‘Obviously.’
‘Try to forget your resentment, mistress. It was not personal.’
‘So my mother insists. Of course, it was personal because I am a person and I had been led to believe that no man was likely to refuse my hand in marriage. I was well past my sixteenth birthday and the truth of the matter hurt my pride. It serves me right for having some. What’s more, this sordid business has done nothing whatever to salve it, being now a bartering tool in a game for men. That’s very personal, Sir Jon.’
‘Then listen to me, if you will. While I cannot refuse to obey the king’s command, as your husband I shall do all I can to delay what you fear for as long as possible. Indeed, it may not happen at all if Queen Anna finds a way to please him. Try to place some trust in me, Mistress D’Arvall, even though you find it difficult. I am no more eager than any other man to be cuckolded, even by the king, nor do I particularly want my wife to be his whore. I can manage without his rewards, but unfortunately your father thinks differently about that side of things. And before you remind me again that I accepted, just consider a few of those leering faces who looked on you at supper, and ask yourself which of them you’d have preferred. I was not the only one the king had in mind, you know.’
‘I might ask you the same question if I thought you’d give me a straight answer. Which of those women out there would you have preferred? We may not have spoken at court, Sir Jon, but I have eyes in my head. You have never been short of female company.’
‘It’s a requirement that goes with the job,’ he said wearily. ‘It means nothing, and you will have to close your eyes to what goes on, or make yourself miserable with jealousy.’
‘To be a jealous wife, sir, I would have to care where my husband bestows his affections—somehow I cannot see that happening. Thank you so much for making our respective positions clear. I may still be unhappy with the situation, but at least I now know where I stand on your list of priorities. Let us both hope that the king’s eye will alight on another maid before our betrothal. Who knows? If he can change wives with such speed, perhaps he’ll do the same with mistresses.’
‘And if you think that will make a difference to my agreement to make you my wife, then think again. It won’t,’ he said, pulling back his shoulders. His head was silhouetted against the white plastered wall, his profile almost classical in its beauty of line and proportion, and Ginny knew, as she had known before, that her boast about not caring was likely to fall far short of the mark. His friendships with so many admiring women would be difficult for her to accept, for men who strayed were unfamiliar to her and undeserving of respect. Her father would never have looked at another woman.
‘Is that all you have to say?’ she retorted. ‘Shall you escort me back to the others to pretend all is well after being taken in hand by the experienced Sir Jon Raemon? Tell me, what are the signs they’ll be looking for? Weeping? Or quaking, perhaps?’
‘As a means of silencing you, mistress, the kiss didn’t work too well, did it?’
She had nothing to say to that. Would he try again?
‘So you tell me,’ he said, ‘about what you were saying just now to your sister. Is there someone else? I need to know.’ That young assistant of Father Spenney’s?
Here was the perfect opportunity, Ginny thought, to invent some mysterious and handsome lover to whom she had given her heart, to show Sir Jon she could play the dalliance game as well as he. But for the life of her, she could not do it and the chance slipped away before she could make the slightest dent in his arrogance. ‘No,’ she whispered, looking at the little gold aglets on his sleeves. ‘There’s no one.’
Again, he lifted her chin to make her eyes meet his, for him to search deeply through the clear grey pools rimmed with lashes so long and dense that they appeared darker than they were. But the shadows were deep and there was little for him to recognise except the blaze of hostility, of which he already knew. What Ginny saw in his was the distant reflection of a flame from the altar candle, but nothing that would give her a clue as to his true thoughts, only those she cynically imposed upon him from her limited experience.
* * *
The splendid oak gallery came alive with the colours of richly clad guests, vibrating with the strains of half-heard melodies and laughter. Sir Walter’s minstrels were not as good as the king’s, but they were enthusiastic. The gallery was one of D’Arvall Hall’s largest chambers built for entertaining on a grand scale, projecting over lawns and knot gardens with views of gently rolling fields, now in darkness. Hundreds of candles shed light on the white plasterwork ceilings and on the oak panelling of stylised linen folds, falling in a blaze of colour upon King Henry himself. He saw them at once and beckoned. ‘Mistress Virginia, ah! I see you have been persuaded. That’s good. Did this whelp allow you to get a word in edgeways? He usually presents a good case.’
