Rivals for the Crown (20 page)

"Ah, but I am that much older than you. You have been a young man for only a few years. I have been watching them for decades. You are fond of my Isabel."

"I am, madam, and a bit worried as well. I've sent word and been to Westminster twice, but I've not been allowed to see her. Have ye talked with her?"

"She was here just yesterday."

"Oh." He sipped his ale, wondering how quickly he could leave.

"Someone carried the tale to her mother that Isabel let you embrace her."

"There was nothing wrong in it. Isabel was cold."

"She was frightened. She told me the whole story about Langton, and your afternoon." She sipped her mead. "I agree, I see nothing wrong with it."

"The mead, madam? Or my afternoon with Isabel?"

She laughed. "Both. Neither. Isabel's mother is wary of men. She has tried to fill Isabel with distrust of all men. I have tried to insert a measure of sense into it. There are men—and Walter Langton is one of them—of whom a woman should be wary. But there are others—and her grandfather was one of them—who can be not only trusted, but loved. I want my Isabel to find a man who will care for her as I was cared for. I know you are not here to propose marriage, but that you are here at all shows me you are not easily dissuaded from seeing her."

"But she has refused to see me."

"I do not think so. I think orders have been given to refuse you admittance. You do know Sir Henry de Boyer, sir?" At his nod she continued. "He has been making inquiries about you. He told Isabel that you murdered a man in Scotland and ran to London in fear of your life."

"I did kill a man, and there are those trying to harm me for it. But, madam, I dinna regret it." He told her the truth of the tale.

She listened without interruption, then nodded. "I do not think Isabel knew you were there, nor do I think she believed the worst of you. She complained to me that you had not called upon her again."

"I have been twice. How do I get word to her?"

"You don't." Isabel's grandmother took another sip of mead, then wiped her mouth slowly with a handkerchief. "I do. Be here tomorrow at the same time, sir."

He grinned at her. "I will be here, madam!"

And he was, flowers from Spain in his hand, bought at great expense, for Isabel, and two bottles of the finest mead he could find for her grandmother. He brought almonds, and oranges shipped from Italy. He'd taken extra care with his clothing, brushed his hair until it flew about his head, scrubbed his teeth with salt, then shaved carefully.

He hurried around the corner next to her grandmother's home, in time to see a coach pull up before the house. Henry de Boyer leapt from the carriage, reaching up a hand to assist Isabel, the knight's cloak flying about him in the brisk wind. Isabel, her hand clasped in de Boyer's, climbed from the carriage. She smiled up at him, then laughed as the wind tossed her hair before her eyes. De Boyer gently helped her push the hair back from her face and said something that made her smile again. As they entered the building a church tolled the hour.

Rory stood there for a moment, debating whether to follow or leave, and wondering if her grandmother had arranged this. Then he squared his shoulders and crossed the muddy street. He might not wear the uniform of the king's own, might not be wealthy enough to bring her here in a carriage. And he might be nothing more than a younger son with little to his name, but he'd be damned if he would surrender the field without a fight.

"Almonds, and oranges too! Sir, what a treat!" Isabel's smile was bright as she placed Rory's gifts on the table. "And flowers in December, sir. You are extravagant and too generous!"

Rory grinned at her and bowed, delighted with her response. "Your smile far outshines my paltry offerings, demoiselle."

De Boyer groaned aloud, and Rory laughed. The knight had been polite enough when Rory had joined them on the stairs, but his courtesy had not hidden his displeasure at Rory's sudden appearance. Isabel's grandmother's surprise at seeing de Boyer had seemed genuine. When she said she'd not expected Isabel to be accompanied, de Boyer bowed low.

"How could I let such a young girl ride the riverboat on a December day?"

"She comes often to see me, sir," Isabel's grandmother said. "You will soon empty your purse of coin if you insist upon driving her each time."

"What better purpose could I have for it, madam?"

Rory groaned, and de Boyer laughed.

"By the time Isabel returns to London, madam," de Boyer said, "the weather may be milder and the boat trip more pleasant. Who knows how long we will be with the king in the north?"

Rory looked at Isabel. "You will accompany the king to Norham?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm told that all of the queen's ladies will go. We will stay as long as we are told."

"Do not worry for her safety, sir," de Boyer said. "I will be with her every step of the way, guarding her person closely."

"Will ye now?" Rory asked.

"Gentlemen," Isabel's grandmother interjected, "while my granddaughter has grown up with the court, she is not an experienced courtier. She will be keeping her own body safe."

Isabel's cheeks were scarlet. She picked up a piece of greenery from her grandmother's table.

"Well said, ma'am," de Boyer said. "And it will be my pleasure to guard that innocence."

"De Boyer," Rory said, "since ye've been learning so much about me, perhaps ye can tell me whether I'm going as well, or staying behind in London."

De Boyer's smile was more guarded this time. "You'll stay in London."

"Will I?" Rory asked. "Sorry, but ye're wrong. I'm thinking of riding north myself. Norham is almost to Scotland, is it not? I can assist ye in keeping Mistress de Burke safe."

"I welcome the help," de Boyer said. "You have a warhorse, MacGannon?"

"No."

"A squire?"

"I have a younger cousin, will he do?"

"Depends on how well he serves you."

"Then I'm lost."

"And
armour
?"

"Not with me. I thought I was attending a funeral, not a war."

"It's always wise to be well armed," de Boyer said.

"I quite agree," Rory said, nodding. "Some of us need warhorses and
armour
and squires. Some of us can survive simply on our own wits."

"Some can. May I suggest an
armour
er who can outfit you?"

