Evensong

By Victoria Halsey

To save her land and people, Lady Grace de la Barre must make a difficult choice after her father's death. She travels from her home in northern England to the glittering court of Queen Mary Tudor to accept a betrothal to her family’s sworn enemy. Her betrothed is too busy to be concerned with the young heiress, however, and leaves Grace in the keeping of his dashing half-brother, Sir Nicholas Grant, a knight of the realm who is determined to regain his father’s title with the strength of his sword. Acting as guardian to his brother’s betrothed is not part of his plans. Soon, both Grace and Nicholas find themselves fighting an attraction that could ruin all.

As court intrigue and border battles swirl around Nicholas and Grace, each are faced with choices that will affect their future. Love or honor, family or duty. Their fates are intertwined as tightly as the conspiracies that surround them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Halsey
• Release date: May 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301194742

Victoria Halsey

Victoria began writing in 1998 and was an RWA Golden Heart finalist with her first book, a paranormal romance. Since then she's writtenAn Atlanta, Georgia native, Victoria lives in Indianapolis with her husband, Jim. She has four children, two by birth and two by marriage with Jim. She enjoys trail running and brewing her own beer.

Book preview

EVENSONG

by Victoria Halsey

Smashwords edition

Copyright 2013 Victoria Halsey

Cover art by Fantasia Frog

http://fantasiafrogdesigns.wordpress.com

Image credit-magikstock-Gretchen Byers

Model-magikstock-Gretchen Byers

http://magikstock.deviantart.com/art/A-girl-and-her-horse-2-370628651

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did

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of this author.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my wonderful husband, Jim. You put love back into my life.

Thank you to my amazing critique partners Garthia Anderson, Brenda Hiatt Barber, Susan Crandall, Sherry Crane, Pam Jones, and Alicia Rasley. Without your encouragement and input over the years, this book would not be complete.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

About the author

Chapter 1

March 1557

Kenwicke, England

Hooves drummed against the hard earth, sounding a death knell as horse and rider thundered toward Kenwicke Castle. From the open window of the tower solar Lady Grace de la Barre watched the knight approach, the cold stone walls offering a false sense of safety. She shivered and then drew the blanket around her shoulders.

In the clear light of the breaking day, she could just make out the Kenwicke emblem upon the knight's standard, the twin unicorns whipping upon the cloth of azure as if they had sprung to life. The knight drew closer. His breakneck speed did not bode well.

The Campbell clan! Just beyond Grisemoor Pike, he called, pulling up the horse at the castle gate.

Answering shouts from the gatehouse hailed the knight as a man strode from the castle and across the bridge. Voices carried on the crisp air, drifting to where Grace stood at her window, far above.

What further news have you? asked Sir Hugh, the Kenwicke steward.

The knight answered haltingly, his breath coming in short gasps. The Scots. Two...three hundred men. They camp beside the Lyne River.

This is not good....

The two men entered the castle, leaving the bridge empty and silent.

Grace pulled the window closed. The air still held the chill of night within its grasp. She drew the blanket closer, trying to convince herself that she trembled from the cold and not the knight's news. Her father's death had left her in the perilous position of an unwed heiress, giving the Scottish threat new meaning. They would lay claim to Kenwicke Castle, by fair means or foul.

She paced across the room. After years of fighting off Scottish raiders, the de la Barre treasury was spent, and she could not purchase the swords of knights-for-hire to save her lands or her castle. The time had come for her to act. She glanced at her silent mother sitting by the fireplace. No longer could Grace depend on her parents for guidance. Kenwicke's future was left to her alone.

Grace walked to the table by the window and withdrew a parchment from the drawer and then picked up a quill. There was but one choice, one means of saving Kenwicke and its castle from the Scots. She clenched her fist, willing the shaking to cease. She must not succumb to her fears.

With a careful hand she formed the words of the pledge that would save her castle, thus sealing her fate. The room was silent but for the scratching of the quill. Finished at last, she blew on the papers until they dried. Still, she needed her mother's signature for the agreement to be binding.

Mother?

Joan de la Barre, dowager Countess of Kenwicke, looked up, a soft, slack smile upon her lips. Yes, dear?