‘No, Your Grace,’ said Ginny artlessly. ‘He did not. I doubt he heard one word I said.’
Gently, Henry punched a great ham fist into Sir Jon’s chest. ‘Shame on you. Come, mistress. You’ll find a better listener in me, I promise.’
Ignoring whatever message was in Sir Jon’s eyes, Ginny was led by the hand to a cushioned window seat where Henry sat like a colossus beside her and proceeded to break his promise as if it had never been made. His questions required only one-word answers. Did she know he wrote music? And poetry, too? And played several instruments? Which he would show her when they returned to court. Was she afraid of the marriage bed? Well, Sir Jon would make sure she had nothing to fear and she must regard him, Henry, as her advisor, sharing her problems with him at all times. He had her interests at heart, he told her, stroking the skin of her folded hands with a caress much more than parental. He praised her voice, her looks, her stormy grey eyes, his unctuous flattery betraying a lover-like esteem totally inappropriate to the time and place, or to an advisor. With nerves already as taut as bowstrings, Ginny wondered how she was expected to respond to a married monarch who, in theory, could do no wrong, yet whose eyes roamed freely over her without pause. So when Sir Jon approached and slipped like a shadow onto the seat beside her, she caught her smile of welcome just before it showed.
Henry was not annoyed. ‘Puppy!’ he chided. ‘Come to claim her, have you?’
‘Yes, sire,’ said Sir Jon. ‘My turn again.’
‘See?’ said Henry to Ginny. ‘This is the esteem in which I hold him. There are few of my courtiers I would allow to interrupt a tête-à-tête with you, mistress. We were having a merry chat, were we not?’
‘We were indeed, Your Majesty.’
‘Eating out of my hand already. That’s the way to do it, lad. But see, we’re making the maid blush, between us. There, mistress,’ he said, patting her hand. ‘We’ll resume our talk later, shall we? Later, eh?’ His eyes crinkled and glittered.
‘Your Grace does me much kindness.’
‘Humph!’ He nodded, clearly agreeing with her platitude as he watched the pair drift away into the crowd. Immediately, courtiers engulfed him like an incoming tide.
* * *
It grew late, but there were those to whom Ginny wished to speak, and others, like her parents and Paul, she did not. It went without saying that the king’s visit had set a seal on everything they’d hoped for, not only for their daughter’s future but for the acquisitions that were sure to come their way. In view of her distaste for the methods used, they did not feel it necessary to thank her for any of this, but nor could they quite wipe the satisfaction from their faces as the evening progressed. Her words to them were understandably brief, dutiful if resentful, and laced heavily with a bitterness they chose to disregard. She would come round, they assured each other.
Elion, Ginny’s twenty-eight-year-old brother, was far more sympathetic, though there was nothing he could do about it except to anticipate, with some feelings of guilt, the knighth
ood that would certainly come his way. There would be no question of him refusing it. With his sister Maeve and her husband, George, he did his best to lighten Ginny’s heart by suggesting that, with her help, Queen Anna would learn to appreciate music and dancing, gaming and glamorous clothes and thereby win the king’s affection and admiration, making Ginny’s role redundant. This would not, of course, eliminate the forthcoming marriage to Sir Jon, but perhaps she would learn to tolerate this, as others did theirs.
For some reason, it seemed important for Ginny to know what the first Lady Raemon looked like. Was she as beautiful as they said? Popular at court? Gracious? Kind? Had she merely been a dutiful wife or had there been love between them? Their replies, on the whole, were less than satisfactory. They couldn’t really say. They hadn’t had much to do with her. Popular, yes, but not a personal friend and hardly ever at Lea Magna, so very little contact as neighbours. To their relief, Ginny dropped the subject.
