The King's Mistress

by TERRI BRISBIN

  The urge and need to write to Henry grew within her and Marguerite began to choose the words she would use even as she turned from him. She’d taken only a few steps when he called to her.

  “Lady? Before you go, I would ask something of you.”

  Marguerite took a deep breath and let it out before facing him. Not sure of his request, she tried to calm the thoughts that swirled through her. When she thought herself in control of her uncertainty, she turned back to him.

  “My lord?”

  “Actually, I have two requests of you. First,” he said stepping closer, “Brother Wilfrid was not trained at the abbey as many others are and so his knowledge of Latin is not as strong as it could be.”

  “Why do you not have him removed then?” she asked.

  “He has much to offer my people with his healing skills and so I hesitate to get rid of him.” She thought he was making merry of her, but he continued before she could say it. “I know that you can read and write Latin and so I would like you to work with him to translate his scrolls to the English he speaks more easily.”

  “Surely your clerk can do that, my lord?” Marguerite could not understand why she did not want to agree, but fear caught in her chest. “Is not that something he should do?”

  “Lady, Wilfrid has served as clerk, as well, in his years here.” Lord Orrick took her hand and held it in his. “The good brother is getting old and Abbot Godfrey cannot assign a replacement here now. I need someone, on a temporary basis, to assist Wilfrid in reading the scrolls that come to him from the abbey. Surely, someone as well-educated as you could see to this with little effort?”

  She knew he mimicked her words purposely to goad her into agreeing. It would appear to be a simple request and it was certainly within her abilities to carry out. To refuse after his kindnesses to her would make her appear mean-spirited and spiteful. And to her surprise, she did not want him to think of her that way.

  “I am willing to try, my lord. So long as he is willing to work with a woman?”

  “It should be no problem in that regard. Wilfrid has been exposed to my mother for years.” His voice was lighter now. He teased her.

  “Will he condemn me?”

  Marguerite did not think before she asked the question that truly haunted her. So many of the religious associated with Henry’s court made her uncomfortable with their view of educated women. Especially women who used their minds and bodies to attain what they could not otherwise get. One of Henry’s prelates had a habit of speaking to her outside the king’s presence to harass and condemn her. Brazen, godless whore of Babylon was his favorite greeting, uttered too quietly for anyone but her to hear and with a hatred and vehemence that shook her to the core every time he said it. Even now, a shudder passed through her as she remembered the sound of the words.

  “Nay,” he answered, shaking his head. “He is a gentle soul who will appreciate the assistance he receives.”

  The kindness in his tone scared her again and the urge to run to safety filled her. She nodded and turned again. “I will seek him out on the morrow, my lord,” she said as she walked away from him.

  “There is still the matter of my second request, Marguerite.” His voice was louder now.

  “My lord?” She faced him and waited.

  “I would have you speak in my language to my people. While you are here, of course.”

  She only realized as he changed from Norman to his English that they had been speaking in hers. The amusement was back in his tone. She neither nodded nor gave her agreement to him, but she only turned and walked toward the door.

  “My lady?” he called, loud enough to draw the guard’s attention. The guard stepped back away only after Lord Orrick signaled him to do so.

  “Another request, my lord?” Crossing her arms over her chest, she grew impatient. “You spoke of only two.”

  “This is more of an order.” Lord Orrick closed the gap between them and looked down on her from his towering view, forcing her to lean her head back to meet his gaze. His mouth was close enough to hers to touch their lips, but he did not.

  “I would have you call me by my given name when we are alone.”

  His deep voice poured over her and she felt a heat grow within her. He could be extremely attractive at times. The feelings coursing through her body alarmed her. She did not want to be drawn to this man; she wanted to be gone from here and never see him or his people or his village again.

  Her voice caught in her throat and so, rather than let him hear the trembling in it, she nodded at him and backed away. When there was sufficient distance between them, she turned and walked toward the door. Later when she realized that she’d run, she would blame it on the cold winds and not the dangerous man who called to her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Orrick strode down the steps after Marguerite had run away and went to his workroom on the main floor of the keep. Gavin waited there for him and they planned an evening visit to the village, but Orrick’s encounter with his wife and the insights that encounter revealed put a twist in his plans. Opening the door without warning, he found his friend face-down on the table, snoring.

  Taking hold of the jug and sliding it from Gavin’s grasp, Orrick poured a cup of wine for himself and sat down on the nearest stool. This was a strange ending to a strange day. Debating on whether or not to wake Gavin, Orrick decided not to—he was not certain he wanted to face all the questions that Gavin would raise to him in the privacy of this place. And Orrick knew he had more questions now than when he’d left the yard after seeing to the punishment of the two men.

  Had Marguerite even realized the pain that now cracked through the icy veneer she usually affected? Although none of those involved had confessed the exact words spoken, he could imagine what they were. Many had spoken them openly around and to him at Henry’s court. When he’d first met her, he believed the cold exterior she wore covered a colder heart, but watching her struggles over these past few weeks, he was no longer so sure.

  And her intervention today demonstrated more of an interest or concern than he truly thought her capable of. He did not know who the target of her concerns was. However, he believed her presence on the roof was more hopeful than not.

