Mary Gillgannon

by The Leopard

  She jerked her shoulders up, standing as tall as she could. Her eyes met his unflinchingly. “You’re wrong, Richard. I am a lady, your lady wife. I demand you treat me with a little respect!”

  He looked startled. Then his eyes grew dark and wild. “Respect! You will not speak to me of respect! All my life I have struggled to win it. I’ve risked my life, swallowed my pride, had my face ground into the dirt by dozens of men who thought themselves better than me.” He paused and his mouth worked, as if the words he spoke choked him. After a moment, he continued. “Now, after all my efforts, I find myself made a laughingstock before Henry and the arrogant, scheming men around him.” His face contorted with anguish. “Do you not see what you have done, Astra? You have humiliated me before my liege lord, before the entire English court!”

  The look of abject suffering in his eyes made her ache. She had no doubt she was seeing the real Richard Reivers at last. Not the ferocious, frightening Leopard, nor the charming, glib suitor, but the desperate, tortured boy beneath. It was like a knife in her heart to know she had contributed to his pain.

  She reached out her hand, imploring. “Richard, please forgive me. I never meant to...”

  His expression grew more tortured. “You cannot undo what you’ve done, Astra.”

  She could not help herself. She sank down upon the beautiful carpet and sobbed.

  Thirty

  Richard stared at Astra, weeping at his feet. He had to stop her crying. But how? He didn’t want her to think he cared. And yet, he did.

  He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound of her sobs. Why wouldn’t she fight him? Attack him as he had her? How did she manage to remain tender and contrite, her body warm and willing? He recalled her moan of pleasure as he penetrated her. The passion of her response had completely undone him. He had forgotten his desire for vengeance and given in to the ecstasy of possessing her, the rapture of melding their flesh.

  It was not supposed to be like this. No woman had ever affected him this way before. He had always kept his distance, used their bodies and manipulated their childish moods for his own ends. Women were meant to be seduced, to be taken, to be enjoyed. You were not supposed to care for them. If you did, you ended up like old Henry—weak, contemptible.

  She was still crying. She looked pitiful. She wasn’t very big anyway, and now she was curled into a little ball on the blue carpet. Her long braids fell forward over her knees, veiling her creamy skin. He had to make her stop. His own throat was burning. Watching her made him want to weep himself.

  “Stop it, Astra.” He forced his voice to be cold and commanding. She did not look up. If anything, she wept harder.

  “I won’t abide this. If you don’t quit mewling, I’ll beat you senseless.”

  There was no answer. He felt like a fool. He was incapable of beating her. He knew it, and she likely did, too. Maybe that was why, up to now, she had remained so calm, so yielding. She knew his weakness. The thought unnerved him. She had the power to unman him with her tears, her gentleness.

  Panicked, he took a step back.

  He found his clothing and dressed hurriedly. Astra wept softly, unceasingly. He forced himself not to look at her, and struggled into his boots. Then he quit the room, slamming the door behind him. Out in the hallway, he told himself he would find the other knights and drown his despair in an alepot and the warm comfort of a whore’s slick thighs.

  Nay, he would not. He had no taste for a sloppy, smelly trull after Astra. For that matter, he had no heart for a joyless night of debauchery with a pack of crude soldiers he hardly knew. If only Will were here. God’s teeth, how he missed him!

  * * *

  It was the cold that finally made Astra get up and go over to the bed. No matter her problems, there was no point getting so chilled she became ill.

  She shivered in the soft blankets for a while, trying to warm herself, but her heart felt cold and empty, as if it were full of ice. She would never forget the haunted, hopeless look on Richard’s face. There was no way to block out the knowledge that she had contributed to his suffering, to the bleak, soul-rending pain that was destroying him.

  She suppressed a gasp at the almost physical distress her thoughts evoked. There had to be some way to reach Richard, to make him realize how much she loved him, how desperately she wanted to heal his wounds, not worsen them. If only he would let go of his anger for a moment, if only if he would listen to her.

