By His Majesty's Grace

So much blood and death, and for what? For the right to receive the homage of other men? For the power to take what they wanted and kill whom they pleased?

“And the present Henry is wholly deserving of the crown he has gained?” she inquired.

“Careful, my lady,” Braesford said softly. “Newly made kings are more sensitive to treasonous comments than those accustomed to the weight of the crown.”

“You won’t denounce me, I think, for that would mean the end of a marriage greatly to your advantage. Besides, I would not speak so before any other.”

He met her gaze for long seconds, his own darkly appraising before he inclined his head. “I value the confidence.”

“Of course you do,” she said in short rejoinder. Few men bothered to listen to women in her experience, much less attend to what they said.

“I assure you it is so. Only bear in mind that in some places the very stones have ears.” He went on with barely a pause. “In any case, Henry VII is the last of his blood, the last heir to the rightful king, being descended on his mother’s side from John of Gaunt, grandfather to Henry VI. With all other contenders executed, dead in battle or presumed murdered, he has as much right to the crown as any, and far more than most.”

“Descended from an illegitimate child of John of Gaunt,” she pointed out.

His smile turned crooked, lighting the gray of his eyes. “Spoken like a true Yorkist. Yet the baseborn can be made legitimate by royal decree, as were the children of John of Gaunt by Katherine Swynford, not to mention Henry’s new consort, Edward IV’s daughter, Elizabeth. And as with the meek, they sometimes inherit the earth.”

“Do you speak of Henry,” she said after an instant of frowning consideration, “or mean to say that you inherited your father’s estates, as he was once master at Braesford?”

“I was awarded them, rather, for services rendered to Henry VII. Though I promise you I earned every hectare and hamlet.”

“Awarded a bride, as well,” she said with some asperity.

Rand tipped his head. “That, too, by God’s favor, as well as Henry’s.”

The former owner of Braesford, if she remembered aright, was named McConnell. Being baseborn, Rand had taken the name of the estate as his surname, identifying himself with the land rather than with his father. It was a significant act, perhaps an indication of the man. “I was told the reward was, most likely, for finding the golden circlet lost by Richard in a thornbush at Bosworth. Well, and for having the presence of mind to hand it to Lord Stanley with the recommendation that he crown Henry on the field.”

“Don’t, please, allow the king’s mother to hear you say so.” A wry smile came and went across his face. “She believes it was her husband’s idea.”

Henry’s mother, Lady Margaret, was married to Lord Stanley, Earl of Derby, as everyone knew. Though she had set up her household at Westminster Palace with her son, living apart from her husband by mutual consent, she was yet protective of Stanley’s good name.

“It was the reason, nonetheless?” Isabel persisted.

“Such things come, now and then, from the gratitude of kings.”

His voice was satirical, his features grim, almost forbidding. He was not stupid by any means, so well knew the fickle nature of royals who could take away as easily as they gave.

Yet receiving the ripe plum of a fine estate that had once belonged to a traitor was not unusual. The late bloodletting, named by some troubadour as the War of the Roses, had gone on so long, its factions had shifted and changed so often with the rise and fall of those calling themselves king, that titles and estates had changed hands many times over. A man sitting at the king’s table today, lauded as a lord and dressed in ermine-lined velvet, could have an appointment with headsman or hangman tomorrow. Few so favored died in their beds.

She noted, of a sudden, that Braesford seemed to be avoiding her gaze, almost ill at ease as he smoothed a thumb over the rush stems of her splint as if checking for roughness. Disquiet rose inside her as she wondered if he had overheard what she’d said of him moments ago. Clearing her throat, she spoke with some discomfiture. “If it chances you were near enough to overhear what passed between me and my stepbrother just now—”

He stopped her with a slicing gesture. “It doesn’t matter. You were quite right. I am nobody.”

“You were knighted by Henry on the battlefield,” she replied with self-conscious fairness as heat rose to her hairline. “That stands for something.”

“So it does. Regardless, I will always be a nobody to men like your brother who were born to their honors.”

“My stepbrother,” she murmured in correction.