  How would she feel when she discovered that he lied to her?

  He had not wanted to show mercy to those men today. Instead, the fury inside of him demanded their blood, and nearly their lives, for what they did to her. In spite of his father’s late efforts to eradicate the “softness of preparation” he’d received at the abbey, he’d not succeeded in removing it. Orrick found his decisions were often tempered with the good brothers’ words and teachings. But all the layers of self-control were destroyed when he knew Marguerite had heard hateful words from his people.

  And her accusation that he thought of her in no different a way than his people did, cut him to the heart. He knew in that moment that his punishment and anger at the men was really just misdirected anger at himself for his own actions toward her.

  Oh, she had added her own insults to their encounters and even goaded him to bad behavior. But he was older and more experienced in dealing with matters of discipline than she and he should have controlled the urge to strike out or strike back at her or his people for his own shortcomings.

  Even though she did not know it yet, there was, for the first time in her life, a chance for her to make a new life, one not filled with the dangers and falseness and intrigues of court. One where she could grow and be the woman she was capable of.

  Of course the fact that she did not want such a life was not lost on him. Her presence before him tonight and the weakened argument about her love for Henry told him she was beginning to question the reasons for her life and her decisions.

  Orrick was not certain when he’d made the choice to keep her or the one to try to tempt her so that she wanted to stay, but his request for her to work with Brother Wilfrid was the first step in his plan. From his observations and from what he knew of h
er life, Marguerite had only ever been taught that she was a means to an end for her father. Not that it wasn’t a noblewoman’s place to marry advantageously and to bring or keep property and titles into the family. Not that women were supposed to choose their own destinies and ignore the wishes and advice of their fathers or husbands.

  But Orrick had watched the other women and marriages and knew that they could gain much in that union. Women could use their skills and talents to make their lives and the lives of their husbands and families happy and content. That was the kind of marriage he wanted, and now he knew that he wanted it with Marguerite.

  Her past be damned.

  Orrick understood that Henry would never call her back. He knew that another already shared the king’s bed and had taken her place as his mistress. There was no place for her to go back to now, for her father in Normandy and her uncle here in England stood firmly and visibly in support of the king’s decision and there would be no one to plead her case for return to court. She knew none of this and, since his mother had indeed learned her lesson about sharing gossip, no one at Silloth would ever speak of it to her.

  Shifting on his stool, he wondered what it would take to make Marguerite realize her past was just that. He feared that the spirit within her, the fire that had given her the strength and passion to attain the king’s attention and to survive in the surreal life at court, would be extinguished when she learned the truth. He smiled grimly. ’Twould be a sad waste.

  An idea filled his thoughts and he laughed at the challenges and rewards it presented to him. It was, however, a way to make her life here better. Would it balance the crushing blow that Henry’s abandonment would cause? He hoped so.

  Standing, Orrick approached his sleeping friend and shook him awake. Even before his eyes opened, Gavin’s hand moved to his side, searching for the sword he usually wore. A normal reaction for the warrior he was.

  “I need you to choose three men for a journey. They must be able to travel quickly and far and be able to keep their mouths shut.”

  If Gavin thought his request was a strange one for the middle of the night, he gave no sign. Then Orrick took the jug and poured them both another cup from it. Motioning his friend back to his seat, Orrick smiled.

  “I have a plan….”

  Chapter Twelve

  “And this one is…?” she asked, holding up the small green glass vial.

  “Feverfew,” Brother Wilfrid replied. “’Tis used to lower fevers and to treat pains in the—” Marguerite looked at the old man and saw the glint in his good eye “—head,” he finished, and they both laughed. One of the first things she’d learned about Wilfrid was that he loved to use vulgar language. Oh, nothing too offensive to her, but “pain in the arse” was his favorite and he used it often to describe most of those who lived in Silloth.

  Except Lord Orrick. Brother Wilfrid never uttered an unkind word about the lord of Silloth. That was the second thing she’d learned about him—he was completely faithful to serving God and Lord Orrick. So, when Marguerite joined him under the guise of learning his skills with healing herbs, he agreed quickly to see to her lack of knowledge on the subject.

  She knew the real reason she was helping him so she allowed the misunderstanding to continue. And, true to Orrick’s description of him, he offered her kindness and his knowledge all mixed with a few good English curses. After the first few hours with him, Marguerite found that she hungered for the time when she used her mind in his workroom.

  “I thought you had yarrow for treating fevers?” She squinted at the lines of script she’d written on the parchment before her until she found what she searched for. “Here it is, yarrow is for healing wounds, stanching bleeding and for fevers.”

  “Sometimes, one or the other is not available to me, so I keep small quantities of both on hand.”

  ’Twas a sound practice. She nodded and picked up the next jar in front of her. Lifting the lid, she sniffed it carefully as the herbalist had shown her. Marguerite had been too eager that first day and found herself lying on the floor looking up into the concerned face of the good brother when the fumes of a potent concoction overwhelmed her. She did not make the same mistake again.

  Looking at the dried leaves, she tried to remember which ones they were. Betony? Bindweed? Lady’s Mantle? Not sure, she held the container up to the monk.

