By Grace Possessed (11 page)

“Margaret…Burgundy…tidings…”

“…Yorkist…”

“…by spring’s end, early…”

“…boy prince…puppet…”

“…thousand…German, well-armed…”

“…payment for…”

It was maddening to be unable to hear clearly. Ross could only guess the subject under discussion, and therefore its trend. Still, the pertinent fact appeared to be that Trilborn and the dowager queen were in league with those who sought to oust Henry VII from his throne.

It seemed that he and the English king had a common enemy, Ross thought with grim amusement. It was almost enough to put him in charity with the monarch.

Still, what arrogance, to penetrate to the very heart of Henry’s favorite palace to thrash out their plan. Even given that the entire court would be at mass, it was still breathtaking in its daring. Was it Trilborn’s choice, or the artful cunning of the dowager queen? She had a knack for intrigue, or so said the stories.

Trilborn had almost surely thrown in his lot with the Yorkist faction. He was part of the scheme to remove Henry, one that involved Margaret, Elizabeth Woodville’s daughter who was also the dowager duchess of
Burgundy, and an army of mercenaries that would land somewhere in England in late spring or early summer. Their purpose was to place a child king on the throne. No doubt Elizabeth Woodville expected to be named queen regnant until he came of age, a position with only slightly less pomp and authority than being queen in her own right. The boy’s supporters would then reap rewards beyond their most avaricious dreams.

Did the woman really believe she would be putting her own child on the throne in the person of the boy? Or was this the most cynical of power grabs, made in full expectation that the young boy mentioned in whispers was an imposter who would eventually be deposed? Or did that matter when, as with Henry himself, might of arms instead of birthright would dictate the outcome? Did God decide on the battlefield who would or would not be king as some suggested, so that whoever was the victor could claim to rule by divine right?

The stability of the throne of England was not his concern, Ross told himself with scathing disdain. If Henry died in the clash of foreign armies, it meant a likely end to Ross’s own enforced stay on English soil. He could go home to Scotland, take his place in his father’s keep and among his uncles and his cousins on their midnight cattle raids.

It would mean an end to any pretence of a betrothal to Lady Catherine Milton of Graydon, accursed Grace that she was. No more singing, dancing, arguments or quick, laughing comments; no more sweet, untutored kisses.

What to do with these bits he had learned? This was something requiring careful deliberation, a minute
weighing of consequences, Ross thought. Mayhap he should take himself to mass and see if guidance came to him there.

“T
he king has sent for you, Cate! What can it mean?”

It was Marguerite who brought the news to where Cate was walking with Gwynne in the cloister between the palace and the king’s chapel, breathing in the fresh moist air that came with the rain falling beyond its long colonnade. Her sister’s eyes were wide and dark and her veil was askew. Behind her, looking none too comfortable with their errand, were two yeoman guards sent to escort Cate to wherever Henry was closeted at the moment.

How very like his regal male majesty to command her presence when she was wearing her oldest gown and had bundled her braided hair into a length of dull netting topped by a squat hennin of no great style. To change would be impossible, of course; Henry did not care to be kept waiting. Reaching up to tuck in a few tendrils of hair made unruly by the damp weather, she refused to think of the last time she had been summoned before the king, or what had been the result.

Marguerite came closer, twining her arm with Cate’s. “Do you think it’s about your betrothal? What if he insists you sign the contract?”

“My dependence is upon Ross. Well, and his father.” The instant she signed her name, she would be considered both officially betrothed and legally wed to the Scotsman. That act must put him at greater risk from the curse. “But mayhap that isn’t what Henry wants at all.”

“What else could it be? You’ve done nothing you should not.”

“Certainly not,” she answered, with what firmness she could muster.

A small shiver ran over Cate as her midnight scurrying through the maze of the palace on the way to and from Ross’s chamber ran through her mind. There had been no more of that in the handful of days since Christmas; she had not even been present when Gwynne removed the stitches from his wound. Still, news of the escapade might merely have been delayed in reaching the king.

Marguerite squeezed her arm. “You aren’t nervous, are you? I know Henry seems stern, but the weight of his responsibilities would make any man so.”

“You are dear to be concerned, as well as for coming to find me,” Cate said with a bright smile, “but I will be quite all right.”

Fine words, but she wished she could take them back before she was halfway to Henry’s apartments. The progression of rooms and doors seemed never-ending; the number of people she had to pass with her royal escort was so great she feared every soul in the palace must know her destination. The measured thud of booted heels behind her made such thunder in her ears that she felt a little faint. It was a great relief when she was finally
ushered into a long gallery, where rain pecked at the mullioned panes of window glass in arched openings that displayed the gray day outside.

Henry sat at a large table with sheets of vellum spread over its surface, tall floor candelabras at each end, and a courier standing at attention beside him. As she entered, a man turned from where he stood staring out at the falling rain. Ross faced her, his features set in grim lines and his eyes darkly blue and unreadable. Setting his feet in a wide and ready stance, he clasped his hands behind him.

