Chapter 14

The ring slipped, hot, over Nicole’s finger.

Her body hummed with the warmth of the ring, with the touch of his fingers, the possessive carnal power with which he now claimed her. He stilled, poised over her, his dark eyes glazed with desire, the muscles in his shoulders and arms tensed, sculpted and brown in the soft light. She stroked his arm, the soft hairs springing between her fingers, his skin hot to the touch. His pulse beat beneath her fingertips and her heart raced in rhythm to it.

He entered her, a hard, pulsing thrust that caused a tremor through her body. She found release, hot, overpowering.

Each beat of his heart, each breath he took meshed with hers.

Still she moved with him, her pleasure melting into an exquisite need that drove her to surrender and grasp his arms, feel the firm strength of him, the strong shoulders, the tight cord in his neck, the pulse at the base of his throat, and his passion, thick, hot, all-consuming.

She found release again, became vaguely aware of a sound.

Her voice.

Crying out his name.

* * *

A candle’s inch later they lay side by side in the candlelight, fire flickering from a cool night breeze through the window. Pieces of Stephen’s armor overflowed the big chest on the floor, a glaring reminder for Nicole that within hours he would don the metals of war and leave her.

Fear coursed through her and she rested her head on Stephen’s chest. “You will be careful.”

He laughed. “As careful as one can be at war.” He tapped her nose playfully. “If I run into trouble, I’ll count on Ulger to help me.”

She smiled in spite of her worry. “‘Tis hard to imagine him going to battle. He is over forty.”

“Fitness is more important than age,” Stephen said. “My father is over fifty years, and Audley past sixty.”

“Sixty? And he’s leading the royal army?”

“He frequents the lists.”

“But still, sixty. When was he last in battle?” Dread tightened her throat, making it difficult to breathe. “Faierfield needs you. Let us send two knights in your stead.”

“I would not think of refusing to fight for the king.”

“Why then does Ulger besmirch your family’s loyalty?”

“What Ulger cannot prove he tries to imply.”

She turned, looked up at him. “There is nothing else to it?”

“I assure you, my family has no Yorkist ties.”

She wondered about his father and his political alliances. Since she was an Ellingham now, she needed to know more about their standing with the royals. “Ulger keeps pressing about Gloucester. Was your father closely allied with him?”

He tensed. “Ulger distorts it. Back then my father was loyal to Gloucester. Your father was loyal to Gloucester. All were loyal to Gloucester when he was the king’s Protector.”

She smiled and tried to let him know she understood the realities of life. “Or if not loyal, at least silent?”

“À bonne raisson,” Stephen said, returning her smile with a sardonic one of his own. With good reason.

“But Gloucester was violently opposed to Margaret from the start.”

“She’s French,” Stephen said. “That’s bad enough, but the Dauphin is also Margaret’s uncle. Her father fought alongside Joan of Arc.”

“So you defend Gloucester, too?”

“We’re re-hashing events from twenty years ago.” His mouth thinned.

His vexation distressed her. She had spoiled their moment, but could not wish the words back.

“We have little time,” he said. “Let us talk of more pleasant things.”

“I don’t mean to displease you, but with all that is happening, please tell me. I know Ulger is trying to discredit you and your family. My mother ranted for years about Gloucester’s wife, Eleanor—her witchcraft, her friendship with Sharai, which really delighted Emilyne. All this, over ten years ago. How can it count now?”

He slipped from the bed and stood at the window. “My father enjoyed a close friendship with Gloucester, ever since the king was nine and Gloucester ruled England. And yes, my mother was friends with his wife, Eleanor. Loyalties were simple.

“Then time passed. Henry grew up. Married Margaret who instantly disliked Gloucester.”

“I remember my father being pleased about Margaret,” Nicole said.

“But she didn’t produce an heir for so long, and Henry grew so ill he couldn’t rule. During those times Margaret took more and more control. Gloucester tried to stop her, which deepened their rift.”

“I heard her loyalties are dictated by her favorites--at the cost of her own good sense.” Realizing her words, she dropped her voice to a whisper. Her queen was just a few yards away in the guest chamber. “Margaret and Gloucester clashed. He was much loved in London. Still, Margaret found his weakness. His own wife, Eleanor, was his undoing.”