  “Adder’s Tongue. For healing wounds and for skin irritations.”

  Marguerite paused to look more closely at the leaves before sealing the jar tightly and placing it on the shelf above the worktable. It had taken them nearly a fortnight to organize the herbs and concoctions and ointments, but only a half-dozen remained. At the least, Brother Wilfrid’s replacement would find a well-ordered supply of the needed herbs and medicaments and a written inventory of all that the room held. Although she was certain that the new herbalist and lord’s clerk would read and write in Latin, Marguerite had done as Orrick requested and translated all the records into English as they’d worked to gather them.

  By the time a servant brought their noon meal, the final six were catalogued and stored. Her fingertips were blackened from the ink and her hair was barely controlled in the braid that fell into her lap as she worked. Marguerite rose from her seat and stretched her arms over her head, rolling her shoulders to loosen the tightness there from holding the quill so tightly while writing. Careful not to touch the front of her gown, she scooped some of the soap Wilfrid kept on hand into her palm and worked it into her fingers.

  “Stained for life, my lady?” Intent on her efforts to remove the ink, she startled at the voice. Looking up, she watched as Lord Orrick stepped closer and filled the doorway.

  “I fear so, my lord. My father’s servants would bemoan the condition to which I’ve allowed them to suffer.”

  She examined them closely and realized the truth of her words—Berthilde would have had her soaking in some bitter-smelling bath until the ink was removed, even if it meant her skin went with the stains. Realizing the mistruth in her words, she shook her head. “This would never have happened in my father’s house, for once I mastered the skill of writing, I was not permitted to do it, for fear ’twould do just this.” Marguerite held her discolored hands out to him.

  Lord Orrick watched her movements as she massaged the soap into the beds of her nails and over her palms. Dipping into the bowl of warmed water, she rinsed them and dried with a towel kept for that purpose. The stains were now shared with the cloth.

  “I think there are worse things in this world than well-used hands,” he said. “Not using the skills within them is a terrible waste.”

  He took one of her hands and lifted it closer to his face. Turning it over and back, he rubbed his thumb over her palm and her fingers and up to her wrist. The soft tickling sensation turned into a tingling that crept up her palm into her arm and through her as he continued a methodical massage. She shivered when he leaned down and touched his lips to the inside of her wrist. Unable or unwilling to move, she was not certain which held her in place as she watched him repeat the same action on her other hand.

  Would he stop?

  Where else would he place his lips?

  Smooth and warm, she could almost remember the feel of them on her neck and on her breasts. Another shudder went through her as she felt the heated memory of his kiss and caress on her skin that night. ’Twas only Brother Wilfrid’s loud and unsubtle cough that broke into the reverie that enveloped both of them. She jumped back a step from Orrick, finally reclaiming her hands from his grasp.

  “What service can I provide for you this day, my lord?” Wilfrid asked, standing in Orrick’s presence.

  “I came to steal my…the lady from you, Brother. She complained that this place was never without storms and rain and now that the clouds have loosed their hold, I would show her my lands.”

  Not sure why, Marguerite shook her head, refusing his invitation. “My lord, I fear that our work is not done here.”

  “Brother?
What say you? Can you spare your assistant for a short time if I promise to return her to you when you finish with your midafternoon prayers?” Orrick smiled at the monk and waited. She already knew that Wilfrid would deny Orrick nothing, and the fact of spending nearly three hours with him moved closer to happening.

  “My lady, if the weather is clearing I should make a visit to the village. I know you wish not to accompany me to that duty, so this is the perfect time for Lord Orrick’s request.”

  Orrick frowned at the monk’s words but did not ask for more elaboration of it. Now her fate was sealed with no gracious or practical escape.

  “May I get my cloak, my lord?” Mayhap if she could get out of the workroom alone, she could distract him with some other task. Edmee’s appearance, with Marguerite’s cloak in hand, told her there was no way to avoid this. “You have arranged all the details, then?”

  “Even some food and a mount suited to you.”

  Orrick took the cloak from her servant and placed it on her shoulders. He held out his arm to her and she laid her hand on it, allowing him to guide her from the workroom, through the main floor of the keep and out into the yard. A boy from the stables stood holding a horse for her to mount, and with Orrick’s hand-up, she did.

  Taking the reins and wrapping them around her palms, she arranged her skirts and waited for Orrick to mount. He stood talking to one of his soldiers and then swung up onto his larger horse. She followed him out through the gate, around the southern edge of the curtain wall and past part of the village.

  He was correct—the rain had given way to a sunshine that warmed the lands here. Instead of the enduring gray that made the stones of Silloth Keep appear dull and despairing, the sunlight caught on the walls and made them sparkle. Like the onyx beads in her jewel case, the bright light brought out aspects not usually seen and the whole castle gleamed.

  Their path turned downhill and Marguerite realized that they headed for the ocean. The steep path took all her concentration and it was not until they reached the flat beach that she looked back to see how far they had descended. It nearly took her breath away! They were more than a hundred feet below the keep now, on the side that faced the ocean and the winds.