The Shadow of Albion by Andre Norton, Rosemary Edghill

salamander of the
    Wessex dukedom lifted up and out on an armature that had seemed, moments
    before, to be the rim of the bezel. Under Wessex’s control, the engraved gemstone
    spun to reveal a device that only twelve men and one woman in the realm were
    privileged to carry.
     
    In precise, exquisite enamelwork, an oak tree in summer foliage glowed against a
    silvery field. At its foot, a unicorn slept, its head upon the ground. In the branches, a
    crown in glory burned.
     

 
    Boscobel – the King’s Oak. And a symbol of loyalties that might at any moment
    be divided.
     
    The League’s founder had seen his father, Charles the First of England, executed
    by those for whom he ruled; had himself spent long years of penurious exile in all the
    courts of Europe while his birthright suffered beneath Cromwell’s iron heel. When
    Charles Stuart had come into his own again he had been balked at every turn by
    Lords and Commons determined that the Crown of England would dance to their
    piping, and not they to that of any King.
     
    And so Charles Stuart – King Charles II of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales
     
    – had danced, smiling and bowing and keeping his tongue behind his teeth as he
    painstakingly forged the sword to defend England against herself at need. The
    Boscobel League: twelve men and one woman, never more and never less – each
    new member chosen by his predecessor and approved by the King. Drawn from the
    highest and lowest in the land, loyal to King – or Queen – before Country.
    It was by the decree of their Royal founder that the League’s numbers should not
    be greater – that the League should be funded from the Privy Purse directly – that
    each ruler, upon his accession, should be given one chance, and one chance only, to
    disband this secret weapon. Five kings had chosen to retain it, but the sword had
    always remained sheathed.
     
    So far.
     
    What Wessex had done in France had been done at the behest of his masters in
    the Order of the White Tower. But before he had pledged himself to them, Wessex
    had pledged himself to the League, and if his King so commanded, Wessex would
    betray England at the command of the Crown of England.
     
    Or would he?
     
    For now, the bonds of his oaths did not pull Wessex in opposite directions.
    Service to the Nation was still service to the King, and» in his infrequent resorts to
    prayer, Wessex hoped that fact would never change.
     
    But the possibility remained. Wessex stood between the Tower and the Oak –
    two holy and binding pledges – and lived with the nightmare that at any moment he
    might be called to break faim with one of them. When his other problems seemed
    too formidable, it was bizarrely soothing to think about this one.
     
    There was a soft scratching at the door.
     
    „The Marchioness will receive you now, Your Grace.“
     
    Dame Alecto had not made her appearance while Sarah’s abigail dressed her
    under Gardner’s supervision, but Dr. Falconer had, and bullied Sarah into submitting
    to another examination. As he held the listening tube against her chest, Sarah
    searched the doctor’s face with as much circumspection as she could muster. This
    man was her personal physician. Why did he seem an utter stranger to her?
     
    She did not remember him at all Carefully, Sarah kept her expression neutral.
    She was the Marchioness of Roxbury. This was Mooncoign, her home. As if it were
     

 
    a tale she had heard others tell, she recalled the particulars of her privileged life:
    orphaned as a child, she had been an autocrat from the time she learned to ride her
    first pony, and sole mistress of her fate by the age of sixteen.
     
    „I find nothing amiss with Your Ladyship,“ Dr. Falconer pronounced with an air
    of great reluctance. „You were thrown clear of the wreck, and I have known you to
    take worse falls upon the hunting field – though I cannot say that your four days’
    sleep settled my mind overmuch.“
     
    He