Rivals for the Crown (12 page)

It's not as if I planned it," Sarah said, an edge of irritation

creeping into her voice. "I've told you. And told you. We just starting talking, and—"

"I still cannot believe you said nothing to me about him."

"He's been here at least five times in two months! Did you not notice that?"

Rachel tried not to cry. She felt betrayed by Sarah's silence. How could she not have seen this happening? "Yes, I noticed that he was here often."

"And he always asks for me. Did you not notice that?"

"No. And you didn't tell me."

Sarah shrugged. "I thought you knew. And there was nothing to

say."

"You didn't tell me."

They stared at each other for a moment, and Rachel knew her world had just changed yet again. "Do Mama and Papa know about this?"

"Mama knows. Papa doesn't. But.. .Edgar will talk to him. Not just yet, but eventually."

"And ask permission to court you? You cannot be serious!"

Her sister crossed her arms. "And why not? Is it so far-fetched that a man would find me attractive? Is it so impossible to believe?"

"No! It's not that. But he's—"

"A good man, Rachel. Does anything else matter?"

"Does anything else matter? Have you lost your mind? Does he know?..."

"That I'm a Jew?" Sarah spat the words. "Yes, he knows. And he still wants me, Rachel."

"What does his family say?"

"They don't know."

"Sarah! They will never approve this! Papa will never agree! Sarah, what are you thinking?"

"We're not in London anymore, Rachel! I do not have the choices I had there. I will not spend my life serving men in a tavern! If I must empty chamber pots, they will be my own, not strangers! Edgar Keith is interested in me. And nothing has happened yet. But it will, Rachel. I will see that it does. I will make him love me. I will make him need me. I will make him happy and he will keep me safe. Our children will never have to leave their home in the middle of the night. It is not a bad bargain for either of us. Can you not be happy for me?"

"But, Sarah..."

Sarah turned her back. "If you are not generous enough to be happy for me, Rachel, then there is nothing to say."

Rachel stared at her sister's back for a long time. Then she blew out the candle and stared into the dark, missing Isabel more than ever.

"Mistress Angenhoff."

Rachel heard his voice but did not turn. It was not until he said it a second time that she realized that he was talking to her. She was Rachel Angenhoff now, the innkeeper's daughter. She straightened from the basket of clothing she was folding, suddenly aware of her unkempt hair and worn clothing, and faced him.

Kieran MacDonald, the dark Highlander, stood before her now, whose very blue eyes and wide shoulders she had noticed when

she'd first met him in the foyer. He'd been witty then and had made her laugh. And later, when he had been too drunk to stand, when all his reticence had left with his sobriety, he had remembered her name and complimented her beauty. His eyes were a bit red this late morning, his cheeks a bit pale, but he seemed none the worse for it.

"Sir?"

He clasped his hands before him, his expression so earnest that she fought the urge to laugh. But there was no
humour
in his eyes now—-just, she realized with a start, embarrassment.

"I have come to apologize to ye."

"For?"

He unclasped his hands then clasped them again. She took pity on him.

"There is no need to apologize, sir. You have done nothing that merits it."

"I was drunk."

"You were."

"I was loud."

"Yes.

"I sang?" "Briefly."

"Did I keep ye awake then?"

"No. You went to sleep yourself, I believe."

"I dinna do that as a rule."

"Sleep?"

He grinned at her, and she caught her breath.

"Nay, lass, I sleep well as a rule. I meant that as a rule I dinna get drunk and make a fool of myself."

"You did no harm, sir. You lost your money and drank too much ale, but believe me, you did nothing dreadful."

"I'm told I was too forward with ye. I am sorry for that."

"There is no need. You saved me earlier, and I am remembering that. You did nothing wrong."

"What did I say to ye?"

"You don't remember?"

He shook his head.

"Your cousin—

"My cousin says I was a blithering idiot. What did I say to ye, lass?"

She ignored the sudden heat in her cheeks. "I..."

"Come, lass, what did I tell ye to make ye blush so now?"

"You said I was beautiful."

His smile was slow, and she felt a fool. He cocked his head and studied her, and she thought she would die.

"It seems," he said, "that I have good taste in women whether I'm drunk or sober. I was right. Ye are beautiful."

She could not speak. His smile grew wider, and he laughed quietly.

"Ye are a beautiful lass, Mistress Rachel Angenhoff, and I hope ye willna think worse of me for saying it to ye again. There's not a drop of liquor in me now, so ye'll ken I mean what I say."

He left her there, staring at the door through which he'd gone.

A week passed without incident. The Highlanders stayed, but Rachel begged off waiting on them, leaving the task to Sarah and the woman they'd hired to help, a coarse but likable and hardworking woman who did the serving on Friday nights and Saturday. Rachel had heard Highlanders were dangerous, but Kieran MacDonald was a hazard she'd not anticipated. He would leave. And she would forget him.

