Of One Heart

chapter 29





April 19-20, 1533



Micheline had tumbled headlong down the stairway, but an instant before her face crashed into the sharp edge of a step, Sandhurst caught her. The impact of her falling body sent him reeling against the curving wall, and he very nearly lost his own footing, but through sheer force of will he remained erect.

A long moment passed before Micheline even realized what had happened, that the abrupt horror of her fall into what seemed certain death had ended in Andrew's embrace. It was the harsh sound of his breathing and the thunder of his heart against her cheek that brought her out of her daze.

" Andrew—how—where—?"

"I had just started up the stairs when I heard you scream! Micheline, for God's sake, what happened?" Sandhurst's voice was as hoarse as if he'd just brushed death himself.

He was holding her so tightly she could scarcely breathe, and the muscles in his arms and chest were like steel against her face. "I don't know. I must have just lost my balance. I was thinking about you, about the wedding, and I wasn't paying proper attention to the steps."

"You aren't hurt?"

"No. No, I'm fine." Micheline tried to pry her head loose enough to look up at him. "Because of you. You saved my life!"

Suddenly she was free of his embrace only to be grasped bruisingly by each shoulder and confronted with the sight of his furious expression. Golden sparks blazed in his eyes, his nostrils flared, muscles clenched in his jaw.

"You must never be so thoughtless again! Do you understand me? By not 'paying proper attention,' you'd be bloody well dead right now if I hadn't happened to be in exactly the perfect spot to save you! My God, Michelle, if anything happened to you—" Tears glinted in his eyes before he crushed her against him once more. "Just be careful. Please!"

Micheline's reply went unheard as castle guests pushed past them on the staircase, hurrying to greet the king and Anne Boleyn. They had little choice but to join the assemblage in the courtyard, and, for the moment, Micheline's brush with disaster was forgotten.

For once, King Henry had traveled light. Only a dozen grooms and another two dozen assorted servants accompanied them, along with a large wagon packed with the necessary amenities.

Henry and Anne had ridden in a magnificent coach, and the sight of them emerging into the twilit courtyard was dazzling. The Marquess of Pembroke was resplendent in crimson velvet trimmed with emeralds and ermine, while the king wore plum satin and cloth of gold. His fingers were a mass of jeweled rings, and around his neck was a gold collar from which hung a diamond as big as a walnut.

"Your Majesty," Sandhurst said, leading Micheline forward, "you honor us."

"Welcome, sire," Micheline added with sincerity. She dropped into a low, graceful curtsy before the huge monarch, rising only when he reached for her hand.

"It was worth the journey to gaze once more upon your lovely countenance, madame," Henry told her.

Greetings were exchanged with Anne Boleyn, then the castle guests came forward one by one to pay their respects. Finally Henry boomed, "I am ravenous! I hope your cooks have been busy!"

Andrew smiled. "My father awaits us in the great hall, where you may sup immediately if you like, sire. Shall we join him?"

* * *

Sandhurst wouldn't let Micheline out of his sight that evening, which pleased her tremendously. After supper the tired king and his lady retired to their chambers, so Andrew and Micheline were able to steal away early. He went with her to her room, where they played chess and piquet until midnight. When she began to nod over the cards, he bade her go to bed, averting his eyes as she undressed and slid between the covers. Although it was the eve of their wedding and he'd been randy as a stallion for weeks, tonight his mood was tense. It was as if he feared that fate might be conspiring to remove Micheline from him before they could be married, and he was determined not to allow that to happen. Irrationally Sandhurst felt that once she was his wife, no harm could come to her.

Lying in bed, Micheline opened her eyes just enough to gaze over at his chiseled profile. Meanwhile, in the truckle bed across the room, Mary was making her usual variety of sleep noises.

Many times that evening Micheline had thought of telling Andrew about the riding accident and the brief impression she'd had of a shadow and of something touching her back before she fell down the stairs, but it seemed that those revelations would cause more trouble than good, especially on the eve of their marriage. She had been so preoccupied on the stairs that it was impossible to be certain now if there really had been a shadow, let alone identify it, and the pressure against her back might have been the wall. Unless she could point to the person who had pushed her, what was there to gain by upsetting Andrew?

Once they were married, Iris Dangerfield would have to face reality, Micheline thought drowsily as she closed her eyes. The woman would seek out another lover and leave them in peace.

* * *

At daybreak Micheline awoke to find Andrew sleeping in a chair next to her bed, fully dressed, his feet propped on the side of the bed. His handsome head was tilted to one side and sunlight glinted off the stubble of his beard. Birdsong filled the air.

Languorously Micheline stretched out a hand to lightly caress his cheek. Slowly Sandhurst's brown eyes opened as his brows went up. Catching her fingers, he kissed them.

"Good morning, my lord," she murmured.