“Your true father, your mother’s first husband, was an earl, as well. You, therefore, share this birthright of nobility.” He glanced up suddenly, his eyes as hard as polished armor. “You will always be Lady Isabel, no matter what manner of man you marry.”

“For what good it may do me. But the lands you have been given will provide sufficient income to maintain a place at court, one from which you may gain more honors.”

He shook his head so firmly that the candlelight slid across the polished ebony strands of his hair in blue and yellow gleams. “I will always be the mere steward of this estate in some sense, a farmer at heart with little use for Henry’s court and its intrigues. I want only to live in this manse above its green valley. Abide with me here, and I swear that you and your aristocratic fingers will be forever safe from injury, including that from your husband.”

It was a promise well calculated to ease the fear in her heart. And so it might have if Isabel had dared trust in it. She did not, as she knew full well that oaths given to women were never so well honored as those sworn between men.

Removing her fingers from his grasp, she got to her feet. “I will be glad of your escort below, for now.”

If he was disappointed, he did not show it. He rose to his feet with lithe strength and offered his arm. Together, they descended to the wedding feast.

The hall blazed with light from wicks set afloat in large, flat bowls perched upon tripods. The double line of trestle tables led toward the low wooden dais that held the high table with its huge saltcellar. The alcove behind it was wainscoted with whitewashed wood and painted with allegorical scenes in the tall reaches above the paneling. A pair of chests set with silver plate flanked the great stone fireplace that soared upward. Above them hung bright-colored banners, swaying gently in the rising heat.

The men-at-arms that lounged on the benches drawn up to the tables numbered thirty at most. It was not a large force; that brought by Isabel’s stepbrother for protection on the journey northward was half again as large. Between the two complements, however, the room seemed overfull of men in linen, wool and velvet.

Their voices made a bass rumble that ceased abruptly as Braesford appeared with her on his arm. With a mighty scraping and rustling, they came to their feet, standing at attention. Silence stretched, broken only by a cough or low growl from one of the dogs that lay among the rushes beneath the trestles, as the two of them made their way to the high table.

Isabel flushed a little under such concentrated regard. Glancing along the ranked men, she caught open speculation on the features of one or two. They believed dalliance in the privacy of her solar had delayed her arrival, particularly after Graydon’s comments in the courtyard. It made no difference what they might think, of course, yet she despised the thought of the images sure to be passing through their heads.

Braesford seated her, then released the company to their own benches with a gesture. The meal began at once as servants came forward to fill beakers, lay trenchers from great baskets of the bread slabs and ladle onto these a savory concoction of sweetmeats flavored with spices, chopped vegetables and cubed bread soaked in broth.

Isabel put out her hand toward the wine goblet that sat between her place and that of her future husband, but immediately drew it back. Sharing a place with one of her younger sisters, as she usually did, it was her right as eldest to drink first or offer the wine, as she chose. Now that she shared Braesford’s table setting, this was his privilege.

He noticed her movement, as he seemed to notice most things. With a brief, not ungraceful gesture of one hand, he made her free of the goblet. She took it up, sipped gingerly.

The wine was new, raw and barely watered, so went down with difficulty past the tightness in her throat. That first taste was enough to let her know she could not face food. The smell of it, along with wood smoke, hot oil from the lamps and warm male bodies in stale linen, brought back her earlier illness. It would be enough, she hoped, to merely pretend to eat. The last thing she wanted was to appear to spurn Braesford’s hospitality. Meanwhile, manners and common sense dictated that she converse with her future husband, to establish some semblance of rapport that might yet serve her in avoiding intimacy this night.

She could think of nothing to say. Soon enough the feasting would be over, and what then? What then?

“My lady?”

Braesford was offering her a succulent piece of roast pork, taken from the large, golden-brown trencher set on a silver salver between them. She glanced at it on the razor-sharp tip of his knife, met his dark eyes an instant, then looked away again. “I…couldn’t. I thank you, sir, but no.”

“A little crust, then, to go with the wine.” Taking the meat from the knifepoint himself with a flash of white teeth, he carved off a piece of their trencher and held it out to her.

