Rivals for the Crown (18 page)

"No," she said, her eyes merry. "It is the result of giving a man his way with her. I could scream and accuse you of attacking me."

"And watch while yer English guards skewer me?"

"And watch while the guards skewer you."

"But ye willna, will ye, lass?"

"And pray, sir, why should I not?"

"Because ye're dying to hear the answer to the riddle."

She sighed heavily, as though infinitely bored. "Then tell me, sir."

He leaned low over her, watching her breasts rise and fall. "A thief is not a thief when what he steals is freely given." He took his hand from the stone and trailed his fingers along her
jaw line
, raising her chin higher, leaning even closer.

"And what is it you want to be freely given to you, my lord MacGannon?"

"A kiss, my lady." He rubbed two fingers across her cheek. "One kiss."

"No."

He sighed, glanced up as though pondering, then nodded quickly, returning his gaze to hers. "Aye. Ye're right. One is not enough. Three, then, at least. Or more, if ye insist. But I think three is good for the first time, aye?"

She shook her head. "None, sir, although I do admire your persistence."

"It's a beginning. And remember, we are at court. Which means we are required to engage in courtly love."

"We are not at court, sir."

"And may God be blessed for that. But England has been full of Normans and their Norman customs for two hundred years. And, of course, we also must do what God instructs us."

"God did not instruct us to engage in courtly love," she said tartly.

"But He did, madam. He told Moses to tell us to love our
neighbours
. Scotland and England are
neighbours
, lass. I am merely trying to follow God's laws."

She covered her laugh with her hand. "That's a blasphemous argument!"

"And amusing, apparently." He leaned low again, his mouth an inch from her throat. "But more importantly, is it a successful argument?" He took a long, deep breath, letting her scent fill his senses, letting his gaze drift from her white throat to the tops of her breasts, pressing now against her bodice. He watched, unable to look away, as her breasts rose and fell, then again. And then he kissed her.

She was sweet, her lips soft and welcoming. She opened to him and he leaned closer, feeling her breasts against his chest, her thighs along his, and her breaths matching his, their bodies moving in rhythm. And then she pulled away from him, covering her mouth with her hand and blushing prettily.

"I am not a wanton, sir," she said, hearing the catch in her voice.

He stepped back, letting his hands fall to his sides. "No. Nor did I think ye one, lass. It was but a kiss, and I a thief who could not

resist ye. Ye are beautiful, Isabel, and I admire ye. And now, lass, another kiss?"

She shook her head. "No more."

"What, ever? Why not say no more kisses today, Rory, and leave the future to sort itself out?"

"No more kisses today," she said, but she smiled.

"I am bereft, but consoled by the promise of it in the future." He grinned at her and she laughed. "Ye're safe, demoiselle. I shall work on a new riddle." He looked around him for a few steps, then at her. "D'ye believe that story, of Eleanor saving the King's life?"

"Why would I not?"

"Well, let's look at it. Where was Edward wounded? On the battlefield?"

"I suppose so."

"And was Eleanor on the battlefield with him?"

"Most likely not."

"Ah. So Edward's men brought him off the field—to their tent, let's say—and she tended him there?"

"Perhaps," she said.

"But that would take some time. The poison would have begun to work. Edward looks none the worse for his wound. And Eleanor is dead."

"Edward has had many years to recover. And Eleanor bore sixteen children. Her body simply was worn out."

"Ah," he said, trying to ignore the image of lovers that came to mind.

"I believe the story," she said. "I think their love was that strong, that she risked death to keep him alive, and you scoffing at it will not change my mind."

She pointed at the church next to them. "That is All Hallow's. No one can say when it was first built, but there are Roman tiles in its floor. It is here that some prisoners are executed at the crest of this hill. And there, below us, is the Tower."

He looked at the church, then followed her gaze to the immense walls of the fortress called simply the Tower, which was surrounded by a moat linked to the River Thames. Above the walls, the large and impressive White Tower rose high to dominate the skyline. And ahead of them, built of heavy
grey
stone, lay the Lion Tower, the formidable entrance to the fortress. She moved toward it and he followed, throwing a glance over his shoulder. No man of middle height crossed the empty space behind them.

"William the Conqueror built The White Tower," she said, "after defeating Harold the Saxon at Hastings, in 1066, over two hundred years ago."

"Were yer people in England then?"

"My mother's people came over with William. When William stayed, so did they. We've been in London ever since. King Edward's father, Henry III, enlarged and improved the Tower, which was not popular with those who lived on the land he confiscated. And King Edward has done the same, only tenfold, pushing the outer walls into the city, and building new towers and creating the new entrance."

She moved forward to speak to the guard at the first barrier, who greeted her by name. "My companion is Rory MacGannon, of Loch Gannon, in London for the queen's funeral. We have business within."

"Of course, Mistress de Burke. Mind your step, there's still ice from last night on the stones."

Isabel thanked the man, leading the way across the first drawbridge. "There, you can see where the land gate was. And this," she said as they entered the first structure, "is the Lion Tower."

He jumped as the air was suddenly filled with a sound he'd never heard, as though she'd conjured demons from hell. He reached for the sword at his hip.

"Lions, sir," she said with a smile. "Have you not heard lions before?"

He smiled at her, feeling foolish as he took his hand from the hilt of his sword. The lions roared again. And he might do the same, imprisoned in these dank stones rather than roaming free in Africa. "Nay, but it's a sound I will remember. I'd heard the king had a menagerie."

"Not a large one now. He did have elephants once. They died, but the lions have thrived. They remind visitors that this is the home of the lion of England."

"Outside of England your Edward is often called a leopard."

