LORI WICK
THE
Knight
AND THE
Dove
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover by Dugan Design Group, Bloomington, Minnesota
THE KNIGHT AND THE DOVE
Copyright© 1995 by Lori Wick
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wick, Lori.
The knight and the dove / Lori Wick.
p. cm. — (Kensington chronicles)
ISBN 978-0-7369-1324-9 (pbk.)
1. Great Britain—History—Henry VIII, 1509–1547—Fiction. 2. Man-woman relationships— England—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Wick, Lori. Kensington chronicles.
PS3573.1237K58 1995
813'.54—dc20
94-29332
CIP
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
09 10 11 12 13 14 15 / ##-SK / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my pastor and his wife,
Phil and Denise Caminiti.
I praise God for your faithfulness,
encouragement, and willingness to be
used by Him. This dedication
comes with my love.
About the Author
LORI WICK is a multifaceted author of Christian fiction. As comfortable writing period stories as she is penning contemporary works, Loris books (6 million in print) vary widely in location and time period. Lori‘s faithful fans consistently put her series and stand-alone works on the bestseller lists. Lori and her husband, Bob, live with their swiftly growing family in the Midwest.
To read about other Lori Wick novels, visit www.harvesthousepublishers.com
Contents
About the Author
The Kensington Chronicles
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
The Kensington Chronicles
DURING THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, the palace at Kensington represented the noble heritage of Britain’s young queen and the simple elegance of a never-to-be-forgotten era. The Victorian Age was the pinnacle of England’s dreams, a time of sweeping adventure and gentle love. It is during this time, when hope was bright with promise, that this series began.
But now travel back 300 years, to an enchanting time when knights and chivalry and heraldry reigned, and King Henry’s Tudor England set the stage for all that was to come.
Prologue
WINDSOR CASTLE
1531
“WHAT OF VINCENT OF STONE LAKE? He’s a loyal lord.”
“Yes, my liege, he is,” James Nayland, chief adviser to King Henry VIII, spoke in agreement. “Vincent is most devoted. He’s one of your dukes.”
“I know my own lords, Nayland!” Henry’s voice turned with irritation. “Does Vincent have sons?”
“Only daughters. Two.”
Henry scowled at Nayland as though it were the other man’s fault and then frowned at nothing in particular, his gaze on some distant spot. He was silent for just moments, however, his powerful mind moving in consideration.
“Tell me of Bracken, Nayland. Bracken of Hawkings Crest.”
“Word has come to me that young Bracken has just returned from a trip to see his mother. She lives in the north country.”
“He hasn’t taken a wife, has he?” Henry’s scowl was back in place.
“No, your grace. He’s hardworking, engrossed in the running of his keep. I do not believe that such a thing has crossed his mind.”
“A viscount, is he?” Henry’s mind moved swiftly again, and Nay-land knew better than to even smile over Henry’s earlier comment that he knew his own lords.
“No, my lord,” he said stoically. “He’s an earl.”
“Vincent’s daughter…” Henry speared his aide with another glance. “Marigold has been to court, but what of the other? Is she older or younger?”
“Younger. Megan must be 17 by now.”
“Vincent would lay down his life for me,” Henry said without boast. “I’m sure of this.”
“As would Bracken, I believe,” Nayland inserted gently.
“Yes,” the king agreed. “He has proven himself loyal, but as you said, he is young. I think a union is in order.”
Nayland smiled. If Henry felt it would be advantageous to the throne, he would marry an infant to a man gray with age.
“Send word, first to Vincent and then to Bracken,” Henry commanded. “The choice of the bride is to be Vincent’s, but we won’t rush things. I want Bracken content as well. Tell both Vincent and the young earl they have a year. No, make it six months.”
“As you wish,” Nayland spoke humbly while making notes.
They did not discuss the marriage or Vincent of Stone Lake again. But Bracken of Hawkings Crest was the subject for long minutes to follow.
One
“WHO WAS THAT, VINCENT?”
The lord of Stone Lake Castle turned slowly to see his wife enter the room but did not immediately answer her. Studying her a moment, he thought her beauty timeless; she was as lovely today as she’d been as a bride. But he also knew that her beauty sank no deeper than her skin. His eyes narrowed when he thought of the storm the king’s news would induce.
“Vincent!” Annora’s voice was no longer softly curious but harsh with irritation. “Is something the matter? Who was that man?”
“A messenger from Henry,” Vincent told her.
Annora’s eyes widened. “Is the news bad?”
“I fear you will think so.”
Annora’s eyes narrowed with anger. She had not bothered with a wimple, so she now swung her head, causing her mane of thick, blonde hair to fall from one shoulder.
