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“I see the gypsy’s stealing your horse, Wimberleigh.”
Stephen was so shocked to see the woman galloping off astride Capria that he had not realized King Henry, surrounded by his entourage, had appeared on the high walk between the gate towers.
“She’ll not get far,” Stephen stated loudly. He whirled toward the stables where a groom was leading a saddled hunter out into the yard. “Bring me that horse at once,” he shouted.
The groom looked momentarily confused. Then, apparently convinced by the thunderous scowl on Stephen’s face, he hurried toward the gate with the horse.
“I’ll make you a wager.” Henry shaded his eyes and squinted at the fleeing figure of the woman, tattered skirts and tangled hair flying on the wind. “A hundred crowns says you’ll never see that mare again.”
“Done,” Stephen snapped, mounting the hunger. He dug in his spurs and clattered across the bridge, out onto the open road. The horse had an indifferent gallop and a hard mouth. Stephen would have a bit of a chase on his hands, for Capria was the superior animal. And, he conceded, the gypsy wench was a skilled rider.
She flew past a grove of copper beeches, and a large white dog joined her on the road. Surprise stabbed at Stephen. The lanky, long-haired dog was nearly as swift as the horse.
He bent low over the pumping neck of the hunter. The brown clay road streaked beneath him in a blur. The gypsy whipped a glance back and banged her bare heels against Capria’s sides.
Stephen closed a bit more of the distance between them. A sense of certainty surged up in him. He did not have to ride the woman down. He knew another way to bring Capria back. He needed only to get within earshot.
When he was sure his quarry lay close enough, he put his fingers to his lips. Shaping his mouth with his fingers, he emitted a long, ear-splitting whistle.
The mare jerked her head to the side. The reins slipped from the gypsy’s grasp. Capria slid to a stop, wheeled, and charged back the way she had come.
“No!” The thief’s faint cry carried across the undulating downs along the river. She groped for the flying reins, but the whiplike length of leather eluded her.
Stephen took a dark pleasure in her struggle. A lesser rider would have fallen, possibly to her death, but the woman’s legs stayed tight around the horse’s girth, her feet firmly in the stirrups.
With her throat locked in terror and her hands gripping the mare’s gray mane, Juliana exhorted the horse to turn, or at the very least to stop.
But the stubborn creature only did so when it reached a large man standing beside a horse in the middle of the road. Catching the loose rein, he held out a treat in his other hand.
A crushing sense of defeat caved in on Juliana, but she gave herself not a moment for regrets. Even before the mare came to a full stop, she hit the ground running.
Her head jerked back, and she felt a tearing pain. She loosed a low, throaty scream. The villain had hold of her long braid.
She kicked out with her bare feet, bruising them against the man’s tall boots. She scratched, digging her claws into his neck, his ears, anywhere she could reach.
The fight lasted mere seconds. With perfunctory swiftness, he used the leather reins to lash her wrists together.
“Now then.” His voice was a deep rumble of anger.
“Pavlo!” Juliana screamed.
The dog lunged. A hundredweight of muscle and fur hurled itself at the unsuspecting man.
Pavlo’s yelp of pain pierced the air. Juliana blinked in amazement. Somehow, the man had grabbed Pavlo’s crimson vellat collar and twisted, choking off the dog’s windpipe.
“It would be a pity,” he said, his tone infuriatingly blasé, “to destroy so magnificent an animal. But I shall, wench, unless you command it off the attack.”
Juliana did not hesitate. Nothing, not even her own freedom, was more precious to her than Pavlo. “Let up, Pavlo,” she said in Russian. “Easy, boy.”
The dog submitted, relaxing his knotted muscles and emitting a strangled whine. The man eased his grip on the collar and then let go. “I wonder,” he said. “Is this a case for the sheriff or the palace warden?”
“No!” Juliana had learned to loathe and fear the sheriffs of England. She plunged to her knees in front of her captor, her bound hands held high in supplication. “My lord, I beg you! Do not turn me over to the sheriff!”
“Christ’s bones, woman.” His face flushed with chagrin, he gave her sleeve a tug. “Get up. I mislike begging.”
Heaving a sigh of resignation. Juliana stood. Vaguely she became aware of movement high on the walk between the two towers of the distant palace gate, but her gaze stayed riveted on her captor. He was garbed as a gentleman, in a costume of such exaggerated virility that she blushed. An abbreviated doublet allowed his white shirt to billow forth. Huge sleeves with clever slashings bloomed from the armholes. Tight particolored hose hugged his long legs, his muscular thighs, and culminated in an immense codpiece all decked with silver braid.
A large hand, surprisingly gentle, touched her under the chin and drew her gaze upward. “Nothing but trouble there,” he said, a faint note of cynical amusement in his voice.
With the fire in her cheeks intensifying, she studied his face. He was cleanshaven, an attribute that never failed to shock her, for Russian and gypsy men alike always wore full beards. Framed by a mane of wheat-colored hair, this man’s face was smooth and stark, with chiseled angles that bespoke strength—and intimidating power.
