By Grace Possessed (21 page)

Cate, watching the expression that flitted over Isabel’s face, was not surprised at the curl of distaste that formed at the corner of her mouth. Nor was she amazed when her sister went on the attack.

“What brings you here, sir? You can’t think we have men to send to Henry’s aid. My husband has joined him with his complement, as has Cate’s bridegroom.”

“Oh, I am come to see Lady Catherine,” he answered at once, “as it was no great distance out of my way. There is a matter left unfinished between us.”

Isabel gave him a frown. “I believe not. My sister is married, and that’s an end of it.”

“Not if her husband dies,” he said in silken suggestion.

“Sir!”

“But let us not quibble over details. I am still in need of a bride, and have a taste for the Graces of Graydon. Now that I see your younger sister, I am inclined to pay her my addresses.”

Marguerite, just taking a sip of her wine, choked and coughed. Before she could prevent it, a spray of wine bejeweled the doublet of their guest, lying like droplets of blood on the purple-red velvet.

“Forgive me!” she said in a croak. Her ale-brown eyes were wide with horror, though whether for Trilborn’s suggestion or the desecration of his clothing, it was difficult to say.

Cold displeasure sat on their guest’s brow. He used
the tablecloth pooled in his lap to wipe at the wine with quick, hard strokes.

“Marguerite has sworn not to wed,” Cate said quickly, in hope of diverting his attention, “a most solemn vow.”

“So I have,” Marguerite seconded with vigor as she blotted her mouth on the hem of her veil. “I am also under the protection of a most dedicated knight.”

“You are?” It was Cate’s turn to be amazed, while Isabel blinked at their younger sister.

“David has sworn a most solemn oath to be my shield and buckler,” she answered, having raised the young squire to knighthood with a fine disregard for reality. “His love for me is pure and true, a perfect example of a knight bound to the service of his lady.”

“Service.” Trilborn’s laugh had a salacious edge, and he licked his moist lips. “I’m sure of that.”

“So you may be,” Marguerite answered, lifting her firm chin. “He has sworn to protect me from all things, asking only that I allow him the honor.”

So that was the meaning of the tender scene she had glimpsed, with David on one knee before her younger sister, Cate thought. How very gallant it sounded, but also how young and idealistic. In keeping with the tenets of devotion handed down from the Courts of Love of ancient Aquitaine, a knight might attend his ladylove in all ways, but the relationship must be of the spirit rather than the flesh.

“And you return his ardor?” Trilborn inquired.

Marguerite arched a brow. “That is for me to know. The point is that there is no bride for you here.”

“A noble fool,” Trilborn said, lowering his eyelids so
they shielded his expression. “Loyal, too, no doubt.” It was clear he gave no credence to her protests.

“You disdain loyalty, sir?” Isabel inquired, drawing back a little in her chair.

“That depends on the object of it, milady.”

“And the man?” Cate took up the question, partly to spare Marguerite, but also out of curiosity. “Surely you are loyal to the king?”

Trilborn glanced at the remaining Braesford men-at-arms who lined the table below them, eating with rough haste and a low mutter of male badinage. Pitching his voice so it could not be heard above the melodious tune of the minstrel’s harp, he said, “Since you ask, I will admit I lack a proper sense of fealty toward our Lancaster sovereign. I was promised the defunct title of earl of Graydon, along with you and the property that went it. Henry snatched these from my grasp at the last minute for the sake of a deeper game. What allegiance do I owe someone who played me false, a usurper with only the weakest claim to the throne, based on a union between a long dead prince and his concubine?”

“If you mean Henry’s ancestor, John of Gaunt, he married his ladylove when he was able, and legitimized his children. Yes, and Henry won his crown on the field of battle, a sign of divine will.” It was clear Trilborn felt free to admit his fault because he considered her and her sisters of trifling importance, Cate thought, three women far from the arena of important events and helpless to effect them. The arrogance of it fired such anger inside her that she felt scorched by it.

Their guest made a dismissive gesture. “So he likes to claim.”

“You might live to regret it, should you join those allied against him,” Isabel suggested, the scraping sound of her voice suggesting a similar rage behind her cool demeanor.