Grace placed the paper before her mother. I need you to sign this.

Without a word her mother took the parchment and affixed her signature with an unsteady hand. She gave it back to Grace, her eyes raised in silent query.

I thank you, said Grace, taking the paper to the table and placing it with the other. She folded the documents, sealed them with wax then slipped the bundle into her sleeve.

Daughter? What is it you do? I do not understand.

Grace closed her eyes for a moment. She had done what was necessary, nothing more. She turned to her mother. The Scots are massing at the border yet again. We must leave at once.

I cannot leave.

Grace crossed the room and knelt before the chair. We must. Kenwicke's future depends on us making London.

Joan shook her head, her eyes wide. I will not leave your father. He has need of me.

He is dead! Would her mother ever admit to Edward’s death? 'Tis over, Mother. Over. All his dreams. All his hopes. The Earl of Westhorpe is our only chance. He will bring his men, once I agree to the betrothal.

Her mother rose from the chair, her face pale, her hands shaking. No, child. You must not go against your father’s wishes. He will be so angry. You know he hates Westhorpe.

Grace swallowed, feeling the stone that was once her heart. I have no choice. I must do what I can to save Kenwicke from the Scots.

There must be another way.

There is none.

Joan stood silently before Grace. The confusion passed from her eyes and for a moment, the Lady Kenwicke of old returned. Go to London, daughter. The queen will keep you safe.

But not forever. If I ever wish to return to Kenwicke Castle, the queen must accept this betrothal. Grace closed her fist. The future of Kenwicke lies in London. We leave on the morrow.

No. You leave. I shall remain here.

I want you with me. Grace slipped her hand inside her mother’s arm, as she had often done as a child, but the magic charm of protection had vanished.

I will not leave your father.

You must come with me! Frustration washed over Grace. How could she leave her mother behind? With Westhorpe’s men arriving forthwith, Kenwicke would be safe enough, but Grace worried about the state of her mother’s mind if they were separated. She might go into a further decline without her daughter's presence.

Her mother turned away, her face once again soft, her eyes dim. She walked to the window and gazed into the distance. Edward has need of me.

Grace stared at her mother's back, recognizing the dismissal. The time had come to go downstairs. The messenger would have made the hall by now and he must be greeted.

She pulled open the heavy oaken door then passed into the hallway, the flickering light of the torches casting shadows upon the wall. Her slippers padded across the wooden floor as she made her way to the staircase that circled to the great hall below.

Men filled the cavernous chamber, their voices echoing off the high walls and arched roof. Grace felt lost among the knights, as if she stood in a forest of dusty, yet sweaty timber. She walked toward the front of the room. The knights quieted, one by one. Quickly, she scanned the room then called to her father’s trusted man, the knight who had just arrived. Sir Walter.

The man’s head snapped up. M’lady?

Come here at once.

The knights parted, allowing Walter to make his way across the hall to the table. Dust clung to his mail and she inhaled, tasting the bitter tang of soil on her tongue. Her soil. She must do whatever was necessary to protect her people.

You have news from the border?

The knight stepped forward. Aye. The Campbell clan masses at the border. They appear ready for battle.

Will they strike forthwith? Grace bit her lip. Westhorpe must have time to bring his forces north, or all would be lost.

Sir Walter shook his head. I know not, my lady. But the mountain pass from the north is narrow, and they still must ford the Lyne. 'Twould be hard to make Kenwicke in less than three day’s time.

Three days. That is enough.

Grace withdrew the documents from her sleeve. She held the bundle tight for a moment then handed it to the knight. Take this to the Earl of Westhorpe. Ride as if your life depends upon it, for mine surely does.

Sir Walter frowned, his thick features drawn into a pucker. M’lady? You wish Westhorpe to come to Kenwicke?

He will bring reinforcements to beat back the Campbells, or any other threat to Kenwicke. Take a fresh mount and ride south at once, she directed. Deliver this to Lord Westhorpe at Ravenglass Castle by nightfall then await my arrival in Lancaster. I journey to London.