Fear fluttered in her chest. It was his eyes that discomfited her. They were unusual, of the palest, opaque blue, cold as moonstones. She peered into the icy blankness and was startled at what she saw there. A hard, tight pleasure. As if he had enjoyed the chase.
Suddenly the thought of being handed over to the sheriff did not seem so dire as tarrying in the company of this huge, forbidding lord.
But instinct told her not to show fear. She tossed her head. “You’ve got your horse back. She’s a disobedient nag anyway, so why don’t you let me go on my way?”
The man’s mouth tightened. His version of a sardonic smile, she decided.
“Disobedient?” Absently he fed the mare a morsel from a pouch that hung from his wide, ornate belt. “Nay, just greedy. Capria learned long ago that to come to my whistle meant to win a bit of marzipan.”
Before she could catch herself, Juliana mouthed the unfamiliar word.
“Almond sugar,” the man said pleasantly enough. He held out a pasty-looking morsel. “Would you like some?”
She turned up her nose in resentment. The horse snatched at the tidbit.
“Where did you learn to ride like that?” her captor asked.
Juliana hesitated, wondering which lie to tell. If she admitted she had polished her considerable skills with the gypsies, it would endanger the band, for the Romany people were rarely welcome among gentlefolk. Unexpectedly, she heard herself blurting out the truth. “I learned from my father’s riding master. In Novgorod, a kingdom of Russia north of Muscovy.”
The man lifted one tawny eyebrow. “Not only a horse thief, but a lunatic, as well. How long has it been since you escaped Bedlam?”
“Not only a bully, but a braying ass, too,” she shot back.
“Lord Wimberleigh!” A man in palace livery came pounding along the road. “You’ve collared the horse thief, then.”
“It appears that I have, Sir Bodely.”
“Well done, my lord, and you gave His Majesty a few moments of diversion in the process. Though I trow he’ll not look kindly on losing the bet.”
“Your prisoner, Sir Bodely,” Wimberleigh said with a mocking bow. He grinned at Juliana. “The palace warden’s thief taker, at your service.”
Sir Bodely’s brows beetled together. “A wench, is it? Looks gypsy to me.” With swift, jerky movements, he bound her hands with coarse rope and gave the discarded reins to Lord Wimberleigh.
From a belt overhung with an ale-swiller’s gut were the tools of the thief-taker’s trade: a black whip, manacles, and hobbles.
Wimberleigh’s gaze fixed on the savage utensils. His eyes turned flinty, and beneath his billowing sleeves, his shoulders hunched. He turned away. “I’d best be on my way, then.”
In a red haze of fury and fear, Juliana called out, “Are all great lords as cowardly as you, sir?”
His back stiffened, and he swung around to regard her with the respect he might afford a spider. “Were you addressing me?”
“You are the only cowardly lord present at the moment.”
His eyebrows slid upward. “So. You find me cowardly, do you?”
Gingerly she lifted her bound hands. “You are quick to accuse me of stealing your horse, yet you balk at staying to see me punished. What is the penalty for my crime? Hanging? Or perhaps since I failed in my endeavor, I shall merely have my nostrils slit or a hand or an ear cut off. A true man would not lack the stomach to watch.”
His squarish jaw tightened. He addressed the palace official. “Will the wench have a chance to face her accuser in a court of law?”
Juliana held her breath. The law always reads against the gypsy. Laszlo had drummed that lesson into her head. But despite the past five years, she was not a gypsy. She was of noble birth. Her kin had been great princes and rulers. She would convince the court of her true identity and soon have the insolent Wimberleigh groveling at her feet.
The brassy blare of a horn scattered her thoughts. Out of the gates came a party of mounted noblemen, their persons arrayed even more sumptuously than Lord Wimberleigh’s. Retainers swarmed around the gentlemen, boys trotting at their stirrups, a few clutching lead reins.
Sir Bodely doubled over in an obeisance so deep it looked painful. Even Wimberleigh bowed. Juliana simply stared, and with unerring instinct she picked out the king of England.
He rode a roan hunter. His saddle was huge, no doubt specially constructed to accommodate his ponderous weight. Henry of England was as impressive as Grand Prince Vasily had been. Like a proper boyar, the English king wore a full beard. His raiments glittered with gold and silver threads, and his mantle was edged with the black fur of the civet cat.
“My lord of Wimberleigh.” The king’s voice was cold and full of hate. “It seems you made the better wager. I thought your mare a lost cause.”
A wager?
Juliana felt a hot stab of anger. Her life hung in the balance, and the king and Wimberleigh were settling wagers?
“Tell me, my lord,” said the king. “What trick did you play?”
“No trick, sire. I’ve trained the mare to come to my whistle regardless of her rider. She’s as obedient as she is swift.”
“The beast is a wonder,” cried one of the king’s men, clutching his velvet hat to his chest.
“Indeed she is, Francis,” Henry replied. “No need to get yourself overwrought.” His gaze flicked to Juliana. His small eyes were black and impenetrable. His thin mouth, enclosed in the graying red-gold beard, pressed tight; then the corners lifted in a grin. “An Egyptian wench. Well done, Wimberleigh.”