“Think you so? I am not impressed by the army he gathers around him. Mercenaries from the best armies of Europe will support the young king crowned under York’s white rose. They are a tough, disciplined force that will cut through Henry’s men like a scythe through wheat stalks.”

“But they are in Ireland.” Cate spoke in calculated derision.

“On the contrary, they have embarked for Piel Island off the west coast near Furness. Once on the mainland, they will march with Edward VI and the earl of Lincoln at their head. They will be upon Henry before he knows what is happening.”

“You are sure of it?”

Trilborn laughed. “Oh, yes, very sure.”

“Yet you tarry here, instead of riding with the news.”

“A man must look at all sides before he acts.”

Marguerite leaned forward, snaring his attention as she spoke. “You almost sound inclined to turn your coat.”

The man’s smile was superior as he directed it at her. “It’s a possibility.”

“It’s treason!”

Cate was surprised at the heat in her younger sister’s voice, though she blessed her for engaging Trilborn’s attention. Her own thoughts were barely coherent. Invasion
was imminent, and Henry did not realize it, had no idea of the quarter from which it would come.

Trilborn knew, but had no apparent intention of informing the king.

“Treason is no more than a word if the rightful king wins,” their guest said easily.

“You mean the right king,” Isabel said with a frown, the distinction being a question of legitimacy versus mere preference.

“Do I? Of course, it will be all the same if the wrong king dies. These things happen on the battlefield.”

Cate lifted a brow at that. “I doubt Henry will make the same mistake as Richard III. He’ll not be so rash as to mount a personal attack against the pretender.”

“Probably not, as he is cautious to a fault. The attack will have to come to him.”

“York forces will first have to breach the wall of his defenders,” Isabel said in sharp disdain, no doubt because she was thinking of Braesford, who might well be charged with protecting the king.

Something malevolent flickered in Trilborn’s eyes and was gone. “Or not.”

A frisson of chill foreboding slid down Cate’s spine. It almost sounded as if he… But no, she would not put it into solid thought. “La, sir, ’tis fine to talk of betrayal, but I feel sure you will be rejoining Henry as soon as possible.”

“In good time, milady, in good time.”

When Marguerite opened her mouth with fiery condemnation in her eyes, Cate put out a hand beneath the drape of the tablecloth, clasping her sister’s knee in silent
caution. Marguerite closed her lips with a snap, though she trembled with indignation.

Isabel, following the byplay with close attention, spoke in soothing tones. “It will assuredly turn out as God wills, and there is little we poor females can do about it.” She rose to her feet, continuing with scarcely a pause, “Meanwhile, I believe my husband has a butt of rare malmsey put by for guests. How could I have forgotten? Excuse me, if you please, while I have it properly decanted for you.”

“Surely a manservant can see to it,” Trilborn began with a frown.

“Your indulgence, sir,” Cate said at once, leaning close with a confiding air. “My sister has endured a difficult labor not that long since, and is still far from strong.” Let him think Isabel was leaving the table to check on her babe, or that she had need of the garderobe, if he would. She was certain the mistress of Braesford had other things on her mind. It might have been the straight glance Isabel gave her over Trilborn’s head, or merely the silent communication that sometimes happened with the three of them, but she felt her elder sister’s hard purpose as if it were her own.

She prayed for it, as some manner of diversion was needed. Someone must ride to inform the king of the invasion force approaching the west coast, and where they intended to land. Advance knowledge would allow the army to meet the invaders before it became entrenched. Still, who could be trusted with such a vital message?

Braesford had taken the most steadfast of his men-at-arms with him. The captain of the guard was the ex
ception, but he was required here to safeguard the keep and those within it. The other men were mere soldiers. Though loyal enough in their fashion, they had little of the cunning it might take to reach Ross or Braesford, who could then take the message to the king.

What could be done to stop Trilborn from interfering with such a messenger? Their guest might be seized and bound, but how long could he be held? Yes, and what reprisal might he not visit upon them for the indignity? Someone might slip away from the keep, but how far could he get with Trilborn’s men encamped just beyond the front gate?

