Authors: Jennifer Blake
That it did, David could not doubt. He liked Henry, approved his rule that combined sternness with forbearance, yet knew him to be something less than open in his dealings. A man did not spend a decade and a half avoiding the trickery and murderous intentions of his royal cousins, Edward IV and Richard III, without learning to be devious in his turn.
“Would you have her ride with us when we depart? Other accommodation can be arranged, but we seek your will before seeing to it.”
“Other accommodations?” David kept his gaze on the bread and beef in his hand as he took a bite.
“She might remain here with Lady Joan. Or we will pass a convent or two on the road.”
The idea of a nunnery for Marguerite was not new, still everything inside him rose up against it. He chewed with meditative slowness as he thought how to squelch the possibility without committing himself to something barred by his vow.
Henry made an impatient gesture. “Or we might choose another husband for her if you have reconsidered your proposed award for service to the crown.”
“No,” he said instantly, adding only as an afterthought, “sire.”
“We thought not. Well, then?”
David studied Henry’s stern features while facts and inferences assembled in his mind that had nothing to do with Marguerite. “You are ready to go forward as planned to counter the Yorkist threat?”
“The summer is advancing, Warbeck’s faction is growing stronger. Reports say his supporters are gathering on the Scots border. If our subterfuge is to be useful, it must be put into place at once. That can’t be done here.”
“Nor can it be done if I remain in your company, sire. Have you a plan for when and where I am to leave you?”
“An open break will be required. A pretext must be arranged.”
David nodded his understanding, though his heart clenched in his chest. A break with Henry would, in essence, be treason against the crown. That crime was punishable by death.
“Afterward, what would you? I mean to say, where am I to go, who should I contact, how am I to proceed?”
“You have no ideas on the subject?”
“Your pardon, sire, but I’ve given little thought to how a rebellion against you should be mounted.”
“You appear to be the only one.” Grim humor curled Henry’s lips. “As to the logistics of the mock rebellion, we have them to hand.”
He turned to gesture to his seneschal who stood behind his chair. The man stepped forward, presenting a leather pouch which he lifted from his belt. Henry accepted it, drew it open to show the rolled sheets of parchment it contained before giving it into David’s possession.
“These are…” David began.
“Directions to your base of operation, lists of those who will appear to support you, designated places of gathering and so on. Study them well. We will discuss the details as necessary.”
David indicated his understanding and acquiescence. A moment later, a useful thought struck him. “If Lady Marguerite rides with me, sire, she may continue to improve my conduct as a future monarch—or at least the pretense of same.”
Henry reached up to pull at his bottom lip while thought moved behind his eyes. After a moment, he made a flicking gesture with his fingers. “For our part, you appear regal enough, with fully as much protocol in your grasp as we had when we came to the throne. We had not been brought up to think the crown would be ours, you know, but came to it when those with a better claim perished.”
“You are kind to say so.” They had perished all right, David thought as he made that polite reply. They had died by sword and axe, the hapless victims of the endless warfare between York and Lancaster. Some claimed this War of the Roses had ended on Bosworth Field, the battle that brought Henry to power. Yet this current insurrection by Warbeck seemed more of the same.
“Nevertheless, it seems you prefer Lady Marguerite to remain at your side. This is your will?”
“It is.” David waited, his breath trapped in his gullet.
The king leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile lighting the solemnity of face. “Excellent. We leave within the hour.”
So intent was David on the permission to take Marguerite with him when he went that it was a moment before he could bring his mind to bear on Henry’s meaning. “Leave for the hunt?”
“By no means, Sir David,” Henry VII answered with a crooked smile. “The time for hunting is over. We are for London and our palace of Westminster.”
It was nearer two hours before the chaos that followed the king’s command settled and the column of horsemen and laden carts could be formed. The lord of the castle and his good lady Joan stood waving from the battlements in misting rain as the cavalcade rode out through the gates. If their farewells seemed a bit hectic, it was no doubt from joy that the king was leaving before their storerooms were stripped completely bare.
