Maria heard daughter Blanche teasing Bill the Gardener about the scum filled pond. "How might I see the fishes through this mess?"
"The fish all died this summer. Do na ye remember, little miss?"
Maria eyed her daughter's animated face, the rounded arms waving a crooked stick at Bill and a bailey cat perched on the rim of the pond. Her thoughts retreated to her own childhood. Though the sun still felt warm against her tunic she shivered, as if storm clouds had blown up on the horizon.
Blanche's voice should be mine, and I should be seven years old and dreaming of pirating on the Irish Sea.
She thought of Henrietta, dead over ten years now.
"When did God create the world, Maria?"
"4,464 years before the founding of Rome, Mother."
"And what cures gout?"
"Platter of goat dung mixed with rosemary and honey."
Ghostly voices scraped Maria's memory like the fallen leaves along the path. Since her public penance she'd given much thought to her mother. Henrietta might have been cold but she had never left her children or sent them away to another castle or nunnery as was customary. She'd personally supervised every aspect of their education and never shirked her duty.
"And what have I done?" Maria whispered.
Despite the words of love and excuses, when her actions were logically examined, she'd abandoned Blanche, at least, for Richard.
Who was the proper mother and who the selfish one? When did I set my foot to the wrong road? As a child? Has my fate been eternally cast upon the stars? Who am I now, and where am I bound?
A blast of trumpets announcing visitors penetrated the garden wall. Automatically she ruffled her hair, which she didn't even bother to conceal. A veil might fool others, but it could never fool herself.
She stood. "Blanche, would you return my bird later? I am going to my room."
Maria moved swiftly along the garden path toward the postern before anyone could see. All manner of people visited Fordwich on various pretense, but she knew they came to gape and laugh behind their hands at her humiliation.
While they disturbed her, Phillip's continued presence disturbed—and confused—her even more. Every time she allowed herself to look at him, her own imperfections were magnified. Not only was he whole physically, but he was a reminder of her betrayal, of the past she'd obliterated, of the loyalty he'd shown herself and his liege. Once Richard had said Phillip loved her more. Had he been right? While her husband might not have loved her in the manner she needed, he'd loved her nonetheless.
But that had been before Canterbury.
Though Phillip stayed at Fordwich and remained impersonally solicitous of her needs, he still made no attempt to lay beside her at night. Nor did he show her pity or lavish her with kindness as did Hugh and Fordwich's servants. What were his feelings? His looks remained as enigmatic as ever, his conversation as spare. The miracle was he'd tended her wounds. The miracle was he stayed.
Entering the great hall Maria paused until her eyes adjusted to the dim interior. She glanced toward the vestibule through which the visitors would arrive—and froze. Phillip stood framed in the open doorway, his back stiffly erect. A figure knelt at his feet. Light from a narrow slit of window fell across the man, causing his hair to gleam like newly minted gold. Heart racing, Maria approached the pair, keeping to the shadows but close enough to see that an unharmed Richard of Sussex knelt at Phillip's feet.
The earl raised his head. She heard him clearly.
"I owe you much I can never hope to repay. I would not even be here if it were not for you. At Bannockburn, with Mortimer, so many times. I said you were my friend, but you proved your friendship with your actions."
Phi1lip shook his head. His back remained rigid; his arms knife-straight at his sides.
"I have come to crave your forgiveness for the wrongs I've committed against you. I beg that forgiveness not as your liege lord, but as your friend."
Maria saw Phillip stiffen, his eyes narrow as he fought to control his emotions. He stretched his arm above Richard's bent head as if he meant to touch the gleaming hair before his arm fell limply to his side.
"Rise, my lord," said Phillip. "'Tis not meet that you should kneel to me."
Richard stood. They faced each other, their stances awkward, uncertain. Knowing she had intruded long enough on a painfully private scene, Maria stepped back toward the solar stairs. To know that Richard was alive and well was enough. To face him she could not.
* * *
"Lord Sussex has asked me to ride north with him on the morrow. The young king is readying an army to do battle with Black Douglas."
