Chapter Eleven
“Raelin?” Catriona McAlister called softly because the queen was sleeping. Several of her ladies had nodded off as well, their eyes closed even as they sat in their attendant chairs. Many times, that was the only sleep a lady of the bedchamber got.
“Raelin?”
Catriona pouted. She wanted to slip out while everyone was asleep. The queen had spent most of the last few days abed while it was dark and gloomy. She was full of the need to do something—anything but sit and be still. She grabbed her cloak and slipped out of the queen’s chambers. The dark wool garment was large enough to cover her golden gown. She reached for the hood and pulled it up to hide her blond hair. Excitement laced her blood like wine, slowly intoxicating her. She cast a look right and then left before hurrying down the long hallway toward the garden. With all the rain, the river would be wild. She missed Scotland. London had so many people and buildings. She longed for the view of a grass-covered hill with the sound of water. Now that the queen was pregnant yet again, all the maids of honor could expect to remain inside with her. The lying-in would be the worst. All the windows would be covered with carved wooden screens to reduce the light so that Anne might conserve her strength for the birth. For a full month, there would be nothing but whispers and careful steps.
That certainty made her walk faster. Raelin was probably already outside savoring the moment of freedom. She moved down a hallway that would take her to the water gate. The sound of the Thames reached her ears, tantalizing her with everything she had been shut away from for the last few days.
She froze before making it to the edge of the river gate. The storm clouds didn’t allow much of the full moon’s light in, only a dingy gray illuminating the choppy river water. It shone off wet spots on the dock, but they were beneath the roof, built to protect the royals from rain when they boarded the royal barge.
The rushing river filled her ears, but the scent of blood touched her nose. A frozen form lay on the dock. Her hand shook and she turned in a quick circle, searching the shadows for assassins.
“Help! Guards! Help!”
Her heart felt like it would break through her chest, every second taking longer than an hour. She heard the footfalls of the royal guard but it seemed to take forever for them to reach her. The first to reach her were naught but shapes in the dark.
“Look there!” She pointed at the still body lying unmoving on the dock. The yellow glow of lanterns came closer, casting light over the dismal scene.
Catriona gasped. The stone floor was covered in blood. It seeped out from the body, running into a growing puddle. The fine fabric of his clothing made no difference in the color of his blood. The royal guard turned him over and she smothered a horrified gasp.
Edmund Knyvett was dead. His eyes were still open but were glazed over. The guards shook their heads but Catriona followed their eyes toward the length of gold silk that Edmund’s hand clenched. It lay stained with his blood, and hung over the edge of the dock.
It was the same gold silk as her own dress.
“Raelin!”
She ran to the edge of the dock. The guards tried to stop her, but she fought them. The silk dropped into the choppy water, but there was no sign of her friend. The guards pulled her back, refusing to allow her near the swollen river. She tried to resist the urge to look at the scene but couldn’t keep her eyes from lowering to the blood once again. This time she stepped on another torn piece of fabric. Reaching down, she picked it up. Turning it toward the lantern light, she stared at the heather, tan, and green stripes.
McQuade colors.
She would know them anywhere. She opened the folded parchment and found the signature of the McQuade laird. Disbelief held her in its grasp, her fingers tightening on the paper until it crinkled. One of the guards took it from her, his face becoming a mask of fury.
“This is murder.”
The fire had burned down, but Helena wasn’t cold. Keir was too warm. His fingers were busy toying with a lock of her hair. She watched the way he stroked it, slowly running his fingertips over the silky strands. He’d pulled his kilt over them both while he kept her close against his body. Her legs tangled with his. Her head rested on his chest.
“I cannae wait to lie with ye like this at Red Stone.”
Neither could she. The desire was growing inside her. Even though she had never seen it, the tone of his voice enticed her to want it as much as he did.
A pounding on the front door shattered the moment. Keir was on his feet before he heard his men arguing with whomever was at the door. He shrugged into his shirt while reaching for his sword. That single garment was the only concession he gave to his modesty.
“Stay down, Helena.”
Hard authority edged his voice. A fist landed on the chamber door. She gasped and rolled onto her knees, holding the wool close. Keir opened the door, the tip of his sword aimed at whoever was on the other side.