Rory laughed and surprisingly, de Boyer did as well. "I will gladly take yer suggestion, sir. Ye've been in London much longer than I. No doubt ye've gained a great deal of experience in all yer years here."

"Four years is all. But you are correct, London is my home, and where I will reside when I marry."

"What? Still without a wife? Most men with your years have had five children by now. But then, it is not necessary to marry before producing children, is it, sir?"

De Boyer ignored the insinuation. "Had I a wife, I would not be here now."

"Are you seeking one?"

"I am content to guard the queen's ladies."

"So ye guard all the queen's ladies, do ye, not just demoiselle de Burke?"

"I do indeed."

"And you treat all alike, with the same attention paid to each?"

"Not at all. One could certainly not confuse demoiselle de Burke with Lady Dickleburough."

"I've not had the pleasure of meeting her."

"She is—how shall I say it?—quite unforgettable."

"As is demoiselle de Burke. And, I hear, demoiselle de Braun. Perhaps that quality is a requirement to become a queen's lady?"

"Gentlemen, enough!" Isabel's grandmother gestured for them to sit. "I have a large fire already. I do not need it any warmer in this chamber. Isabel, bring those almonds and oranges over here. They will distract us from the sparring. Now, sirs, tell me about your mothers."

Rory and de Boyer exchanged a glance.

"Our mothers, madam?" Rory asked.

"That is what I said."

"My mother," de Boyer said, "is gracious and kind. Her spirit is mild, yet she runs my father's household with ease."

"And you, Mister MacGannon?" Isabel's grandmother asked.

"My mother is courageous and loving. She runs her household with much laughter and allows my father to live there as well."

Isabel's grandmother nodded at Rory, her eyes shining. "You play the game well, young master MacGannon. Now, gentlemen, tell me about your fathers."

"My father is bold and fair to his people," de Boyer said.

"My father," Rory said, looking at Isabel, "is devoted to my mother."

"As is mine," de Boyer said.

"My father is a warrior," Rory answered.

"And mine—"

"Cease!" Isabel's grandmother laughed. "Thank you both for playing my game. Isabel, sweet, bring me some of that wonderful mead that Mister MacGannon brought to me. It is a wise man, Rory MacGannon, who remembers a girl's grandmother."

"And it is a wise grandmother, madam, who remembers the man who remembered the grandmother."

Isabel's grandmother laughed again. "You may rest assured, I will."

"What is it you're making, demoiselle?" De Boyer moved next to Isabel. He smiled down at her. "A wreath, perhaps?"

Rory gave him a sharp glance, then looked at Isabel. She was still holding the greenery she had taken from the table. She smiled at de Boyer and held up a circle made of thin pine branches.

"I was simply keeping my hands busy. It's a crown, I think." She leaned forward and placed it on de Boyer's head. "There! You look like a king! Very regal!"

"It's fortunate that it's made of pine, de Boyer, rather than holly," Rory said.

De Boyer met his gaze with a slow smile. "But at midsummer I would be glad of it, would I not?"

Isabel looked from one to the other. "I don't understand."

"I do," her grandmother said. "They are both Celts, Isabel. One from France, one from Scotland, but united by a common bond. Do you not know the story of the Oak King and the Holly King?"

"I remember something of it," Isabel said, "but not clearly."

"In olden times," her grandmother said, "before Christ, our people celebrated two kings, the Oak King and the Holly King. Midsummer and midwinter marked the two halves of the year, each a beginning and an ending. The Oak King, who ruled the time of growth and light, would battle the Holly King, who ruled the

time of harvest and death. The outcome of the battles was always the same: at Midsummer the Holly King was victorious, symbolizing the end of the growing season. At Midwinter, the Oak King would win, symbolizing the return of growth in the spring. Have you never seen the Green Man in a church, with oak leaves growing out of him? It is a symbol that spring will come and life will return to the world."

Isabel looked at Rory. "So you are the Oak King?"

Rory smiled. "Look at our coloring, lass. I am light. He is darkness."

De Boyer laughed and removed the crown from his head. "It is almost Midwinter, Oak King. I give you your crown rather than do battle with you."

Rory stood, rooted to the floor, unwilling to take the crown held out to him. He felt his skin rise, as though an unseen spirit had joined them, a whisper of premonition. "Ye do ken the rest, de Boyer?"

"Do you believe all that, MacGannon? That I must die so you will live?"

Rory did not answer.

"What do you mean?" Isabel asked.

"We kill each other, demoiselle," de Boyer said lightly. "In summer the Holly King slays the Oak King. At Midwinter, the Holly King dies."

"It is the rhythm of the year," Rory said. "In ancient times, I've heard it said, a king ruled for just one season, then was sacrificed for the good of his people. His blood fertilized the ground and his death ensured that they would live."

"Surely that is symbolic and not real?"

"If it were real," Rory said, "who would wish to be king?"

"He who would possess the world, if only for a season," de Boyer said, holding out the crown. "Here, MacGannon. If I am the Holly King, then my time is almost at its end and your time not yet come. Take the crown, sir."

"And all that goes with it?" Rory asked.

De Boyer's smile was slow and confident. "I have no doubt that our battles are far from over, nor that death always wins. The sun may shine for a season, but darkness comes every night and rules half the year."

Rory's answering smile was wide. "As does the light. I will take the crown, Holly King, and keep it for the day when the battles are over and the light has won the prize." He took the crown but did not put it on. He met de Boyer's gaze, and in it saw not simply a spirit of competition but respect, which surprised him.

"Will you not wear the crown, Rory?" Isabel asked.

"When it is time," Rory said. "When it is time."

Isabel's grandmother rose to her feet and let them know by her manner that the visit was over.