She took the bread, nibbled at it and sipped more wine. Even as she lifted the goblet to her lips, however, she realized she was monopolizing it when it must be shared between them. Wiping the rim hurriedly with the edge of the tablecloth draped over her lap for that purpose, she pushed the goblet toward him.

“Your finger pains you,” he said, his gaze on what she was doing. “I’m sorry. There is a woman in the village, as I told you before, a healer who can make an infusion of willow bark, which might be useful. I’ll send for her at once.”

“Please don’t concern yourself.” She lowered her lashes. “A night of rest will be sufficient, I’m sure.”

“Will it, now? And I imagine two nights, or even three or four, would be better.”

“Indeed, yes,” she began eagerly, but halted as she looked up to catch the silver shading of irony in his eyes, the tightening at the corner of his firmly molded mouth.

“Indeed,” he repeated, putting out his hand for the wine goblet, rotating it in a slow turn and drinking from where she had sipped. “Did you never notice that the things you dread are seldom as bad as feared once they are behind you?”

“No,” she said with precision.

“It’s so, I promise. No doubt the reflection will prove a solace in the morning.”

He reached to take her good wrist, removing the bread slice she had been toying with and dropping a light kiss on her knuckles before popping the crust into his mouth. She sat quite still, feeling the warm, tingling imprint of his lips on her hand, shivering a little as it vibrated through her, watching in peculiar wonder the movement of his jaw muscle as he chewed and swallowed.

“God’s blood, Braesford,” Graydon called from his place near the dais with Viscount Henley next to him. “’Tis a habit you caught in France, I don’t doubt, kissing a lady’s hand. An Englishman can think of more interesting places to put his mouth to work.”

Henley, being somewhat less coarse than her stepbrother, coughed and ducked his head rather than joining in the scattered guffaws. His face turned scarlet, regardless, in reaction to the lewd suggestion.

“But not, I think, at table,” Braesford answered Graydon, before his tone hardened and he speared Henley and the rest of the company with a look, “and not while thinking of my lady.”

Quiet descended, free even of the thump of ale beakers hitting the trestles. In it, the nervous uncertainty in Graydon’s snort was plainly heard. Isabel felt suddenly sorry for her stepbrother, reprimanded twice by Braesford in the space of an hour. Though she had endured countless variations on his lewd wedding humor during the past days, had longed fervently for someone to shut his mouth for him, she could not enjoy his discomfiture.

“Aye, no disrespect intended,” Graydon muttered. Henley rumbled a similar answer, as did half a dozen others along the boards.

Braesford drank a mouthful of wine and set down the goblet. “I trust not. Her honor is mine now, therefore must be protected by my sword.”

“Oh, aye, as it should be,” her stepbrother agreed. “Pious Henry would have it no other way, seeing as he gave her to you.”

“And I value his gifts above diamonds, plan always to hold them firmly in my grasp.”

Her future husband turned his head to meet her gaze as he spoke. What Isabel saw there made her draw a sharp breath. Then she reached for the wine goblet he still held, taking it from him in her two hands before draining it to the dregs.

The meal continued with all manner of dishes, requiring three removes of the cloths covering the tables as they became too soiled for use. Beyond the usual pottages flavored with spices, they were served meat pies, vegetables dressed with vinegar and simmered in sauces, oysters served in various ways, great platters of roast piglet, snipe, lark tongues and even a swan roasted, then clad again in its feathers. The master of Braesford had gone to great lengths to gather such victuals for his bride and honored guests, but Isabel refused to be impressed, just as she ignored the trio of musicians who played from the gallery above her, the dancers who twirled around the tables, the jugglers and mimes who made the men laugh. She was used to such things at court for one thing, but also knew well that ample feasting and merriment often had more to do with status than the appeasement of anyone’s hunger or the need to be entertained.

It was some time later that the melodious salute of a trumpet sounded above the clatter and merriment. The signal indicated someone of importance approaching Braesford’s outer gate.