She and Sarah had spoken very little. It was as though Sarah had passed through a door to another land and Rachel was left behind, watching and unable to follow. She watched with new insight as Edgar talked to Sarah, and as Mama watched them. Mama had known, Rachel realized, and had not stopped it. But surely this could not go on. Papa would be horrified and would never give his permission for Edgar Keith to court Sarah. What would come of this?

It was never far from her mind, but she kept herself busy, spending her days in the kitchen or cleaning the rooms. The former owner, Gilbert Macken, was a comfort to her, teaching her little tricks to make the work easier, and ways to tell who would be a good paying guest and whom to turn away. He never talked about her family except in the most vague terms, and she found his company comforting.

At times she would watch her parents in their new incarnations as innkeepers, and her sister, whom she'd thought she'd known so well. She wondered how they could have changed so much. She felt guilty about Sarah's clandestine activities and her own part in them as she distracted Papa when Edgar arrived so that he wouldn't see them, their heads together as they whispered in a corner. Or the looks they threw each other across the crowded tavern room, as though everyone else was blind.

She was miserable. And Kieran MacDonald, with his handsome looks and wide smiles and polite manner, did not help at all. She avoided him even though, to be fair, he'd done nothing more than smile at her, or wish her a good morrow, or good evening. She much preferred his cousin, for Rory simply talked with her as an equal, never flirting, never seeming even to notice that she was a young woman and he a young man. That was much better, she told herself, refusing to notice his well-defined
jaw line
and blue eyes under that wealth of blond hair, refusing to notice his tall form and long fingers and his courtesy, his contagious laugh that would ring out in the tavern and make all around him smile. Much better, she told herself. They were guests of the inn, customers, nothing more.

The rain had kept the travelers within walls all day, and Papa joked, as the afternoon stretched toward evening, that he was hurrying to get all their guests drunk before dark so they would sleep through the Sabbath. Sarah laughed, but Rachel could do no more than smile tightly. Shabbat would begin at dusk, when three stars were visible, and she knew Papa would observe it whether the tavern was full or not.

She had always loved the rituals of the evening, the ancient ceremony that linked them with untold generations of her family before her, with its reminders of all that her people had experienced, their joys and their suffering, the connection that led them back to the dawn of time.

She'd thought her sister and mother felt the same. But how could Sarah share that feeling, how could she stand with them and
pray, watch Papa put the prayer shawl on and read to them from the siddur or the Tanach when in her heart she'd already left them, and their religion, behind? How could Mama fold her hands, bow her head, and murmur the responses when she knew what her daughter planned, when she must know it would destroy Papa? Rachel was torn between her loyalty to her sister and hope that Sarah would come to her senses.

This night Mama hurried into the small room off the kitchen that they used for the Shabbat, carrying their meal, wiping her hands on her apron before sitting to receive the blessing. The door behind her rattled in the wind, but none of them paid it any attention, for it often shook when the wind was wild. Wearing the tallit, the prayer shawl, around his shoulders, Papa said the prayer of thanks for another week of health and good fortune. Mama, Sarah, and Rachel stepped forward to light the candles held in the silver candlesticks that had been passed from mother to daughter for generations. Papa said the second prayer.

And the door opened.

There were two men there, Kieran and Rory, standing in the small courtyard that served as the kitchen garden, their faces lit from the side by the light from the kitchen, their surprise obvious. It was Rory who moved first.

"I beg yer pardon," he said, reaching to pull the door closed. "It's crowded in the tavern and we were trying to help Gilbert. He sent us to the cellar, and we thought this might be it. Sorry to interrupt yer.. .service. I beg yer pardon."

He closed the door, but not before Kieran's gaze met Rachel's. The shock on his face made her wish she could sink to the bottom of the earth and never resurface. She felt a wave of embarrassment, almost shame, then anger at herself for the emotion. She was a Jew. How could he not have known that? Her name was Rachel, for heaven's sake. And she was not ashamed of who she was.

How could he not have known? She closed her eyes, forcing her tears away, then opened them to meet her sister's gaze. Sarah said nothing, but she didn't have to. "See?" her expression said. And to her eternal regret and shame, Rachel did.

"Stand still, Isabel! How can I finish this hem if you are jumping about like a rabbit?" Mother spoke through a mouthful of pins, but her annoyance was clear.

Isabel straightened, then stared forward at the wall, as anxious as her mother to have the fitting finished. The queen was leaving to join King Edward at Lincoln, where he still tarried, waiting for word from Scotland, and most of her ladies would accompany her. Isabel was thrilled. She'd been out of London only once before, and then only for a few days.

