Shana Abe by The Promise of Rain Page A

echoing the steps she had taken those years before to the darkest part of the Tower, and she was wondering when she might see daylight again.
    Well, she was not seeing it now, that was certain, but that was because the inky-black night lay beyond the long glass windows of Henry’s chamber. The darkness was punctuated occasionally by the glow of a torch. She could not tell if there were stars out tonight.
    To her surprise, she had been summoned to Henry only a few hours after her arrival. To her even greater surprise—and secret relief—Roland was in the room with her, taking her arm once more as they advanced to the king together, pressing her fingers with the warmth of his, smiling down at her.
    Kyla didn’t know what he was smiling about. She certainly didn’t feel that confident.
    “It pains Us,” said Henry abruptly, “to see you so plainly dressed, Lady Kyla.”
    Clothing! Of all the things she had been expecting to hear Henry say, she had never imagined that this would be his first concern. He would talk to her of clothing, stupid nothings, over all else that had shattered her life—murder and intrigue and betrayal.
    Kyla frowned down at the skirts, trying to maintain her composure. “Your Majesty.” She struggled to keep her tone even. “I regret it does not please you.”
    “Strathmore,” said the king. “Give Us your report.”
    Roland released her arm. She listened to him recite the facts of the chase, from London to Scotland to England again, and of her own capture, told now in such a matter-of-fact way it felt more like a dry history lesson and not a chapter torn from her own life.
    The iron grate was scrolled with an iron garden: iron roses, iron lilies, iron leaves, even a clever iron bumblebee hidden amid the vines. It was topped with iron strawberry leaves, an even row of them, one after the other from end to end. Kyla wondered at that, if it was perhaps a sly comment from the blacksmith, to have the row of leaves on a humble grate so clearly reflect those of the royal crown.
    But perhaps she was the only one who noticed. There were plenty of other distractions in the room to draw the eye, richness well suited to the private chambers of a king: detailed tapestries, chests and chairs littered with gemstones, an enormous dark bed with feather pillows and brocade cloth-of-gold draping the corners …
    Kyla realized the room had fallen silent again; apparently Roland had finished with his tale. A sideways look told her the king was studying her, rubbing his chin. She noticed his left foot was now tapping the marble floor, an impatient rhythm that made no sound.
    She sighed a little, then looked up at him fully once again.She kept her hands hidden in the folds of the bliaut, fingers clutching at the material.
    “Now, Lady Kyla.” Henry shifted in his chair. “Enlighten Us with your version, if you please.”
    She could not ignore a royal command. The image of the Tower room flashed in her mind, but she pushed it away, clenching her fists tighter.
    “My father did not murder my mother, Sire.” This statement brought forth bubbles of comment from the corners of the room. Henry raised one languid hand; the sound stopped instantly. He gestured for her to continue.
    “He loved her, he would never have harmed her. He died with her name on his lips, calling out for her. He did not kill her.”
    She wanted to lower her eyes again but did not. Instead she kept her focus slightly off the king, more on the blackness of his hair, the richness of his gold velvet cloak. She felt Roland beside her, solid, strong, masculine.
    “I convinced him to leave. I convinced him of the peril of staying. I planned everything.”
    She waited but no one interrupted her, no one called out their disbelief. Henry looked brooding. Kyla continued.
    “After my mother was … found, it was as if the life had drained out of him as surely as it had from her. He would not eat, he would not sleep. He would not drink. He sat, day