"Go back to sleep, fondling. You'll need the extra rest to stay awake"—he gave a wickedly drowsy grin—"later."

She smiled at that thought and dozed off again, dreaming that she was falling from a horse, sailing through the air, only to land safely in drifts of meadow flowers. Andrew waited for her there and both of them were naked. He smiled down at her, brushing aside violets and primroses from her breasts and belly, then bending to replace the flowers with kisses.

"Time to wake up!" Mary was calling. "It's your wedding day, ma'am!"

Rolling over, Micheline opened her eyes. The chair beside the bed was empty. "Where's Lord Sandhurst?"

"Why, in his own rooms, I expect. Be patient, ma'am; you'll have him next to you when day breaks again!" The girl sighed a little. "Just think, you'll be the wife of the Marquess of Sandhurst. A more fortunate lady never breathed."

Micheline had no desire to argue that point, nor had she time to wonder what had become of Andrew, for Mary soon had her out of bed and into a steaming, scented bath. It was nearly ten o'clock, and there was much to be done before the wedding that afternoon.

Midday found Micheline in her lacy silk chemise, petticoats, and shakefold, eating a plum while Mary finished weaving the coral-pink bird's-eye primroses and rich yellow buttercups into an extravagant garland for her hair. When that was done, the little maid helped her mistress into her wedding gown. Mary had expected the marquess to order a sumptuous, jewel-encrusted creation from the best dressmakers in London, but as long as Micheline liked this gown so well, she held her tongue.

Micheline was standing in her stocking feet before the mirror, ivory satin skirts flowing out around her, when Cicely came into the chamber.

Andrew's sister looked lovelier than ever, the budding curves of her figure accentuated by a gown of dark rose silk and gold brocade. Sapphires edged the square neckline and sparkled on the golden caul that tamed her curls.

"Hello, Micheline," she said. Color stained her cheeks. "I suppose I should wish you well."

Trying to ignore the rather backhanded nature of her blessing, Micheline crossed the room and gave her the warmest smile she could muster.

"Thank you. I promise to take good care of your brother... and I have some news that I think you'll like." She took a chair near the window and motioned for Cicely to sit beside her. "I know how unhappy you have been here at Aylesbury Castle, and also how much it means to you to spend time with Andrew. My situation was not so very different from yours when I was young, and I can understand what you are feeling. I've asked Andrew if you might come to live with us at Sandhurst Manor."

Part of Cicely wanted to throw her arms around Micheline, but resentment and wariness prevailed. "And?"

"He has agreed, but there are a few conditions attached. He says that you may join us in London next month, in time for Anne Boleyn's coronation. After that we will all return to Gloucestershire, where you will remain... providing you and I can live happily together. Your brother says that he will not tolerate hard feelings in our household, and I am inclined to agree with him. However, if you and I can learn to be friends—"

At that moment Iris Dangerfield swept into the room.

"Well, if it isn't the almost bride and her almost sister! What a cozy family scene."

Micheline stood up, meeting the other woman's acrimonious eyes with a level gaze. She was certain that Iris was behind all the menacing events that had lately colored her life, but she was equally certain that this day's wedding would mark an end to those troubles. It still seemed to Micheline that Iris's main purpose had been to frighten her into backing out of the betrothal; failing that, she had tried to harm her in a moment of desperation. She was a human being, with an obsessive weakness for the Marquess of Sandhurst. Micheline could understand that.

"Good morrow, Lady Dangerfield," she greeted her calmly.

"So, the bride is garbed in her finery. I must compliment you on your gown, madame. That's a very subtle approach—flowers instead of gems." Iris herself wore a magnificent creation of cream satin and green velvet, studded with pearls and emeralds.

"I'm glad you like it," Micheline returned with a touch of irony. "This gown has special meaning, since Andrew's mother wore it when she married the duke."

"That's very sweet, yet so innocent. Rather misleading, isn't it? Everyone knows you aren't a virgin, after all."

Micheline lifted her lightly clefted chin. "It was Andrew's wish that I wear this gown, my lady." She turned away. "Now, if you will excuse me..."

No sooner had Iris Dangerfield taken her leave, complete with a venomous glance that went unseen by her hostess, than Cicely was on her feet.

"How dare you wear my mother's dress?" she cried. "This is outrageous!"

"I only dare because your brother bade me do so," Micheline replied as quietly as she could.

"You'll never take her place!"

"Cicely, my only intent is to be Andrew's wife. As for your mother, I revere her memory. I would never think to replace her. I can only be myself and do my best."

The girl seemed not to hear. Eyes blazing, she vowed, "You may think you love Andrew, but you barely know him! I've known him for thirteen years! You'll never understand him the way I do!"

Micheline was saved from losing her temper, or answering at all, by the timely appearance of Patience Topping. She seemed to assess the situation immediately, and gave Micheline a sympathetic smile.

