Authors: Jennifer Blake
Edward Plantagenet, heir to the throne of England, or David?
He stood tall and golden, gilded with fiery light as if every flickering ray in the vast space was drawn to him. His head was high, his shoulders straight and wide,
and pride as natural as breathing shone in the clear blue of his eyes. He seemed invincible, unstoppable, beyond death or fear of it.
He looked every inch a prince with the God-given right to be king.
Terror such as she had never known struck through Marguerite like a lance to the heart. David had declared for the throne as Edward V, and now every hand would be against him. Henry and the Lancastrians who held power from his reign could not let him live. Warbeck must seek his death, as would those who supported the pretender. David would be hunted from one end of England to the other. No place would be safe. Every mercenary within a thousand miles would vie for the price on his head. No man could be counted a friend without reservation.
How was he to survive?
She felt rather than saw him breathe deep. He released her hand but kept her still against him. Lifting his right arm in salute and challenge, he called out to those before him.
“I am Edward, rightful King of England! Who is with me? I am Edward of England! Follow me!”
As if released from some dread spell, the men of his company, some fifty strong, surged forward. With them came no small number of the king’s men. Shouting, laughing, they surrounded David and her beside him, sweeping them out into the night. They clattered in a great mass down the stone steps of the manse, surging into the courtyard.
As they ran, a horseman galloped from the stables hidden in the gloom. He led three horses behind him.
Oliver! It was Oliver.
The Italian reined to a jolting halt and sprang down. Catching Astrid under the armpits, he threw her up on her pony. In the same moment, David helped Marguerite mount, and then swung to his own saddle. Behind them was chaos as his newly declared followers swarmed the stable. Oliver must have warned the stable hands, for more saddled mounts waited.
In a trice, they were mounted and pounding out the gate and down the track, strung out in a ragged line that stretched back far longer than Marguerite would have expected. They were riding into the night. To where she did not know, for how long she could not guess. And she didn’t care. She didn’t care at all as long as David was beside her.
Something wild and free surged up from somewhere deep inside her, pounding in her heart, burning in her mind. Though tears stung her eyes and streamed back to wet her hair and veil, she refused to think of tomorrow, the next day, or any that came after. She was free, and far beyond the will of any man.
She had made her choice and would abide by it come what may. What would happen when it ended, she could not tell. But she would have now, this moment, and nothing could take it from her.
T
he euphoria did not last.
As mile followed weary mile and darkness turned into the light of day, Marguerite’s thoughts returned again and again to what had happened in the great hall. She was positive the confrontation between David and Henry had been staged, albeit upon the spur of the moment, a part of the subterfuge devised to thwart Warbeck’s bid for the crown. What else could it be?
Confirmation would have been comforting, but was not forthcoming. It was not a question she could call out to David as they rode, and his preoccupation with military matters prevented her from approaching him during their brief halts to rest. Once or twice, she saw him kindle a flame from his tinderbox, holding it to a set of parchment sheets taken from a pouch at his side. The glimpse she had gotten suggested a map with notations and figures. Correct or not, she thought he appeared satisfied each time he rolled them up again.
Assuming they were embarked on David’s role as an alternate pretender, they must have a base of operations, some stronghold to which they could retreat in reasonable safety. If it had a keep and stone walls, then Da
vid’s company would be able to hold it against all but the most determined attack. Mayhap that was where they were headed now.
It was unlikely that David could have arranged for such a place. That must surely mean that it had been provided by the king. The question, then, was how secure it might be in truth.
The longer Marguerite rode, the more she thought, and the more she thought, the deeper went the roots of her terror. It was lunacy, becoming embroiled in the clashing ambitions of Lancaster and York. David must tread an incredibly fine line in what lay ahead, succeeding enough to prevent the aims of the Yorkist pretender but not so much that he threatened the stability of Henry’s reign. He must appear a viable candidate for the throne, a true Plantagenet, but not become so solidly identified as such to the common people that he could not disclaim the title later.
Her misgivings were set aside as Astrid, bouncing along on the back of her pony, reined in beside her on returning from a call of nature. “Milady,” she called, her voice high and breathless, “have you seen who rides with us?”
Marguerite, noting the flush of indignation that mantled the petite serving woman’s face, felt her nerves tighten. “Who might it be?”
“Yon French count and countess. Can you credit it?”
“God’s beard,” she muttered under her breath. The Comte and Comtesse de Neve. It was the outside of enough on top of all else.
“What ill wind caused them to cast their lot with our
David?” Astrid grumbled. “Does the simmering she-cat yearn that much for him, or is it something else?”
Marguerite turned in her saddle to look back. She could see no sign of the couple, which meant they were far in the rear. Did David know they were there?
But of course he must. He had been riding up and down the column from the beginning.
