"Leave go of her, Father Pieter, or I will slit your gullet." Richard of Sussex, who had been out riding with his squire and Ivetta Smythe, reined in his horse and quickly dismounted.
The Mad Dominican, as he was often called, had the unpleasant habit of appearing at the most inopportune times. Which was one of the reasons Michael Hallam guarded Ivetta Smythe's door during his lord's trysts.
"Fornicator! Blasphemer! Murderer!" Thrusting his corded neck out until he looked for all the world like an angry rooster, the Dominican screamed a confusing mess of accusations ending with the charge that Richard Plantagenet had been the killer of the sainted Thomas Lancaster "and the rapist of his widow afterward!"
Richard advanced upon him. "'Tis one thing to berate me for your fantasies concerning my political actions but quite another to accost a respectable woman."
Michael Hallam was right behind, sword in hand. "Which gives me good cause to do what I have long dreamed of doing." He smacked the priest's bony buttocks with the flat of his sword.
Father Pieter yelped.
"Now be along with you," Richard said, "before my squire really becomes angry."
"You'll not be rid of me so easily," Pieter yelled. "Do you think I have no eyes to see? This creature is no proper woman, no matter what you say."
He was interrupted by a loud laugh. For the first time Maria noticed Ivetta Smythe, still astride her mare and surveying the scene with high amusement. Father Pieter's diatribe suddenly made sense...
The priest gaped from Ivetta to Maria and back again. "I beg pardon, m'lady," he finally managed, addressing Maria. "I see clearly now that you could not be—"
"'Twill be the last error you make for a time, priest," Michael Hallam interrupted. "At least around my lord." He raised his sword. Gathering his cassock, Father Pieter scooted toward the gate with Richard's squire at his heels.
"God's Balls!" said Ivetta Smythe. "What a fool!"
"Did he hurt you, m'lady?" Gazing into Maria's stricken face, Richard forgot all about Ivetta. "'Twas all a silly misunderstanding, as you can see. I promise you the Dominican will be dealt with harshly, if you would so desire."
Maria's gaze shifted from him to the smirking prostitute.
"It does not matter."
She found herself shaking and stiffened her arms at her sides in an unsuccessful effort to stop the trembling. She was certain she was going to start crying and, like a wounded animal, craved privacy.
Hurriedly retreating to the Leopard's Head, she ran up the stairs to her bedroom. Clasping a carved bedpost, she clenched her teeth and closed her eyes.
Stop this! It does not matter, none of it. Not the priest, or Lord Sussex and Ivetta Smythe. Nothing here today has anything to do with me.
She did not realize that Richard had followed her until she felt his hands upon her shoulders.
"'Twas a mistake," he whispered. "All of it." The rose fragrance of Maria's perfume tantalized his nostrils. "I hope you will forgive the priest, and myself. I trust you know I would not hurt thee."
Almost imperceptibly Maria nodded. She felt the warmth of Richard's fingers through her tunic and experienced an overwhelming urge to whirl around, burrow against his chest and pour out her unhappiness.
'"Twas just a... surprise," she managed. "I would not have thought a man such as you would have to consort with prostitutes."
Richard turned her to face him, and lifted her chin with his fingertips. Maria's nearness was so intoxicating he found his good judgment, his carefully constructed resolutions crumbling.
"And what sort of man do you believe me to be?"
His touch caused confusion and a trembling that had naught to do with nerves. Maria was aware of the intimate darkness and the canopied bed beside them.
"Do you think on me sometimes," Richard whispered, "As I think on you?"
Maria opened her mouth to chastise him for his boldness. But she did think on him, far too often, and in a manner more intimate than was proper. She felt overwhelmed by so many conflicting emotions. She loved Phillip with every fiber of her being, and yet she was so drawn to Richard. How long had she felt this way? Since last Christmas, possibly. Since May Day certainly. She realized it now that Richard stood before her.