Grace looked out over the knights, seeing not just the men gathered before her, but also the people of Kenwicke they represented. They had followed the de la Barres all of their lives, looking to the Earl of Kenwicke and his lady for direction. With her father now gone, the men had turned to her mother. They would have need of Lady Kenwicke in the coming months, a need greater than Grace's own. She would leave her mother behind.

She turned to Sir Hugh, once her father's steward, now her own. I leave my castle in your care. Obey Lord Westhorpe when he arrives. And make sure Lady Kenwicke comes to no harm.

Sir Walter glanced at Sir Hugh then ran from the room, clutching her sealed parchments. Soon the documents would be in Westhorpe’s hands. For a moment Grace saw herself dashing after Walter, taking back the papers, then shredding them into bits, but her feet remained rooted to the floor.

Too late. Too late to stop Walter…or fate.

~ ~ ~

April 1557

London, England

Sir Nicholas Grant scanned the crowded room at Whitehall Palace. Bright crimson tapestries hung on the high walls, lending a festive look to the great hall, and hand-knotted rugs covered the polished floor. Silk-clad ladies filled the hall, their jewels hanging carelessly from wrist and neck. He grimaced. Such a waste, to spend his time indulging in this frivolity when he could be astride his horse, sword at his side. But for now he must remain at court, of service to his queen in whatever capacity she might wish. This was his best hope.

His gaze caught the eye of Lord William Drake, Earl of Westhorpe. It had been but days since Nicholas had last seen William, but he was struck afresh by the lines upon his half-brother's face and the encroaching gray in his hair. In Nicholas' mind, William would forever be twenty, not approaching forty. Then Nicholas remembered the news that had taken hold at court just this morn. He fixed a smile to his mouth and approached his brother.

I understand you are to be congratulated.

I am indeed. William smiled with satisfaction. I am to meet the girl this eve and formalize the betrothal.

You give up Lady Langston, then?

Are you mad? William said with a snort, rocking back on his heels. Cecily would serve my ballocks for supper if I were to send her back to her husband. Besides, I rather enjoy her company.

’Tis not her company alone you have enjoyed these past two years, Nicholas said, trying to keep the disapproval from his voice. William still possessed the strength and skills of his youth, but to let Cecily hold sway was not right. The woman should do his bidding, no matter how sweet the prize at the end of the day.

William flashed a smile. She has been...pleasant. And most instructive.

Instructive? I was not aware that you needed tutoring.

There are other matters of instruction, Nicky, that are far removed from the bedchamber.

Nicholas recoiled at the old nickname. Memories of his years at Ravenglass welled within him and he pushed them aside, banishing them to the shadows of his past.

He glanced over William's shoulder, watching the dancers turn through the steps of the Pavane. A pair of ladies across the room caught his eye. Nicholas dismissed the tall one immediately, recognizing her as the Lady Abingdon, a thin matron with a sharp tongue. He had felt the sting of her barbed words too often for comfort. His gaze then fell upon her companion.

At first he wondered if she might be a child of Lady Abingdon, so small was she, but then she turned. Nay, this was no child. True, her figure was slight, but her face was that of a woman, with a wisdom no child should own.

Have you spotted a likely conquest?

Nicholas glanced at his brother. Hmm?

You should dance this eve, Nicholas. ‘Twould be good for you to find a likely lass and bring her to bed. There is nothing like a quick tumble to clear the senses. I recommend it highly.

Nicholas let his brother's suggestion pass by without comment. I had wondered if you would ever take a bride. Who is the fortunate girl?

He glanced across the room, distracted from William’s answer by Lady Abingdon and her petite companion. He stared at the smaller lady. Her black gown enhanced her luminous skin. A beaded coif covered most of her hair, but the red-gold color shone brightly above her high forehead with all the fire of the sun. Who was she?

...has not reached your ears, then, William said with a chuckle. I shall wed none other than Lady Grace de la Barre, the heiress of Kenwicke Castle and all of Kenwicke lands.

Kenwicke? Nicholas turned, giving William his full attention. How did you manage that? Did you drug the girl?

She approached me! After all these years, it appears I have been negotiating with the wrong de la Barre.

Nicholas shook his head. She did not wait long after her father's death. Perhaps the heiress has grown tired of her drafty castle and longs for the luxuries your coins will buy.