She'd been given several discarded robes, and her mother had been ordered to alter them at once. Next she would
hurry
down to the furrier for a lining for the velvet cloak the queen had discarded and given to Isabel, along with the letter necessary to allow the young girl to wear the royal velvet. And shoes! She was to be fitted for another pair of exquisitely embroidered shoes, with heels so high that Isabel had to step carefully when she moved. But it was worth it, even to have to take mincing steps, to be able to lift her skirt and step forward, swinging her foot so even she could see the finely sewn design atop the leather shoes that were so soft that they felt like linen.

It was so heady, all the changes in her life, from her new position to her clothing and shoes. She had a difficult time staying still. She wanted to dance with joy. Had anyone ever been so fortunate as she?

"We have only two days," Mother said, gesturing for Isabel to take a quarter turn. "You must be ready to accompany the queen at dawn on the third day and you cannot be late."

"I will not be late, Mother," Isabel said. "It will all be done."

"Aye," Mother said. "But it's not you sewing by candlelight."

Isabel felt a wave of guilt. "Mother, I will sew with you! Or I can sew on the journey! Please do not fret over this!"

"And have my own child, the daughter of the queen's wardrobe mistress, be anything other than dressed perfectly? I think not! It will be done, Isabel. No doubt you will stop at one castle at least, if only to see if it can be bought. You know our queen. If a piece of land can be obtained, she will have it."

Isabel nodded. She was now well aware of the queen's rapacious appetite for land, and her habit of acquiring it however

she might. Queen Eleanor's holdings were vast, and her stewards were said to be both harsh and greedy. Still, Isabel was willing to wait to discover for herself if the
rumours
were true. People, she had long ago discovered, were keen to spread falsehoods as though they were gospel.

"There!" Mother said, straightening and replacing the pins in the small cushion she wore at her belt. "Turn around and let me

see."

Isabel twirled, then curtsied perfectly, and Mother laughed.

"I vow you are the fairest of all her ladies, child."

"Not such a difficult task, Mother. Most of them are much older than I. Some have served her since she and the king were on Crusade, and that was decades ago."

"Not so long as all that. Joan of Acre is but sixteen, younger than you by two years. Now take the robe off so I can sew this."

"An English princess born in Acre," Isabel said, unlacing her sleeves. "Imagine traveling all that way as a child."

"Imagine surviving the journey. You need to care for yourself on this journey, child. Keep yourself dry and warm. You'll not be in the carriage with the queen, I assume?"

"Did I not tell you, Mother? I have been given a horse of my own!"

"Which means you'll spend the day in whatever weather God provides and be the first to suffer if brigands attack."

"The king is sending some of his own knights to guard us, Mother." Isabel's cheeks flared at the thought that Henry de Boyer might be one of them, but her mother, busy putting Isabels things away in the wooden chest, did not notice.

Isabel hugged herself. Her first journey with the queen! They would stop along the way at several of the queen's properties and some of the king's as well. They would visit with nobles, then head farther north, to meet the king at Lincoln.
Rumours
were everywhere, that the king was advancing with an army to invade Scotland, or that he'd been offered the crown and was traveling north to accept it. She did not believe any of it. She had been given a wonderful white mare and a saddle that was the envy of the queen's other ladies, who had had to provide their own. When they'd asked why she'd received such largess, she had only been able to shrug and say nothing, for truly she had not known.

Until yesterday.

She'd been told to visit the Wardrobe Tower within the Tower of London's walls, to sign for her robes and horse and wages. She'd taken a boat down the river, amused to discover that Henry had been correct, that the ferryman did know her name. She'd entered through the water gate that King Edward had built just a few years before, holding her skirts high as she'd hurried up the damp steps to the outer ward, then to the Wardrobe Tower.

She'd taken a moment to study it, the site of so many of her imaginings over the years, and she'd realized that she missed the father she'd invented. Part of her would always imagine him working here, climbing these very steps to the steward's office, spending his days writing the expenses of the crown into the large ledger books that lined the wall behind the steward's desk.

Walter Langton had not been in the room when she'd arrived. No one had been. The guard who had accompanied her had stayed with her, which had been comforting after all she'd heard about Langton and his nefarious habits. It was said that he was in league with the devil and had used strange powers to have his predecessor removed, so he could be placed in the position himself.

When the man himself had hurried in, three clerks at his heels, she'd found his appearance repulsive, but hardly that of a man who worshipped over pentagrams. He looked as though he should have been peddling fish on a wharf. His hair was dark, but
grey
ing. He was tall. And he had no neck. His head had gone straight into his shoulders, like the reptiles that the king kept. He'd walked with his stomach thrust forward, swaying slightly, almost like a woman. He had square hands and blunt fingers that had born ink stains. He was dressed, as most of Edward's courtiers were, in simple clothing, abstaining from the gilt and jewels earlier courts had embraced. He'd leered at her with his moist brown eyes. She'd kept her face impassive.

