“Only you don’t want to marry him,” Cate finished for her with ready empathy darkening the blue of her eyes. Marguerite said nothing, only clasping her hands in her lap with a pained expression on her face.
“Him, or any other man,” Isabel said in instant agreement.
“Do you think him guilty? Could he have destroyed this newborn on the orders of the king?”
Isabel gave Cate a sharp look. It was a question that had occupied her mind often during the past few days. “Why would you think so? Have you heard something in my absence?”
“Not exactly, but Henry has been concerned for the queen’s health. I heard one of her ladies-in-waiting say that he and his mother are fretting her past bearing. They worry if she walks out, worry if she stays in, worry if she eats too much, worry if she eats too little. Her constitution is not strong, they say, and he depends on her to provide his heir.”
Isabel made no answer. They well knew it was the duty of a queen consort to produce small princes to inherit the throne and princesses to cement relationships with other courts and countries. Some said it was her only duty.
“He would be greatly displeased if anything happened to interfere,” Cate went on. “He might consider suppressing any whisper of a child born to his mistress, here so near the queen’s time, as being in the best interests of the crown.”
Gwynne, twitching folds of velvet into place about Isabel, spoke in a quiet mutter. “The soothsayers, so I was told just now, have promised the king the babe will be a prince.”
“I’ve heard it, as well,” Marguerite said.
“Indeed.” Cate gave a light shrug, as if it explained everything.
Mayhap it did, Isabel thought. Most men wished to have a son to carry on their name and their bloodline. For a king, it was paramount. Moreover, piety and superstition went hand in hand everywhere, but particularly at court—to pray on bended knee one hour, and visit the astrologer the next, was not uncommon. Henry could easily believe, at one and the same time, that he ruled by God’s might and that the gender of his child could be foretold. If he thought the unborn heir to the throne was in danger, there was little he would not do to protect him.
If that were the case, however, what did it mean that he had hauled Braesford to court to answer a charge of murder? Was it mere lip service to the rule of law, a show to quiet the whispers of murder? Or did Henry really intend to execute him for carrying out an order he himself had given? Isabel could not be sanguine either way, not if it meant she was betrothed to a man who could have killed a newborn child.
At that moment, a quiet knock fell on the door. Gwynne moved stiffly to draw it open.
Braesford stood on the other side. He bowed as Isabel moved forward to stand beside Gwynne.
“Your pardon, Lady Isabel,” he said in deep, measured tones. “I would not disturb your rest, but we are summoned before the king, you and I. He awaits us in his Star Chamber.”
Rand was more than a little conscious that he and Isabel had been given no time to eat before the audience with Henry. He felt lucky that time had been allowed for bathing and a change of raiment. The concession had been made for Isabel’s sake, he was almost certain. Had he been alone, he would have been ordered into the king’s presence while tired, hungry, stinking of sweat and horse, and filthy from days of travel. Henry was not a patient man.
Rand had sent to ask that Isabel be excused from the audience. It was not mere concern for her welfare. He would not, for pride’s sake, have her witness what might be his humiliation and chastisement. In addition, she could become privy to events and circumstances that might be dangerous for her to know. She was too much the novice at court intrigue for such matters.
His request was denied. Henry required to see both of them, and that’s all there was to it.
Together, they navigated the endless gateways, arcaded courts and connecting rooms that led to the king’s private apartments. He escorted her with her hand upon his wrist. Her features were composed as she walked beside him, but her fingers burned him like a series of small brands.
The so-called Star Chamber was a long hall hung with paneled walls that were softened here and there by hangings woven in biblical scenes, and featured a lofty, barrel ceiling painted with gold stars against a dark blue ground. It was here that Henry met with his most trusted councilors to mete out justice on matters of less than public nature. The king stood at a window as they entered, a tall man with a narrow face, flat yet sensual lips and forbidding mien. He was dressed in shimmering gray silk damask over a white silk shirt, with black hose and black leather boots. In token of the confidential nature of their audience, no crown sat upon his long, fair hair, but only a gray wool hat with a turned-up brim pinned by gold rosettes.
As they were announced, Henry left the woman and two men with whom he had been in consultation. Striding across the chamber with a slender white greyhound at his heels, he seated himself on the heavy chair—cushioned and canopied with satin in his official colors of green and white—which rested on a low stone dais at the far end of the room. Lounging at his ease with the dog at his feet, he waited as they came toward him.
“We are glad to see you finally arrived,” he said as he accepted their obeisance and waved them to a less formal stance. “We trust the journey was not arduous?”
“If so, Your Majesty, it was due only to our haste in answering your command,” Rand replied. He could not quite accustom himself to Henry’s use of the royal plural after years of far less formal usage in exile. He often wondered that Henry had fallen into it so naturally.
“Yet you have nothing to fear from it, we hope?”
The king meant to get directly to the point, Rand saw with a frown. It did not bode well for an easy end to the business. “Not in the least.”
A small silence fell. Rand glanced quickly at the others who had moved to join them, standing on either side of Henry’s makeshift throne. The lady was Henry’s mother, Margaret Beaufort, Duchess of Richmond and Derby, a petite and rather stern figure in her usual nunlike black gown and gable-top headdress with white bands around her face. Her nod of private greeting for him was a token of their many years of working together for Henry’s sake. Next to her was the squat shape of John Morton, former bishop of Ely and now chancellor of England. Beyond him was Reginald Bray, a Norman also faithful in the service of the duchess who had recently been appointed chancellor of County Palantine and the duchy of Lancaster. Not one of them smiled.
“I have nothing at all to fear,” Rand repeated firmly, “being at a loss for the cause of the charge against me.”
Henry pressed his lips together for an instant before making a small gesture of one hand. “You recently entertained a guest sent to you for security and succor in her confinement for childbirth. We are told she is no longer with you. Have you knowledge of this lady you would wish to impart to us?”
Sick dread shifted inside Rand at the pronouncement. He felt Isabel stir beside him, but could spare no attention to discover what she made of the charge.
“Unfortunately not, sire,” he replied in tones as even as he could make them. “The lady remained with me for seven weeks and was delivered of her child in due time. When last I set eyes upon her, she was healthy and hearty and on her way to you.”
“To us?”
“Under the guard of your men-at-arms sent to escort her to a manse described as a reward for her travail.”
The king frowned upon him. “Take care what you say, Braesford. We sent no guard.”
Beside Rand, Isabel drew a hissing breath. He could hardly blame her, for he felt as if a battering ram had thudded into his stomach. Glancing down, he saw her eyes were wide and her soft carmine lips parted, though she instantly composed her features to unconcern again as she met his gaze.
She was every inch an