Nicole remembered then and her heart skipped. “The witchcraft.”

“Yes and foolishly, Sharai would not disassociate herself from Eleanor. With Gloucester vulnerable, someone from within the royal circle attacked Eleanor.”

“Emilyne told me the story many times. Eleanor’s own maid accused her, said Eleanor melted a candle carved to a likeness of the king.” How delighted her mother had been when Eleanor was found guilty and imprisoned. How frustrated she had been that Sharai had not been charged along with Eleanor.

Gloucester was accused of treason and died before being found guilty, but the damage was done.”

“But it was his wife, not Gloucester. And he was well liked.”

“Even public affection can’t withstand charges of witchcraft and treason. It destroyed Gloucester and by association damaged my father’s standing. My father’s enemies spoke more openly of his Gypsy wife and her spells.”

Nicole recalled her visit with Sharai. “So that was why she quit the spells.”

“Aye but the talk did not. Your father, encouraged by Emilyne, gained political favor at their expense.”

“That’s not true.” If anything, her father was too honest. Privately he condemned the court intrigues, the lies wrapped in smiles.

“Forgive me. I worded that poorly. Your father gained political favor, and your mother, using her family’s influence, fueled the flames of suspicion.”

Nicole could envision Emilyne’s glee at defeating Tabor. “But all these years. Surely the king and Margaret have come to know you and taken note of your dedication.”

“I avoid the king’s court.” He held out his hand, palm up. “My skin. It draws attention.” He slanted a glance at her. “And censure.”

“You mean you just ... hid?”

Anger flashed in his eyes. “I dislike dwelling on this. But I’m leaving, and you need to know. I fight for my king when called. I just keep distance from London and Coventry. If my father’s enemies do not see my skin, they cannot put it to political gain.” He paused. “My mother thinks it best, and I agree with her.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Really? You, who were so quick to judge me here? And in Shaftesbury?” He looked to the ceiling. “I believe your words were, ‘black magic heathens.’”

An uncomfortable heat spread across Nicole’s face. “I regret that, Stephen. I—”

“You apologized, and I accepted it. But it’s real.”

“I know you better now. How can you hope to be accepted if you retreat, if you don’t let people see your honor?”

Shadows sobered his features, and she squeezed his arm. “We fear what we do not know.”

“So you want me to be more active at court?”

“Your mother is wise. Perhaps she knows more. But ... I just think that if more people got to know you, they would trust you, as I do now.”

He gave her a crooked grin. “Think Ulger will come to trust me?”

She returned the smile. “You might choose to start your campaign with Margaret.”

* * *

The sound of metal rubbing on metal awakened her. She reached for Stephen, found his side of the bed empty. He stood at the open-shuttered window, looking out at the grey light of pre-dawn. He would leave soon. I may never see him again.

The thought ripped her heart, a primitive pain that took her breath. She needed to tell him, before it was too late.

Outside, the bailey was noisy with horses and men, and below stairs, the great hall clamored with conversations, pots clanging, and the occasional bursts of nervous laughter.

It was time. “I fell asleep,” she cried. She hurried into her gown and went to him. “I’m sorry.”

He kissed her hand. “I took it as a compliment.”

A knock sounded at the door. The squire, Robert, entered to help Stephen into his armor. Their words dampened, as if she had stuffed cotton in her ears. Robert adjusting, Stephen confirming, testing his movements to be sure it didn’t chafe. Stephen’s ebony hair, not yet covered by his helm, the clean lines of his face, his dark eyes, the flash of his smile.

He took her hand and she willed her leaden feet to move with him to the hall.

“I cannot let you go without apologizing.”

He stopped and turned to her. “For what?”

“I know why you married me. I know my father’s death was an accident, and I thank you for your sacrifice.” She lowered her gaze. “Katherine is beautiful. You would have wed her.” She twisted her ring. “And, well,” she wrenched the words free, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He smiled. “I did not ‘lose’ Katherine. She is a dear woman of wealth and privilege. She will find another.”

“But she loved you.”

“I was her prize, like a feather and purse at tournament. She much preferred showing me off to her friends than being alone with me.”

“I saw the look in her eyes.”