The tune played by lute and harp trailed into silence. Voices stilled. Everyone turned toward the entrance doors. The commander of Braesford’s men-at-arms rose from a nearby table. He nodded at a half-dozen men and left the hall in their company.

“You are expecting visitors?” Isabel asked in quiet tones as she leaned toward her future husband.

“By no means, but don’t be distressed. It can be nothing of import.”

He suspected a neighboring landowner and his men on local business, mayhap, or else a latecomer to the feast. Still, she knew as well as he did that it could also be a command to join the king’s army, to ride out to control some uprising or defend a border. Only a mounted troop or king’s herald would have triggered the trumpet salute of warning.

They had not long to wait. The clatter of hooves on the stones of the inner court and the jingling of tack came faintly to where they sat. Booted feet sounded upon the tower stairs. Serving men threw open the doors, allowing a cadre of soldiers under the king’s red-dragon banner to march inside. They tramped down the open area between the trestles until they reached the high table. The order to halt rang out and their commanding officer stepped forward, saluting with a mailed arm and gloved fist.

Braesford came to his feet with a frown between his dark brows. “Welcome, William, as always, though I thought you settled at Westminster. What brings you this far north?”

“The order of the king.” The man addressed as William pulled a paper from the pouch at his side and passed it across the width of the high table to Braesford.

Isabel recognized the newcomer as William McConnell, a man she had seen about the court. Turning over his name, studying his features and something of his manner, she felt the stir of presentiment. He was similar in size and feature to Rand, though McConnell’s hair was more badger brown than black, the jut of his nose less bold and his eyes brown rather than gray. Recalling, abruptly, some whispered comment heard more than a year ago, she realized this was Braesford’s remaining half brother, the third of three, he who had once thought to inherit the hall where she sat until it was forfeited after their father was executed.

“What is it?” Braesford asked, accepting the roll of parchment, unfurling it so the great seal of the king appeared, impressed into wax as red as blood.

“An unpleasant errand, in all truth.” McConnell directed his gaze somewhere above the high table, upon his family banners that hung there.

“Aye, and that would be?”

His half brother cleared his throat with a rasp, speaking in a voice that reached into the most distant corners of the room. “Randall of Braesford, you are charged with the crime of murder in the death of the child born these two months past to Mademoiselle Juliette d’Amboise. By command of His Royal Majesty, King Henry VII, you are directed to leave within the hour for London, in company with your affianced wife, Lady Isabel of Graydon. There, you will appear before the King’s Court on the charge lodged against you.”

Murder. The heinous murder of a child. Isabel sat unmoving, so mired in disbelief she could hardly take in the implications of the charge.

Even so, three things were blindingly obvious to her.

There would be no night spent in the bed of the master of Braesford, not if she was to leave with him at once for London.

There might never be a wedding if he was convicted of the murder.

The curse of the Three Graces of Graydon had not failed.

3

F ury ran like acid through Rand’s veins. It striped his thought processes to such a sharp and raw edge that he was able to order the packing of supplies for his men and his guests, to direct the continued operations for the manse and the coming harvest, all while mentally cursing his king who was also his friend. Or who had once been his friend, in the days of their exile.

What in God’s sweet heaven was Henry about with this charge of murder of an innocent? Mademoiselle Juliette d’Amboise’s newborn babe, a small mite with Juliette’s full-lipped mouth and Henry’s pale blue eyes, had been in rosy health when Rand last saw her. He had stood sentinel on the keep wall as little Madeleine, as Juliette had named her, left Braesford Hall with her mother. Henry himself had sent an armed troop to see his mistress to a place of quiet seclusion, so must know full well the baby had not been harmed.

Henry was a secretive man, and who could blame him? When only four years old, he had been taken from his mother and placed in the custody of a sympathizer of the Duke of York. Being fostered in a family not his own was common for the scion of a noble house, as it was thought to promote independence and allow instruction in the art of war without any weakening favoritism, but this was the house of the enemy. Henry had escaped that imprisonment when his doddering cousin, Henry VI, briefly regained the throne from the Yorkists under Edward IV, but was forced to ride for his life when the aging king was murdered. He, with his uncle, Jasper Tudor, barely reached the coast and took ship for France ahead of Edward’s forces—who would certainly have killed him, as well.