The uniformed royal guard stood there with Farrell in front of them.
“What the devil is this?” Keir glared at his man.
“They claim the king demands yer presence.”
Helena gasped. The king did not send his personal guard to make sure that someone showed up unless there was trouble. Grave trouble.
Keir lowered his sword but didn’t set the weapon aside. The guards looked around the chamber, stopping when they spied her.
“I’ll thank ye to keep yer eyes off me bride.”
“His Majesty wishes to see the lady as well. We will wait outside.”
The captain of the guard offered Keir a nod of respect but he swept the room one more time, looking for exits. He pulled the door shut with a firm hand.
Keir cursed. His body was tight with rage.
“I detest this city.”
“I agree.”
He jerked around to stare at her. Anger held his expression tight but there was a flicker of appreciation in his dark eyes. Pushing to her feet, Helena shook out the length of McQuade wool.
“I suppose I had better learn to fold this correctly.”
“Being wed to you, I might need to keep a second one about so that I don’t get caught in me shirt as I just did.”
He was trying to be playful but there was too much tension in his voice. He hesitated over releasing his sword, finally gritting his teeth and placing it aside. He took his plaid and began laying it across the table in neat pleats.
“I’ll teach ye later, lassie. It seems Jamie needs something settled. Ye’d best get dressed.”
She turned to obey, her stomach becoming queasy. She couldn’t help but suspect that her brother was yet again attempting to regain his hold on her. The sounds of clothing being donned filled the chamber. Her husband dressed quickly and moved across the chamber to help her. He touched her carefully, as though he was worried that she might vanish. Lifting her rebraided hair to his lips while she buttoned her doublet, he closed his eyes and inhaled, enjoyment breaking through the tension on his face. She quivered, tenderness flooding her.
She must have made some sound because he opened his eyes and stared into hers. His hand tightened around her hair, his face drawing tight once more.
“I swear, Helena, that no matter what scheme is afoot tonight, I will nae give ye up. Nae while I draw breath. I swear it.”
She reached for him, her hands landing on his shoulders. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her against his body.
“I will trust in that, Keir.”
“Och now, lass, that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He pressed a hard kiss against her lips. It was a promise of many more, a declaration of his intent to keep her. She rose onto her toes to press herself tighter into his embrace. Desperation was beginning to rake its claws across her, dark foreboding filling her thoughts. She kissed him back and sighed when he broke away. Firm resolve filled his dark eyes.
“Pin yer hair up now. I’ve a mind to be finished with this court business.”
There was so much courage in him. She took solace in the firm resolution she witnessed in his eyes. Reaching for her hairpins, she coiled her braid while her husband retrieved her cloak.
Whatever it was, they would face it together.
“That’s a bloody lie.” Keir didn’t add any title onto his statement. He stared at his king, his body seething with rage.
James Stuart rubbed his jaw. “Your signature is on the letter ordering his death, man.”
“But nae my seal.”
Lord Ronchford looked at his king. “This man comes from a family of violent men.”
“Violent? I’ll tell ye what is violent. You trying to kidnap a woman on the street because you and her brother had some manner of arrangement.”
“I don’t know what you are trying to insinuate, Scot.”
Keir pointed at the man. “I’m saying it plainly enough. You tried to steal Helena away the night before I was set to wed her. It was my men that beat ye off her.”
“So you admit to setting upon men in the street now?”
“Enough!” James slapped the arms of his throne. His guards already held their pikes in a lowered position, most of the points aimed at Keir.
The English lord fumed, but what drew Keir’s attention was the look on the faces of the king’s personal guard. In spite of their position of duty, you could see condemnation of him in their eyes. It was English against Scot, as it had been for hundreds of years. He forced his rage down, searching for diplomacy. He might be a Scot but he wouldn’t prove to be a barbarian. Sometimes, using your brains was more important than winning the fight.
“Anyone could have written that note, sire.”
“And the wool?”
Ronchford sounded too arrogant, making Keir’s fist itch to knock the man down. Keir raised an eyebrow. He pulled on the end of his belt before Ronchford figured what he was doing. James understood and a hint of suspicion entered the monarch’s eyes.
