By His Majesty's Grace by Jennifer Blake Page A

piece.” He tilted his head for a considering instant before resuming his play on the lute. “Or perhaps I will forgo future applause for the sake of present company.”
    “Forgo nothing on my account,” Isabel recommended with an airy gesture, well aware he had no intention of leaving them. Even as she spoke, however, she was aware of a drop in the noise level in the great hall, followed by a spreading whisper, like the sound of wind blowing over bracken. Glancing around, she saw the crowd around them parting, leaving a clear path down which a regal figure made her way. It was the queen consort, followed by a double line of ladies-in-waiting and the queen’s fool, a miniature woman no more than a yard tall.
    Turning fully, Isabel swept back her skirts and dropped into a deep curtsy. Her sisters did the same, while Leon doffed his hat with a most graceful bow.
    “Nor must you neglect your labors on my account, Monsieur Leon,” Elizabeth of York said as she joined their small group with the slow and somewhat cumbersome pace of a woman large with child. “The result is always a delight, no matter how onerous it may be to you.”
    “Your Majesty!” Leon cried in low pleasure, going to one knee before Henry’s queen in profound expression of gratitude for the compliment. “No task performed for your entertainment can be a labor. It must always be my greatest pleasure.”
    “Rise, Sir Rascal,” Henry’s queen said in her light, musical voice, “and say me no more flattery. I am immune, as you may see from my huge shape.” She turned to Isabel, raising her and her sisters with a gesture. “I was told you had come among us again, Lady Isabel. It is good to see you so well.”
    “And you, ma’am,” she replied with perfect truth. Elizabeth was a favorite with everyone, more beloved than Henry, who had not her ease of manner or, in all truth, her naturally royal air. It was not surprising, of course, as she had been trained from birth to be the consort of a king, even if it was meant to be at some foreign court. Some said Henry kept her from public view as much as possible for fear she would become too popular with the people. As the eldest daughter of Edward IV, her claim to the throne was far stronger than his.
    Though it was centuries since Britain had been ruled by a female, there was nothing in the laws of the land to prevent her from becoming queen regnant.
    Divinely fair in true Plantagenet mold, Elizabeth was the very embodiment of the current ideal of beauty, with her pale blond hair, fine skin and fragile bone structure. Her gown of blue damask—though simply made, having only a neckline edged with pearls—was the perfect foil for her blue eyes. The small circlet of gold she wore as a crown was set low on her forehead like a filet to hold the fine white veil that covered her hair. From her girdle, in place of the keys of a chatelaine, hung a small jewel of a book in a bag of silver netting. The beautifully painted wood cover showed it to be De Lorris’s story of love and redemption, Le roman de la rose. She appeared as blooming as that tale in her advanced state of pregnancy, in spite of Henry’s fears for her ability to carry his heir to term.
    “But how is it you are among us again?” Elizabeth asked with curiosity on her serene features. “I am sure I was told you had traveled north to marry, though now His Majesty makes other arrangements. Did some unforeseen circumstances prevent the nuptials?”
    It was a reminder, if Isabel needed it, that the queen was being kept in ignorance of the charges against Braesford. Nor should she know of Henry’s liaison with Mademoiselle Juliette d’Amboise, though it was Isabel’s experience that these things were always discovered. A coarse jest here, a laughing comment there, and soon the ladies-in-waiting were whispering in the queen’s ear. If the pretense of ignorance sometimes held protection for a woman of intelligence—and Elizabeth was that,