By His Majesty's Grace

“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.

This was not, after all, the kind of mounting he had envisioned for this hour. Someone had seen to it he was disappointed in his desires. He looked away, his mouth set in a hard line as he considered, yet again, who that might be. Yes, and why.

They rode hard through the night, clattering along the dark lanes with only a fitful moon to show the way, choking on their own dust. No one called out or questioned their passage. They swept through villages and outlying farms where dogs barked and shutters were flung wide as householders leaned out to see who was abroad. Noting the king’s banner at the cavalcade’s head, the suddenly incurious banged their shutters closed again.

Dawn came, and still they kept the hard pace. Rand turned in his saddle to look back, seeking out Lady Isabel’s form near where her serving woman bumped along on her mule. His bride rode with her face set and her cloak rippling along the side of her mount, but her seat in her sidesaddle was not nearly as erect as when they set out. Facing forward again, Rand spurred to join the captain of his guard. He spoke a quiet suggestion.

At the next town, where they stopped to change horses, a narrow-bodied litter slung between mules was procured. Rand thought at first that his lady would decline being carried rather than riding, refuse the luxury of its feather-stuffed cushioning, also its hemp curtains, which shut out the sun’s bright rays. Good sense won out over pride, however, and she finally disappeared inside.

Traveling with the litter slowed them down, but was still better than being held up should the lady fall ill from exhaustion. She had just made this wearisome journey, after all, only to turn around and retrace the route.

It was late afternoon when Rand dropped back to walk his horse alongside the litter. Keeping his voice to a conversational tone, he said, “Lady Isabel, would you care for marzipan?”

She was doubtless either famished or bored to distraction, for she pushed back the side curtains at once. Supporting herself on one elbow, she asked, “Have you any?”

She appeared almost sybaritic among the litter’s cushions, with the lacings of her bodice loosened for ease and her golden hair escaping the confines of her veil. The sudden tightness in his groin was so intense it was an instant before he bethought himself and leaned to pass over the small drawstring bag filled with the confection that he had taken from his saddlebag. Watching with a rueful smile as she instantly drew it open and took out a piece that was dyed pink and green, it was a moment before he could speak again.

“Are you content in there?”

“Exceedingly. If the idea of the litter was yours, I thank you for it.”

“To see to your comfort is little enough. I am to blame for this sudden change of plans, after all.”

She swallowed the piece of marzipan, avoiding his gaze as she looked into the bag for another. “It seems a curious business. You are accused of a terrible act, yet allowed to ride as free as you please. I thought to see you in chains.”

“You might have, except I gave my pledge not to attempt to escape but to abide by the king’s will. William was good enough to accept it.”

“How convenient.”

“You don’t ask if I’m guilty.”

“Would you tell me if you were? If you are only going to protest your innocence, then where is the point?”

It was difficult to fault her logic, though it would have been pleasant if she had appeared to care one way or the other. That was apparently too much to expect. And if he did not look directly at her for any length of time, he discovered, he could attend to what she was saying instead of how she affected him.

“What if I’m not?” he asked after a moment.