Perhaps, William answered with a tight smile. ’Tis well known how poor the de la Barres have become.

I am sure their coffers were in dire need. When do you plan the nuptials? Nicholas glanced across the room.

The petite lady with the red-gold hair now stood not ten feet away. Lady Abingdon nodded in his direction and the woman met his gaze at last. Her large eyes sparkled like green glass and she bowed to him, giving him a good view of her neckline and the white swell above it. Nicholas felt the heat rise within him and his fingers burned to touch this woman.

...but these things take time, William continued, drawing Nicholas’s attention away from the red-haired lady. I have already taken possession of the castle, as the impoverished heiress has deferred to my command.

Nicholas shot a glance toward William. A biddable bride would be fortuitous, considering Lady Langston would remain at Ravenglass. Do you plan to take your bride home?

Ah, no. Not for some time. William glanced at him. She will remain at court.

Are you sure that is wise?

She is but a child, with much to learn.

Nicholas lifted an eyebrow. And you wish her to learn at court? That is brave indeed.

Indeed, William echoed, brushing a crumb from his doublet. And you? Do you seek a bride as well?

Nay. You know the title is gone and my family name in disgrace.

Ah, yes. William paused, as if unwilling to mention Nicholas’ father. But the strength of your arm is legendary. You should be able to win enough coin to purchase a bride with a good name and a title as well.

I do not need a bride to gain a good name. A hardness wrapped around his heart. And my title shall be restored, by the grace of our queen.

I wish you luck. Your title’s current owner seems to be most pleased with his station. Dislodging him may prove more difficult than you think.

Nicholas felt the familiar rise of anger, bubbling up from deep within.

It shall be done. I swear it.

Across the floor a dark-haired gentleman nodded to William then moved to join them, a broad smile fixed to his face. William stiffened. It appears the well-wishers have arrived. He turned to the newcomer and bowed, leaving Nicholas to his own devices.

Nicholas took a deep breath and cleared the frustration from his mind. Perhaps a diversion was called for.

~ ~ ~

Grace stepped into the arched passage adjoining the great hall. The bright colors and gaudy trinkets of the nobles swam before her eyes and their forced laughter rang in her ears. Would she ever grow accustomed to life at court? Whitehall was much different from the slow pace at Kenwicke Castle, and the cutting remarks and sidelong glances of the women upset her greatly. She felt as helpless as a babe in their midst. Grace took a deep breath and steadied herself.

Lady Abingdon rustled to her side, her thin face pulled long by her concern. Whatever is wrong?

‘Tis nothing, Agnes. Grace glanced up at her companion. I am merely tired from my journey.

Lady Abingdon looked at her with sympathy. Of course you are, my dear. Kenwicke to London is a tiresome route. I know not how you managed the three hundred miles.

Grace closed her eyes, the long, dusty miles of the past month playing through her mind. She had never traveled this far in all her years. At least she knew her home was now safe, having received a message from Sir Hugh stating that the Scottish threat had vanished upon the arrival of the Westhorpe knights. Tears stung behind her lids as she thought of her mother, left far behind. How long before they met again? She sighed, and then turned to Agnes, wishing to impart her gratitude.

'Tis most tiresome indeed, but I thank you for your hospitality. Your knowledge of court is of much help. I know not how I would have managed tonight without you.

Lady Abingdon preened under Grace’s compliment. And your betrothed, he is most handsome, is he not? Pity he is not at court more often.

Grace thought of the tall nobleman Agnes had indicated. Certainly he was handsome, with dark hair and a close-clipped beard. His velvet brown eyes had followed her as she moved around the great hall, making her breath quicken. Perhaps life with this man would not be so disagreeable. She turned to her companion. He is handsome indeed. I thank you for pointing him out.

Lady Abingdon glanced into the hall again. I never could understand your father’s aversion to Westhorpe, but 'twas common knowledge that the two men were always at odds. We shall never know the true story, shall we?

At odds? Grace shuddered. All the horrible tales that had been told by her father came flooding back. Could she truly go through with this betrothal? But the shouts of the Campbell clan and their bloodied claymores sprang into her mind. She must marry this man or her castle would be in Scottish hands.