Isabel, so it proved in good time, had the matter in hand. She returned with a serving man bearing the malmsey. She poured it herself, all the while lamenting its sweetness and asking with every sign of concern for Trilborn’s opinion. Watching him taste it, she neglected to serve Cate and Marguerite. When Marguerite picked up her glass as a reminder, their older sister made a tiny negative movement of her head. Taking that as her cue, Cate beckoned a serving woman and had her glass, and that of her younger sister, filled with a common vintage diluted with water.

The next half hour was a severe strain on Cate’s nerves. Uncertain what to expect, she followed Isabel’s conversational lead on court scandals, summer fairs and the difficulty of maintaining clothing of suitable elegance while immured in a remote hall. Trilborn’s eyes soon began to glaze, as well they might, given the inanity of what was being said around him. He lolled in his chair, leaning heavily on the table.

Cate, eyes wide, stared at Isabel, who moved her gaze to the wineglass in his fist and gave a slight nod. All solicitude then, Cate filled their guest’s glass once more, urging him to revive his flagging spirits with the malmsey. When his eyes finally closed and he keeled forward in his chair, it was all she could do not to leap to her feet in triumph.

Marguerite whisked away their guest’s silver plate just before his face could land in it. Isabel gave an artificial trill of laughter. “Dear me, I do believe Lord Trilborn is in his cups.”

Those men-at-arms who had looked up at the oddity of a man passing out at the head table, went back to their cheese and nutmeats. It was nothing so unusual for those below the salt, after all, nor was it any of their affair.

“I believe it’s as well that we leave Lord Trilborn here,” Isabel said, rising and shaking out her skirts with a decided air. “He’ll wake soon enough, and won’t thank us for witnessing his overindulgence.”

“No doubt his long and weary ride today is to be blamed,” Cate said in kindly tones. Waiting for Marguerite to rise and follow Isabel, she trailed after her sisters as if bored by the prospect of an early evening.

None of them spoke again until they had climbed the stairs and the door of the solar was tightly shut behind them.

“You must go, Cate,” Isabel said at once as she swung to face her and Marguerite. “The stable hands are used to saddling your mare and will think little of you riding out, particularly if you mention one of the village women heavy with child. The guard who usually goes with you
may think an evening outing unusual, but I feel sure you can handle their questions.”

“Yes,” she said in swift comprehension, though she felt light-headed from the sudden acceleration of her heart. It did make sense, though she suspected it would not be as simple as Isabel made it sound. “We can leave by stealth from the postern gate.”

“Yes, as you must avoid Trilborn’s camp. It will be necessary to circle wide to prevent raising the alarm.”

Marguerite frowned as she looked from one to the other of them. “The journey will be fearsome.”

It would indeed. But at the end, she would see Ross again, Cate thought. Was that what she wanted? Was it?

“Gwynne must gather what’s needed for you and your escort,” Isabel said, still forming plans.

“She can’t go with me.”

“No, that would be too arduous for her and somewhat obvious, as well. She should be on hand when Trilborn wakes in the morning, or mayhap toward midday. If she tells him you have gone to the village, he will believe her, as he might not a mere sister.”

“So will waste time awaiting my return.” Cate shook her head. “He will be in a rage when he discovers I’ve gone. I would not leave you to become the target of it.”

“I shall not meet him alone,” Isabel said.

“I will be there,” Marguerite stated with a decided nod, “and armed guards, as well. With any luck at all, the devil of a man will tear away to seek you in the village, giving us a chance to close him outside the gates.”

Isabel gave a nod of agreement. “Besides, the fate of England may ride with you, Cate. Without the knowledge
you must carry, Henry may be defeated. The lives of those who have supported him will not be worth a shilling, including those of our men. Everything Braesford has gained, everything he’s worked so hard to build, will be forfeit. Ross will lose what he was given. You do this for all of us.”

It was a huge responsibility.

What if she failed?

If she did so, Ross might die fighting alongside Braesford and the king, or else be hanged by Yorkist victors as a traitor.

She would not fail, she thought with a lift of her chin. Not as long as she had breath in her body.

They lingered for several minutes longer, planning details. But time was more important than perfection. Every minute lost might spell life or death for those they loved.