David spent the rest of the morning riding up and down the column, settling problems, moving slower
carts and wagons to the rear, chivvying stragglers and closing the gaps in the ranks. His own men melded seamlessly with those of the king, he was glad to see, and even surpassed them in discipline and the shine on their armor.
Less impressive by far were the men-at-arms who rode with Lord Halliwell. They made no pretense at formation, much less military precision. Slouching in their saddles as if hungover from the night before, they cursed the mud and wet, their spavined horses and the orders that had dragged them from slumber. They bragged of their conquests among the serving women of the castle and told jokes raw enough to make a Channel sailor blush. Far from pulling them up short, Halliwell and his son joined them in their ribaldry.
David longed to have the disciplining of that company for a single day. Since this was neither his privilege nor his responsibility, he gave them a wide berth. Vigilance was so ingrained, however, that he kept them always under his eye.
In part because of Halliwell’s presence on the march, but also for his peace of mind, David maintained a constant watch over Marguerite and Astrid, as well. They rode where he had placed them, in the safe center of the long, ungainly cavalcade. Astrid, wrapped in her cloak with the hood pulled tight around her face, was a picture of misery. Marguerite sat her saddle with straight-backed ease, however, her face framed by the velvet edge of her cloak’s hood, her skin dewy from the moist air.
The need to take her upon his saddlebow, to shelter her inside his cloak, against his aching body while kiss
ing away the raindrops that beaded her lashes, was like a knotted fist in his chest. So distracting was the urge that he denied himself the pleasure of riding beside her except for a few minutes here and there. That short time was like a draught of strong wine, both soothing and stimulating.
Not that his attentiveness went unmarked. Grins, snickers and low comments followed him, though hidden the instant he sought out those who dared. Now and then, horsemen crowded Marguerite closer than was seemly. That was until he detailed a guard of his own men to ride ahead of her and behind her.
It was as he had feared. Henry’s order that she look after him had robbed her of the respect that was her due. It had been sacrificed to the good of his reign. It was a black mark against him, one that would not be forgotten.
Oliver rode with David for the most part, though he also dropped back to join the ladies now and again. On his return from one such a foray, David gave him a hard stare. His voice was a low growl when he spoke. “If you are so full of energy, you may join the advance riders and report back on what lies ahead of us.”
“More muddy road, I’ll be bound,” Oliver answered with great cheer, “and not much else.”
“If it’s naught but sheep tracks, I want to know it.”
The Italian arched a brow. “
Bene,
but what has you in such a snit? Does your wound pain you?”
“By no means.”
“You are overtired then, and wrought at trading your cozy chamber for the saddle.”
“No.”
“Mayhap it’s the presence of a certain
comte
and
comtesse,
and their sudden enjoyment of Lord Halliwell’s fine company?”
“Don’t play the fool.” David had noted the coziness between Halliwell and the French couple, though with little idea of who had instigated it. The aging lord seemed taken with the
comtesse,
but it could easily be that Celestine was bored. If she could not have the blood of the hunt, she would seek it elsewhere. Though if she expected to gain it from him or the
comte,
she would be disappointed. Her husband was far too used to her tricks for jealousy, and David cared not at all who she might take to her bed, or why. “
Non, bene.
’Tis the separation from your nursemaid then. I could swear I heard a sweet moan or two last night. Don’t tell me, please, that you had nothing to do with it.”
The back of David’s neck burned under his mailed hood. “What I did or did not do is no affair of yours.”
“No, no, but a rainy night and the lady within arm’s reach after days of each other’s company? Surely you were not so great an idiot as to let such a chance pass you by? In your place, I would have grabbed it, or something, with both hands.”
“But you are not in my place,” David said with icy menace, “though it seems you would think to be.”
“Certainly, being hot-blooded and not backward about such things. The lady intrigues, she remains in the mind far more than those who are merely fair of face. She is made of goodness entire, but intelligent with it. And her passions…”
“Are not for you,” David said with steel encasing every word.