“If I had to dance with her friends, Lilla and Winnie, one more time, I think I would have gone mad” His mouth pulled into a melancholy smile. “A man can sense these things. Certes, it was not the first time I was used thusly. At Shaftesbury, remember Debney? She was enamored with the unusual color of my skin. Not me.”

She could not hide her smile. Debney, the flirtatious horse trader’s widow. Nicole recalled her red hair, her petite hands, the batting of her lashes. “But she—”

“Stephen.” Harry called from belowstairs.

“I’ll be right there,” Stephen said. He drew closer to Nicole and lowered his voice. “My father told me about Emilyne, back when they were to be betrothed. He and your mother never did like each other much as childhood friends, and they argued frequently when they grew up. My father finally asked her, ‘Why do you want to wed me?’ and she admitted it was because of his height.”

“No.”

“Yes. And my father did not wish to be wanted for his height. He preferred the love that he and my mother shared.”

Nicole blinked, trying to envision her mother, young, self-conscious about her height, eyeing Lord Tabor and finding him suitable.

But Stephen was still talking.

“...and I realized that just as I don’t want to be hated for the color of my skin, I also don’t wish to be loved for that reason alone. It made me uncomfortable.” He cupped her face. “I do not miss Katherine.” Turning to afford privacy, he kissed her softly. “You owe me no apology.”

* * *

Stephen lit a candle by Binnie’s bed and tapped his shoulders.

Binnie stirred, rose to sitting, rubbing his eyes. “You’re leaving.”

Stephen sat on the side of the bed and nodded. “Your Uncle Ulger, Sir Daniel, and me. And two more knights that Lady Emilyne selects.”

“Take me, too. I can help.”

“You need to heal. Stay here. You and James can help the garrison. If you wish to squire, spend time in the lists.”

“But Nicole forbids it. And the other boys...”

“When the cat’s away...” Stephen prompted.

Binnie’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Why not? As you said, you are nigh thirteen. Stay with James, and I’ll ask Daniel’s knight, Philip, to make sure you are treated fairly.”

“But she has the eyes of a hawk, Nicole does. She sees everything. I’ll come with you. I will be no trouble. I promise.” His face lit. “I will squire for you.”

Touched with Binnie’s optimism even in the light of his deafness, Stephen straightened. “I would be proud,” he said, touching his fist to his heart, “but you must stay. Get strong.”

Binnie’s face fell. “I know. What good is a deaf boy?”

Unable to hear in battle? It would be like inviting death. The moment grew long, yet Stephen could not find a comforting answer that was neither lie nor understatement.

“I am counting on you to do one important thing for me.”

“What?”

“Watch Nicole for me.”

Binnie laughed. “Her? You jest.”

“I’m serious. She has watched out for you all these years. Now you are old enough to do the same for her.”

Binnie frowned, likely considering the idea, but did not look convinced he could be helpful. The boy’s uncertainty twisted Stephen’s gut.

“When will you come back?” Binnie asked.

Stephen struggled for a fair answer. “War cannot be foretold,” he said. “But we outnumber the Yorkists. With the grace of God it will be swift.”

Binnie exhaled heavily. After a moment he tapped Stephen’s crucifix. “God speed.”

“Thank you.” Stephen forced a soft laugh. “Before you know it, we will be sliding down Morgan Hill again.” He punched Binnie softly on the arm and stood. “God speed.”

* * *

Nicole walked outside with Stephen.

He turned toward the stables. “I must get Racer.” He kissed her hand.

She held his hand a moment too long, refusing to let him go.

“It is time.”

She released his hand, clenched her teeth to fight back the tears. Her eyes stung, her nose tingled. She punched herself in the arm. “There is one last thing.”

He stopped. “What?”

“You won’t find your palfry in the stables.”

“Hingit? Has someone—”

“He’s safe. I removed him before one of the queen’s men conscripted him. She swallowed, cleared her throat. “A dancing horse should not bleed for the throne.”

* * *

Nicole joined the crowd at the west end of the bailey. Emilyne had positioned herself close to the queen and Ulger hovered at Emilyne’s side, making shows of affection.

Sir Daniel stood with his armored knights, surly Madison and the fat-necked bull of a man, Will. Their women and children waited nearby, the formality of the queen’s presence requiring they remain tall and dignified, except Daniel’s youngest, Annie, who wailed and kept holding her arms out for Daniel to pick her up.