"Aye."
Maria did not ask whether Phillip had agreed to go. She knew. They three had come full circle. Phillip had fought the Scots before. Then he'd left her and she had turned to Richard. Now, should Phillip never return, she would have no one to comfort her. Since Canterbury, she'd come to depend on her husband, to gain solace from his very presence. She realized that, now that he was leaving.
Rising from their chamber bed, Maria crossed to the window, placing her fingers on the ledge. She cleared her throat. "I would ask that once the battles are done... I would ask that you might come home to me. If you would."
She sensed a lifting of the shoulders, a half shake of the head. Phillip would not verbalize his decision, whatever it proved to be.
"Our lord would see you," he said after a time. "He came here to make peace with both of us."
Maria gripped the window ledge so tightly her fingers ached. "He never wronged me." She stared unseeing out the narrow window at the moon rising above bare winter branches. From below intruded the sounds of rebec, timbrel, and flute as minstrels entertained for dinner. "Besides, I would have him remember me—differently."
"He has also changed."
Maria turned. "He is not ill, is he? He looked well enough, though I know these past months could not have been easy."
"He is different, that is all."
Sighing, she leaned against the window frame. "We have all suffered. Enough."
Silence stretched between them. She was aware of footsteps in the hallway, muted laughter from the Great Hall.
"I know you love him more than me," whispered Phillip. "It no longer matters."
Maria opened her mouth to deny it. She loved them differently, that was all. But if it no longer mattered to Phillip, it must be because he no longer cared.
Someone knocked on the door "Our lord is here." Phillip made ready to leave.
"Nay, please. Do not!"
Phillip opened the door and disappeared down the hallway, leaving them alone. Whirling back to the window, Maria pressed against the rough stones of the ledge. If she could have melted into the wall, flown away far beyond the rising moon she would have done so. Richard had always found her so beautiful. How could she face his disappointment and pity?
The faint scent of sandalwood wafted to her before Richard's hands came to rest atop her shoulders.
"My lady."
She shook her head. "Go."
Richard forced her around to face him, forced her head against his shoulder. Sheltered in his arms, Maria's reserve, the iciness inside her chest began to dissolve. Burrowing against his tunic, she allowed her tears to fall unchecked. She'd never thought to be held by Richard again.
When she quieted he tilted her chin to examine her face. "You have suffered."
"Now it does not matter."
Her eyes caressed the beloved planes of his face, the skin stretched taut across high cheekbones, the new lines touching his eyes and mouth. Something about his face reminded Maria of mystics she'd seen, of holy hermits who lived along the roadways and experienced religious visions.
"You have also changed, my love," she whispered. '"Tis stamped upon you."
Richard looked past her, out the window to the tenebrous night, and Maria sensed a great distancing. Though his arms still held her, his embrace was different. Indeed, now that she thought, it h
ad been from the beginning. Compassion had replaced passion. Even Richard didn't love her. Physical beauty had been all she'd had to offer either him or Phillip. Now she had nothing.
"You are right, dear heart, about my changing." A smile touched Richard's lips. "Never again will I be the same."
Maria searched his face. Where had her warrior, her lover fled? Could a few months, despite all the tragedies, have created such a difference?
"Did you suffer much at Berkeley Castle and in the Tower? A thousand times I feared you'd never exit either alive."
"I think I suffered less than those who loved me and were forced to wait for true word. As I suffered for you when I was told of your penance. You endured much, Maria, because of me."
She fastened her eyes to the braided edge of his tunic. She was going to cry again and she must not. Too many tears had already been shed.
"I would have endured a thousand such humiliations if I'd thought it could have helped you. But not because I viewed our love as sin. I've committed grievous wrongs in my life, but loving you does not number among them."
Richard's embrace tightened. "Someday, 'twill all be clear. When we die the suffering will be seen to have purpose." His voice was softer, even spent. "My brother died a dreadful death, but I do not pay for masses to ease his soul. Edward's earthly pain, I believe, purified him and allowed him entrance to heaven."