"Did you know, my lady, that for the past year I have thought of little beyond you?" The inner resolve Richard had so carefully nurtured evaporated like mist borne on the wind. "I tell myself I'll ignore my feelings but I cannot. Even now when I should be making amends with my brother I am mooning about Kent. I say 'tis because of Phillip, because of Edward and his favorites, but 'tis because of you. Each day I hope for a glimpse, a chance meeting, even when I force myself to stay away. I know 'tis wrong, but I canna help myself. 'Twould seem you've bewitched me."
Richard's breath blew hot on Maria's cheek. His hands, cradling her face, caused her head to swim.
"Would it surprise you if I told you your obsession for your husband is nothing compared to my obsession for you?"
His repeated mention of Phillip brought back a measure of sanity. '"Tis not meet for us to speak of such things, my lord."
"I am past the point of caring." Richard slipped his arms around her waist. He bent over her, his eyes holding her hypnotically. "Let me carry thee to the bed, Maria. Let me make love to thee, just once. There is no dishonor in giving yourself to a man who worships you, and your husband need never know. I am not considered so abhorrent by others, but 'tis you my heart desires."
Richard was saying things Phillip never had and a part of her bloomed like a freshly watered flower. Maria needed the words so desperately.
She returned Richard's gaze. What would it be like to be loved by you? To rest in your arms, bask in the sweetness of your words?
She longed to abandon herself to the excitement of the moment but convention held her back. Convention, fear of eternal damnation—and Phillip.
"We must remember my husband. I cannot want another man when I'm married to Phillip. And you, you love him also."
Richard's eyes narrowed. Now was not the time to be reminded of loyalty and obligation. Easier to repent of a deed once executed and block out thought long enough to enjoy the moment without common sense intruding—and guilt. Both of which he was beginning to feel. He removed his hands from her waist and stepped back.
"Someday Phillip will leave you, m'lady. And not to go to war. Who will you turn to then for solace?"
"He'll not leave!" Even as she uttered the words, Maria realized their falseness. All her married life she'd been steeling herself for that very reality.
"Aye, he will. And when he does—"
"Stop it!" Maria bolted past him, out the hallway and down the stairs. In the courtyard she raced past Michael Hallam and Ivetta Smythe.
Richard followed on her heels, but Michael blocked his path. "Nay, sire. Do not start what cannot be stopped."
* * *
In Ivetta Smythe's tiny cottage, Richard stood before the window, unshuttered to allow in the crisp evening air. The room smelled of wood smoke and fish. A hearth fire burned in its center, warming a huge cauldron of water that hung suspended from a chain. Ivetta's companion, a half-wit who also plied the trade, was pouring steaming water into a large wooden tub.
"My lord." Richard turned. Ivetta stood naked beside the tub. Flames caressed her body, strong calves, generous hips, the chestnut hair tumbling to a tapering waist. Looking at him neath half lowered lashes Ivetta tossed her head provocatively. "Would you join me, sire?"
"Nay. Tonight I'll watch."
She pointed to the tub where the water's surface was heavy with rose petals. "I am using the rose soap, my lord, just like you said."
"Fine, Ivetta."
"I like to please you, sire." She eased herself into the tub. "Do I please you?"
Richard nodded, then returned to his post at the window. His thoughts returned to Maria Rendell. Alternately he berated himself for being so weak and relived her every expression, word and act. She felt something
for him, that he knew. He'd read her desire clearly enough on her face, in her touch.
Richard closed his eyes. This must cease. I must end it.
He heard Ivetta splashing in the tub, humming a bawdy tavern song.
Why cannot she be enough of a diversion?
Behind Ivetta Smythe loomed no complex friendships or obligations. Or if not her, Lady Beatrice or Constance Warenne or someone else? Why must it be Maria Rendell?
Ivetta's wet body pressed against him; her arms encircled his chest. He turned. Her lush mouth parted, her eyes narrowed to slits. Her hands slid downward, around his tunic, unlacing his chausses. Abruptly Richard pushed her away.
"What is wrong, my lord? Have I displeased thee?"
Shaking his head, Richard turned back to the window, to the cold chips of stars scattered across a cloudless, moonless sky. Wind buffeted through his tunic, raising goosebumps.