Paul, the younger of the two brothers, was as usual intent on ingratiating himself with some of the king’s gentlemen of the bedchamber, of whom he was not one, but had a friend who was, Thomas Culpeper. Their nonsense kept the weary king awake and, as no one could leave the festivities before he did, it was well after midnight when Culpeper whispered to Sir Jon that, tonight, his services would not be required. The other five would put Henry to bed so that, if Sir Jon wished, he could try for a lingering goodnight with his new woman.
Thanking him, but rather wary of such unusual cooperation from one he spared no love for, Sir Jon entertained not the slightest hope of any kind of goodnight from Mistress Virginia D’Arvall, lingering or otherwise, so took his leave of his hosts and went to find his bed. Virginia, they told him, had already gone to hers. They would all have to be up in good time for the hawking.
* * *
Safe at last from the court’s social demands, Ginny lay spreadeagled on her wide bed, still fully dressed, her dangling feet being massaged by Mistress Molly, who did not need to ask about her new mistress’s state of mind. Too tired to begin undressing, she stared up at the carved wooden tester while snatches of conversation flitted darkly through her mind like bats, too fast to be caught. In a vast warren of interlinked buildings added on at various stages of ownership, her room was cosy and warm with a crackling fire in the iron grate and walls lined with seasoned pine and gold-framed portraits of ancient ancestors. Outside in the passageway, the patter and thud of feet, the slam of doors and distant squeals of laughter added to the usual bedlam of guests finding their quarters, though a discreet tap on her own door was not what she’d expected, unless it was Maeve come for a last chat.
Molly answered the door, exchanged a few inaudible words with the young man, then closed it and came to stand beside Ginny with an expression of deep offence written clearly on her sensible features. ‘At this time of night?’ she said, looking back at the door as if it were personally responsible. ‘I can scarce credit it! Really!’
Ginny sat bolt upright. ‘What? Who was it?’
‘A royal page. The king’s lad. He’s sent for you.’
‘The king? Sent for me? You cannot be serious, Molly.’
‘I am serious, mistress. I would not jest about something like this. He says the king would like the pleasure of your company and to take a glass of wine with him, if you please. In his room.’
‘In my father’s house? Molly, what on earth is he thinking of?’
‘Well, what does His Grace usually think of at this time of night? No marks for guessing what he wants you for. You can’t go. Not alone.’
‘Of course I can’t go, but how do I disobey? There would have to be a good reason, Molly. I can’t just say, no, thank you, Your Majesty.’
They stared at each other, dredging up reasons good enough to sound genuine. ‘I’m ill,’ Ginny suggested. ‘I have the plague. He’s terrified of that.’
‘He knows you’re not.’
‘I’m asleep.’
‘That’s unlikely, too, with this racket going on.’
‘I’m betrothed, and...’
‘And with Sir Jon! Yes!’ Molly caught the drift. ‘That’s it!’
‘But I’m not, Molly. Am I?’
‘You could be. What’s to stop you? It’ll happen sooner or later.’
‘No, that’s ridiculous. We’ve only just met. I need time...’
‘Mistress Ginny, you don’t have time. The king is waiting for you. The only convincing excuse not to obey is that you and Sir Jon are already in bed together as a newly betrothed couple. Henry’s not going to argue with that.’
‘But he would have to be there, at the betrothal, wouldn’t he?’
‘Not necessarily. You were in a hurry. There were witnesses. Father Spenney came to conduct it. It’s perfectly legal. I’m going to get your sister and brother. They’ll agree it’s the only thing to do.’
‘No...no, wait, Molly! What’s Sir Jon going to say to all this?’
‘We’ll soon find out, won’t we?’ said Molly, turning to go. Relenting, she came back to Ginny’s side, her face softening at the stricken expression. ‘Listen, he’s not going to tell you to go to the king, is he? Given the choice, what do you think he’d rather do? He’s not an ogre, mistress. The king is, but not Sir Jon. Leave it to me.’
Covering her face with her hands, Ginny recreated that same dimness of the chapel anteroom where she and Sir Jon had bickered and fought a verbal battle while sitting close together, his warmth flooding her side, the scent of him and, yes...the taste of him, too, the shameful pressure of his arms and body. No, she could not do it. Not with a man who didn’t want her. She would need weeks to prepare herself for it, for the courage to satisfy her parents whose future security depended, apparently, on her obedience. This was all going too fast for her. ‘Not my parents too, Molly,’ she whispered into her fingers. ‘They would not agree to it. They would take me to the king themselves, if necessary. And Paul, too. Don’t bring him back with you.’