"The guests are arriving," she announced. "Cicely, dear, you'll have to leave our new sister so that she can complete her preparations."

The girl stamped across the chamber, pausing in the doorway to declare, "I have no sisters!"

* * *

The nuptial mass was held in the chapel, located in the castle keep, which boasted a barrel-vaulted nave, stained-glass windows, and wall paintings. Despite the fact that the bride and groom cared little whether anyone else was present besides themselves and the priest, the wedding guests were the finest England could offer. King Henry and Anne Boleyn, glittering with jewels, were seated next to the Duke of Aylesbury and his family, and behind them were ranged the cream of British nobility. Every seat in the chapel was occupied, for friends and villagers had flocked from the countryside of York at Andrew's invitation.

As Micheline walked down the aisle, however, she saw none of the sumptuously garbed guests. All her attention was focused on the man she loved.

Even from a distance she basked in the loving warmth of Sandhurst's gaze, and thought that he had never looked so dazzlingly handsome, not even the night they met, when she had thought him more attractive in his plain fawn garb than any other man at the French court. For his wedding he wore a doublet and haut-de-chausses of dove gray and blue velvet sewn with silver thread. White silk showed through the slashed sleeves and made a snowy fraise against Sandhurst's tanned jaw. His dark hair shone in the shafts of sunlight that poured into the chapel. He wore a smile, too, which grew more irresistible as Micheline neared.

As the bride drew closer to altar, the guests beheld Micheline's beautiful face and her gleaming cognac-hued locks, pinned up softly yet freeing curly wisps to frame her face and brush her bare shoulders. The garland of bird's-eye primroses and buttercups encircled her hair like a crown. To Sandhurst however, most lovely of all was the joyous smile that lit the face of the woman he loved. It called up all manner of fierce emotions within him, ranging from intense love to the burning ache of desire.

Currents of warmth flowed between their bodies when Micheline put her slim fingers in his strong hand. They were both oblivious to the crowd that filled the chapel, and Micheline was only dimly aware of the priest's voice. She knelt beside Andrew, trying to pray, but all she could think of was the nearness of his hard body.

At length they rose, and Sandhurst's gaze held her near.

"I, Andrew, take thee, Micheline, to my wedded wife," he said, his whole heart exposed in the tone of his voice.

"I, Micheline, take thee, Andrew, to my wedded husband," she vowed softly.

Sir Jeremy Culpepper, grinning from ear to ear, stepped forward to present a band of solid gold to his friend. Sandhurst held it deftly between two fingertips. In a voice so intimate that it seemed they were alone together, he told Micheline, "With this ring I thee wed. This gold and silver I thee give. With my body I thee worship." He paused to smile almost imperceptibly. "And with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father"—he slid the ring partway down her thumb, then withdrew it—"and the Son"—now Micheline was staring at his masculine fingers as they tantalized each of her fingertips in turn with the golden band—"and the Holy Ghost." Reaching her wedding finger, he gently slid the ring down to its proper place and concluded, "Amen."

Moments later, after a benediction from the priest, Micheline gloried in the sensation of being gathered into Sandhurst's embrace. One of his hands came up to hold the back of her head, while the other completely rounded her waist, and then their smiling lips met. It was a gentle, loving, sensuous kiss, filled with promise. Micheline felt weak with elation.

They stayed in the church to drink from a loving cup with wine sops, then accepted the first flurry of congratulations from Henry, Anne, and the other guests. Only Cicely, Iris, and the Duke of Aylesbury held back. The two females watched the bride and groom with resentment, but the sharp-boned old man was staring at his new daughter-in-law with tears in his eyes. Finally, when Andrew glanced over questioningly, the duke came forward. First, he extended a hand to his son, then turned to Micheline.

"You look every bit as beautiful as my Jessica when she wore that gown thirty-five years ago. Buttercups and bird's-eye primroses..." His voice was thick with emotion. "I'll wager she's watching right now and is as proud as I am to welcome you to our family, my lady. My son is a fortunate man."

Sandhurst felt a long-forgotten stirring of emotion as he watched his father. When Micheline replied by kissing the old duke's parchmentlike cheek, it seemed a symbolic gesture of peace. Somehow, Andrew managed to speak.

"I have you to thank, Father," he said softly. "You brought us together."





Part IV





Now welcome, night, thou night so long expected,

That long day's labour dost at last defray,

And all my cares, which cruel love collected,

Hast summed in one, and cancelled for aye:

Spread thy broad wing over my love and me,

That no man may us see,

And in thy sable mantle us enwrap,

From fear of peril and foul horror free.

Let no false treason seek us to entrap,

Nor any dread disquiet once annoy

The safety of our joy.

—Edmund Spenser 1552?-1599