“What nonsense do you speak?”
“Only that Henry wishes our family to unite with that of Hawkings Crest. He has ordered that our neighbor should marry one of our daughters.”
Annora was well and truly horrified. “Surely not Marigold?”
Vincent shrugged. “She is the eldest.”
“I don’t care!” Annora’s voice was turning shrill. “I will never allow her to settle for an earl. We’ll keep Marigold hidden. If he never sees her, he can’t choose—”
“I am to choose,” Vincent cut in.
“Well, it’s settled then,” Annora
said with a laugh that turned from relief to cruelty. “You’ll have to send for Megan.”
Vincent took a breath. “I will speak to Marigold first.”
This time Annora laughed in true amusement. “She’ll never agree. I’ll fetch her myself and you can ask her.”
“You mean she’s here?” Vincent’s brow lowered. “I thought she’d gone to London.”
“No, she’s not leaving until tomorrow. I’ll go now and send her to you.”
“No.”
Annora halted in her walk from the great hall and turned slowly back to her spouse. Vincent had to keep from flinching over the hatred he saw in her eyes, but his mind was resolute. He knew that all chance of convincing Marigold to marry would be lost if her mother spoke to her first.
“You will remain here, and we will speak to her together.”
Annora took a seat, but Vincent could see that she was furious. He knew she might not speak to him for days or possibly weeks, but he was determined to have his own way this time.
Minutes later a servant was sent to fetch the elder of Vincent’s daughters. Her parents settled down to wait in frigid silence.
Marigold never hurried unless it pleased her to do so, and Vincent hated to be kept waiting. Having taken lessons from her mother for the past 19 years, Marigold was an expert at irritating her father. More than 20 minutes passed before she made an appearance, but Vincent was still calm—in truth, he was filled with an amused anticipation. He knew his daughter to be deceitful above all women, and for the first time he rather looked forward to the creative excuse she was sure to give for not coming on time.
Sure enough, Marigold’s look when she entered the great hall was one of regret. Her eyes were wide with remorse, her lovely face apologetic, sweet even.
“I was told just this moment that you wanted me,” she said softly. Her humbleness was so real that Vincent could only shake his head. To those who did not really know Marigold, she seemed so sweet. Vincent did know her, however, and wasted no time informing her of the situation.
“King Henry has ordered that our household be joined to that of Hawkings Crest,” he spoke without preamble. “You will be married to Bracken.”
All humility fell away. Marigold’s face became a mask of hatred and disgust, turning her normally lovely features into a repulsive sneer.
“Never,” she nearly hissed. “I am not ready to wed, and when I am, I will never settle for an earl.”
Her words so echoed those of her mother that Vincent mentally gave up. However, Marigold was not through.
“You may wish to play lackey to the king, but not I. I’d rather die than be married to that oaf at Hawkings Crest, and if you don’t have the spine to tell Henry then I will!”
“It’s just as I told you, Vincent,” Annora cut in, her voice so like Marigold’s. “You’ll have to send for Megan.”
“Yes!” Marigold caught onto the idea. “Send for Meg. She’ll do anything for you, even sacrifice herself for the king.”
Marigold suddenly turned to her mother. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m leaving for London today.” She turned back to her father. “You must think me a fool to even suggest such an arrangement. Well, I’m not. I’m leaving now. I can’t stand the thought of one more day in the same castle with you!”
Vincent stood still as both his wife and daughter, so similar in temperament and looks, swept from the room. He should have known that it was useless. Annora had done an admirable job on Marigold’s mind all these years, but at least he’d tried.
Send for Meg.
The words still rang in his ears. He could see that he had little choice. At least Henry had given him six months. With a plan forming in his mind, he rang for his scribe. He would reply to his king, as well as send for Megan, but by the time she arrived he would have the situation firmly back in his control.
Sister Agatha, one of the older nuns at the Stone Lake abbey, made her way sedately down the corridor lined with small, sparsely furnished bedrooms. When she was less than halfway along, she stopped outside one wooden door and knocked softly. The door was opened immediately by a short, plump redhead whose wimple was askew and whose face and hands were dusty.
“Yes, Sister Agatha?” The voice was husky and breathless.
“The Reverend Mother wishes to see you, Megan.”
“Now? I’ve only just returned from the village.” Megan did nothing to hide the horror she felt, and the older sister had to fight a smile.
“She said ‘immediately.’”
Megan sighed, but not even the dirt could dim the brightness of her green eyes or hide any part of her adorable, expressive face.
“All right. I have to see to a particular need, and then I’ll go.”