Climbing off the bed, she went to stand before the fire, shivering in spite of its warmth, waiting for the help she both needed and feared.
Chapter Three
Help was not long in coming. A quick succession of taps on the door admitted first Maeve with Molly, both of them comfortingly adamant that this was the only safeguard, convenient or not. Next came Sir George with Sir Jon and Elion. George had found them talking together before bed, agreeing with him that to invite Sir Walter, Lady Agnes, and Paul would be counterproductive when they could not be trusted to consent to such a drastic method of escape. Ginny’s doubts about Sir Jon’s reaction were instantly dispelled, however, when he took her wrist in his hand, gently but firmly asserting a kind of instant possession that said more than words about his reading of the situation. If it was somewhat arrogant in its boldness, Ginny felt relieved that he had shown no sign of reluctance, so she left it there, putting up no resistance to its message. Last of all came Father Spenney, Sir Walter’s chaplain, quietly spoken, sensible, and scholarly, a man in his fifties who had no qualms about conducting a hurried betrothal if it meant saving Mistress Virginia from the king’s bed. Nor did he need Sir Walter’s permission, he said. They could, if they’d wished, have done it without him, too.
His unassuming and authoritative manner brought sighs of relief from several of them, but it was Ginny’s brother Elion who needed more confirmation. ‘What’s His Grace going to say?’ he whispered in the crowded little room. ‘Wouldn’t he expect to be present? Is this all perfectly legal, Father?’
Father Spenney placed a lean hand on Elion’s arm. ‘It is perfectly in order for two people to plight their troth,’ he said, ‘at any time in any place, no matter who is or isn’t there, Master Elion. His Grace will either be furious or he’ll think it all highly amusing. We shall not know until tomorrow. All that is certain is that he wishes Sir Jon and M
istress Virginia to pledge themselves to each other while he’s here and that is what they’re about to do. So for this night, and probably tomorrow also, His Grace will have no claim on the lady’s company, which is what we all agree must be prevented.’
‘And His Grace,’ said Sir George, ‘will have his own ideas about where the marriage should take place. But Sir Walter has not hesitated to browbeat Ginny over this business, so I can understand why she would not want her parents as witnesses.’
‘Well, George,’ said Sir Jon, glancing down at Ginny, ‘that’s a nice way of putting it, but correct all the same. Even so, I think the lady ought to be allowed to say, before it’s too late, whether she is willing to go ahead with it. I would rather not be accused of browbeating, though it has to be said that we are only hastening the business, that’s all.’
‘I do not know exactly what His Grace has in mind for me this night,’ Ginny said, noting their sympathetic faces, ‘but whatever it is, I would rather this than that.’ She felt Sir Jon’s hand slide carefully from her wrist to her fingers and hold them, silently approving the choice that must have been far from easy. Neither choice had been what she wanted.
‘Shall we begin, then?’ said Father Spenney.
There was so much that was wrong about this, thought Ginny. The haste, for one thing. The pressure, for another. Her reluctance. The uncertainty, not least about the king’s reaction on the morrow. His temper was notoriously unreliable. An almost imperceptible squeeze on her fingers brought her back to reality, reminding her that she must not waver, that this, as Sir Jon had reminded them, would have to happen one way or another and there was little she could do about it when men had agreed.
It was all over in a matter of moments, whispered promises with clasped hands and a short prayer thrown in for good measure by the kindly priest. Then smiles, hugs and kisses, and words like safe now, and tightly grasped arms and hands, and it was all done. Elion and Sir George were the ones to offer to go to the king’s rooms to convey apologies from Sir Jon and Mistress Virginia. They were in bed together, they would say, and did not think the king would wish to disturb them. Consummation would make the betrothal not only more valid, but marriage inevitable.
Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded Page 7
