Authors: Jennifer Blake
Her eyes widened, dominating her whole face. “But if you have no fear of the curse…” she began, only to trail into silence.
“Milady?”
“To marry me would be…a service you may perform for my good.”
That she could suggest such a thing set his heart aflame, burning like a hot coal in his chest. He was touched by the trust of it, also that she understood him so well. Still, some things had obvious answers. “Ah, Lady Marguerite, it would be an honor beyond any I’ve yet gained, but it can’t be.”
She searched his features for a fleeting instant before looking away. “There need not be anything of a physical nature between us.”
“Even so.” His voice was like a sledge being pulled through a rock pit, and he put a hand on his sword hilt in a much-needed reminder of all he had sworn and foresworn, clenching it until his fingers ached. The simple fact was that he could never take her to wife, not and keep to his vow of chastity. To tell her so was impossible, of course. A man did not hand a weapon to one sure to use it against him.
The color in her face deepened, as did the frustrated anger in her eyes. “You have no wish to be my husband. Very well. But do you never intend to marry?”
He hid a wry smile for her feminine curiosity, even
as he wondered if a weapon might not be forged from it. “I never said that.”
She stared at him, her gaze clouded. “What do you mean?”
“My vow was made to you alone, my lady. It extends to no other.”
“So you are free to love elsewhere.”
“And have been free these ten years,” he answered with determined hardihood.
A short laugh left her. “So the verses sung to your prodigious, near insatiable appetite for love do not exaggerate.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“But neither do you deny the stories told of your prowess among amorous French ladies and their daughters.”
He lifted a moody shoulder, for he could not tell her nay. He had not been bound to resist the lures of such women. He had been far from Braesford, and thought never to see its walls or to lay eyes upon Marguerite again in this life. The physical release he had found had nothing to do with the tenderness and idealism of what he had felt for her when they were young and carefree. She had always been above such driven animal lust in his mind, as she had been above him.
If his carnal appetites turned her against him, then might that not be for the best?
She walked on, and he moved at her side, watching as she took one corner of her veil and began to nibble it in a well-remembered habit when she was upset or thoughtful.
“What would you have me do, then, if you don’t
mean to keep me with you?” she asked in exasperation. “Where am I to be settled? If I shelter with any lord of standing, he will give me up to Henry as soon as his men appear. Well, or else call for a priest and make himself my husband for the sake of my marriage portion.”
“Not for that alone,” he murmured, allowing his gaze to flicker quickly from her face to the tender curve of her neck and downward to the sweet mounds of her breasts under her gown. It might have been better for his peace of mind if carnal matters had not been mentioned.
“And not if he should happen to follow the white rose of York, I suppose. Such a one might keep me hidden to thumb his nose at a Lancastrian king.”
“Or he might decide raping one of Henry’s wards would be a fine revenge,” he returned in hard warning.
“What then? Shall I follow in the train of your men like the merest camp drab?”
“No.” The denial was sharp, primarily because the idea had violent attraction as long as she was his drab alone. Though that was as impossible as becoming her husband.
“What is left? I would not— Oh.” She came to a halt as comprehension rose in her eyes.
“Indeed,” he said in iron agreement.
“A convent. You intend that I become a nun.” The words were as dull as the expression in her eyes.
“Will it not serve?”
It was not an uncommon solution. There was sanctuary within a convent for a lady of Marguerite’s station who wanted to escape marriage. It would be a life
of peace and prayer, one well removed from the avarice of men, removed from their lust. If the last appealed to him more than it should, then so be it. In spite of the iron bonds of his vow, he was no saint.
She lowered her lashes and released her veil, clasping her hands at her waist. “I fear I lack a vocation.”
“As do half the women who enter nunnery walls.”
She pressed her lips together an instant then gave a small sigh. “But you will ride for the coast when I am with the good sisters in some such place?”
“When you are settled,” he agreed with a nod. “Not before.”
“Well, sir,” she began with unhappiness threading her voice.
It was then that the clarion call of a trumpet blasted the morning air. It startled the birds to flight and echoed back from the distant sky. Hard upon it came the trampling of hooves and the jingling of saddlery. The noise grew louder, came closer, until it seemed to shake the ground and rattle the leaves on the trees.