“There’s my kilt, man, there is nay an inch missing. Nor a single repair. Kilts are woven in one length, never cut. Never sewn.” Keir held it up and watched the guards’ eyes shift to it. Ronchford flushed, his eyelids fluttering. Keir stared at the telltale action. The man was covering something up.
“That proves nothing. You might have a dozen kilts.”
“My wife was with me every second since I left the queen’s chambers.”
Several guards nodded, but Ronchford drew in a stiff breath.
“She likely conspired with you so that her sons might inherit the Kenton earldom!”
Keir sent his fist into the other man’s face. The guards didn’t react fast enough and the other man went rolling over his own body. The pikes appeared inches from his throat but he remained still and looked at the king.
“Leave my wife out of this. I’ll nae listen to any man blacken her name. Ye want to fight, man, ye fight with me.”
Ronchford stumbled to his feet. A trickle of blood marred his chin. Fury flickered in his eyes but the king held up a hand.
“I was not aware that you and Edmund Knyvett were such good friends that ye would stand in front of yer king and demand blood so passionately.”
Ronchford’s eyelids fluttered once more. Keir crossed his arms over his chest.
“He was at the table the night I won Helena’s dowry. He left once Edmund ran out of coin.” Keir turned his attention to his king. “I stayed.”
“That is correct. Edmund was my friend and fellow English peer. I will not stand idle while his murderer goes unpunished!”
“We do not as yet know who that is.”
“My king…we have the order and the piece of kilt!”
James stood. “Yet we do not have the witness. Believe me, this matter shall be investigated. We shall begin a search for my queen’s maid at dawn.”
“She’s another Scot.”
James was not amused. “Enough, Ronchford! Being a Scot does not mean McQuade is guilty of murder.”
“His father tried to murder you and he has the most to gain.”
Keir flinched. It was the truth. “I didna kill that weasel. He was kin by my marriage.”
Ronchford snarled. “So much your kin that you did not allow him to be present on the morning after your nuptials to inspect the wedding sheet? Oh yes, Lord Hurst. Everyone at court knows that.”
“Is that true, McQuade?”
The king’s voice had dropped in to a deadly tone. Keir stared him straight in the eye.
“Aye. I didna want him anywhere near his sister, seeing as how he seemed to enjoy hitting her.” He turned to look at Ronchford. “Everyone at court saw proof of that on her face. But the man never appeared at my door, nor did he send any of his men to see the wedding sheet. I’ll be happy to have it displayed.”
“Of course you would. Consummation of your wedding only furthers your case to claim the Kenton earldom for your sons.”
“I’m nae ambitious enough to gain what I want through murder.”
Ronchford laughed. “You are a Scot. Raiding is in your blood. I am not the only one that can see the blood on your hands.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” James Stuart sat back in his throne.
Ronchford spread his hands out. “I am not the only English nobleman who is now fearing for his own life.”
The king snorted. “Ye’re nae quivering in yer lace stockings, Ronchford, so dinnae try to tell me that ye are. Ye’re mad as hell that ye didna wed that lass, which gives ye as much reason to be viewed suspiciously as McQuade. And how many times must I remind the lot of ye English-born nobles that I am Scots?”
“Majesty…”
The king held up his hand. “I am nae making light of the matter. A peer has been murdered in my own palace. It will not go unpunished. But I shall not watch the blame be laid too easily on any man. There will be careful study of the facts, not what rumors try to form into truth.”
The king stared at Keir. Keir returned it without flinching. His monarch shifted his attention to Ronchford and the man did not hold up as well. He sniffed and shook his head.
“This is preposterous. Edmund was my friend.”
“Then you should be relieved to know that I intend to make sure his death is investigated.”
Ronchford fell silent, his body becoming still. His face lost some of its color and the room became a compressed space full of tension. The guards looked at both men, uncertainty in their eyes. The king held his emotions behind a mask that spoke of too many similar times in his past.
“Convey both of these men to the Tower.”
“But sire!” The king flicked his fingers toward the blustering man, and Ronchford found himself hauled away by the royal guard. They dragged him from the room even as he shouted at the king to hear him out. His boots skidded on the stone floor.
Four guards surrounded Keir but they merely held their place while he waited for Ronchford’s yells to fade down the hallway.