"Ah. The lovely demoiselle de Burke. I am pleased to see you again."

She'd curtsied, not sure when they had met. "Sir."

He'd stepped closer, then circled her, and suddenly her skin had crept at his acquisitive expression. There will be men... His manner had changed abruptly and he'd sat at his desk, gesturing to one of the clerks to bring him one of the ledgers behind him. The clerk had scurried to pull the book from the shelf and set it before the steward, opening it to a page lined with signatures.

"I will need you to sign for your robes and horse, demoiselle. You do know how to write your name?"

"I do, sir," she'd said, and approached the table.

"No, come around this side," he'd said.

She had, pulling her skirts close, glancing at the guard, who'd watched with a stony expression. As she'd neared Langton, he'd put a hand on her waist and pulled her closer to him, but he'd not risen. Her breasts had been at his eye level.

"Do they meet with your approval?" he'd asked.

"Sir?"

"The horse." His hand had slid across the silk at her waist. "Your clothing. Such fine material. I can feel the warmth of your skin through it. Do they please you?"

"Greatly," she'd said, keeping her tone light.

His hand had slid lower, cupping her buttocks. She'd twisted out of his reach.

"Where do I sign, sir?"

"Here," he'd said, putting his hand atop hers. "Your skin is very soft. I imagine you are soft all over. Careful. The parchment is thin. Use a light touch. As you would with a lover. Stroke the ink onto the page. Draw the line slowly, let it enlarge under your touch."

She'd bent over the book, acutely aware of his hand remaining on her waist, and of his gaze on her breasts. She'd written her name as quickly as she'd been able, then she'd straightened and hurried back around the table to face him. His eyes had glinted. The guard had taken a half-step toward the door. Langton had come to her side, standing far too close. His gaze had once again been on her breasts. She'd taken a quick breath, seeing his eyes flicker.

"Would you like more?" he'd asked.

"Sir?"

"Clothing. Robes. Horses. Positions. Have you not asked yourself how it is that a seamstress's daughter should suddenly be elevated to a lady-in-waiting to the queen of England? Does that not seem strange to you? Have you powerful family ties? Enormous wealth? Are you an heiress, or the daughter of a noble?"

"I thought the queen liked me."

He'd looked over his shoulder at his clerks and laughed. "She thought the queen liked her! You thought you found
favour
with Queen Eleanor? That she actually even noticed you? Has she shown you any special
favours
? Has she sought your company above the others?"

"No," she'd whispered.

He'd moved closer, his stomach meeting hers, his chest just touching her breasts. "I make all things possible, demoiselle. For those who please me, wondrous things can happen." He'd traced a finger down the side of her neck, to her shoulder, then he'd followed the neckline lower, his fingernail rough on the skin of her breast. "Ask Mistress de Braun how she got her position. And ask your mother who pays her wages. And who could have her dismissed." He snapped his fingers. "Like that."

He'd stepped back from her. "Thank you, demoiselle. If there is anything else you.. .desire.. .1 am here at your disposal. I make all things possible."

"Th-thank, thank you, sir," she'd stammered and hurried to the door, rushing through it when the guard had opened it.

"Isabel?" Langton's voice had been languid.

She'd stopped. "Sir?"

"I chose your horse and your saddle myself, thinking of you astride, your legs open, of your body touching the leather, only thin silk between your skin and the leather. I will continue to picture you there."

"I...I will ride palfrey, sir. But thank you, sir," she'd said and fled, hearing the male laughter behind her, cursing herself for a fool for thanking him. She'd lifted her skirts and run down the stairs, feeling like a whore. He had arranged for her clothing. Her horse. Her position with the queen. And now she knew his price.

The guard had followed more slowly, but at the foot of the stairs he'd caught her arm. "Demoiselle, a word of caution."

She'd nodded, unable to speak.

The guard had lowered his voice. "I have daughters of my own. Please, miss, do not go there alone. He is a powerful man, and accustomed to having his way.... You did not mistake his meaning." He'd opened the door to the Outer Ward. "Go, miss, and remember my words."

She had. She'd felt soiled. And later, as she'd tossed and turned in the small bed she shared with Alis.

"Isabel! Can you not keep still!" Alis had cried. "What is it? Nothing can be that dreadful! What are you thinking of that disquiets you so?"

"I went to see Walter Langton today."

"Ah." Alis had sat up. "And he frightened you."

"No. Yes. He is loathsome."

"You will become accustomed to him in time."

"He said he gave me my position with the queen and to ask you how you got your position."