Mounted men burst into view then, riding two abreast down the narrow woodland track, yet winding back as far as the eye could see. Above them waved a mighty pennon showing a snarling red dragon on a yellow ground, mark of the man who rode beneath it.
David cursed with soft and raging invective in three languages. Beside him, Marguerite drew breath with a sharp gasp, then stood perfectly still.
The yellow pennon carried the device of Henry Tudor.
Henry, seventh of the name, king of England.
G
runts, yells and the clatter of arms rang through the trees. In the blink of an eye, or so it seemed to Marguerite, David’s men-at-arms formed a phalanx that bristled with pikes and halberds, bows and swords. They lined the rutted track, presenting a solid bulwark between him and the king’s men. A command rang out, full-throated, rife with authority. Every man froze in position, offering no attack yet giving not an inch of ground.
The king lifted a gloved hand. The cavalcade behind him clattered to a halt. Alone, he walked his horse forward, an unmistakably royal figure in clothing suitable for the hunt yet of the finest cloth dyed in the richest of colors. He drew up, eased his seat as if stiff from his ride. His expression judicious, he stared down at David and Marguerite where they stood.
Marguerite’s heart thundered against her rib cage and tremors ran over her from her chest to her knees. She made her curtsy, aware at the same time of David’s respectful obeisance on one knee. At a brief, stern word from the king, David rose and took her hand, drawing her up beside him, placing her hand on his arm and his other over it for support. They waited for Henry VII to
make known his displeasure and what he meant to exact of them for it.
The king had aged since coming to the throne, Marguerite realized as she gazed up at him in the bright, unforgiving light of morning. His shoulders were more stooped and lines of care grooved his long, patrician face on either side of his thin blade of a nose. Strands of silver glinted in the sandy-blond of his hair that hung below his hat with its upturned brim cut in jagged points like a crown drawn by a child. Ten years past, when she first appeared at court, he had seemed a man in his prime. Now, at not much above forty, he looked much older and tired beyond reckoning. It seemed the weight of England rested upon his shoulders. Who could say it did not?
“Here we are together again, David of Braesford,” Henry said. “At last.”
“Your Majesty,” he returned in grave acknowledgment, and not the smallest trace of subservience.
Marguerite, watching the two men, was aware of an odd undercurrent between them. One or two of the king’s courtiers seemed to feel it as well, for they glanced at each other with raised brows. Did it relate to that day during the bloodletting at Stoke, when David had saved the king’s life and raised the fallen Lancaster standard in victory? She could not imagine what it might be otherwise.
“You are no doubt surprised to see us,” Henry went on, employing the royal plural with easy familiarity.
David inclined his head. “As you say, sire.”
“We will go inside where we may be private.” Henry indicated the cottage a small distance away with a brief
wave of his hand. “We will then discuss how we arrived at this happenstance.”
There was little mystery to it in Marguerite’s mind. Someone must have ridden in haste to the king with the news of her abduction. Another man had no doubt followed after David, that he might lead Henry to this hidden encampment. The only way either could have brought the king here in such short order, however, was if Henry had been hunting or else upon royal progress nearby. And what evil chance had allowed that?
Marguerite, uncertain she was included in the command to attend the king in the cottage, hung back as they neared the low doorway. David did not release her, however, but drew her with him as he stepped inside.
Astrid was caught at the window where she had been standing on a stool to watch Henry’s arrival. She curtsied from atop it with aplomb not unmixed with bravado. Henry gestured for her to jump down and bring her perch forward. Taking the stool, he made a gesture of dismissal. Astrid’s face creased in a worried frown, but she backed from the cottage and closed the door behind her.
Marguerite and David were left alone with Henry VII.
The king made a brusque signal which indicated that Marguerite must take the stool. It was not a mannerly gesture, she thought, but rather that he wished to avoid the low seat which would have put his knees on a level with his shoulders, not to mention requiring that she and David sit on the earthen floor so their heads would not be above his.
Or mayhap Henry merely preferred to remain on
his feet. His manner was unsettled, and tension robbed his movements of their usual deliberation. The same sense of strain wavered in the air, crackling like the low flames on the hearth.
“You will have guessed that we have been kept informed of your movements since you left France,” he threw at David, speaking over his shoulder as he strode toward the single window, the turned back again. “Lady Marguerite’s as well, from the time she passed out of the gates of Braesford.”
