He had let Juliana slip through his fingers. Now she was a captive of the man who had murdered her family.

  And she was carrying Stephen’s child.

  Blessed Savior, he had as good as told her he wanted no more children. Doubtless she had not dared to tell him.

  With London twenty miles behind them, they reached a crossroads. Stephen drew up his mount and studied the lay of the land. To his left rose a rock-strewn path that led to a high point on the Kentish coast. To his right was a muddy track winding down toward the mouth of the Thames.

  He jerked his head to the right. “We’ll take that way.”

  “No.” Laszlo trotted up on his nimble gypsy pony. “They went that way.” Stephen frowned, and Laszlo sidled his mount over to the edge of the road. Leaning down, he scooped up a small bit of blue fabric. “She left signs along the way.”

  Gratitude welled up inside Stephen. “Bless you, Laszlo,” he murmured, motioning for the company to follow him up the path.

  The raspy blowing of the horses, the thump of hooves, and the creak of saddle leather filled the cold silence of the winter woods. With a twist of irony, Stephen thought of all the odd tools and devices he had invented over the years. There was no implement to help him now, only his wits and determination.

  Juliana. Like an image from a dream, she filled his mind. Just as she had filled his life. She was beauty and grace and nobility personified.

  And because of his own stubborn refusal to trust in his love for her, she was in mortal danger.

  With his heart in despair, he guided his horse along the hoof-torn track and emerged upon a level ground where the path disappeared into a grove of trees.

  He turned to look at Laszlo to ask if he had spotted any more signs. Before he could speak, a crossbow bolt whizzed out of the woods and thudded into a tree behind Laszlo, missing him by mere inches.

  A foreign curse broke from the gypsy.

  “Take cover,” Stephen yelled at the others, and they fell back down the path. “Gentlemen.”

  Jillie cleared her throat.

  “And my lady. I think we’ve found ourselves a fight.”

  “Kill Stephen de Lacey first,” Alexei instructed his men. “The rest will scatter. I’ll take the woman down to the shore, and from there we’ll make for the harbor.”

  “Alexei,” Juliana said, her hands once again tied helplessly around his waist. “I beg you, don’t hurt my husband.”

  A bitter yelp of laughter broke from him. “A Romanov, begging? Perhaps there is hope for you yet, Juliana.”

  “You’re a coward,” she shouted. “You would steal a woman like a cossack and leave underlings to do your fighting.”

  Alexei twisted around in the saddle. “A regrettable thing to say, my dear. I have a long memory and a terrible temper.” He addressed his lieutenant again. “Do as I say. Let no one follow us.”

  As he spurred the horse, Juliana cast a frantic glance back. What she saw astonished her. Stephen galloped forth on Capria, horse and rider showing vivid gold and silver in the winter-gray woods. In their wake rode Kit, Jonathan, Algernon, and the gypsy men. With her braids and wimple flying, Jillie brought up the rear.

  Three men armed with crossbows took aim.

  “No!” Juliana screamed, but her frantic cry was lost amid the whir of crossbow bolts and the thunder of hooves.

  * * *

  “Only three of them discharged their crossbows,” Jonathan called out to Stephen. They stopped and pulled into a shelter created by a stand of trees.

  “That leaves six who wait with their weapons loaded and ready,” Stephen said. He took a deep breath, thanking God Juliana was alive. At the same time, panic seared him, for she rode with Alexei, the most dangerous of the lot.

  “Who is with me?” he asked loudly. “These men are trained killers. No one will think ill of you if you turn back now.”

  Not even Algernon flinched, and for the first time, Stephen thought about forgiving him.

  “What about the woman?” Laszlo cast a dubious glance at Jillie, flushed and steely-eyed on her pony, with naught save a hastily grabbed mucking rake for a weapon.

  “I think you should wait for us here,” Stephen said.

  “So you said back at Hampton Court, yet here I am.” She glared at him. “I think you should protect your own arse, my lord, else I’ll tan it for you.”

  “Can’t you control your woman?” he demanded of Rodion.

  “No more than you can control yours,” Rodion shot back.

  Unwilling to waste more time arguing, Stephen guided his horse back toward the clearing. “Ride swiftly and stay low,” he cautioned.

  Almost immediately, one of the deadly bolts found living flesh. Stephen heard an equine squeal, saw a gypsy horse rear and rake the air with its hooves. A thick bolt protruded from the animal’s flank. The rider, a dark Romany youth, vaulted from the saddle and landed as if it were a planned trick. The horse galloped off in pain-hazed fright.

  An ominous whir sped past Stephen’s head. Cold purpose froze out all fear for himself, and he merely bent lower, urging his horse faster.

  In moments he was among them—nine fur-clad Russians with strange squared-off beards and the dispassionate authority of seasoned assassins.

  Stephen heard the click of their gear as they put away their crossbows and drew steel.

  He reined in, sensing rather than seeing the small company gather behind him. His eyes were fixed on the fleeing figure of a man and woman on horseback. All that stood between him and Juliana was this wall of coldblooded killers.