Blown off course, Henry and Jasper landed in Brittany, where their fate hung in the balance as the Duke of Brittany made up his mind whether more political advantage could be gained from keeping them as his nominal guests or turning them over to their enemies. For the next fourteen years, that cat-and-mouse game had played itself out, with Louis XI of France sometimes taking part in it before his death. Henry had been heard to say that he had been either hunted or in captivity for most of his life. Was it any wonder that he had grown as devious as those who surrounded him?

Understanding could not persuade Rand to overlook the unwarranted interference in his nuptials and his life. He railed against it, cursing the timing and implied threat. He suspected Henry had changed his mind about giving him Lady Isabel. It was always possible the king had discovered a more worthy husband for her, one who would bring greater advantage to the crown.

It was damnable. More than that, Rand objected strenuously to being hung so the lady might be free. He meant to guard against convenient accidents that could remove him, as well; he had insisted that his own men-at-arms must join the king’s men, and Graydon’s, on this ride to London.

Now he sat his gray destrier, Shadow, in brooding silence. Flanked on one side by his squire, David, a blond and blue-eyed young valiant, and on the other by his own restless soldiery, he watched Lady Isabel emerge from the tower into the court. She appeared pale but resolute in the flare of torchlight, with the hood of her cloak drawn forward, half concealing her face. She was gloved, Rand saw, but the leather was cut away from the injured finger of her left hand.

His splint still held it in place. It gave him an odd satisfaction to see it.

She had not wanted to be wed, had been coerced in the most brutal fashion to accept the match, forced to ride north to Braesford for the marriage. He might have known. She was the daughter of an earl, after all. Why should she be wed to a bastard knight? It was a disparagement to her high birth under the rights granted to nobles by the Magna Carta. She should have been allowed to refuse, might have done so if not for her stepbrother’s threats.

A nobody, she had named him.

She had it aright; still, Rand seethed as he recalled that pronouncement in her clear, carrying voice. He was more of a personage now than he had been born to expect, had earned land and honors by his own hard effort. He would have more yet. And when it was gained, he would lay it at her feet and demand her apology, her recognition of his worth and her surrender.

Ah, no.

He would be lucky if he came out of this business with his life. Whatever he was to have of the lady, it must be soon. Otherwise, he might have nothing of her at all.

A horseshoe struck stone as William McConnell, his half brother, reined in close beside him. “A worthy bride,” he drawled as he followed Rand’s hot gaze. “You almost managed to have her, too.”

“You could have allowed departure in the morning, so I might have come to know her better.”

“In the biblical fashion, therefore completely? A great pity, that lack of opportunity, but I have my orders.”

“And you don’t object to carrying them out.”

Implicit between them was the knowledge that William had coveted Isabel for himself. He had sighed after her the winter before while cursing his lack of favor with Henry that might have earned him her hand and her fortune. Well understood, too, was the bitterness he harbored for the fact that his patrimony had fallen to Rand. The fortunes of war had dispossessed the legitimate son and rewarded the illegitimate, however, and nothing except another wrenching turn of fate could change matters back again.

“Would you object in my place?” William asked, the words layered with bitterness.

“Probably not,” Rand said, “but neither do I honor you for it. More, I have a warning for you. You’d best have a care if you think to profit from this business. For one thing, Henry is more likely to keep Braesford and its rents for himself than return them to you. For another, I will answer to the king for what occurred with Mademoiselle d’Amboise but don’t mean to hang. When this is done, I will discover who put about the foul story of child murder. They will then answer to me.”

“I would expect no less,” McConnell said with a shrug of one mailed shoulder.

“So long as we understand each other.”

McConnell swept up his fist, thumping it against his heart. Then he moved off. Rand watched him for long moments before he finally turned back to observe his bride as she mounted her palfrey at the block. He could have aided her, but did not trust himself to touch her in public, not in his present mood.