  Perhaps it was too soon. It had only been two days since the scene in the chapel. Only time could ease the intensity of the bitterness Richard bore in his heart. Or perhaps nothing could. Her misery returned as she considered that her husband might never forgive her, that he might go to his grave hating her.

  No. She would not think like that. Richard had loved her once, and she had to believe he still cared for her a little. If nothing else, she was certain his desire for her had not waned. She touched herself, remembering the sensation of Richard’s body inside her own, the splendor of their joining.

  It had been much more than an expression of lust. Something bound them, flesh-to-flesh, spirit-to-spirit. No matter what Richard thought, there was some deep tie between them, some closeness so profound, so intense, that nothing less than death could destroy it.

  Hope, fragile but enduring, suffused Astra’s heart, and she slept.

  * * *

  Someone was poking him. Richard woke slowly, trying to sort out the irritation of the hand jabbing in his ribs from the vexations of his dreams.

  “It’s morning, Richard. You must have spent a rough one last night to be such a slug today. I could have cut your throat twice over in the time it’s taken you to rouse.”

  “Will! What are you doing here?” Richard asked sleepily as he sat up on the bench in the knights’ quarters.

  “I might ask you the same question. The first thing I learn upon returning to London is that you have wed. The second thing is that you’ve quarreled with your new wife and are sleeping off your temper in the barracks.”

  “Good God, Will.” Richard passed a hand over his eyes. “Don’t sound so bloody cheerful. My life’s a ruination. I’m wedded to Astra, and the King is furious with me.”

  “You aren’t happy being wed to Astra? I thought you were besotted with the woman.”

  Richard sighed. “Besotted, bewitched, befooled—they are only different words for the pathetic state of being so blinded by a woman’s charms that you fall into her trap like a despicable ass. I’ve been had, Will. The King made me marry Astra.”

  “Why?”

  “Trickery. Astra lured me into the Queen’s chapel and enticed me with her charms. In came the King. Prim old Henry got a good eyeful of my wife in luscious déshabillé. He saw me with Astra backed up against the wall and rape on my mind and didn’t waste time asking questions. We were wed the next day at his royal command.”

  “Jesu, it sounds rather sordid.”

  “Oh, it was. Now you know what appalling baseness the pure and innocent Lady Astra was willing to stoop to in order to have her way. But I’m going to make her pay, to make her sorry she ever met me let alone wanted to marry me!”

  “Is that why you’re sleeping here, mumbling and moaning in your wretched slumbers as if you had the ague? You look like hell itself, Richard, and I’m not convinced you’re enjoying this plot to hurt Astra. I think you still care for her. You’re just too stubborn and vengeful to admit it.”

  “I still lust for her, aye, but that’s different. Eventually I’ll get my fill of Astra and stop wanting her. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “You scratch the itch and it goes away, is that it?”

  “Or something like it. Now that I know Astra’s true nature, I should be able to cure myself of my passion for her after only a few more nights.”

  “What a miserable goal, Richard. You should be happy to find love. You shouldn’t seek to extinguish what many men search a lifetime to find.”

  “I don’t want it. I don’t want
to care for a woman. It’s dangerous, inconvenient, absolutely foolhardy.”

  Will shook his head and started to leave.

  “Don’t go, Will. You haven’t even told me about your visit to Thornbury.”

  Will sighed. “Nothing has changed. My father insists I wed and see to the business of getting an heir.”

  “Find a wife then. London is crawling with women hungry for a rich husband.”

  “It’s not so simple. If I wed a woman I am fond of, I will feel guilty I can’t offer her more than brotherly affection. And if I wed someone I have no feelings for, what sort of marriage is that?”

  “It’s the sort of marriage most men have. Look at Gloucester. The King’s brother endured a loveless marriage for years. He got the son he wanted and a fortune as well. You’d be wise to follow his example.”

  “I’m not likely to get a son,” Will said bitterly. “And I don’t covet land enough to ruin some young woman’s life by marrying her.”

  “Then marry a poor woman. Offer her enough rich gowns and baubles and she’ll not care a whit if you ever share her bed.”