"'Tis Lady Rendell, is it not?"
When he did not respond, Ivetta said, "You have never turned me aside before." She retrieved a towel from the half-wit, dried herself and reached for her chemise. "Nor have you ever looked at me the way you look at her."
His voice lowered in warning. "Do not speak of her."
Ivetta had hoped that Richard would set her up in a fine house, perhaps even take her to court. Such things sometimes happened. She saw all her ambitions evaporating like dew in the morning sun, and because she knew their relationship was ending, could afford to speak truthfully.
"'Tis no doubt you are besotted with her, my lord. So why not just bed her and be done with it?" She went to a small dressing table, picked up a comb and began pulling it through her wet hair."It happens all the time. More than one lord would be pleased to trade his wife's favor for a higher position at court."
"Phillip Rendell would not."
"No man is without ambition. All can be bought, I'll wager. Even your friend." Ivetta inspected her face in a hand mirror. Mirrors were rare and costly things; this one was a gift from Lord Sussex. She would miss him, and not just for his generosity. "Life is too short, my lord, not to take what you want."
"I cannot. No woman is worth the price of a friendship. Not even Maria."
Chapter 20
Conwy Castle, Wales
As twenty two thousand men gathered at Newcastle-upon-Tyne to campaign against the Scots, Richard rode for Conwy Castle, where the king had summoned him. The earl had been born at Conwy and it remained his favorite of the border castles constructed by his father to contain the Welsh people. His Grace preferred Caernarvon, which the old king had also built and where he had originally presented the baby prince to his Welsh subjects.
During his two week journey, Richard had had plenty of time to ponder whether his brother's choice of Conwy had been a conciliatory one. Edward's message had given little clue to his frame of mind, but Richard's anger had long ago dissipated to regret over their parting, and a longing for reconciliation. He hoped His Grace had acted out of similar desires.
The roads upon which Richard, Phillip and their knights travelled were extremely dangerous. Long ago private wars between great subjects had been ruled illegal, thus setting England apart from much of the continent. Beginning with the death of Piers Gaveston, however, internal feuds and criminal brigandage had become the rule, contributing in large measure to the country's slide toward anarchy.
Since Thomas Lancaster's execution many of the rebels, or contrariants as they were sometimes called, had become hunted fugitives with estates open to plunder. Vast quantities of jewels, money, plate, furniture, animals and grain had been stolen from their estates by former tenants, neighbors, and officials. Other contrariants, unable or unwilling to flee into exile, had enlisted the help of local sympathizers to carry on guerilla activates, especially in the Welsh March where the Despensers' lands were most concentrated. Using the forests or castles of allies as their headquarters, they terrorized the surrounding countryside.
Knowing that the mere sight of his standard might cause enmity, Richard and his men stayed on the alert, but they were plagued more by September rains than robbers and reached Conwy Castle without mishap. Richard settled in to await his brother.
"I pray Edward does not bring Hugh Despenser with him," he said to Phillip. "I do not want to quarrel, but I'd as soon slit "Nephew Hugh's" throat as look at him."
Phillip nodded. "You and the rest of England."
* * *
Conwy Castle, with its white lime-washed walls topped by a jumble of conical roofs, appeared like a furtive ghost against a blanket of dense fog.
This third day following Richard's arrival he could barely even see his standards drooping from one of Conwy's eight matching towers. As he urged his horse up the hill from the town, a mizzling rain clung to his face. The River Conwy flowed past the castle curtain, grey as the rolling fog, obliterating the river's opposite shore line and distant ships. Only the mournful call of circling seagulls penetrated the clouds.
Approaching the ramp to the drawbridge, Richard thought, Perhaps Edward will already be waiting for me. 'Twould be an awkward way to renew our relationship.
Silently he cursed the Welsh who, though conquered, would never be tamed. Their lord of the north, Gruffydd Llwyd, had proven a trustworthy ally during the Lancaster uprising but the people themselves remained surly. Daily it seemed Richard had to mediate quarrels between his men and the villagers. Now, when he should be readying to properly welcome his brother, he'd been wrangling with merchants at the Market Place over a stolen chicken.