Astrid nudged her pony closer, speaking in softer tones. “They believe what Sir David said, think you?”
“About what?”
The small serving woman’s glance was scathing. “You know.”
Of course she knew, as did Astrid, having seen enough of the lessons in past weeks to give it away. To avoid the subject was mere cowardice, as much as she might prefer it. “They must, else they would have remained with Henry. And you, what do you think?”
“I don’t like them here, don’t like anything about this start.” Astrid’s scowl was ferocious. “Men who would be king die more often than not, especially when they have no army of size behind them.”
“And sometimes when they do,” Marguerite said in tight agreement.
“Aye. To have the look of a king is not enough. Mayhap, having the blood would not be, either.”
It was too true to be argued. Right without might behind it was useless.
Fresh from watching David’s declaration, she could not but wonder at the chance of David being Edward V in all truth. He did have the look and the manner of it. He did indeed.
Could it possibly be that he had somehow lost all
memory of being spirited from the Tower and lodged in the nunnery that had been his refuge? Was the tale of his being brought up by nuns mere protective cover?
“It would be a great thing to see David and this Warbeck together,” Astrid said with speculation in her voice.
“It would, though it might prove nothing except that both are by-blows of Edward IV.”
The miniature serving woman tipped her head like a curious sparrow. “You sound as if that would please you. Have you no wish to see our David a king?”
No, she did not. To think on it was one thing, to accept the possibility quite another. She refused to believe it, for that would make his future even more at risk. So many who claimed that distinction had died violent deaths, so very many.
Beyond that, to be hailed the rightful king would embroil him in royal duties and obligations that would take him forever beyond her reach. He would hold the highest, most noble rank in the land, one far above her own. Only a royal princess would be a suitable wife for him.
She wanted him for herself. She wanted him because she loved him, had loved him since they were lad and lass sitting together in a field of clover, since he had knelt at her feet and given her his pledge as her true knight before marching off to war. She loved him, not for his resemblance to a dead king, but for the iron strength of his soul, for his honor that blazed so bright and for the gentle caring he kept hidden from all except her alone. She loved him because he had come for her against all odds and without thought for himself, because he had the respect and trust of his king, and she
knew it merited. She loved him though she didn’t know if he was valued as he should be, or if he might be used and discarded.
Dear Holy Mother, but she must stop this madness. Could she trump the request of a king? If she could persuade David to break his vow, even now, would he take her away to France where the Yorkists and Lancastrians could not reach them? How she longed for that, for their halcyon days together of old, without danger and without fear.
She was afraid for him, so afraid. She had to deflect him from this path even if his honor must be forfeit. There had to be a way to win past the control he held on his need, to breech his steely resolve and make him take her. All she had to do was find it. She must, before it was too late.
The day advanced, bright and clear and with no sign of cloud in the sky. Birds sang and swooped in summer delirium, the leaves on the trees whispered above the track they followed, while the sunlight upon them made them appear burnished with oil. Briar roses bloomed in the ditches, along with campanula, dog violets and wild geranium. The rich green of gorse rose above all, with its yellow-gold blooms like globules of purest sunshine.
Gazing upon those blooms as she walked her palfrey to conserve its strength, Marguerite felt a flicker of recognition, a glimmer of something she could not quite catch and hold. The flowers seemed familiar in some strange way. Oh, but naturally, they were, for had she not seen them all her life? Yet something of importance was attached to them, something that niggled at her mind like an itch. Before she could capture it, Astrid
called to her, pointing out a wild falcon on the wing, and she let it pass.
It was late afternoon of the next day when they came to the keep. It was Norman, Marguerite thought, built of rough-cut gray stone upon a mounded hill in some time long past. Four-square and massive, it promised few comforts and less grace but was as immovable and enduring as a mountain.
If anyone had sent to say they were coming, it was not evident. The inner bailey was piled high with refuse, the great hall stank of wet ashes, moldering rushes and cankered grease, and the coverlet on the bed in the solar had not been washed in many a long day. The few servants who greeted them were either ancient or slovenly, or both.
Marguerite looked at Astrid. The woman pursed her lips, while a militant light rose in her eyes. She spun around like a small top to seek out Oliver. Her imperious gesture brought the squire to them. They all three rolled up their sleeves.
By the time night came down upon them, a great fire leaped on the hall’s central hearth, the stone floor had been swept free of old rushes, dog bones and offal, and the aromas of roasting meats and baking bread replaced more sour odors.
“By my faith,” David said with relief in his voice, as he came to Marguerite’s side after seeing to the horses and assigning places to his followers, “I knew there was a reason I brought you with me.”