  “I don’t fancy such an arrangement. Unlike you, Richard, I have my conscience to think of.”

  “You’re too bloody sensitive!”

  “And you’re too much of a bloody bastard!” retorted Will, stomping away.

  Richard stared after him, his mood sinking further. How had he come to be quarreling with Will? Everything in his life seemed to be going awry. There had been the disastrous tournament in Tudbury, the fruitless journey to London to seek the King’s favor, and now the galling punishment of having to wed a woman he didn’t want. He had lost his luck, the aura of invincibility and glory that made him the fierce and deadly Black Leopard. What was wrong with him?

  * * *

  “The Queen knows you’re troubled. She’s bound to question you,” Marguerite warned.

  “I can’t imagine what I shall tell her.” Astra sighed and rolled up her needlework. “If I even hint at the truth, she’s likely to tell the King and he’ll be even more wroth with Richard. Yet I don’t lie well enough to convince her that nothing is wrong.”

  “Perhaps you could turn her concern to Richard’s advantage. If she thought he was disgruntled because you have no real dowry, she might agree to go to the King and ask him to help Richard.”

  Astra shook her head. “Richard refuses to let me to beg a boon of the Queen on his behalf. If I were to do something like that now, when he is already so angry with me...” She shook her head again. “I couldn’t bear it if I angered him even more.”

  “It is a coil,” Marguerite agreed, looking grimly at her own needlework. She sighed. “Nothing is going as planned.”

  Astra gave her friend a searching look. It was unlike her to be so melancholy. “What’s wrong, Marguerite? You seem troubled these last few days, but I have been too distracted by my own cares to delve into the matter.”

  Marguerite continued to stare at the linen chemise she was embroidering. “It’s a grave thing, Astra, and one that no one else must know about, especially the Queen.”

  “What’s wrong, Marguerite? What is it?”

  Her friend looked up. A bitter smile twisted her lips. “I’ve done exactly what I warned you against. I am enceinte.”

  Astra gasped. “You’re expecting a child? How far gone are you?”

  “By my reckoning the babe should be born near St. George Day.”

  “Holy Mary! That does not give you much time!”

  “Time for what, Astra?”

  “Why, to wed the father before anyone guesses, of course.”

  Marguerite’s mouth quirked bitterly again. “That is part of the dilemma. You see, the father is already married.”

  Astra’s mouth fell open. She stared at her friend, too shocked to speak.

  “Do you hate me, Astra?” Marguerite asked softly, her eyes lowered.

  “Of course not. But I don’t know what to do, how to help you. It would seem you must marry someone though, and quickly.”

  “Don’t you want to know who the father is?”

  “Not unless you wish to tell me.”

  Marguerite sighed, her dark eyes shimmering with tears. “It was Baldwin de Hasting, the man I was meeting the night we went to Southwark. You know how seldom it is that I find noblemen to my liking. Baldwin is different. He is robust and handsome for all that he is well-born. He speaks graciously and has fine manners, but he is not above a wicked jest or a venturesome frolic. We could not be seen together in public, but we met alone whenever we could. It was paradise for a time, but I’m afraid my feelings got the best of me. Oh, Astra, what can I do? I always said that if this happened, I would get rid of the babe, but somehow...” She patted her still-flat stomach tenderly. “I cannot seem to make myself do it. This is all I have left of Baldwin, all I will ever have.”

  “Blessed Jesu! Don’t even speak of such things. To make yourself lose the babe would be a terrible sin.”

  “Better to burn in hell than face my father’s wrath,” Marguerite muttered.

  “Your father loves you. Once he knows of your trouble, I am sure he will move heaven and earth to find you a husband.”

  “No, he won’t—because I’m not going to tell him.”

  “Not tell him? What do you mean? You must tell him. Only with your father’s help can you possibly hope to find a husband in time. If you do not wed soon, your reputation will be ruined.”

  “Perhaps I could return to Stafford and take vows,” Marguerite mused. “Stafford is a poor abbey. I suspect it will take only a small portion of my dowry to persuade the good sisters to take me in. They might even find a home for a child, someplace close by where I could visit occasionally.”