Lady Abingdon touched her sleeve. There is my husband. I must greet him.

She watched Agnes return to the great hall, her satin gown shining in the light. Since Grace's arrival in London, Lady Abingdon had indeed been helpful. Grace closed her eyes and leaned against the wall, wishing she were back at Kenwicke and still the favored daughter of the earl, with her every desire granted.

Do you dance, my lady?

Grace's eyes flew open. Before her stood her betrothed, his hand extended. She caught her breath. He wished to dance? Unfamiliar with court protocol, she still knew there should be introductions first. She glanced at those gathered nearby, searching for someone that could make the needed introductions, but there was no one. But this was her betrothed, so surely protocol could be put aside, just this once.

I thank you, she said with a curtsy, then placed her hand in his and followed him into the hall.

The music had already begun and they quickly fell in step with the other dancers. His hand lightly touched hers as they circled each other. His eyes met hers, their brown depths lit with a heat that she found most enjoyable. She lowered her gaze. Could her father have been wrong? Certainly this man was not the monster he described.

Grace passed on to her next partner. She circled the stout gentleman, but as she continued the dance she could feel the gaze of her betrothed upon her. Her pulse quickened as she caught his glance.

He smiled, his firm lips turned up at the corners, the dark moustache enhancing their fullness. Grace's gaze lingered on his mouth. She had never kissed a man before, but had spent many nights practicing upon her pillow, holding the soft cloth close to her mouth, wondering just how it would feel, if the pillow had been a true man. As Westhorpe's wife, she would soon have his lips upon hers, perhaps sooner, if they continued this dance. The knowledge made her knees weaken.

The dancers exchanged partners again. She turned and bowed to the new gentleman before her, all the while knowing her betrothed watched.

Grace circled to the music and greeted her next partner, a pleasant viscount she had met earlier. He bowed low then circled her as they moved through the steps of the dance. She looked over her shoulder and saw Westhorpe behind her. At the next exchange they would again be partners. Her heart beat loudly in her ears. In another moment she would again take his hand and feel his warmth. She closed her eyes, trying not to rush the music, but then she was bowing to the viscount and he was moving on to his next partner.

She turned and Westhorpe stood before her, tall and splendid. He bowed low then took her hand in his, but this time offered no light touch. His fingers caressed hers, moving softly over her hand and wrist. She jumped at his boldness. As they circled each other he moved in closer, forcing Grace to tip back her head. She breathed in deeply, the scent of musk, leather and maleness overwhelming her. Perhaps he would kiss her now.

My lord, she whispered, her lips parted.

He turned her quickly, leaving her spinning. You are most beautiful, my lady. You leave me quite breathless.

She flushed. I thank you, Lord Westhorpe. I am—

Westhorpe? He stopped abruptly.

Grace fell into him, her palms resting against his hard chest. She looked into his face, but his eyes were now cold.

He stared at her. You are mistook, my lady. I am not Westhorpe.

She felt the heat rise into her face. She stumbled, and her voice shook as she spoke. I was told you were my betrothed.

The music ended and the dancers dispersed, leaving them alone on the dance floor. The brown-eyed gentleman stepped back. He swore softly then said, Grace de la Barre.

Before Grace could respond, a trumpet sounded from the entryway. She turned, as did the rest of the room, and watched a stately couple enter, their silken robes encrusted with jewels. The guests sank into a low bow, as if a great hand had lowered them at once. Grace closed her eyes and bowed, wishing only to escape. Why had she believed her dance partner to be Westhorpe? Surely he was the man Lady Abingdon had indicated.

A page stepped forward and announced, Her Royal Highness, Mary, Queen of England, Ireland, and Wales and his Royal Highness, Philip, King of Spain.

The royal couple progressed slowly into the room. Grace peeked up, trying to catch a glimpse of Queen Mary, whose fanatic behavior was well known. At last they reached the end of the hall. Mary turned toward the crowded room and the guests rose to greet their sovereign.

Grace studied the older woman, trying not to think of the man still standing by her side. The years had been wearisome to the queen. Her once-red hair, pulled