“But are they for you, my friend? Every man in this draggle-tailed column believes it’s so, even the king. You have the repute, so why not the pleasure?”
David gave a short laugh. “Not so long ago, you were warning me against the lady.”
“That was before I knew her worth, before I saw her cut your bloody shirt away and stop you from bleeding to death with her bare hands. Allow such fair courage and stout heart to go forever unclaimed, and you play the fool twice over—once for you and once for her.”
Hard upon the words, Oliver wheeled his gelding and spurred him into a gallop toward the column’s head. David stared after him, his teeth grinding together with such force it made his ears ache.
They rested that night at a priory, a dank and grim religious house where the bread was stale, the wine sour, and the meat limited to a few slivers floating in weak broth. They did not linger past daybreak. The second night came upon them near the newly built manse of some lesser earl, a man who would never have held the title except for the casualties of the recent war. He was embarrassingly pleased to house them, even with but a few hours’ notice from the advance riders. While he raided his cellar, his good wife, red-haired, rounded and comely, hounded their cook into a miraculous performance. Between them, they more than made up for the meager fare of the night before.
It had been a clear day at last, but one of hot sun and wind that dried out the mud and turned it to powdery dust underfoot. Men were thirsty, and the wine potent.
The faster the libation flowed, the louder grew the company. By the time the cheese and fruit arrived, the noise in the earl’s fine hall was a roar.
David, being overtired, could feel the ache from his head wound returning. Marguerite was dropping as well, he thought, while Astrid had simply stretched out on the bench beside her and gone to sleep.
The serving woman’s head was in Marguerite’s lap. David felt his heart fling itself against the cage of his ribs at the thought of replacing it with his own. Only he would not be sleeping, not with his face and mouth so close to such warm treasure.
The effect of such thoughts was inevitable. Not only did his body harden so fast the stab of it took his breath, but he was suddenly parched for the taste of Marguerite’s mouth. With an oath, he rose and stepped over the bench, making for where she sat.
“Your pardon, my lady,” he said with a rasp in his voice. “Would you care for a breath of air before you retire for the night?”
A flicker of anticipation appeared in the rich brown depths of her eyes before she lowered her lashes. “I can think of nothing I would like more, but there is this small matter?” She gestured at Astrid.
“Oliver will carry her to wherever you have been assigned to sleep.” He glanced around to summon his squire. “Will that serve?”
“Excellently well, though we share a chamber with the young daughters of our host. Their maidservant will show him the way.”
Moments later, the thing was arranged. David took Marguerite’s arm to help her over the bench then placed
her hand on his wrist. Weaving among the tables, he made way through the raucous crowd for the two of them until they passed through the outer door.
The manse was built in the latest fashion, of red brick with a plentiful supply of mullioned windows, fine carving in stone above the door, and minimum effort toward defense. The expanse of a paved and walled court lay before it with a gatehouse to guard the entrance, but there was no true bailey, no portcullis or bridged moat.
Torches flared in their mounts along the outer wall, casting shadows that leaped and danced over the stone ledge that surmounted it. A gray tabby cat, the storehouse mouser, sat on the steps. It rose to follow them, winding around Marguerite’s ankles. As they reached the gatehouse, the men-at-arms on duty, the king’s own, saluted and allowed them to pass.
Beyond the manse lay a stretch of dirt road, a pale thread in the light of a sickle moon. Black shadows lay upon it, moving gently with the breeze stirring the tree limbs which cast them. David walked in that direction, driven by purpose as imperative as it was wrong. In an effort to disguise his less than worthy intentions, he spoke almost at random. “You will be weary after our long ride today. I would not keep you from your rest for long.”
“It matters not at all,” she returned.
They walked on a few steps before he found voice again. “You were all right as you rode? No one offered you insult or—”
“No.”
He didn’t care for that bald answer, nor did he believe
it entirely. “I’m sorry that you have been made the butt of wags and gossips. It was never my intention.”