Cate’s breath caught in her chest as her gaze meshed with that of the Scotsman. She could not think for a long instant, barely remembered to drop into the required curtsy for the royal presence.

Henry raised her from it with a negligent gesture, though his head remained bent over his work. For long moments, the murmur of the rain and scratch of Henry’s quill were the only sounds.

At last he put down the pen, read over the page he had finished, then sanded it and poured the excess grains back into their sifter. Rolling the vellum with care, he put it into a leather tube. Giving it into the keeping of the courier, he dismissed him. Only when the door had closed behind the man did he turn his attention to Cate.

“We bid you good day, Lady Catherine, and trust we see you well.”

“And you, Your Majesty,” she murmured.

“Yes, yes.” He made a swift gesture, as if pressed for time. “We regret that this matter of your betrothal to
Dunbar has gone unsettled for so long, as we feel sure the outcome concerns you.”

“Indeed, sire.” Her voice was dust-dry.

Henry’s eyelids flickered at the irony, but he chose to ignore it. “News of moment reached London this morning from across the Irish Channel. It seems a priest, Father Symonds by name, has presented to a gathering in Dublin a young boy whom he swears to be the earl of Warwick.”

“Warwick,” she repeated with a pleat forming between her brows, “not one of the vanished princes.” Warwick would be the son of George, duke of Clarence and brother to Edward IV. In one of the more vicious turns of Edward’s reign, George had been imprisoned in the Tower for treason, and subsequently drowned in a butt of malmsey wine. Some said the terrors of that time, and young Warwick’s imprisonment afterward by his other uncle, Richard III, had addled his wits, making him an unlikely candidate for the crown.

“A patent lie, as we shall soon prove,” Henry said with a dismissive gesture. “Warwick has been sequestered in the Tower for some time. There will be no difficulty in showing him to the people of London, a fair number of whom may recognize him from other years, other sightings. No, this is merely the symptom of a deeper rot.”

Cate glanced at Ross, but he was watching Henry. If he knew what the king intended by telling her of this latest intelligence, nothing of it showed on his face.

“I am sorry to hear it,” she said.

“It was unrealistic to expect the Yorkists to give over so easily,” Henry continued with a brooding expression
on his long face. “They have been used to bending all to their will for far too long, their leaders accustomed to meeting behind closed doors to arrange matters to suit themselves. They think of us as an outsider, barely English at all.”

He stopped, looked away, mayhap thinking on his fifteen years of exile before landing on English soil with an invasion force. From some nearby chamber came the sound of a crying babe, a reminder that Henry had a three-month-old son somewhere in the palace, though the child seldom appeared in public. Cate wondered if he ever thought of the fate of Edward’s vanished sons and considered what might happen to his own if he should be defeated while fighting for his crown.

She also spared a moment to think of this Yorkist pretender, the young boy caught up in the ambitions of powerful men who wanted to be yet more powerful. He must be at that awkward age between eleven and fifteen if he was to be taken as the son of Edward IV or his brother George. Did he understand the implications of what was happening? Did he realize he was committing treason, however unwittingly, and might die for it?

The baby stopped crying. Henry rose from the chair behind the table and moved to the window where Ross stood. Bracing a hand on its frame, he gazed out at the drear scene beyond, with its sheep-cropped tan grass, its skeletal trees and drooping, rain-wet hedges. Speaking almost as if to himself, he said, “We have need of allies who can be trusted.”

“There are those who will rally to you,” Cate said, driven to offer solace by the air of loneliness about him.

“Lancastrians, yes, those who gather round for what they can gain from it, or to be certain old enemies are kept from power. Also, those who shared our years in Brittany, hunted by Edward and Richard, or remember us from childhood as the duke of Richmond, or remain faithful to the duchess of Richmond and Derby.”

The last named was, of course, his mother who had been so instrumental in seeing he had his chance at the throne. She was often a part of his councils, but not on this day. She had been given a Thames-side mansion no great distance away, Cate knew, and was seeing to its renovation.

“It’s not enough,” Henry went on after a moment. “Your sister’s husband, Braesford, is our most trusted baron in the border marches, but what he may do there is limited, particularly as he is troubled by raiders from Scotland. He would be more effective if he had not that worry.”

The outline of what he intended formed swiftly in Cate’s mind. She recognized his magnanimity in attempting to explain it to her, but that did nothing to make it more acceptable. “If Your Majesty intends a role for—”

“We do. The alliance between you and Dunbar will add much-needed stability to the region. We desire that the marriage be celebrated forthwith. In return, as I have proposed, an estate no different in size to the lands of Braesford Hall shall be settled upon your bridegroom, along with its keep and all attendant villages.”

She looked again toward Ross. He was scowling at the king, his lips pressed together in a hard line. She swallowed on bile, while stiffening her spine to keep from
weaving where she stood. “But…but he has not gained the permission of the laird.”