"What pain?" Maria drew back. "Did not His Grace die of natural causes?"
"Mortimer had him murdered."
"Nay, but how? His body bore no mark." Why was she surprised? Roger Mortimer was capable of anything.
The earl also spoke of his poisoning, but it was as if he were discussing someone else. The old Richard would have vowed vengeance, plotted Mortimer's downfall. Where burned his inner fire?
"Was it the poison, what, my love? You seem so different. Perhaps you are at peace—"
"Aye, peace." Richard's eyes once again met the darkness. "I saw my brother murdered, I lost Michael Hallam, I have lost my earthly influence and none of it matters."
"What does matter then? I know not."
Richard's arms fell from her waist. "Have you dwelt upon Our Blessed Savior and what He suffered for mankind?"
Remembering the scourges, Abbot Fyndunne's cruelty and all the priests who'd denounced her from their pulpits, Maria bit back bitter words. These days the contemplation of God provided small comfort.
"After I escaped from Mortimer, some brothers found me and cared for me. 'Tis hard to explain what happened at their monastery, but I had a vision there. I saw..."
Searching for the proper phrasing Richard paused to run a hand through already tousled locks. The combination of soft light and golden hair created a nimbus round his head. Watching him, an eerie sensation shivered through Maria. Who stood before her, mystic or man? This Richard she did not know.
"There are things in life that we cannot be certain of," he said softly. "But of one matter I have no doubt. Our Savior died on the cross for our adultery, paid the cost of our sin with his blood long ago. We no longer need chastisement or pilgrimages to purify us, for Jesus took our sins as his. If we are sorry..."
"But I am not! You sound like Abbot Fyndunne or the bishops who mouth one thing and live another. How can I be sorry for loving you?"
"We knew love, Maria, but not like the love Jesus bears us." Richard's face glowed as luminously as Christchurch's windows when pierced by sunlight. His face frightened her. "Our Savior loves us both more than we could ever love each other."
"Nay! Not more than I love you."
His fingertips brushed her cheek. "Someday soon, you will know, as I do. This world seems such a permanent thing and yet we are here such a short span..."
Her mouth twisted. "Life, though pleasant, is transitory..."
His palm cradled her cheek. "Aye, Maria. The Cherry Fair."
She felt Richard's touch to the very wellspring of her being. Not erotically, but as if it were an extension of her very self. "And our love, was that also transitory?"
"Nay. I loved you well and truly. I still do. Into eternity I will love you." Richard paused. "But 'tis different now."
Maria knew why, because she was no longer beautiful, because her back was scarred and her hair was gone. No need to question him. She saw the truth in his eyes.
Richard held out his arms to her. She went to him, knowing in her heart of hearts she would never again feel his embrace. She swallowed down an overwhelming sense of loss. Closing her eyes she tried to imprint upon her memory her last physical contact with the man she loved.
Richard's mouth brushed her ear. "'Twas a grand Cherry Fair we had, was it not?"
* * *
In the predawn Maria held Richard's stirrup as he mounted his destrier. The sounds of knights and squires, the neighing of nervous mounts, the rap of steel against chain mail, the creaking of saddle leather filled the bailey. She gazed into Richard's face and knew him to be already miles down the road.
"I think I will not see you again, my lord. May God go with you." She could think of nothing to say that could provide a fitting good-bye to the man she would never cease loving.
Turning from him to Phillip, she said, "I pray that you will come safely home to me." Her husband looked down at her and his expression softened. She lifted her fingers to brush his lips and was surprised when he did not pull away. His eyes locked to hers. If only she could recite a magic incantation that would weave a protective shield around Phillip, keeping him forever safe, an incantation capable of erasing her sins and failings, their misunderstandings—return them both to the Cherry Fair and their beginnings.
"Remember when first we met, husband?"
He nodded.
"If you had just stepped from the pages of a romance I'd not have found you more perfect." The wind whipped spiky strands of hair about her cheeks and eyes. "You at least have not changed."
"We have all changed, my wife."
