At The King's Command

A crushing sense of defeat caved in on Juliana, but she gave herself not a moment for regrets. Even before the mare came to a full stop, she hit the ground running.

Her head jerked back, and she felt a tearing pain. She loosed a low, throaty scream. The villain had hold of her long braid.

She kicked out with her bare feet, bruising them against the man’s tall boots. She scratched, digging her claws into his neck, his ears, anywhere she could reach.

The fight lasted mere seconds. With perfunctory swiftness, he used the leather reins to lash her wrists together.

“Now then.” His voice was a deep rumble of anger.

“Pavlo!” Juliana screamed.

The dog lunged. A hundredweight of muscle and fur hurled itself at the unsuspecting man.

Pavlo’s yelp of pain pierced the air. Juliana blinked in amazement. Somehow, the man had grabbed Pavlo’s crimson vellat collar and twisted, choking off the dog’s windpipe.

“It would be a pity,” he said, his tone infuriatingly blasé, “to destroy so magnificent an animal. But I shall, wench, unless you command it off the attack.”

Juliana did not hesitate. Nothing, not even her own freedom, was more precious to her than Pavlo. “Let up, Pavlo,” she said in Russian. “Easy, boy.”

The dog submitted, relaxing his knotted muscles and emitting a strangled whine. The man eased his grip on the collar and then let go. “I wonder,” he said. “Is this a case for the sheriff or the palace warden?”

“No!” Juliana had learned to loathe and fear the sheriffs of England. She plunged to her knees in front of her captor, her bound hands held high in supplication. “My lord, I beg you! Do not turn me over to the sheriff!”

“Christ’s bones, woman.” His face flushed with chagrin, he gave her sleeve a tug. “Get up. I mislike begging.”

Heaving a sigh of resignation. Juliana stood. Vaguely she became aware of movement high on the walk between the two towers of the distant palace gate, but her gaze stayed riveted on her captor. He was garbed as a gentleman, in a costume of such exaggerated virility that she blushed. An abbreviated doublet allowed his white shirt to billow forth. Huge sleeves with clever slashings bloomed from the armholes. Tight particolored hose hugged his long legs, his muscular thighs, and culminated in an immense codpiece all decked with silver braid.

A large hand, surprisingly gentle, touched her under the chin and drew her gaze upward. “Nothing but trouble there,” he said, a faint note of cynical amusement in his voice.

With the fire in her cheeks intensifying, she studied his face. He was cleanshaven, an attribute that never failed to shock her, for Russian and gypsy men alike always wore full beards. Framed by a mane of wheat-colored hair, this man’s face was smooth and stark, with chiseled angles that bespoke strength—and intimidating power.

Fear fluttered in her chest. It was his eyes that discomfited her. They were unusual, of the palest, opaque blue, cold as moonstones. She peered into the icy blankness and was startled at what she saw there. A hard, tight pleasure. As if he had enjoyed the chase.

Suddenly the thought of being handed over to the sheriff did not seem so dire as tarrying in the company of this huge, forbidding lord.

But instinct told her not to show fear. She tossed her head. “You’ve got your horse back. She’s a disobedient nag anyway, so why don’t you let me go on my way?”

The man’s mouth tightened. His version of a sardonic smile, she decided.

“Disobedient?” Absently he fed the mare a morsel from a pouch that hung from his wide, ornate belt. “Nay, just greedy. Capria learned long ago that to come to my whistle meant to win a bit of marzipan.”

Before she could catch herself, Juliana mouthed the unfamiliar word.

“Almond sugar,” the man said pleasantly enough. He held out a pasty-looking morsel. “Would you like some?”

She turned up her nose in resentment. The horse snatched at the tidbit.

“Where did you learn to ride like that?” her captor asked.

Juliana hesitated, wondering which lie to tell. If she admitted she had polished her considerable skills with the gypsies, it would endanger the band, for the Romany people were rarely welcome among gentlefolk. Unexpectedly, she heard herself blurting out the truth. “I learned from my father’s riding master. In Novgorod, a kingdom of Russia north of Muscovy.”

The man lifted one tawny eyebrow. “Not only a horse thief, but a lunatic, as well. How long has it been since you escaped Bedlam?”

“Not only a bully, but a braying ass, too,” she shot back.

“Lord Wimberleigh!” A man in palace livery came pounding along the road. “You’ve collared the horse thief, then.”