She arched an eyebrow. "And within England he is called king."

He laughed, following her across another drawbridge and within the walls of the tower themselves. She showed him the palace that Edward had built overlooking the river, where she'd slept when she'd stayed here with the queen. And the water gate Edward had constructed, and the rest of it.

But he did not retain all her words. He was too busy watching her, enjoying the graceful way she moved, the way her eyes lit when she looked at him, the soft curve of her smile. He was not the only one to notice her, he saw, as the king's household knights greeted her, and even the guards smiled at her on this cold, wintry

day. The sun had stayed with them, but it was dank and chill within the Tower walls.

"And that building?" he asked her as they made their way to leave.

"The Wardrobe Tower," she said, an odd note in her voice as she glanced up at it. "Come, it grows late."

"Isabel."

The voice came from above them, and she stopped moving at Rory's side, her expression suddenly wary. He looked up to see a man leaning through a window, watching them. He was richly dressed, the gold on his fingers and clothing visible even in the dim winter light. Isabel sucked in her breath.

"My lord bishop," she said, bowing. "I had heard you were in Greenwich."

"You heard incorrectly," he said. "Bring your friend up to see me."

"I'm so sorry, my lord, but we must hurry. I must have him at Westminster before dark, and we have little time."

"Who do you take him to see at Westminster, Isabel?"

Rory put a hand on Isabel's arm. "Who is it who's asking, sir?"

"Your friend is a Scot, Isabel. Who do you take him to see at Westminster?"

"Bishop Bek, my lord," she said, naming the first powerful man she could think of.

"Are the Scots wooing Bek now, my dear?"

"This Scot prefers to woo women, sir," Rory answered.

The man's smile was not amused. "Bring him up, Isabel."

"I thank ye for the invitation," Rory said, then lowered his voice. "Do ye wish to see him, lass? I'll go if ye wish it."

"Oh, no! Please, let us leave."

"Aye, then we will," Rory said quietly. "Farewell, sir," he called and hurried her forward. The man withdrew, slamming the window behind him.

"Hurry!" She turned to look at him, her face now pale and fearful. "We need to leave before he comes down to find us!"

"Lass? Who is he? Why does he frighten ye so much?"

"Please! Let us leave here and I will tell you."

Rory followed her, through the large gate, past Edward's palace and water gate and through the Byward Tower. This time the lions were silent as they passed through that tower, and Rory was grateful for it. She hurried him across the drawbridge and through the first gatehouse. He let her lead them past All Hallow's Church and around the corner before he stopped her, grabbing her arm and turning her to face him.

"Far enough. Who is the man and why are ye so afraid of him?"

"He is Walter Langton, Bishop of Lichfield, Steward of the Wardrobe."

"He terrifies ye. Why?"

She looked close to tears. "He.. .he looks at me.. .he says things that make me.. .feel.. .soiled."

"Has he harmed ye? Has he touched ye?"

"No. But I fear.. .if I were to be close to him...I fear him."

"Can ye tell no one of this?"

"Who? He is among the king's closest advisors. I am alone in this."

He did not think then but pulled her into his arms, ignoring the glances and smiles of those who passed them. "No, ye're not, lass. Say the word and I swear I will protect ye."

She stayed in the circle of his arms, resting her forehead on his chest for the briefest of moments. Then she pulled away, smiling sheepishly. "I am fine. Thank you."

He held her gaze. "Are ye sure? Swear to me that ye'll not go there again."

"I won't. If I have a choice, I won't. I did not think he was there or I never would have gone." She shivered and moved away from him.

He let his arms drop and took a deep breath. "God's blood, but it's cold out here. Let's find a warm spot."

"I must go," she said, glancing up at the sky. "I must go."

He saw her to the boat to Westminster, where Henry de Boyer leaned against a building, waiting for her. De Boyer moved forward, offering her his arm.

"I will take her from you, MacGannon. Come, Isabel, let's go home."

She nodded. "Thank you again, Rory, for taking my letter. I am most grateful."

"My pleasure, lass. I'll be thinking of a new riddle."

Her smile was wan, and she let de Boyer walk her away and hand her into the boat. Before following her, de Boyer threw Rory a look of triumph and hurried to her side. She waved but soon was gone.

As rain darkened the sky, Rory walked back to his lodgings, his mood matching the weather. They'd made no plans to meet again. And a man of middle height surreptitiously followed him. He swore again and kept his hand on his sword hilt until he was within walls.

EIGHT

Isabel did not sleep well, troubled by dreams in which Walter

Langton leaned over her bed, reaching for her, his smile full of promise of things to come. She woke twice, to stare into the dark, trying to dispel her nightmare. And a third time, in the wee hours, when the rain pounded on the roof and Alis was slipping into bed, letting icy air in as she raised the covers.

"Move over," Alis said, her voice thick, and a musty smell about her.

Isabel did not answer but moved closer to the other edge of the bed, where the sheets were cold. She knew where Alis had been and she hugged herself, forcing the images of Alis and Henry, intertwined and ardent, from her mind. At last she slept, to dream yet again, but this time of Rory MacGannon, naked, in her bed, his legs, long and lean, stretched atop hers. But no, her legs would be.. .she opened her eyes, astonished by her mind. Surely she was going to hell.

The day was no better than the night. She attended mass with the others, shivering in the dank chapel. With the queen gone, their

household rations of wood had been drastically reduced, leaving their rooms chill and damp. An omen for the future, Isabel thought, for why would the queen's ladies be kept on when there was no queen to serve? She was sent on numerous small errands, from the laundry to the kitchens, feeling as though she was now no more than the lowest servant.