Queen Margaret paced, asking her minister questions about routes, provisions, extra wagons. She stopped, as if suddenly thinking of something. “Boys. We need boys with good singing voices to entertain the king.” She bypassed Daniel, who was lecturing his children, and turned to Ulger. “Have you any boys who may join our king’s minstrels?”

Ulger glanced at Nicole.

Nicole’s heart stopped. The king was pious and found great pleasure hearing boys sing religious chants and harmonies. She would never have imagined he would bring them with him to war, though. She glared at her uncle. Binnie. Do not dare to implicate him in battle, you blackheart. And if the queen heard his voice...

Ulger turned to the queen. “Your grace, you might consider James, the hayward’s son. I have heard his voice and it is quite clear.”

Nicole stared at Ulger, wishing God would smite him where he stood. James was Binnie’s best friend.

Ulger ordered him brought forth.

A nervous James emerged from the castle, accompanied by Mariel. They approached Margaret, bowing and wide-eyed.

To her credit, Margaret softened her countenance, accepting their greetings.

“Master James,” the queen said assessing him, “You must be thirteen years of age?”

James puffed his chest, nerves forgotten. “I am twelve.”

“Prince Edward is but six,” Margaret said. “He sings for his father. We need more strong young boys with an ear for melody. Would you sing a song for me?”

Enchanted, James clapped his hands and began singing, Gabriel fram heven-King, sent to the Maide sweete, Broute hir blisful tiding, And fair he gan hir greet...” He sang the carol with a clear and perfect pitch, a song of the angel coming to Mary with news of the conception and salvation of mankind.

The queen’s shoulders relaxed, her eyes bright with pleasure at the lyrics and Nicole glimpsed the woman she likely was before the Yorkist tensions and escalating violence. Margaret applauded. “Most excellent. Would you like to come with us? Meet the prince and sing for Henry, our king?”

James looked to his mother.

“Y-your grace,” Mariel stammered. She hid it well, but Nicole could see her friend’s paralyzing ambivalence at watching her only child be hand-selected by the queen to march off to war this morn. “Thank you for this honor. By your leave I will prepare his clothes.”

James squealed with delight, and left with his mother.

Binnie. He would lose his best friend, mayhaps forever. She pushed the thought away. Too much happening, too much danger...

She caught Mariel’s worried gaze and ached for her. If only she could follow her, console her, but she could not sacrifice these final moments with Stephen.

Her mother and Ulger edged to Nicole’s side.

“The king appreciates your loyalty. We march with honor for England.” The Queen’s voice carried throughout the bailey.

Ulger reached for Emilyne. She stiffened in his arms but allowed him a farewell kiss. With a proud smile he strode to the stable.

In a surprising gesture the queen took Emilyne’s hand. “We’ll miss your father,” she said, referring to the earl. She took Nicole’s hand, as well, looking up to both of them from her more diminutive height. “Godspeed.”

They bowed in answer. “Godspeed.” Short but decidedly regal in her red brocade cape and trappings, the queen accepted her knight’s hand and mounted her palfrey.

Knights, squires, horses, maids scurried like ants as the long procession formed.

Stephen fell in behind the royal knights wearing a Faierfield shield, blue with white wings. His squire, Robert, followed with the Ellingham banner, green with three rings threaded on a sword.

Stephen’s gaze caught and held hers through his open helm. His highly polished helm followed the contours of his face and his breastplate shone from beneath his traveling cape.

His height and his presence in the saddle created a formidable sight. Nicole prayed the Yorkists would avoid him, that arrows would not find their way into her husband’s flesh or pierce the goodness of his heart.

Nicole strode swiftly the better to see him, careful to not break into a disgraceful run.

His eyes warmed in the sun’s first rays. He gave her a knowing smile and held up his left hand, pointing to his wedding ring.

An intimate light of passion passed between them, but the warmth died as Harry joined her husband and Racer, also armored and draped in the Ellingham standard, took that first step away from her. Stephen would be hundreds of miles distant, nigh to Scotland, and in mortal danger. Her throat grew raw, her legs ached to run to him, hold him. Nicole summoned a smile and twisted her ring in answer.

Her vision blurring with tears, Nicole committed his wave, his smile to memory, watching until he and the Faierfield standard disappeared beyond Morgan Hill.