Once over the drawbridge, Richard drew rein in the outer ward.
"Has my brother yet arrived?" he called out to Phillip, who stood by the mews talking to one of the cadge boys.
"Nay, sire. And with the fog, let's hope he is well on his way."
A sentry hailed Richard from the Southwest Tower, the tower in which he had been born. Lady Diane had not been allowed in the royal privy chamber or the king's tower. Instead, she'd been relegated to the outer ward, reserved for Conwy's household. Which was what Richard's mother had been, a member of the domestic household. Edward I had already been blessed with a legitimate male heir, but he had at least arrived during Christmas, 1294, and after the birthing, had held Richard and proclaimed him a worthy son.
Had he given his royal approval because Lady Diane was even then spilling her life blood onto bespoiled sheets? Out of guilt for his rare lapse from conventional morality? Or because Edward I really did love him, as Richard believed—if in a casual and occasional way.
Ghosts at Conwy, just as his mother had given her ghost to the winds.
Shaking off memories, Richard dismounted and strode toward the east barbican where he would meet his brother. On the wall-walk he studied the vague outlines of ships but the king's galley did not yet number among them. Approaching by way of the river, Edward would arrive privately. Richard began pacing between the stock house and chapel towers. The waiting was the hardest.
What if the reunion goes poorly? Or if Despenser has engineered the meeting to manipulate a total break between us? I'll not let him, he silently vowed. No provocation is worth our estrangement.
There had always been too much quarreling among the Plantagenets. Richard had no wish to end up like his namesake, the Lionheart, wrangling with his father and brothers as quickly over the length of a candle stub as the fate of England.
The fog seemed to settle in Richard's lungs. An unpleasant mixture of smells from the bake house, kitchen, and brew house also rested sluggish, making breathing a conscious effort. He heard voices and various noises from the outer ward where the household was readying the night's feast. Save for Michael Hallam he was alone on this part of the wall walk. He wanted a measure of privacy for his meeting, away from gaping courtiers who would interpret every word for good or ill.
A crashing. Richard spun around. Michael's sword flashed. Then, seeing the source of the noise, he laughed. "A piece from the roof."
Michael sheathed his sword. "'Tis
more dangerous to reside at Conwy than fight the Scots."
Conwy, all the border castles, were prone to leaking roofs and blocked gutters which, when left untended, threatened the entire structure. Vast sums were required to keep the border castles in good repair and an increasingly parsimonious Edward preferred to allow revenues to stack up in the treasury rather than spend them, no matter how pressing the need.
"'Tis amazing how something so indestructible is also so delicate," Richard commented.
"Like a warhorse," agreed Michael.
"Or a woman." He thought suddenly of Maria Rendell and brutally shoved the thought away.
From the river a huge shape loomed against the fog, maneuvered up to the dock. His Grace had arrived.
Hurrying down the vice, Richard awaited Edward in the east barbican. As a child, Richard had played in the barbican garden and it was here his half-brother had presented him with a painted wooden castle that had once been Edward's own.
"I found it in a storeroom," Prince Edward had said. "'Tis yours. I've real castles to play with now."
Should I have met you at the water's edge? Will you think I am slighting you? Did you bring Despenser? Will you be petulant?
He heard his brother's laughter. Edward had the sort of laugh that made others feel good just listening. At least it pleases me, Richard thought, as the king appeared framed by the opening of the water gate.
As if expecting to be met by an empty garden, His Grace looked quickly about. Richard was relieved to see that Edward's right was occupied, not by Hugh Despenser, but by their younger brother, Edmund of Kent.
When Richard knelt before the king, he sensed the jockeying for position, the lords straining to hear every word, witness every gesture. His enemies, as surely there were even in King Edward's household, would mull over every inflection of the voice, give it political interpretation, all to his detriment—just as did Edward's foes.
If we could just be left alone, to be allowed to love and cry and pass a measure of our days in private, to enjoy a simple life like ordinary people...
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