  “You are a fool,” the leader said in rough English. “Only a craven fool would bring gypsies and women to a man’s fight. We do not want to hurt you. We just want you to go home.”

  Stephen and Jonathan exchanged a glance. If the words were meant to persuade, they weren’t working.

  Not even on Algernon. Reaching into his baldric, he selected a short, pointed dagger.

  The Russian’s long blade flashed. “What will you do with that, pretty man?”

  “This,” said Algernon. His dagger sped through the air and embedded itself in the Russian’s arm. The man screamed and dropped his reins. The horse reared, pouring the helpless victim backward onto the ground. He writhed and clutched at his arm.

  Stephen quickly decided that Havelock had redeemed himself.
/>   Algernon drew a second dagger. “Any more questions?”

  The leader bellowed a command and surged forward. Stephen met him halfway. Guiding Capria with only his knees, he drew his sword.

  Their blades clashed and sang as steel ran along steel. Stephen’s arm quivered with the impact. From the corner of his eye he saw Rodion dismount and stalk another swordsman. Ducking beneath a swinging Russian blade, he grasped the man’s wrist and dragged him to the ground. Jillie Egan brought her rake crashing down on the Russian’s head.

  Looking apprehensive and frighteningly youthful, Kit rode toward the left flank of the Russians. As a tribute to Stephen’s training in the tilting yard, he struck with precise aim and timing, sending his opponent toppling.

  With his sword still locked against his opponent’s, Stephen saw Juliana and Alexei drop from sight down the other side of the hill.

  “Go after her, Stephen,” Jonathan yelled. “We’ll take care of this lot.”

  Stephen aimed his mare into the ranks of Russians. He felt a rush of blood on one arm, felt the sting of a thrown dagger in his shoulder. The pain was nothing. Shouting Juliana’s name like a battle cry, he broke through the fray and headed down the path toward the shore.

  Juliana could feel the jeweled pommel of Alexei’s sword rubbing against her hands. Her fingers were nearly numb from the tight hemp binding.

  Alexei’s gelding was no match for Capria. In seconds Stephen rode abreast of them, his sword drawn, his golden hair sailing out behind him, and a look of stark fury on his face.

  “For the love of God, I beg you to let her go,” he called to Alexei. “Let this fight be between us.”

  In that instant, she felt the depth of Stephen’s love, and her heart sang with bittersweet joy. She knew a moment of fierce, bright elation, and whatever happened now, no one could take that from her.

  Alexei reached for his sword. Almost without thinking, Juliana moved her wrists. As the blade whined from its scabbard, she let it slice through the ropes that bound her. She felt a gush of red warmth, but she did not care. Her hands were free. She raised her fists to pummel Alexei’s back.

  “Treacherous bitch!” He swung out with his sword, and a yelp of triumph broke from him. His blow had broken Stephen’s blade.

  As Alexei wheeled his horse around to go in for the kill, Juliana reached down for a stirrup, hoping to unseat him. Alexei only laughed and spurred the gelding again. He raised his sword, aiming at Capria’s vulnerable belly.

  “You have always been a coward,” Juliana said through her teeth. She plucked the dagger from her brooch. Time seemed to slow, and she saw again her family—her father’s lifeblood seeping into the snow. Boris’s chest exploding from a gunshot. Her mother’s hair streaming in the wind as she screamed. Misha sobbing, begging for mercy, only to be silenced forever by a curved blade.

  Juliana was a Romanov. She had lived for this moment.

  She drew back the knife and prepared to plunge it into Alexei’s back.

  And hesitated. Could the taking of another life bring her family back? Could more bloodshed rid her of nightmares?

  Stephen shouted something she did not understand. She brought the blade down just as Alexei hit her arm. The dagger plunged through the saddle blanket and pricked the gelding’s hide.

  Another shout from Stephen rent the air.

  The horse reared. Though all her instincts urged her to hold fast to Alexei, Juliana forced herself to slide backward over the high back of the saddle, down over the rump of the pain-maddened horse. She knew this trick: she had performed it countless times for rapt audiences who tossed coins to the gypsies.

  When she neared the ground, she leaped free, landing on her feet. She welcomed the damp, solid sand beneath her. She still held her dagger. With a shaking hand, she put it away.

  Stephen shot her a look of astonishment. Alexei cursed, hauling on the reins. The bit sawed back and forth in the injured horse’s mouth.

  The gelding snapped its head back, and the sharp ridge of its neck caught Alexei full in the face. The panicked animal raced across the pebbled beach, barreling toward a mudflat. The brown mud sucked at the horse’s hooves, halting its frantic flight.

  The sudden stop hurled Alexei up and over the horse’s head. End over end he flew, seemingly borne on the high winter wind. With a terrible cracking sound he struck the ground and lay still. Reins trailing in the surf, the horse ran off, kicking back with its hind legs and tossing its head.

  Stephen leaped off Capria and raced to Juliana, pulling her into his arms.

  “Ah, beloved.” She could hear his breath coming in fast rasps. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded against his chest. “And you?”