The king stared at Keir. “I’ve no choice, McQuade. Ye must be placed in the Tower if I am to maintain peace between English and Scots in this court.”
“Aye. I see the way of it.”
The king’s expression lightened. A ghost of respect lit his eyes. Keir ground his teeth together to keep his temper in check. The idea of being confined sent his entire body into revolt. He wanted to fight, not to stand there agreeing that it was for the best. But the king was nae in the mood to be challenged.
“May I have a few moments with me bride?”
James nodded. “Aye.” He pointed at his captain of the guard. “Allow McQuade to bid his wife good-bye.”
The captain removed his hat and bowed before turning toward Keir. His gut tightened but he forced his body to bend in deference to his monarch.
“I bid ye good luck in yer search for young Raelin McKorey.”
The king’s eyebrow rose. Keir straightened and stared at James Stuart.
“That’s correct. I have no fear of the lass being found alive. But I think ye should find her a husband soon. That lass seems to attract trouble here at court.”
He turned and left, unable to maintain his poise any longer. Each step took tremendous amounts of discipline to force his feet to move. Every instinct made him want to smash his fist into the guard nearest him and escape.
But he was laird and the McQuades could not suffer another disgrace. He would go to the Tower and hope against hope that Raelin McKorey proved as strong as her Scottish blood, and was found alive.
If she wasn’t, he might be joining her in death very shortly.
Helena wrung her hands. She didn’t seem to have enough poise or control to remain in one place. She paced back and forth in an alcove outside the king’s receiving room. Something was wrong. She could feel it permeating the air. Even in the dead of night the palace felt devoid of joy. Death’s icy claw was creeping through the hallways. She saw it on the faces of the few people who passed. That gray cast to their skin and the way they looked at the ground the moment they recognized her. Keir’s retainers stood nearby, their faces growing tighter and more tense with every turn she made.
She suddenly stopped. Footfalls echoed on the stone tile. They were extremely loud, echoing in the silence. She turned to face the most horrible sight she had ever beheld—her husband flanked by the royal guard. There could only be one reason for such a thing. The air grew even colder around her. She was certain that the cries of other unfortunates echoed from years past—such as Queen Catherine Howard, who had run screaming through the hallways to beg Henry the Eighth to spare her life.
He hadn’t.
She suppressed a horrified whimper, forcing it down her throat lest she disgrace her husband in front of his retainers and the royal guard. She was a noblewoman. Her mother’s lecturing voice grew louder than the icy screams of the condemned ghosts of the past.
Keir came to her, grasping her hands in a grip that hurt. The overuse of strength confirmed what she already knew.
“I’m sent to the Tower.”
“Why?” Her voice was a mere whisper. All eyes were on them but she couldn’t waste the opportunity to touch him. Even so simple a touch as palm against palm was too sweet to forgo. His men glanced at one another, their bodies becoming tenser. The guards gripped their sword pommels and the tension grew even thicker.
“Yer brother was murdered.”
“Sweet mercy.”
The air rushed out of her lungs so fast, spots danced before her eyes. The only thing that kept her alert was the near-crushing grip in which her husband held her hands. Pain shot down her fingers but she did not wiggle them.
“A letter with my signature and a piece of McQuade plaid was found near his body.”
Her horror doubled, the screams of condemned ghosts growing louder in her head. She clamped her hands tightly around his, trying to hold onto him.
“Lies! English lies!” Farrell snarled.
“Be still.” Keir shot the two words toward his men in a tone that she had never heard before. It was solid steel and sharp with authority.
“My time is brief so I must be blunt.” His eyes swept his men before he returned his dark gaze to her; it was filled with the need to fight. She witnessed the battle he waged to conduct himself with noble bearing, thinking of his people instead of his own needs.
“I understand.”
“Yer friend, young Raelin McKorey, was swept away by the river. A piece of her gown was found in yer brother’s grasp. Let us hope she is found alive and makes it here to the king, still able to testify as to the truth of the matter.”
Or he would stand accused of murdering a peer…
Helena fought back her emotions. She had to be as strong as he was. He looked past her shoulder at his men.
“I charge ye with keeping my bride safe. Even if she deems it unnecessary.”
