Page 2 of Promise of a Knight
Eavesdropping was one thing. Thievery something entirely different.
“Dinna argue with me, lass. That necklace was given to my mother by my father and I want it back.”
Alex’s face flamed red as it always did when her mother brought up her parentage. Aye, Lady Maxwell’s uncle had been a king of Scotland, but her father had not been married to her mother. She was his mistress and the gift of that necklace had been returned to the crown in payment for the charter of legitimization for Lady Maxwell and her siblings.
Mother’s eyes narrowed to slits. The woman looked ready to breathe fire, the slayer of any dragon who dared defy her. “Say, aye, else we see ye sent to the lowliest of convents this country can provide.”
Beneath the table, Alex clutched so hard to her chair she was sure to leave dents in the wood. At least at the lowly convent, they’d not make a traitor and thief out of her. But there would be no adventure either. At least away from this castle—for the first time—she’d have a chance at something other than this dreary life. A chance at happiness before she was married off to some rat-faced, saggy-shinned sot four times her age.
Alex met her mother’s gaze, leaving her expression blank. “Aye, mother.”
“Ye will listen. Ye will take the necklace,” her father reiterated.
“Aye, father.”
And she’d be forever named a traitor—unless she defied them.
* * *
Northern England
Late July, 1503
Sir Alaric de Gardesat his horse watching as the royal wagons were reloaded and liveried footman in green and white ran hither and yon like chickens with their bloody heads cut off. Fully suited in his armor, he barely noticed the rivulets of sweat that slid over his large, muscled frame. What he did gain irritation from was that he was dressed for war, a war he was not going to see. Nay, not with the Treaty of Perpetual Peace being signed between the blasted Scots and his King, Henry VII.
Aye, his ancestors were of Scottish blood, but they were tamed, for they’d blended with his mightyEnglishde Garde line. Aye, he was biased, that was for certain. But he’d been to war aplenty with the Scots and had reason enough for his prejudice.
Alaric almost cringed at the thought of his pretty, young princess melding her royal blood with that of a Scot. A child who could potentially one day inherit the throne of England. Or someone in his line.
King Henry sat with a mostly permanent smile on his face despite the recent death of his son, his wife and his unborn child. His Majesty was ecstatic with the treaty and the marriage of his daughter—though apparently not as trusting as he’d like to seem, for he would not attend his own daughter’s marriage. He would leave her at the border and to the mercy of those who escorted her and accepted her—Alaric being one of the former.
To think that for the entirety of Alaric’s four and thirty years, and through the long line of de Garde’s before him, they’d been invading that savage country. That was no more. His eldest brother, Crispin, at Faodail Tower just over the border of Scotland wouldn’t know what to do with himself.
Bah! Rubbish!
Alaric nodded as a flounce of ladies passed him, tittering in their finery as they followed Princess Margaret Tudor—soon to be Queen Consort of Scotland—to her gilded livery.
A treaty such as the one signed between England and Scotland could not last. Not with their countries having been at war for hundreds of years. And especially not with the petty arguments regarding Henry VII’s daughter’s dowry and the Scottish king’s plan for stipends for her English ladies. In fact, rumor was that there would be several Scottish ladies waiting for Queen Margaret in Edinburgh in order to cut back on the number of English present.
“Garde, watch over my daughter,” King Henry VII said. From here, the king would return to Richmond Palace, allowing the Earl of Surrey and his countess to take the lead on their progress, with Alaric as head of security.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Alaric said. “You have my word that no harm shall come to your daughter, or any in her party.”
But that was the only pledge Alaric was willing to make. He couldn’t vouch for one damn Scot once they crossed the border. If all hell broke loose—Alaric would send the devils back to their maker.
* * *
Lamberton Kirk
Scottish Borders
August, 1503
Heaven help her.
Alex blew out a breath and smoothed her trembling fingers over her new emerald green satin gown, embroidered with tiny, purple, velvet thistles, commissioned by her mother for just this occasion. And also as a reminder of what she was supposed to do once in Princess Margaret’s confidence.
She curled her toes in her new slippers, standing among a crowd of a thousand or more Scottish peers waiting for the arrival of their king’s new bride. Nervous energy flowed through the crowd. They pressed in on one another, the heat stifling. Sweat slicked over her skin beneath her gown and she started to feel a little faint. If only she’d thought to bring her waterskin with her. She was so parched.