“Aye, sire, it seemed likely,” David allowed, his thick, gold-tipped lashes shielding his expression.
“What may not be so obvious is that the betrothal from which you saved her with so little difficulty was no more than a ruse.”
“A ruse,” Marguerite repeated in stunned disbelief.
Not a shadow of remorse lay in the king’s face. “Regrettable, but necessary.”
“I feel certain there was a purpose.” Though the words were polite enough, David’s voice sliced like honed steel.
“She was a lure, nothing more or less.” Henry gave him a jaundiced look.
“One meant to draw me back to England.”
“If you had answered our many letters, our many messages that invited you to appear before us, if you had met with the representative sent to request your presence, then the fright for Lady Marguerite—this entire charade, in fact—need never have taken place.”
“The fright for her? You are saying she knew nothing of this ruse of yours?”
Though David spoke to the king, his gaze, as hard
as blue glass, was bent upon her face, Marguerite saw. She ceased to breathe as she awaited Henry’s answer.
“Lady Marguerite is intelligent beyond most, but we do not make a habit of confiding matters of state to females.”
Marguerite lifted her chin as she absorbed the backhanded compliment. That her escape from an unwanted marriage could be construed to be a matter of state was as difficult to accept as that no union had been intended in the first place.
“To Halliwell’s men then? Or Braesford’s?”
“It was considered, in order to prevent bloodshed, but we decided that might be best left to you. To encourage Halliwell seemed unwise. He has recently shown signs of being overeager for this marriage.”
“Has he?” David asked, his voice soft. “Enough to prevent the rescue?”
Henry’s features congealed into hauteur. “What mean you?”
“I noted a man at Calais with uncommon interest in my route of travel.”
“Ours, no doubt.” The king shrugged. “If he attracted your attention, we are employing inferior servitors and must look about us for replacements.”
“‘Spies,’ you mean to say, sire,” David said in clarification.
“What would you? If every crowned head in Europe has its network of agents, then we must have the same or be left naked in our lack of information.”
“Keeping watch on your own subjects as well, sire?” Marguerite asked, entering the conversation with determination.
The king acknowledged her sally with a grim smile. “There is where the lèse-majesté lies, Lady Marguerite, and the threat of sedition that goes with it.”
David watched them, his gaze considering. “Halliwell was never a party to this ruse of yours.”
“As you say.”
“He did not seek her hand.”
That explained, for Marguerite, the peer’s continued health. If he had not attempted to defy the curse of the Graces, then he had never been in danger from it. “The betrothal was a mere ploy then,” she said in her need to clarify where she stood. “There was no possibility of a marriage.”
“Lord Halliwell did not disagree when it was proposed to him, and he will naturally be compensated for any mortification he may now feel at the loss of his bride. Of course, if the Golden Knight had not appeared…”
Her lips tightened as she saw Henry’s point. She would have been married off with scarcely a qualm, thrown away upon Lord Halliwell as easily as disposing of a lure refused by a hunting falcon. “I fail to see why you thought he might trouble himself.”
“The ability of the Three Graces to draw men to them has been proven in the past. We depended upon it.”
“Yet how could you know there was any reason he should, anything between us then or now.”
The king merely looked at her. Anger roiled inside her as she realized she was a subject who must have been watched along with the rest.
David stirred, his gaze upon the king. “So you had
your spies in all camps, and used them to come upon us once the lady was rescued. Why go to such lengths? What can you want of me?”
“Well, you may ask.” Henry tugged at his bottom lip, as if deciding how much to say, or else how to say it.
The strained feeling in the cottage tightened, gathering close. Marguerite, sensing it, was suddenly afraid. She jerked a little as the king dropped his hand, facing David as if in sudden decision.
“You have heard of one Perkin Warbeck during your travels over the continent?”
“The Yorkist pretender? I saw him once or twice in Burgundy.”
“How did he strike you? What think you of him?”
Henry’s reign to date had not been particularly peaceful, Marguerite knew. Hardly had he settled into his role as king when the first pretender appeared. Young Lambert Simnel, barely twelve years of age, had been presented as the younger son of Edward IV, miraculously escaped from death in the Tower. His followers had been defeated at Stoke, after which the boy was proved to have been sired by an Irish carpenter. In the years since, there had been trouble with Charles VIII of France and other skirmishes on the continent. Now there was this specter of the man called Perkin Warbeck.
