“The ring was a clever idea… once we’d decided it wasn’t a cry for help,” Phoebe said, reaching into her pocket for Olivia’s braided ring.
Olivia took it. “Surely you didn’t think…”
“No, of course we didn’t,” Portia said, looking up with a quick smile from the toy soldier whose broken leg she was mending for her impatiently waiting son. “Phoebe’s only teasing.”
Olivia managed a half smile. “My father says you’re going to the c-castle this evening.”
“Yes, I’m missing my husband,” Portia said with a grin.
“Are you coming too, Olivia?” Phoebe asked.
Was she going to go? And yet even as she asked herself the question, she heard herself say, “Yes, I might as well, I suppose.”
Phoebe’s blue eyes glowed in ready sympathy. “It might take your mind off things, love. I don’t mean to pry but you seem so sad. Did things not go well after all?”
“They went very well. I’m just facing reality, that’s all.” Olivia picked up her small half brother. “So, my lord Grafton, how are you this fine morning?”
The child regarded her solemnly from eyes as dark as her own. Then he threw back his head and shrieked with laughter as if she had said something hilariously funny.
“He has such a wonderful sense of humor,” Phoebe said proudly, diverted for a moment from her concern for Olivia.
Olivia couldn’t help laughing as she relinquished the ecstatic child to his doting mother. “I wish he’d share the joke.” She was aware of Portia’s sharp scrutiny and bent hastily to stroke Juno.
“Do you play bowls, Mr. Caxton?” King Charles turned from the casement in the chamber above the great hall and regarded his visitor from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.
“Indifferently, Sire.” Anthony stood beside the empty fireplace, one silk-clad arm resting along the carved mantelpiece. There were perhaps ten men in attendance on the king. Colonel Hammond stood beside the door, his stance watchful, his gaze roaming the chamber as if he expected the king to disappear suddenly into thin air.
“Hammond, my friend, you seem perturbed,” the king remarked gently. “These last days I’ve found you most unsettled. Is something troubling you?”
The governor controlled his irritation with difficulty. If plans were afoot to rescue the king, then His Sovereign Majesty was well aware of what was disturbing his jailer.
“I am aware of no perturbation, Your Majesty.”
“I am so glad to hear it,” the king responded sweetly. “But now I have a mind to bowl. Mr. Caxton, you shall show your skill.”
Anthony bowed low and Godfrey Channing jumped to open the door. The little group followed their sovereign down the stairs and out into the courtyard.
“Walk with me, Mr. Caxton.” The king beckoned Anthony to his side and took his arm. “Tell me something of your family estates. I have always had a fondness for the New Forest.”
Anthony talked glibly as they crossed the courtyard, went through the postern gate and into the outer bailey, which the governor had turned into a bowling green for his royal prisoner’s entertainment.
The round bowls were piled at the far side of the green, and the group strolled across under the afternoon sun, the king’s arm still resting on Anthony’s. No one saw as Anthony slipped a tiny fold of paper into the deep cuff of His Majesty’s coat.
“You shall roll first, Mr. Caxton.” The king gestured to where a soldier stood holding the first bowl.
Anthony demurred politely but allowed himself to be persuaded. Laughingly he protested his lack of skill and made a great play of hefting the bowl before rolling it across the smooth green lawn. It was a pathetic roll and drew laughter from the assembled courtiers. No one noticed the king retrieve the slip of paper and put it in his pocket.
They were still playing when Mistress Hammond with the Granville party approached through the postern gate.
“Your Majesty is winning as usual,” she observed.
“I fear I’m unable to give His Majesty a good game, Mistress Hammond,” Anthony said with a little titter. “Lady Granville… Lady Olivia.” He bowed with a flourish of his plumed hat.
“Lady Rothbury, allow me to present Mr. Edward Caxton.” The governor offered Portia a gallant bow as he gestured to Anthony.
“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, madam. Such a pleasure, I do declare.” Anthony bowed over her hand, brushing it lightly with his lips, before acknowledging the men who had accompanied the ladies.
“Lord Granville… Lord Rothbury. Such a pleasure, my lords. Such an honor to have your notice.” They were the enemy, formidable individually, together an almost insuperable force. Outwitting them would be no easy task and Anthony harbored no illusions, but his expression showed only a hopeful eagerness to please.
They acknowledged his greeting with polite nods that nevertheless conveyed a degree of contemptuous indifference that reassured Anthony that he was playing his part well.
He stepped aside as the king with a brief nod deigned to acknowledge the new arrivals.
“Lady Olivia, how delightful to see you. I was so disappointed to miss you yesterday.” Godfrey Channing swept her a flourishing bow. “I trust you’ll indulge me with a little private speech anon.”
Olivia could see nothing but his thin lips and the cold calculation in his eyes. Involuntarily her gaze darted to Anthony, who gave her a vague smile.
“What’s this… what’s this?” the king inquired with a burst of joviality. “D’ye have an eye for the lady Olivia, my lord Channing?”
Olivia flushed to the tips of her ears and turned to Cato with a gesture of appeal, but before he could intervene Godfrey had bowed to the king and was answering him.
“A man could not call himself a man, Sire, if he failed to see the lady’s beauty. What man would not aspire to the lady’s hand if given a word of encouragement?”
“Well, I’ve always enjoyed a wedding,” the king declared as jovially as before. “I trust you would give my lord a word of encouragement, madam?”
Olivia was struck dumb. Desperately she sought for an answer. Channing had come out in the open now, in the most public way imaginable, and the king had signaled his approval of his subject’s suit. In fact he’d all but ordered her compliance.
“Sire, my daughter is but newly entered this society,” Cato said quietly. “I would give her time to find her feet before she’s swept off them.”
The king frowned. In the past such jocular attention as he’d bestowed upon the marquis’s daughter would have been seen as the greatest sign of royal favor. His countenance took on a petulant air.
“Well, be that as it may,” he said, turning his shoulder to Lord Granville. “Hammond, I have done with bowls for today. Mr. Caxton, give me your arm again.”
Anthony obeyed. That greedy, dangerous, cowardly fool was intending to court Olivia. His expression gave away nothing as he strolled with the king back to the postern gate, maintaining an even flow of flattering responses to his sovereign’s lethargic conversation.
Once back in the great hall, where supper was laid at the long banqueting table, Anthony accepted his dismissal and left the king’s side.
The guests were taking their places on the long benches at the table, and Godfrey Channing was making his way purposefully to Olivia and her two friends. Rufus and Cato were nowhere in view. Anthony crossed the room, his one thought to forestall Godfrey Channing.
“Lady Olivia, may I escort you to the table?”
She turned and for a moment her expression was unguarded. Her eyes, filled with a riot of trouble and question, flew to Anthony’s face.
“There’s no need to be afeard,” he murmured, instinctively feeling her terror and confusion.
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that he would protect her from Godfrey Channing, wanted to believe he would protect her from himself, from herself. But how could he protect her from this tangled skein of dreams and deception when it was a skein of his own tangling? If only he was a different man, a man who didn’t do the things he did. But what good was a different man when this was the one she wanted?