Again Sister Agatha wanted to laugh. No one else in all the abbey would have dared refer to the need to relieve herself but then no one else in the abbey was anything like Megan.
“I’ll tell the Reverend Mother you’ll be along directly.”
Megan thanked her, and in her haste nearly slammed the door in the older woman’s face. Agatha made her way back to her Superior’s office to report on her conversation, which the Reverend Mother accepted calmly.
“I thought Megan was due back from the village just after lunch.”
Agatha had taken a seat by the window and answered from there.
“I believe you are right, but Megan hasn’t been on time in eight years; I can’t think why she would begin now.”
The Reverend Mother smiled, but only slightly. Sister Agatha was dying to ask about the message she knew had arrived, but she remained silent, praying for acceptance of whatever was to pass. Her eyes had been on the window, but they now shifted to see the Reverend Mother watching her.
“We’re going to lose her,” the older nun told her softly.
Sister Agatha’s habit lifted with a huge sigh as she tried to deal with this news. They had all known it would happen someday. After all, Megan was the daughter of a duke, something all of them had constantly lost sight of, and it had never been her father’s intention that she join the order.
“When?” Agatha now felt free to ask.
“The end of the week.”
She nodded and when she spoke again, her voice wobbled only slightly. “Would you mind my not staying, Reverend Mother?”
“No, Sister Agatha. I quite understand.”
Such permission was granted not a moment too soon, as Megan knocked on the door just seconds later. Sister Agatha answered it, but exited soundlessly once Megan was inside. The young redhead noticed the older sister’s departure, but she was so self-conscious about her appearance that she had eyes only for the Reverend Mother, a woman whom she held in the highest esteem.
“Come and sit down, Megan.”
“I’m sorry about my clothes, Reverend Mother. I didn’t have time to change.”
“You have just come from the village?”
Megan hesitated, knowing that her answer would evoke many more questions.
“Yes. I know I was supposed to return earlier…” Megan’s rather low-pitched voice was earnest. “But one of the village women had her baby, and, Reverend Mother,” Megan’s voice turned dreamy, “she’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. She has so much hair, and she’s so pink and soft. I just couldn’t tear myself away.”
Studying Megan’s lovely young face, the abbess fought for control of her emotions, thinking things would never be the same after she was gone. She forced herself to remain calm.
“I was under the impression that it was your turn to go to the village and teach the children to read.”
“Oh, I did that,” Megan told her, her large eyes widening. “But you see, they were doing so well that I let them go early.”
“But still you didn’t return?”
“No, Reverend Mother. Old Mrs. Murch was working in her garden, and you know how bent her back is. I simply had to help her.”
This explained the dirt, but all the Reverend Mother said was,
“Then the baby was born?”
“Well, yes, but I didn’t see her until after I’d talked with William. He still has it in his head to marry me. I told him how unsuitable I would be, but he won’t listen.”
Megan’s distressed face was comical, but the word marry brought the Reverend Mother firmly back to the task at hand.
“It sounds as if you’ve had a busy day. As much as I appreciate your telling me honestly where you have been, that is not the reason I sent for you.”
Megan nodded, having surmised as much.
“Your father wants you home, Meg.” The older woman had used her nickname, a rare thing and one that warned her of the Reverend Mother’s emotions.
“He has written to me, and you’re to gather your belongings and return to Stone Lake Castle by the end of the week.” The older woman, by Lord Vincent’s request, omitted the news about marriage.
Megan said nothing. She rose and went to the window, her eyes far away. Not one of the nuns would have risen and turned from the Reverend Mother without permission, but Megan was not a nun. She was the daughter of a titled lord, a girl who had lived with them since the day after her ninth birthday. She was now 17, and the Reverend Mother knew that the abbey had truly become her home.
Annora, Lord Vincent’s wife, had never wanted Megan. She was happy with her beautiful first daughter and never desired another child. If rumor could be believed, she had tried several purges to rid herself of her unwanted second pregnancy but all attempts had failed.
Annora might have forgiven Megan had she been a male heir, but the fact that she was a girl, and redheaded as well, was enough to cause her to shun the child. However, much to Lady Annora’s horror, Megan proved to be more than stalwart. The stouthearted little girl did everything in her power to gain her mother’s attention, until it became obvious to Vincent that the two must be separated lest Megan come to physical harm at Annora’s hand.
When Megan arrived at the abbey, she was insolent beyond description and so active that the nuns thought they would lose their minds. She ran away no less than twice a week and swiftly became a master at hiding and wearing disguises. The Reverend Mother thought they would never survive the first years, but much of that changed as Megan matured. Then near the time of Megan’s fourteenth birthday, her heart became sensitive to spiritual matters.