Warbeck had been agitating for at least six years, going slowly from one court to another to gain support and add to his war chest. He was a more for midable foe than Simnel, being older and more self-assured. More than that, he had the Plantagenet coloring of fair hair and blue eyes, also their supreme confidence that amounted to arrogance. It was said as well that he had
more knowledge of the family descended from that grand old tyrant, Geoffrey of Anjou, than any should know who was not born to the purple.
Whether from sincere belief in his lineage or mere political expediency, James IV of Scotland had taken up Warbeck’s cause to the point of giving him a kins-woman in marriage. The duchess of Burgundy, supposedly Warbeck’s aunt as she was a sister to Edward IV, had extended her blessing and promised an army of mercenaries. Charles VIII of France had entertained Warbeck in royal state as well, since anything which might shake the English throne was seen as a benefit for his regime.
“I liked what I saw of him,” David answered with studied calm.
Henry grimaced. “That he is likable does not make him a Plantagenet prince. Did you speak to him? Had you a sense that he might actually be who he claims?”
It was telling that Henry thought it possible. Some liked to claim he had ordered the deaths of the princes in the Tower, Edward IV’s sons, before he invaded England to fight for the crown. That was unreasonable on the face of it. If he’d had certain proof Simnel and Warbeck were false pretenders, surely he would have produced it before now?
“Anything is possible, sire. He spoke well and had the royal air, yet there are those who could have made certain he knew enough to be convincing.”
“It can be done, yes,” Henry said, rubbing his chin with his knuckle. “We were not brought up for royal office, but soon gained the knack of it. As for his looks…”
David gave him a smile with a sardonic edge. “’Tis well-known Edward was blessed with a number of sons born of unions without a priest’s blessing.”
“Before and after his clandestine marriage to Elizabeth Woodville,” Henry said in agreement. “His dealings with women, particularly the poor lady to whom he was promised before he took the throne, were less than admirable. Some by-blows he acknowledged…”
“And some he did not,” David finished for him, his eyes cool. “It’s been suggested my own mother may have known him too well for her own good.”
“So we’ve heard,” Henry replied with no surprise whatever.
Marguerite listened to that charge with an odd pang under her breastbone. Her older sister, Isabel, had once mentioned that David had a familiar look about him. She had gone on to speculate about his parentage and how he had come to be brought up by nuns. Marguerite had paid scant attention. David was David, his own person, and she had no interest in anything more. It was odd to hear him speak of it now, for he had never indicated in those younger years that he cared who might have fathered him.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she said in controlled patience, “but I don’t understand the purpose of this hoax.”
“We are coming to that, Lady Marguerite. In fact, it is this accident of birth which is of most interest to us.”
“My resemblance to Warbeck,” David said, his eyes narrowing with thoughtfulness. “Is that it?”
A wintery smile moved over Henry’s lips that had once been sensuously full but were now pinched and
thin. “Or rather to the man who may have been his father.”
“To Edward IV.”
“There you have it. These are treacherous times, so require treacherous measures. To the ruse we planned involving Lady Marguerite, we would add another.”
“Sire…” Sick dread spiraled up from deep inside her as she caught the vague outline of Henry’s intention.
“And that would be?” David asked, his voice quiet, almost contemplative.
“We would create another Yorkist pretender.”
Silence fell with the swiftness of a headsman’s axe. The peat fire whispered on the hearth. Wind soughed through the trees that waved over the cottage. Beyond the log-built walls, the low murmur of the men-at-arms and stamping and blowing of horses could be heard.
David stirred, squaring his shoulders. His voice was deep and without inflection as he spoke.
“Another pretender, sire? In addition to Warbeck?”
“Warbeck is a serious threat, more dangerous by far than young Simnel a decade ago,” Henry answered with a brief gesture of acceptance. “Old enough to command from the throne in his own right, he has gathered an impressive array of supporters, both here and in Europe. The numbers of his followers increase day by day, and include the highest in the land. What is required is a way to dilute his effect, to divide his supporters, draw a portion away to another banner while preventing others from joining the insurrection he is fomenting.”