She gave him barely a glance as she supervised a slatternly serving woman who acted as if she had never used a stone to scrub a trestle table. “Water has been
heated for bathing. You may make use of it now or wait until after you have eaten.”
“I don’t doubt I smell like a boar in rut, but I’d eat first, if it pleases you.”
Polite, he was always so polite. Well, mayhap not always, she thought, remembering certain things he had done while she lay on her pallet in the dark. Though why she should think of such disturbing matters now was a great mystery. Unless, of course, it was his imposing form and the masculine musk of him so close beside her. Well, or because he would soon see that she had designated the solar which lay behind the great hall as his chamber, and meant to share it with him while Astrid slept with the other serving women.
“As you like,” she answered, and knew she flushed.
“What I would like,” he began, and then stopped as he glanced past her shoulder.
Marguerite turned her head to follow his gaze. The Comte and Comtesse de Neve were settling upon a bench at the table behind her, with the
comtesse
complaining in shrill discontent.
“Pray, why are they here with us?” she asked in low inquiry as she turned back. “The
comtesse
said her husband was in England as liaison between the French king and Henry. Following after you can hardly accomplish his mission.”
David’s expression took on a sardonic edge. “Unless the
comte
believes, or hopes, I will take Henry’s place.”
“A great compliment, to be sure.” She and Astrid had come to a similar conclusion, but that did not make it correct.
“Nay, only a sign that Yorkist monarchs have ever
dealt more handily with the French. Besides, anything that seems likely to loosen Henry’s grasp on the throne may be of benefit to Charles VIII.”
“I thought he and Henry were in charity with each other.”
“An armed truce based on mutual benefit, one that can change overnight. Charles is an ambitious man with more than his share of daring. Though his attention at present is upon the weaker states of Europe, he would not mind uniting England and France again.”
She glanced at David, surprised in spite of herself. It was odd to think of him having the ear of the king of France, also this firm grasp on events beyond England’s narrow shores. She must readjust her thinking.
“So he might prefer you upon the throne,” she said in an attempt at clarity.
“Or Warbeck. Either will do.”
She took up the corner of her veil, biting it while she thought. “The
comte
and
comtesse
will report your progress to their French master then.”
“I have little doubt.” He reached to take the veil from her fingers and smooth it in place behind her shoulder, trailing his fingers along her neck as he released it.
“And you will allow it?” she asked, her voice not quite steady. Her skin tingled where he had touched, and her knees felt unhinged.
“It would be a great coup to receive aid and endorsement from Charles of France.”
“The
comtesse
is…”
“What?”
“Pretty, beguiling—attracted to you.”
He gazed down at her, his expression considering. “Meaning you believe she is here for my sake alone?”
“Mayhap.” As humor rose slowly to brighten his eyes, she went on as if goaded. “I am not jealous. Merely cautious.”
“As am I. Shall I send her away?”
“You would do that?”
“Say you wish to see the back of her, and she is gone. The
comtesse
is not necessary. You are.”
He meant it, she saw, as she searched the dark blue depths of his eyes until she could no longer sustain their scorching heat. “Let them remain, if they may be useful,” she said in a sudden well-being and inclination to generosity.
“As you will.”
She smiled a little before she spoke again. “I should tell you, David…”
“Later,” he said. “There is much to be done before we may find our rest.”
Later, indeed, she thought, for she meant to begin her seduction in earnest this night. That was, of course, when they had both attended to their manifold duties, had eaten and scrubbed away the dirt and weariness of the long ride. The thought of it made her quake inside, even as her blood sizzled in her veins.
It was after midnight, however, when David finally joined her in the solar they were to share. Marguerite had bathed long ago, and had the tub with its linen liner refilled. That water had cooled, she was certain, for any warmth from the day that penetrated the stone walls had long since vanished. The coals that had burned in the brazier were no more than dust. The oil in the shal
low lamp near the tub must be nearly depleted, for the light flickering on its wick cast jittery shadows over the walls, also over the stone bench beneath the shuttered window and her sewing that she had abandoned there.
David paused in the doorway, his gaze moving to the bed with its curtains looped back out of the way. It rested on her form beneath the coverlet, she thought, as she watched with her eyes closed to mere slits. He whispered an oath. Moving with care then, he closed the door soundlessly behind him and turned toward the tub.
A stool was drawn up close by. He dropped down upon it to lever off his boots. Rising again, he loosened the doublet he wore and tossed it aside.
How wide his shoulders were, Marguerite thought with a catch in her breathing; he had no need whatever for the padding resorted to by other men. The linen of his shirt stretched over the muscles of his back, defining their shape as he placed a foot on the stool and bent to unfasten the points of his hose. The lean turns of his hips and legs were much more clearly defined without the obscuring skirt of a doublet. The lamp behind him gave them definition beyond anything she had ever seen.