“It appears that I have, Sir Bodely.”

“Well done, my lord, and you gave His Majesty a few moments of diversion in the process. Though I trow he’ll not look kindly on losing the bet.”

“Your prisoner, Sir Bodely,” Wimberleigh said with a mocking bow. He grinned at Juliana. “The palace warden’s thief taker, at your service.”

Sir Bodely’s brows beetled together. “A wench, is it? Looks gypsy to me.” With swift, jerky movements, he bound her hands with coarse rope and gave the discarded reins to Lord Wimberleigh.

From a belt overhung with an ale-swiller’s gut were the tools of the thief-taker’s trade: a black whip, manacles, and hobbles.

Wimberleigh’s gaze fixed on the savage utensils. His eyes turned flinty, and beneath his billowing sleeves, his shoulders hunched. He turned away. “I’d best be on my way, then.”

In a red haze of fury and fear, Juliana called out, “Are all great lords as cowardly as you, sir?”

His back stiffened, and he swung around to regard her with the respect he might afford a spider. “Were you addressing me?”

“You are the only cowardly lord present at the moment.”

His eyebrows slid upward. “So. You find me cowardly, do you?”

Gingerly she lifted her bound hands. “You are quick to accuse me of stealing your horse, yet you balk at staying to see me punished. What is the penalty for my crime? Hanging? Or perhaps since I failed in my endeavor, I shall merely have my nostrils slit or a hand or an ear cut off. A true man would not lack the stomach to watch.”

His squarish jaw tightened. He addressed the palace official. “Will the wench have a chance to face her accuser in a court of law?”

Juliana held her breath. The law always reads against the gypsy. Laszlo had drummed that lesson into her head. But despite the past five years, she was not a gypsy. She was of noble birth. Her kin had been great princes and rulers. She would convince the court of her true identity and soon have the insolent Wimberleigh groveling at her feet.

The brassy blare of a horn scattered her thoughts. Out of the gates came a party of mounted noblemen, their persons arrayed even more sumptuously than Lord Wimberleigh’s. Retainers swarmed around the gentlemen, boys trotting at their stirrups, a few clutching lead reins.

Sir Bodely doubled over in an obeisance so deep it looked painful. Even Wimberleigh bowed. Juliana simply stared, and with unerring instinct she picked out the king of England.

He rode a roan hunter. His saddle was huge, no doubt specially constructed to accommodate his ponderous weight. Henry of England was as impressive as Grand Prince Vasily had been. Like a proper boyar, the English king wore a full beard. His raiments glittered with gold and silver threads, and his mantle was edged with the black fur of the civet cat.

“My lord of Wimberleigh.” The king’s voice was cold and full of hate. “It seems you made the better wager. I thought your mare a lost cause.”

A wager?

Juliana felt a hot stab of anger. Her life hung in the balance, and the king and Wimberleigh were settling wagers?

“Tell me, my lord,” said the king. “What trick did you play?”

“No trick, sire. I’ve trained the mare to come to my whistle regardless of her rider. She’s as obedient as she is swift.”

“The beast is a wonder,” cried one of the king’s men, clutching his velvet hat to his chest.

“Indeed she is, Francis,” Henry replied. “No need to get yourself overwrought.” His gaze flicked to Juliana. His small eyes were black and impenetrable. His thin mouth, enclosed in the graying red-gold beard, pressed tight; then the corners lifted in a grin. “An Egyptian wench. Well done, Wimberleigh.”

A fresh wave of fear struck at Juliana. “Egyptians,” as folk called the gypsies, were considered outlaws. In some areas, they were hunted for sport with prizes awarded to men who managed to kill or wound one.

“Your Majesty.” Juliana spoke clearly, aware that a faint accent tinged her words. “I am no gypsy.” Her resonant voice, the carefully formed words, attracted the attention of all. Her goal had been to win an audience with Henry of England. True, she had not anticipated these precise circumstances, but now that she had his attention, she would make the most of it.

Henry loosed a bark of laughter. “It speaks! And rather prettily, I must admit.” He reached out his gloves and jeweled hand. “Come here, wench.”

“Your Grace, no!” A dark-haired lady on a palfrey beside the king gasped. “She’s probably crawling with lice and vermin.”

“I don’t mean to touch it, Lady Gwenyth. I merely wish to look at it.”