  “A flesh wound, no more.” He touched her bleeding wrist.

  “ ’Tis not deep. Alexei?” Her voice was muffled by his jerkin.

  He swept her up into his arms, and she was glad of his strength, for her knees had suddenly gone weak.

  Stephen walked slowly toward Alexei.

  She forced herself to look at the figure on the ground.

  Alexei Shuisky, the murderer, had died with his eyes wide open, a look of eternal disbelief on his face.

  “His neck is broken,” Stephen said.

  She shuddered. “He is the one who killed my family.”

  “I know.”

  The waves raced up to lick at the sand. She lifted her face to his. “You knew?”

  “Only since this morning. Laszlo found out.”

  She hugged his neck tighter. “I wanted him dead. Did I kill him, Stephen?”

  He pressed a kiss to her temple. “He killed himself. The moment he led his men against your family, he slew whatever good might have been in him. He has been driving toward his destiny ever since.”

  “ ‘Destiny falls like a stone into still water,’ ” Juliana said, remembering Zara, and the soldiers, and the fire casting bloodred shadows on the snow. She had lost everything that night—her home, her family, all the things that made her a Romanov.

  Yet the tears in her eyes when she looked up at Stephen burned with a welcome heat. She had traded her plans for revenge for something far more lasting and hopeful and bright. Out of the darkness had come this man, this love, this life.

  Stephen was looking at her oddly. “ ‘Destiny falls …?’ ”

  A chill wind blew in from the sea. “Something I heard once, long ago. A gypsy prophecy. I am still not certain I understand, but I think, somehow, she knew. Zara knew.”

  Juliana glanced one last time at Alexei. “Yet I wonder if I ever had the power to stop it. If I had not drawn my knife, caused the horse to rear—”

  “Then I would have killed him myself. Willingly.” He turned and walked away from Alexei Shuisky. When they reached Capria, Stephen set Juliana gently on her feet and cradled her face between his hands.

  “Juliana, you are my world. I told you so last night. Why did you leave me?”

  “I did not want you to have to fight Alexei again.” She touched his stubbled cheek and felt a surge of tenderness.

  His shoulders trembled. “It’s my fault. I gave you little reason to trust me. I can’t blame you for telling me nothing of Alexei. Or of the baby.”

  She caught her breath in surprise and fear. “You know of that, too?”

  “Aye. Ah, Juliana, would that I could take back my harsh words. A child is a gift from God to be cherished whether it be flawed or perfect. I will love our child as I have come to love Oliver—as you taught me to love him.”

  She heard the catch in his voice. “Stephen? Is Oliver well?”

  “He had an attack. A bad one. He only seemed to improve when I promised to find you. He was calmer after that.”

  “We’d best go and see, then.”

  A faint shout drifted down from the bank above the shore. Juliana looked up. There, on the edge, stood Laszlo and Jonathan and their mismatched company of gypsies. All in a line, linked by the necks with rope, stood the defeated Russians. />
  The gypsy warriors raised their fists with a shout of triumph. Rodion drew Jillie into an ardent embrace.

  Juliana smiled at her husband. “At last I think our adventures are over.”

  He kissed her, warming the chill salt air from her lips, and she felt the love crest inside her like a wave, breaking over her and showering her with an aching tenderness.

  Stephen lifted his mouth from hers, and his hand stole inside her cloak to caress the place, where, warm within her, a new life grew.

  “No, my love,” he whispered, “they are just beginning.”

  Epilogue

  Summer 1548

  “God have mercy on us all, my lord, he’s done it again!” Puffing with exertion, Nance Harbutt burst into the garden. Once hidden by a dark maze, the cottage and yard now lay wide open to the world.

  “Who’s done what?” With his firstborn daughter tugging at his hand and his youngest child riding high on his broad shoulders, Stephen walked toward Nance. He passed his twin sons, Simon and Sebastian, who were busy playing Muscovy Company with toy ships in the fishpond. Nine years earlier, King Henry had placed Stephen at the head of the trading venture.

  The housekeeper flapped her apron vigorously to fan her flushed cheeks. “Got himself sent down from Cambridge again, he did, and brought that lot of outlaws home with him! Didn’t I tell you, my lord, the lad was trouble? Delving and donging and—”

  “Nance.” Stephen bit back a smile.

  “—swiving wenches like there’s no tomorrow—”

  “Nance.”

  She thrust up her chin, knocking her wimple askew. Natalya, who rode Stephen’s shoulders, giggled.

  “Aye, my lord?” the housekeeper asked.

  “Mind your tongue around the girls.”

  She quivered with indignation. “I speak naught but the truth. Marry, my lord, what’s the world coming to, with a puling boy on the throne and those Anabaptists mocking the sacraments? Why, no wonder your big lout of a son has no shred of moral—”

  “Oliver!” Belinda, the elder daughter, squealed and sped down the lane toward a small train of lumbering caravans. Hard on her heels were Simon and Sebastian. Natalya squirmed her way down from Stephen’s shoulders and joined her brothers and sister.