There was no leniency in his gaze when he looked back at her. “Forgive me, lass, but I cannae suffer knowing ye are unsafe. Whoever killed yer brother did it to get to you. I have nae doubt.”
He kissed her, refusing her the chance to reply, his mouth taking hers with no concern for the eyes watching them. Time stood still for that moment, his kiss pulling her into a world where nothing existed but the joy that touching him produced inside her. It was a perfect utopia, but fragile, too. A harsh grunt shattered it, sending everything down to the ground in a shower of silver rain. Keir released her hands and she shivered. Bitter cold clamped around her as she watched her husband give a final look to his men before turning in a swirl of his kilt. The royal guards fell into formation around him, the light glittering off the deadly tips of their pikes. Their steps bounced between the stone walls, merging with the ghosts of other men and women who had been taken off to the Tower, so many of them noble, so many of them losing their heads.
She stiffened her resolve and walked down the hallway as gracefully as her mother had taught her. She didn’t do it for her parents or their idea of what she should be to benefit the family name.
She did it for Keir, for the laird that he was and the man who refused to place his own desires above those of his clan. She was his wife, so she kept her chin level even when she crossed the great hall and heard the whispers begin.
She was Lady Hurst, and would not be seen as anything but worthy of that name.
News travels quickly, and bad news even faster still. The servants lined up for Helena’s arrival, even in the dead of the night. Their lips bloodless from being pressed so tightly together, they cast their gazes toward the floor. Farrell didn’t remain in the stable. The man followed her along with another at whom he snapped his fingers when she walked toward the front door.
“You must begin looking for Raelin.”
Farrell’s eyes flickered with approval. But he shook his head. “I cannae. My laird charged me with yer well-being.”
“Very well. I shall accompany you.”
Farrell looked more approving but swallowed roughly. “I cannae take ye into harm’s way. Wherever that poor lass is, there is sure to be trouble.”
“We cannot leave this to chance.”
Her voice rose and she shut her mouth to regain her composure. Farrell agreed with her. She could feel the man’s impatience radiating off him. He looked at the walls of the house like a cage.
“I cannae place ye at risk. My laird charged me with yer safety, my lady.”
Plenty of people had called her lady. As far back as she could recall the title had been used by everyone, save her immediate family. She had learned to detest the word at court, but tonight it was different. Farrell spoke it out of respect and she had no doubt that she had earned it.
“Yes, you are correct. He did say that.”
Her mind was racing and her feet moving as she tried to think of some solution. She climbed the stairs to the second floor, one of the maids hurrying past her to open the door and light the way with a lantern. The candles in the chamber had died down and the fireplace was now cold.
A shiver raced down her spine. The room was as unwelcome as a cell. In fact it was a prison now that Keir didn’t share it with her. Her belly tightened until it ached, the horror of the night digging into her like iron spikes.
The maid lit the candles and light flickered over the turned-down bed. Nausea sickened her when she looked at it. Understanding filled her, Keir’s words replaying in her mind. She hadn’t really grasped what she felt either, not until it was taken from her.
That was love.
The gripping claws raking along her belly at their separation was that most elusive emotion, the thing that playwrights tantalized their audiences with and physicians treated with bitter tonics. It was the thing that noblewomen were warned against because their marriages would not be forged on the rhythm of the heart.
Yet every now and again, fortune smiled on some. She was in love with her husband and it was a treasure that she had not the wits to see until treachery snatched him away.
Oh, Edmund…
Try as she might, there was no remorse in her for her brother—only a sense of pity that he had wasted his life on schemes that bore no true gain, not the sort of gain that truly mattered. She didn’t think he had ever been happy, and that sent two tears down her cheeks. No one would weep for him sincerely; only out of noble duty.
“Shall I fetch you something warm from the kitchen, my lady?”
Her belly was in knots. Helena shook her head but glanced toward the door to see Farrell and the other McQuade retainer standing on either side of the doorframe. Each of them had a large sword tied to their backs and the lanterns were lit to illuminate the passageway. Their bodies were tense and set to stand guard just as their laird had charged them to do.
How very much like the Tower…
She was as imprisoned as Keir by this foul scheme. The only difference was the uniform of her guards.