With her head held high, Juliana stepped forward. To her constant mortification, she did indeed suffer from frequent infestations of lice, and at the moment she itched from a light case. Still, she refused to surrender her moment with the king. Rope dragging in the powdery earth, she made a graceful, flawless obeisance. A murmur of new interest rippled through the fast-swelling crowd.

Juliana took a deep breath. Borrowing the storyteller’s art she had learned from nights around the gypsy campfire, she began to speak.

“My name is Juliana Romanov. I was born in the kingdom of Muscovy to the royal boyar Gregor Romanov of Novgorod.”

From the corner of her eye, Juliana saw two ladies put their heads together and whisper. One of them pointed at Juliana’s cold, bare feet.

She ignored them. “It is true that I tried to, er, borrow the horse of Lord Wilberford.” She hoped she’d got his name right. “I knew not what else to do. Your Majesty, I am the victim of a terrible injustice. I meant to seek your protection and ask your help for a lady of the blood royal.”

Low laughter came from some of the courtiers. Juliana knew they could not see past her tattered gown, her tangled hair, the smudges of ash and road dust on her face.

Yet she had the king’s attention. She meant to seize the moment. “Five years ago, Grand Prince Vasily died, and the boyars—whom you call councillors or nobles—warred against each other. A band of mercenaries burned my father’s house and murdered my family.” She dropped her voice, amazed that even after five years, the nightmare memories still held her in a grip of horror and grief. For a moment, she was back in Novgorod, watching the bloodred flicker of flames on the snow, the tall boots crunching over the drive, the cruel blade of a killer. She heard again the yelp of a dog and a man’s muffled curse.

As quickly as it had come, the vision vanished, leaving her drained. “I alone survived, and by God’s grace escaped to England.”

“Cromwell!” the king bellowed.

The dark-robed man, his clean-shaven face pale, dismounted and stepped forward. “I am here, sire.”

“What think you, Sir Thomas? Can this barefoot wench truly be a daughter of Muscovy royalty, or has Wimberleigh bagged us a madwoman?”

Sir Thomas steepled his long, pale fingers. “It is true that Vasily the Third died five years ago, that there was infighting among the boyars. I had it from the Prussian ambassador.”

Encouraged, Juliana nodded vigorously. “Then you understand my position. No doubt a prince as lofty as yourself would feel honor bound to give me your full support.”

The king chuckled, a charming, musical sound. His mount shifted beneath him as if straining from the burdensome weight. “What sort of support, my lady?”

“A naval escort. Well-armed, of course, for I shall need help in bringing the murderers to justice.”

Someone in the riding party laughed outright. Others joined in the mirth. Wimberleigh raised his eyebrows in skepticism. Furious, Juliana did the unthinkable. She plunged her bound hands into the waistband of her skirt and drew forth the Romanov ruby brooch.

“This is proof of my identity,” she declared. “My father gave it to me on my thirteenth name day.”

“Tis paste,” Lady Gwenyth declared with a bored sniff.

“Or stolen,” said someone else. “We already know she is a thief.”

The dark man called Cromwell addressed Sir Bodely. “Take the cozening wench away and hang her.”

Though her fingers were numb with terror, Juliana had the presence of mind to slip her brooch back into its hiding place.

Chains and manacles clanking, Sir Bodely advanced. Wimberleigh planted himself in the warden’s path. “Free her,” he said.

“But, my lord—”

“I said free her,” the huge, brooding man repeated. “Her offense—such as it was—is against me. I say she goes free.”

The king stroked his beard. “You always did have a soft spot for downtrodden females, eh, Wimberleigh?”

“She’s naught but the bride of calamity,” Cromwell said, his voice nasal with annoyance. “Surely the baron of Wimberleigh has better causes than—”

“Peace, Thomas.” The king held up his hand, then gave a curt nod to Sir Bodely. The warden loosed Juliana’s bonds. Her first instinct was to flee, from the crafty king and his court, and most especially the forbidding man who all but held her hostage with his cold glare.

“What say you, Wimberleigh?” the king asked. Cruel laughter danced in his eyes. “Shall we send the wench on her way, or do you want to keep her for yourself?”

Lady Gwenyth tittered behind her hand.

Juliana watched the tall, tawny-haired lord. He did not move a muscle, yet she sensed that he was torn. His craggy face was a mask of sheer dislike—whether of her or the king, she could not tell. She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

Stephen expelled his breath, wondering how he should answer. Knowing that any response would be the wrong one.