A fresh wave of fear struck at Juliana. “Egyptians,” as folk called the gypsies, were considered outlaws. In some areas, they were hunted for sport with prizes awarded to men who managed to kill or wound one.
“Your Majesty.” Juliana spoke clearly, aware that a faint accent tinged her words. “I am no gypsy.” Her resonant voice, the carefully formed words, attracted the attention of all. Her goal had been to win an audience with Henry of England. True, she had not anticipated these precise circumstances, but now that she had his attention, she would make the most of it.
Henry loosed a bark of laughter. “It speaks! And rather prettily, I must admit.” He reached out his gloves and jeweled hand. “Come here, wench.”
“Your Grace, no!” A dark-haired lady on a palfrey beside the king gasped. “She’s probably crawling with lice and vermin.”
“I don’t mean to touch it, Lady Gwenyth. I merely wish to look at it.”
With her head held high, Juliana stepped forward. To her constant mortification, she did indeed suffer from frequent infestations of lice, and at the moment she itched from a light case. Still, she refused to surrender her moment with the king. Rope dragging in the powdery earth, she made a graceful, flawless obeisance. A murmur of new interest rippled through the fast-swelling crowd.
Juliana took a deep breath. Borrowing the storyteller’s art she had learned from nights around the gypsy campfire, she began to speak.
“My name is Juliana Romanov. I was born in the kingdom of Muscovy to the royal boyar Gregor Romanov of Novgorod.”
From the corner of her eye, Juliana saw two ladies put their heads together and whisper. One of them pointed at Juliana’s cold, bare feet.
She ignored them. “It is true that I tried to, er, borrow the horse of Lord Wilberford.” She hoped she’d got his name right. “I knew not what else to do. Your Majesty, I am the victim of a terrible injustice. I meant to seek your protection and ask your help for a lady of the blood royal.”
Low laughter came from some of the courtiers. Juliana knew they could not see past her tattered gown, her tangled hair, the smudges of ash and road dust on her face.
Yet she had the king’s attention. She meant to seize the moment. “Five years ago, Grand Prince Vasily died, and the boyars—whom you call councillors or nobles—warred against each other. A band of mercenaries burned my father’s house and murdered my family.” She dropped her voice, amazed that even after five years, the nightmare memories still held her in a grip of horror and grief. For a moment, she was back in Novgorod, watching the bloodred flicker of flames on the snow, the tall boots crunching over the drive, the cruel blade of a killer. She heard again the yelp of a dog and a man’s muffled curse.
As quickly as it had come, the vision vanished, leaving her drained. “I alone survived, and by God’s grace escaped to England.”
“Cromwell!” the king bellowed.
The dark-robed man, his clean-shaven face pale, dismounted and stepped forward. “I am here, sire.”
“What think you, Sir Thomas? Can this barefoot wench truly be a daughter of Muscovy royalty, or has Wimberleigh bagged us a madwoman?”
Sir Thomas steepled his long, pale fingers. “It is true that Vasily the Third died five years ago, that there was infighting among the boyars. I had it from the Prussian ambassador.”
Encouraged, Juliana nodded vigorously. “Then you understand my position. No doubt a prince as lofty as yourself would feel honor bound to give me your full support.”
The king chuckled, a charming, musical sound. His mount shifted beneath him as if straining from the burdensome weight. “What sort of support, my lady?”
“A naval escort. Well-armed, of course, for I shall need help in bringing the murderers to justice.”
Someone in the riding party laughed outright. Others joined in the mirth. Wimberleigh raised his eyebrows in skepticism. Furious, Juliana did the unthinkable. She plunged her bound hands into the waistband of her skirt and drew forth the Romanov ruby brooch.
“This is proof of my identity,” she declared. “My father gave it to me on my thirteenth name day.”
“Tis paste,” Lady Gwenyth declared with a bored sniff.
“Or stolen,” said someone else. “We already know she is a thief.”
The dark man called Cromwell addressed Sir Bodely. “Take the cozening wench away and hang her.”
Though her fingers were numb with terror, Juliana had the presence of mind to slip her brooch back into its hiding place.
Chains and manacles clanking, Sir Bodely advanced. Wimberleigh planted himself in the warden’s path. “Free her,” he said.
“But, my lord—”
“I said free her,” the huge, brooding man repeated. “Her offense—such as it was—is against me. I say she goes free.”
The king stroked his beard. “You always did have a soft spot for downtrodden females, eh, Wimberleigh?”
“She’s naught but the bride of calamity,” Cromwell said, his voice nasal with annoyance. “Surely the baron of Wimberleigh has better causes than—”
“Peace, Thomas.” The king held up his hand, then gave a curt nod to Sir Bodely. The warden loosed Juliana’s bonds. Her first instinct was to flee, from the crafty king and his court, and most especially the forbidding man who all but held her hostage with his cold glare.
“What say you, Wimberleigh?” the king asked. Cruel laughter danced in his eyes. “Shall we send the wench on her way, or do you want to keep her for yourself?”