She suddenly stiffened, an idea forming in her mind. The maid was still waiting for an answer, the girl fingering the edge of her apron.
“No. I am not hungry. If there is a chest somewhere, have it brought up.”
“Yes, mistress.”
She was gone in a rustle of wool skirts. Helena glanced at the bed. She would never be able to sleep in it but she moved toward it with determination.
Farrell wanted to know what she was doing. Helena avoided the burly Scot’s eyes and hurried down to the kitchen. There were too many things to do and each task felt as though it took twice the time to accomplish. Her frustration grew as dawn turned the horizon a lighter shade of gray. The storm showed no signs of breaking. Rain fell on the city, and those who ventured out into the street huddled beneath their cloaks.
“I need a bath.”
The housekeeper looked at her strangely. “In this chill?”
“Aye. Here in the kitchen, it is warm enough.”
The housekeeper didn’t agree but she snapped her fingers at two maids and Helena stepped into her bath within the hour. She forced herself into the tub, refusing to quibble over the lack of privacy. The two boys who helped in the kitchens were banished by another sharp snap of fingers, but the cook was busy watching her while she baked bread. The housekeeper brought her a piece of soap that was kept locked in the store cabinet. Only she held the ring of keys that unlocked the cabinet where valuable items were kept. She might be dismissed if even one linen was found missing. As the new mistress of the house, it would be Helena’s duty to oversee the counting and marking of figures in the household books.
At least it would if she were not planning on departing.
Taking up the soap, she scrubbed herself from head to toe, even lathering up her hair before leaning over so that the maid might pour fresh water through it. She kept her mind on the task at hand, standing up before the water was completely cool. Now was not the time for soaking.
In the stormy weather her hair was slow to dry. She lost patience with it and had it braided while still damp.
“My lady, you’ll catch a chill.”
“I must see the king before he retreats to his privy chamber and his council begins to bend his ear.”
Edmund’s insistence that she study the court was finally going to be of service. The king kept a pattern to his days. Even with the matter of her brother’s murder, the monarch would attend his private chapel for services before going to see his privy council. She would wait for him in the hallway or risk being one of a hundred waiting for the chamberlain to call her name in the outer hall. It was one advantage to being a woman. The royal guard would not stop her as quickly as a man. They would assume that she was on her way to the queen’s chambers or running some errand for one of the ladies.
But it was a dangerous game that she played. James Stuart ruled absolutely. If the king was annoyed by her presence, his wrath would fall on Keir. But she squared her shoulders and finished dressing. She ordered spices and soap packed in the two trunks the staff had found in the stable. Both were difficult to close when she finished adding everything that she could think of.
The Tower was not known for its refinements. Many a prisoner had found himself at the mercy of guards who only fetched them what they wanted if there was a large bribe attached to the request. Farrell eyed the trunks with suspicion.
“What are ye planning, my lady?”
“To begin acting like a wife.”
The Scot raised an eyebrow. He planted himself in front of her, his hands settled on his hips. None of the McQuade retainers moved to pick up the trunks. They waited on his command. Farrell stood silently staring at her.
“Do you think your laird is being treated any too well in an English stronghold?”
“I’m trying nae to dwell on it or I’m likely to find myself run through when I charge the bloody bastards with keeping an innocent man prisoner.”
“There are other things that might be done.”
The Scot raised an eyebrow again and his fellow clansmen shifted closer to make sure they heard what she said.
“Noblemen have rights in the Tower of London. I plan to ask the king to allow me to take these trunks to my husband.”
“And do you think Jamie will be agreeing to that?”
“Only if I catch him in the hallway after morning prayers and alone.”
Several throats cleared. Farrell narrowed his eyes. “Nae alone. You will nae be alone while it’s my duty to see to ye.”
“The king will bestow many things on a weeping bride that he might not grant to a woman who is surrounded by men.”
Helena abandoned her stiff composure and widened her eyes. She wrung her hands and allowed her lower lip to tremble. Farrell’s complexion darkened. Alarm flickered in his eyes before she shook it off and regained her poise.
“Och well, now that’s a low bit of trickery.” Relief coated his voice. “But it just might work.”
A gleam entered his eyes. He glanced at the horizon to judge the hour.