“Dunbar is well past his majority, thus able to choose for himself. While permission from the leader of his clan would be a boon, it is hardly necessary.” The king turned to the Scotsman. “What say you, Dunbar?”

Ross appeared unmoved, though his accent was as thick as river fog when he answered. “To wed an English lass is nay what I intended.”

“Three years ago we had no idea of wedding a princess royal, yet sometimes needs must,” Henry said austerely.

“What manner of husband have you in mind for Lady Catherine should I refuse?”

“That need not concern you.”

“Nay, but if it does?”

Cate, watching the byplay between the two men, could hardly breathe for the tightness in her chest. What was Ross doing? Why was he not declaring he would not marry her for all the jewels of Araby?

A judicious expression settled on the king’s face. “A certain noble has applied for her hand. He may be encouraged to remain loyal to us if favored in his suit.”

“If you give her to him as a bribe, you mean, along with her inherited lands and the northern estate you offer to me.”

“Just so.”

“Crafty devil,” Ross said, his gaze hard as he met the eyes of the king.

Henry allowed himself a crooked smile. “We like to think so.”

The king permitted this familiarity, Cate thought, because they were speaking in private, and possibly because he appreciated Ross’s blunt way, which was so different from the fawning sycophancy that surrounded him. It might also be because he was glad to have matters out in the open. Henry knew Ross and Trilborn were enemies, and was deliberately fanning the flames of their feud to gain the end he sought.

That did not mean he would not follow through on his threat, she realized with a shudder of dismay. The words had been spoken and would not be retracted.

Yet something more seemed to hover between the two men. Was Henry playing a deeper game? Had he some doubt of Trilborn’s loyalty, that he thought giving her to the man might sway him? Or did he, just possibly, want to bring the quarrel between Trilborn and the Scotsman to a boil in hope Ross would do away with a possible traitor?

He could not know of Ross’s injury in that case, must not be aware that the outcome of a fight between the two men would be in doubt. Or mayhap he knew and didn’t care.

“Yon Trilborn is no fit husband for a gently bred lady,” Ross said with a look of hard disfavor. “He takes his pleasure by rough wooing.”

“A fine reason to see Lady Catherine does not become his wife.”

“As you say, and yet…”

“Surely, you lend no credence to this wild talk of a curse,” Henry said in high impatience.

“Nay, but my father will curse me twice over if I agree.
I’ll have neither clan nor country, and I’d never a notion of becoming an Englishman.”

Henry turned his head to meet his gaze, his own ice-cold. “If the alternative is to take up residence in the White Tower, what say you?”

Ross tipped his head as his eyes narrowed. “’Tis a fair dwelling, one where kings and queens await their coronations.”

“One they sometimes fail to leave.”

The words, grim with warning, hung in the cool air. Beyond the window, the rain increased to a hissing downpour. A candle guttered in a stray draft, its wick popping. Distant voices grew louder, as if coming closer, and then receded again.

The White Tower mentioned was part of the complex known as the Tower of London. It was there the vanished princes had once been sequestered. It was also there, so some said, the old and sainted madman known as Henry VI had been murdered by his nephews, Edward IV and Richard III. The nearby Bell Tower was where Braesford, husband to Cate’s sister, had been imprisoned for a time on a charge of child murder. Would the king really shut Ross away in either place merely for refusing to be married?

Yes, of course he would. What was the point of being king if a man was reluctant to use royal power to bend others to his will?

Ross seemed to have little doubt of it. A vein throbbed in his forehead as he stared at Henry, and a white line appeared around his mouth. He put a hand to his side
where his dirk should have been, though the scabbard that usually held it was empty.

“Well?” Henry, grim and unbending, waited for his answer.

“Why then,” Ross drawled, his eyes darkly blue as he turned his head to meet Cate’s gaze at last, “post the banns and prepare the wedding meats. I shall be as blithe a bridegroom as was ever seen between here and Solway.”

The curses that thundered through Ross’s head matched the heavy tread of his boots on the corridor’s stone floor. Tower or marriage? He hardly knew which threat enraged him more. It had been years since he’d bowed to any will other than his own. Even the old laird, his father, had never threatened to shut him away in prison to insure obedience.

By all the saints, but he’d longed to tell Henry to do his worst. If not for the lady who marched at his side, Ross would have opted for prison, and England’s king bedamned. It would have been a pleasure to see the look on Henry’s long face when he said it.

Aye, that it would.

Impossible.

If he refused to marry Lady Catherine, she’d be handed over to Trilborn. That mangy son of Satan would have her in his bed before the ink was dry on the betrothal contract. He’d strip her naked and ram into her without mercy, making her pay for every injury to his pride, every insult to his manhood caused by her refusal to be seduced, every instant of pain inflicted when Ross
had pulled him off her. The thought of it was so sickening that Ross could never allow it, not and live with himself.