  For a moment, Astra could only gape at her friend. The idea of Marguerite living out her life in a priory was utterly preposterous. “You can’t be serious. You hated Stafford, and you have absolutely no vocation for the holy life. There must be some other alternative. If you won’t go to your father, we must find you a husband without his help.”

  “How?” Marguerite arched her dark brows.

  “What of Will? You said he would not wed because he cannot father children, but perhaps you could strike a bargain with him. He forgives you the babe, and you give him an heir. It seems the perfect solution.”

  “I’d rather be a nun.”

  “Why?”

  Marguerite’s shoulders stiffened. “I can’t explain it. Suffice to say that a marriage between William de Lacy and I would be a very troubled one.”

  Astra gazed at her friend in bafflement and then reached out to embrace her. “I’m sorry this happened, Marguerite. If I could do anything for you, you know I would.”

  “There is nothing,” Marguerite whispered. Tears stained her smooth cheeks. “There is nothing anyone can do.”

  No, Astra decided. She would not accept Marguerite’s despair. If there was life, there was hope. She had to believe that. She would pray—for both of them. Surely the answer would come to her.

  Thirty-one

  Astra clutched her cloak tightly about her and shivered in the freezing autumn wind. The leering knight at the barracks said that William de Lacy had gone to check on one of his horses—a mare which had a bad leg and was always going lame. Astra hurried across the offal-strewn courtyard to the stables. It was the perfect opportunity to speak to Will alone.

  The idea had come to her that afternoon while she was pondering Marguerite’s predicament. For all that her friend dismissed the idea out of hand, Astra felt certain Will would be willing to wed Marguerite once he knew the disaster she faced. Will was a kind-hearted and loyal man. Astra could not forget how distressed he had been when he found out Richard had gone to fight in Wales. Few men ever showed such concern for the fate of another, and Astra did not doubt he would show similar compassion for Marguerite.

  She slowed as she reached the stables. It smelled strongly of horses and manure and was warmer than the wind-wracked c
ourtyard, but also huge and dark. She could hardly imagine how she would find one man in such a place. Although, if he was going to tend to a horse, Will would have taken a light of some kind. She would look for the glow of a horn lantern or torch.

  It was not light that drew her finally, but the sound of voices. They were softly-pitched, faint but enough to guide her down another corridor. She paused. Ahead of her she could make out the forms of two men facing each other, illuminated by the faint glow of a lantern. They were so close they were almost touching, and their voices were low and indistinct. Something about the scene disquieted her. There was a strange intimacy in the way the two men stood next each other. Astra could not help wondering if they were conspiring something.

  “Lord de Lacy?” Her voice rang out in the stillness of the stables. The two men froze. Astra felt a stab of fear. What if these men were ruffians, plotting something sinister? She was alone, defenseless, and no one had any idea where she was.

  “Who’s there? Who goes?”

  She didn’t recognize the voice of the man who queried her, but he sounded cultured and refined. Relaxing slightly, she answered, “It is Lady Reivers. I have come looking for Lord de Lacy. I was told he was here, seeing to an injured mare.”

  “Astra, is that you?”

  To Astra’s relief, Will stepped forward into the weak light of the lantern.

  “My lord, I am sorry to interrupt, but I would have a word with you. It’s regarding Marguerite.”

  “Marguerite?” Will sounded confused.

  “I can return later if you wish. But I would speak to you tonight. It’s urgent.”

  “Of course, Astra. My friend and I were on the verge of returning to the palace anyway. I will escort you there in a moment.”

  “If you please, Will, it might be better if we talked here. Marguerite does not know I come to speak to you, and I’d rather she didn’t learn of it.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Will said, “I will be with you in a moment.” He exchanged a few whispered words to his companion. The man called farewell and disappeared down the corridor. Astra felt a pang of disappointment that she hadn’t had a chance to see his face. She was exceedingly curious about this unseen man and what he and Will were discussing.