By His Majesty's Grace by Jennifer Blake Page B

having studied with a tutor from childhood so she sometimes translated Latin documents for her royal husband—that was another matter.
    “It was the king’s request,” Isabel answered. “As for why, who can say? Mayhap he conceived a whim to be present for the marriage?”
    “Indeed, we are all kept in the dark,” Elizabeth of York said in dry response. “I am pleased that I shall see you wed, in any event. Sir Rand is quite a favorite, a fine and loyal companion to the king in his adversity and strong right arm on the battlefield.” Her smile softened. “He was also kind to me when I first appeared at court, when many were less so. You could not have a better gentleman as husband.”
    Isabel hardly knew how to answer such praise, so did not try. “Braesford and I will be honored by your presence,” she said, going on at once. “I believe you will absent yourself from the court soon. When do you go, if I may ask it?”
    “A few days after your vows are spoken, I believe. Such a to-do as there has been about it. I am to travel to Saint Swithin’s Priory at Winchester, as it was built by King Arthur of legend, or so they say. A fine conceit, yes?”
    Isabel, meeting the warmth in the queen’s eyes, answered it with a smile of understanding. “And shall the child be called Arthur if it is a boy?”
    “You’ve heard it’s His Majesty’s will, I suppose? I am agreed, though all Lancastrian kings to this day have been called Henry. It is Caxton’s fault, you know, for printing Le Morte d’Arthur last year as one of the first books brought forth from a press in this realm.” She put a hand on her belly in a tender caress. “And heaven for-fend it not be a son and heir. Henry has been promised it by his soothsayer, and I dare not disappoint.”
    The words were lightly spoken, but Isabel thought them serious, nonetheless. Elizabeth of York, for all the crown she wore, was no more mistress of her fate than she was. The queen’s marriage was a dynastic union to a man long considered an enemy of her family, one ten years her senior whom she had not met until she was betrothed to him. He came to her bed as a right, his purpose to get an heir on her body. What was that like, Isabel wondered, and how did it feel to carry the child of a man who cared nothing for her and for whom she cared nothing?
    It was possible she would soon find out. Her knees felt disjointed at the prospect.
    “Does the king join us this evening?” she asked by way of distraction, for herself as well as Elizabeth.
    “Most likely, though he has not yet made his will known.” The queen divided a smile between them all. “But I must not tarry. My dear mother-in-law waits for me to join her in embroidering a coverlet for the future prince. Until later.”
    They watched her go, strolling slowly in the direction of the royal apartments and her private solar with the same grace with which she had appeared. Isabel, thinking of Elizabeth’s absence from the Star Chamber earlier, frowned a little. There was a reason for it, of course, yet the king’s mother had been present as if by natural right. It seemed Lady Margaret might be more in Henry’s confidence than his wife. How must that sit with the daughter of a king?
    “A noble lady,” Leon said, heaving a sigh.
    “You should write her story and set it to music,” Cate said, her blue eyes serious.
    “I may do that,” Leon murmured. “I may indeed.”
    Isabel turned away first, feeling herself unable to watch longer. “So,” she said with assumed vigor and a quick glance for Leon, “have you entertainment planned for this evening?”
    “A group of Romani that has played before royalty west of the Rhine and which include, not incidentally, a dancer of rare skill, also a jongleur who eats fire and, bien entendu, the bel canto to your return that plays itself now in my mind.”
    “Not the last, I beg.”
    “By no means, if you dislike it,” he answered at once, “yet I must have some