At The King's Command

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?”