Murmurs of laughter rippled from the crowd. As far as they were concerned, this was a farce put on for their entertainment. In spite of himself, Stephen had to admire the way Juliana bore up under the humiliating mirth of the king and his court. Henry’s black-eyed glare had taken down fiercer adversaries than an addlepated gypsy girl, yet she returned his stare with unflinching ferocity.

Almost as if she viewed herself as his equal.

All of Stephen’s instincts urged him to send the girl on her way, back to her coarse gypsy people. Then he committed a grave error. He looked into her eyes.

What a world of torment and yearning he saw there, in the flickering green depths. He thought of the husky, exotic cadences of her voice, the curiously accented words. Your Majesty, I am the victim of a terrible injustice. He told himself it should not matter; he had no business to concern himself with the troubles of an unwashed half-mad gypsy.

And yet a voice rose inside him—alien, yet wholly from the depths of his heart. “Sire, the choice should be hers.”

“Nay,” cried Henry, and his tone raised a prickle of suspicion on the back of Stephen’s neck. “The choice is mine. If we let the wench wander free, she’ll doubtless revert to her thieving ways. This girl, wild as she is, must wed.”

A chill touched the base of Stephen’s spine. In his mind he heard the echo of the king’s command: Let me hear that you will wed—if not Lady Gwenyth, then another.

Henry was angry at losing the wager. He had ruined a handful of maidens and his patience was wearing thin. Stephen knew, with a leaden sinking in his gut, that the king had found a new way to indulge his malice.

“You, my lord, will marry the wench,” Henry proclaimed.

Two

While the courtiers gasped in scandalized disbelief, and Lord Wimberleigh seemed to turn to stone, Juliana folded her arms to contain the frenzied beating of her heart.

“I cannot marry him,” she said in a rush. She tried to suppress her accent, but when she was nervous it became more pronounced. “He—he is beneath me.”

Uproarious laughter filled the air, and the sound stung like a glowing brand.

“Have you heard nothing I have said?” she shouted. “I am a princess. My father was a Romanov—”

“And mine is the Holy Roman Emperor,” said Cromwell, his thin mouth pinched with dry humor.

Sir Bodely nudged her, none too gently. “Show a bit of gratitude, wench. The king just saved you from the gibbet.”

She fell silent and still. Marriage to an English lord? But that would mean abandoning the goal that had driven her for five harsh years. It would mean putting aside her plan to return to Novgorod and to punish the assassins who had murdered her family.

King Henry brayed with laughter. “I did nothing of the sort, my good Bodely. I simply left the choice to Wimberleigh. And he chose to let her live.”

“So I did,” came Wimberleigh’s quiet answer. He stood close to her, his presence as threatening as a rain-heavy storm cloud. His light hair swirled about his face, and she noticed tiny fans of tension bracketing his eyes. “But I think we’ll both soon find, sweet gypsy, that some things are worse than death.”

She stiffened her spine in response to the chill that suddenly touched it. She tore her gaze from Wimberleigh. There was something disturbing about him, a ruthlessness perhaps, and deep in his eyes lurked a glint of raw panic. A dread that matched her own.

“A charming observation, Wimberleigh.” King Henry wore a jovial smile that Juliana instinctively mistrusted. Of all the men in England, only this king came close to the splendor she had known every day of her life in Novgorod. The dark raisin eyes darted from her to the baron. “This is an apt way for you to fulfill your vow to me, my lord. You promised to take a wife, yet insisted on a chaste woman. Why not the Egyptian princess, then?”

A fresh wave of laughter burst from the courtiers.

As Stephen watched the small bedraggled captive, she did a most amazing thing. Her dirt-smudged chin rose. Her narrow shoulders squared, and her hands balled into fists at her sides.

It was that stern pride, so incongruous in a girl in tattered skirts and matted hair, that caused Stephen to betray himself.

Summoning his massive frame to its full height, he glared the courtiers into silence. Even as he did so, he cursed himself for a fool. He shouldn’t ache for her. He shouldn’t defend her.

“Sire,” she said, her voice composed, yet still lyrically rhythmic, “it is a great compliment that you find me suitable for so lofty a lord, but I cannot marry this stranger.”

“Will it be the gibbet, instead?” the king asked, a cold smile on his face.

