The Maiden's Hand (32 page)

Wynter made a wordless sound of disbelief. Lark shoved his sword arm away. With the same movement, she jabbed the dagger at his arm. A ribbon of blood streamed from the wound, and he swore. Like a cornered wildcat, he leaped backward onto the window ledge and crouched low, defensive, snarling, lashing out.

Lark ducked beneath his flashing blade. She sank to the floor, protecting the baby against her chest. Oliver leaped down from the ledge and snatched up his sword. Before Lark could sit upright, Oliver had the tip pressed to Wynter’s crotch.

“I always knew you didn’t have the balls to fight like a man, you fu—”

“What in God’s name is going on here?”

Elizabeth stood in the doorway, her face stern, her body rigid as steel.

Wynter’s mercenaries melted en masse into a floor-deep obeisance.

“There goes loyalty,” Oliver said cheerfully. “Your
Majesty—” he seemed to relish the title “—I fear this man had a most pernicious plot in mind.”

“I thought as much. My marshal warned me that some unwanted crew of patches had lately arrived.”

“Long live Queen Elizabeth!”
The glad cry rose from all quarters and seemed to shake the very glass in the windows. For a moment Elizabeth closed her eyes, then opened them.

Absently massaging her throat, Lark stared at her. Though only moments a queen, she already had an air of fierce, gorgeous majesty that struck at the heart. The pale face was not gentle; the black Tudor eyes were not kind.

She would make a magnificent queen.

And she did have a heart, for it showed when her gaze fixed on Wynter, who still stood on the window ledge. The design in the colored glass framed him, setting off his extraordinary male beauty. Just for a moment, Lark saw pity and grief flicker in Elizabeth’s eyes.

Would her woman’s heart show him mercy, or would she play the monarch?

“Arrest that man,” she commanded. Instantly a troop of guards entered the chamber.

Oliver sheathed his sword. Lark went to his side and leaned weakly against him.

Wynter’s face, with runnels of sweat pouring down it, filled with an eerie sort of ecstasy. “A curse be on your reign, Elizabeth Tudor, you whore’s bastard, you devil’s get!” The venom in his voice was a poison that froze them all. “May you be as miserable and barren as your sister.”

With a vicious sound—laughter or sobbing, Lark could not be certain—Wynter hurled himself at the glass window. His shoulder caused the leaded panes to bow outward. The household guard rushed toward him. Wynter
hurled himself again. This time the impact wrenched at leading and casement.

Even as he crashed through the splintering colored glass, he looked darkly beautiful, his face hard and jubilant, his black sleeves fluttering like broken wings.

Lark gave a strangled, horrified cry and buried her face against Oliver’s shoulder.

Elizabeth appeared paler than ever, but she refused the arm held out by William Cecil. Her skirts swished busily as she approached Oliver and Lark.

“Madam,” said Oliver, “his curses meant nothing! The ravings of a madman, no more. It—”

“Is forgotten. This is a day of joy.” She gave a forced smile, and with a start Lark realized that the incident with Wynter
was
forgotten, because the queen had decreed it so.

Elizabeth lowered her voice so no one else could hear. “I hardly know what to do.”

Oliver sent her a self-deprecating grin. “No more than I.” He whispered, “I suppose I should grovel and seek your favor, but good Lord, Bess, I have all I ever wanted right here in my arms.”

“And so you have.” The young queen’s cheeks took on fresh color, and her voice grew loud and steady. “My lord, this child will need my blessing, for she has an incorrigible rascal for a father.”

“W
e named her Philippa because Queen Mary wanted it thus,” Oliver said to his youngest granddaughter, a carrot-topped cherub in his lap.

“I insisted,” Lark said softly. They sat on a long couch in front of the hearth in the great hall of Blackrose Priory, with borzoya dogs slumbering amid the rushes and a little girl gazing up in wonder at her handsome grandfather.

Oliver caught Lark’s eyes and winked. They had raised a brood of children and grandchildren, yet his wink still caused a quiet radiance to glow inside her. King James was on the throne. Oliver, once convinced he was doomed to an early death, had served Queen Elizabeth through all the years of her reign.

Bessie looked up with shining eyes and said, “Grandpapa, you’ve told me wondrous tales about you and Grand-mama. What about
my
mother and father?”

Just for a moment, a cloud shadowed Lark’s perfect happiness. Involuntarily, she touched the Romanov brooch, the gift from Juliana, encrusted now with new and
precious stones to replace the ones Philippa had been forced to sell, one by one.

Oliver seemed to sense her mood, and he slid his arm around her. Love and comfort flowed between them, and Lark sighed with contentment, feeling the fullness of the years they had shared.

“Well?” Bessie demanded, her curls bouncing with impatience.

Oliver chuckled and set the child on the floor, sending her off to play with a gentle swat on the backside. “That, my prying sweet, is another story altogether.”

When Bessie was gone, Oliver kissed his wife lustily on the mouth until she was laughing and breathless. “What sort of grandpapa are you,” she demanded, “making love to your wife instead of telling stories to Bessie?”

“I’ll tell stories when I’m in my dotage.” His smile awakened the old magic, and he held her close before adding, “We de Laceys are full of them.”

Dear Reader,

Something old is new again. I’m very proud to bring you a brand-new edition of the Tudor Rose trilogy, first published about fifteen years ago.

These books were researched and written when the information superhighway was a mere goat track. But the themes and story lines are timeless, exemplifying the things that have always been important to me, both as a reader and a writer: fiercely honest emotion, ordinary people experiencing extraordinary challenges, passion and adventure, and, of course, a satisfying ending.

In addition to being revised, the books have been given a new lease on life with fresh titles. Book One, originally titled
Circle in the Water
and now called
At the King’s Command,
was the winner of a Holt Medallion. Book Two, originally called
Vows Made in Wine,
is now
The Maiden’s Hand,
and was a finalist for a RITA
^®
Award. Book Three, also a RITA
^®
Award finalist, was titled
Dancing on Air
and is now
At the Queen’s Summons.

It is with pleasure that I invite you to step back in time, into a vanished world of court intrigue, where sovereigns ruled by the scaffold, and men and women dared to risk everything for love.

2009