“We’d best make our way to the palace.”
The men behind him picked up the trunks a moment later.
“And you shall leave me alone?”
“It will look that way.” Farrell aimed a solid look at her. “But I swear on my mother’s sweet head that McQuade eyes will be on ye at all times.”
The palace was already filling with nobles. Another day of competing for the king’s favor showed on their faces. Helena tightened her resolve and resisted the urge to turn her head when the whispers began around her.
Her thoughts were on her plan and she hurried past the great hall and into the maze of corridors that connected the palace buildings. Each monarch added to it, and newcomers often became confused.
She glided easily to where she knew the king would pass. A shadow of guilt descended on her as she recognized that her brother was the one who had taught her the hallways.
Well, she would use something of Edmund for a good purpose. There was only the living to consider and she was all too aware of how quickly her husband might join Edmund in the afterlife. Without proof to clear his name, Keir might face the headmen’s ax. Someone’s blood would be spilled over the murder of a peer. Every lord on the privy council was no doubt anxiously awaiting the king to demand it.
They needed Raelin. Helena refused to allow herself to think about how she wanted her friend found. The idea of her death was too difficult to consider when she needed her composure.
Pain raked across her heart. Helping her friend was going to prove a difficult task, but she would do it. Helena cast a look around and discovered that Farrell was a man of his word. There wasn’t a McQuade in sight; only the shadows of the early morning. But every corner might conceal someone. Her heart accelerated and her senses became acute. She heard the king and his entourage before they drew close enough to escape the gloom of the stormy morning.
The royal guard was not amused by her presence. They rushed ahead of their king to lock their pikes in front of her.
Helena sank into a deep curtsy.
“Your Majesty, I beg your permission to visit my husband.”
It was all too common a request from a wife who was soon to be a widow. Helena allowed the fear to bleed out into her voice. The king strode forward and eyed her. He waved his guard back. The men hesitated, earning a frown from their monarch.
“What do ye think the lass is going to do? Slay me with her tears?”
They withdrew but the king shot her a hard look. “Which I noticed ye do not have any of in yer eyes.”
Helena recovered, standing firmly in the face of her king. “Weeping is for the guilty.”
One of the king’s eyebrows rose. “McQuade claims he was with ye every moment of last evening. Is that a truth?”
“It is.”
She held the king’s stare. It was intense and she couldn’t tell what the man was thinking but she refused to lower her eyelashes. Confidence burned inside her too brightly to pretend anything but solid belief in Keir’s innocence.
“Why did ye run away the night before yer wedding?”
The question surprised her. It seemed so long ago that she allowed the answer out without hesitation. “Edmund told me I was to wed Ronchford by your command.”
“So ye ran away from your king’s order?”
Her cheeks colored but she maintained her level chin. “Yes, I did.”
Everyone was silent. Helena heard the rain hitting the glass in the windows but the king suddenly chuckled.
“Ye’re a better match for McQuade than I ever imagined. God grant me patience to deal with the children ye will give him.” His amusement vanished. “Providing we can discover the truth of this mess.”
“Raelin McKorey will prove it.”
“The girl is likely drowned.” The king’s tone was hard with authority. “Which leaves me with a dead peer and a pair of lords who were fighting over you for the gain ye would bring them.”
Helena shook her head but the king held up his hand. “Ye may visit yer husband. Once.”
James Stuart resumed his progress down the hallway. Helena didn’t bother to lower herself. The man wasn’t looking at her but many of his entourage did and she refused to show them anything except confidence.
“Well now, I’m impressed.” Farrell moved out of the shadows to grin at her.
“Don’t be. The difficult challenge is still in front of us. The king may have two lords in the Tower, but the one who wed me shoulders more suspicion.”
The sort of suspicion that cost lives. Helena shivered, unable to suppress her foreboding any longer. It grew inside her chest every moment that she waited for the parchment that would allow her to enter the Tower. When the king’s royal guard returned with it she took it with a hand that trembled.
“Let us go to the Tower.”
The McQuade men closed around her, escorting her toward the yard. Every set of eyes in the great hall turned toward their progress. But Helena’s attention was focused on the journey in front of her. It was one many had traveled on their way to their deaths.
One that led to the Tower of London.