After Richard signaled the men to move out, she stayed in the bailey until the last clattering hoof, the last faint echo of a shout sounded off Fordwich's curtains.
Shivering she crossed back toward the keep. Rain rode the wind. Her elongated shadow followed her, grotesque in the wavering rush light. Her boots thumped forlornly across the straw littered paving stones.
Before entering the hall, she turned to survey the empty bailey in the struggling light from a storm-shrouded dawn. Never had she felt so desolate. The forlorn verse from a minstrel's song echoed in her head.
"The lamp it burned with a fitful flare
And the fair dame watched it ever.
Her eyes fixed on its burning glare
For her lord who came back never..."
'Tis a premonition, Maria thought. Not only is Richard forever lost to me but Phillip will never return from Scotland.
Chapter 39
Northeast England
A crescent of moon shimmered off the River Wear flowing dark and sluggish past the English camp. A low string of clouds obscured all but the most belligerent of stars. An intermittent drizzle misted the hundreds of tents huddled near the river and clung to the hauberks and bearded faces of the sentries walking post. The guards' movements were weary, their footsteps careful as they picked their way along the peat bogs.
In the distance came a rumble like that of thunder. Hoof beats. Tensing, the sentries turned their faces south toward the noise while simultaneously unsheathing their swords.
A glint of armor, armor splintering in the moonlight, swelling and falling like the River Wear. A troupe of men approached, reaching the outskirts of the sprawling English camp.
"St. George! St. George!" The riders called; the sentries relaxed. Knights rumbled past, into the heart of the camp. Tendrils of cloud reached out and obliterated the fingernail moon. Scraping steel sounded as weapons emerged—not English broadswords, but Scottish claymores. The Scot's leader, black of eye and beard, motioned with the point of his claymore toward a tent larger than the rest,
a tent bearing the limp standard of the King of England.
While other Scotsmen fanned to surrounding tents, their leader dismounted and stealthily approached the royal tent. Removing his dagger the big man carefully cut the tent's canvas to step inside. Sleeping men—knights, pages, a chaplain, all sprawled on the ground in various poses. On a low couch rested the king, his golden hair spilling across a pillow, his untroubled face almost feminine in its beauty. Richard of Sussex stretched beside his couch; Phillip Rendell near the tent flap. The Black Knight stealthily approached the sleeping regent, stepping across the slender body of a page. As he paused before Edward III, Richard stirred, groaned. Tensing, the knight positioned the point of his sword above Richard's chest. When he quieted, the knight again returned his attention to Edward.
Outside, a piercing scream. "To arms! Black Douglas!"
Black Douglas grinned and raised his powerful arms above his head. The point of his claymore brushed the top of the royal tent.
King Edward's eyes snapped open.
"Greetings, Your Grace!"
The interior exploded in confusion. The bewildered chaplain rose to his knees; Phillip, still in his hauberk, fumbled for his broadsword. Edward stared at the deadly claymore frozen above him.
The claymore descended. A page yelled. Richard hurled himself across the king, taking the blow square across his back. The blade bit through chainmail, deep into flesh and spinal cord. Blood spurted like a geyser. Richard did not move or cry out, but merely settled against his nephew. Phillip leapt at Douglas, who was already backing toward the jagged flap of canvas. The crowded quarters offered little room for maneuvering so Phillip's swing was cautious, but his blade bit into flesh.
Douglas grinned. "Well done, Englishman!" he said before exiting.
Whirling around toward Richard, Phillip placed his hand across the river of blood.
"Dead!" cried Edward. "Get Douglas! Bring him to me—alive."
Phillip covered the interior of the tent in three strides, pushing aside a hysterical page near the opening.
Outside, trampled tents, trampled men, rearing destriers; steel slithering and ringing upon steel, the blurred arc of weaving blades; grunts and battle cries, the frightened neighs of plunging, riderless horses. It was near impossible to tell friend from foe, especially now that some Englishmen had mounted. Phillip's eyes swept the confusion. Twenty feet away he spotted Douglas astride a warhorse black as himself, shouting and trying to regroup his men.
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