Though she did not move a muscle, she turned pale. Only Stephen stood close enough to see the pulse leap at her temple. He wanted to turn away, to shield his eyes from her. He did not want to see her courage or her desperation. He did not want to pity her or—may God forgive him—admire her.

He felt like a blind man in a thorny maze, unable to find a way out. Henry had aged rapidly and badly. He had grown as volatile and unpredictable as the Channel winds. Yet his craving for revenge was as sharp as ever.

“My lord of Wimberleigh,” Henry shouted in his most blustery I-am-the-king voice, “I have offered you true English beauties—ladies of breeding and wealth. You have refused them all. A gypsy wench is no better than you deserve. The de Laceys were ever a mongrel lot anyway.”

More laughter erupted. Yet some of the mirth began to sound forced. When the king lashed out with cruel insults, all feared the razor edge of his choler turned next upon themselves.

Thomas Cromwell cleared his throat. “Sire, for a nobleman to wed a common gyp—”

“Be silent, you spindle-shanked little titmouse,” King Henry thundered at Lord Privy Seal. “Better men than Wimberleigh have wed women of low station.”

Anne Boleyn, Stephen thought darkly. The woman who had shaken the monarchy to its foundations had been naught but the daughter of an ambitious tenant farmer.

Cromwell flinched, but with his usual aplomb, he said, “Perhaps, then, ’tis a matter for the clergy to debate.”

“My dear Cromwell, leave the canon lawyers to me.” Henry turned to Stephen. “Your choice is clear. Marry the wench, or see her hanged for thieving.”

“She’ll need cleaning up,” Stephen blurted. “And it will take her months to learn the new catechism. Then perhaps—”

“Nay, bring a cleric!” Dismissing Stephen’s attempt at stalling, King Henry gave a regal wave of his hand. “To hell with banns and betrothal arrangements. We’ll see them wed now.”

Evening mantled the knot garden outside the chapel. Like a flock of gulls after a fishing boat, the courtiers moved off in the wake of the king. Hushed whispers hissed through the fragrant night air, seductive and yet somehow accusing.

Feeling numb and emotionless, Juliana stopped beneath an arbor and fingered a long, spiny yew leaf. Its rough edges abraded her fingertip. She had no idea what to say to this stranger. A king’s caprice had made him her husband.

Stephen de Lacey turned to her. Stephen. Only during the hasty, almost clandestine ceremony had she learned his given name, learned it when she had been obliged to pledge a lifelong vow to this tall, unsmiling English lord.

Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.

She wondered if the cleric’s awesome words still rang in his ears as they did in hers.

He stood between two shadowy hawthorn hedges. The breeze ruffled his gold-flecked hair, and for a moment the thick waves rippled as if disturbed by the fingers of an invisible lover. He had the most extraordinary face she had ever seen, and the play of light and shadow only made it more so. His eyes caught an errant gleam of waning light, and she saw it again: the pain, the panic. The stark, lurking fear.

“Is he always this cruel?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “The king, you mean?” He spoke in low tones, though his deeply resonant voice carried.

Juliana nodded. “Who else maneuvers lives like chess pieces?”

Wimberleigh pressed his palms against the railed border of the garden. He stood quietly for a moment, seeming to study the razor-clipped hedges. “He possesses both passion and whimsy. He grew up the second son, nearly forgotten by his father. Then his elder brother’s death launched Henry into the succession, and he seized power as if he feared someone would snatch it away. When a man of such qualities also happens to be king and pope alike, it can make him unspeakably cruel.”

“Why does he take pleasure in tormenting you?”

A bitter smile tightened Wimberleigh’s lips, and she knew she would get no honest answer to her question. “Your complaint surprises me. The king saved you from death.”

“I would have fought my way free,” she declared.

“For what?” His voice had a taunting edge. “So you could return to the gypsies, who would make you a serving wench and a whore for the rest of your days?”

“And you, my lord?” Juliana shot back. “What will you make of me?”

Stephen de Lacey stepped closer, his large shape filling the twilit path. She stood her ground, though instinct warned her to flee. There was danger here, close to her, just a whisper away.

“My dear slattern,” he said gently, in the voice of a lover, “I have just made you a baroness.”

His mockery cut at her pride. “And for that you expect gratitude, yes?”

“’Tis better than hanging as a horse thief.”

“So is having one’s nostrils slit, but that does not mean I relish the reprieve. Why did you save me? Clearly you like me not.”