“Congratulations,” Henry said spitefully. “You have succeeded in breaking the finest of Wenthaven’s spaniels.”
Griffith hoped that he, too, would retain control.
“Your Grace,” he said, “I once found Lady Marian defending herself against a man—against Harbottle. He wanted to strip her virtue from her, and she rejected him with a kick to the throat. Yet I, rude, impetuous ass that I am, blamed Lady Marian for Harbottle’s unruliness. Lady Marian said men always blame a woman when the woman is the victim.”
“Did you avenge that insult?” Henry asked.
“Aye, so I did.”
“But not thoroughly enough, it seems, for Harbottle reappeared to trouble us. If a weed flourishes, we should dig it out by the root. By the root, Sir Griffith.”
“Henry,” Griffith whispered, but the sound echoed throughout the chamber. “Don’t you yet understand? Lionel is the son of royalty. The legitimate son of royalty. If I should kill you here—and I can kill you here, as you well know.” He placed his fists on his hips and made himself a menacing presence. “If I killed you, I would be the lord protector of the king. I would be regent. I would fulfill my dream of an independent Wales without having to wait on your mercy. I would have at my side the woman Lionel considers his mother, and I would vanquish your seed from the earth. This place which you have chosen to be the resting place of Lionel could easily become the resting place of King Henry Tudor, and I would be as one with the Crown.”
Henry watched him without blinking, with both terror and amazement in his gaze.
Softly Griffith said, “We have the proof of marriage.”
Henry jumped. “What?”
“The proof. Lady Marian has it.”
“Impossible. I searched—”
“But couldn’t find it. Aye, because Lady Marian’s always had it. At any time we could have turned the country upside down, had we chosen. Shall we do it now, Marian?” Griffith didn’t look at her, but he sensed that she moved to his side. “You wanted to live at court. You longed for a life of wealth and influence. This is your chance. Shall we do it now?”
She pretended to consider, her head tilted to one side as she watched Henry. “Shall we let Lionel decide?”
“What?” Henry’s shout rebounded across the walls, bringing a thump on the door as his men called to him. “Leave off!” he roared.
“Ask Lionel if he would be king?” Griffith nodded. “As good a method as any. Lionel, do you wish to be king?”
Still struggling to get down, Lionel said, “Nay!”
“You’ll get to live in a palace,” Marian coaxed, as if he could care.
“Nay!”
“And have men kneel to you and women kiss you,” Griffith continued.
“Nay! Nay. Lionel down now.”
A sheen of sweat covered Henry’s thin face. “You mock me.”
“Just a little, Your Grace.” Griffith took Lionel from Marian, although her embrace lingered a little too long, and swung him to his feet. “Don’t climb on the chairs,” he instructed the lad.
“You wouldn’t really try to replace me as king.” Henry wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
“Nor would you really try to have Lionel confined to the Tower.” Griffith waved his naked blade in emphasis.
“Of course not.”
“Of course not,” Marian repeated. “Our liege lord is ever wise.”
“As are Lord Griffith and Lady Marian.”
“Anyone can make a mistake,” Griffith said. “Only a fool insists on repeating it.”
Lionel cooed with concern when he found Honey, curled up by Wenthaven’s chair and licking her injured paw. With a child’s sure instincts, he let the dog sniff his hand, then cautiously began to pet her head.
Did he have the scent of Wenthaven on him? Perhaps, for Honey tolerated the attention until, with a sigh, she dropped her head on Lionel’s lap.
Henry watched without expression. “This proof of marriage…”
“Is in a safe place.” Marian dared say no more.
Henry sagged with relief. “Good. I would that it remain unseen, for my queen’s sake, if not my own.”
“That is a vow I believe I may make, Your Grace,” Marian said.
Henry backed toward the door, his gaze cold and his expression deadly. “As long as that proof is in a safe place, I believe you’ll find your safety guaranteed.”
Marian couldn’t stand to see it end this way—Henry defeated, Griffith rejected. She was, after all, a woman. Perhaps not a conventional woman, perhaps not the woman Griffith would have chosen if fate had given him a choice, but a woman nevertheless. With the whisper of Wenthaven’s countess in her ears, she cried, “Wait!”
Stopped by the plea, Henry lifted a brow. “Lady Marian? Have you more demands for me?”
“Only one, Your Grace.” She went to him and dropped to her knees. “I wish to pledge my fealty to you.”
She watched him as he stared down at her and realized how well Henry wore the inscrutability necessary for a monarch. In no way did he show he comprehended the depth of her submission. By not a flicker of an eyelash did he indicate any impropriety in her choice of place and time. Instead he readily took her two hands between his. “Do you wish, without reserve, to become my vassal?”
“I do so wish,” she answered. “I become your vassal, to bear to you faith of life and member and earthly worship against all who live and can die. I swear this by the memory of the holy Mary, who, like me, was the mother of a son.”
Henry nodded as if well satisfied, then raised her to her feet. The kiss of peace must seal their pact, but never had Marian had to kiss a man more unresponsive than Henry. He waited, silent and stony-faced, clearly expecting her to offer it freely.
To her shame she faltered. This final step proved too difficult, and she found herself unable to touch the man who had so threatened her son’s life.
At last Henry said, “Think of it as my token of homage. You have no other.”
She looked down at her empty hands in surprise. “So I don’t.” But his words broke her paralysis, and she put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth.
He kissed her back—not a pleasant kiss, but one that reminded her of his mastery—then pushed her toward Griffith. With a grimness at odds with his attempt at humor, he said, “A saucy wench you have here, Lord Griffith. Take care, or she’ll lead you a merry dance.”
“I do so pray, Your Grace.” Griffith received her into his arms. “I do so pray.”
“You’ll live on your new property on the Welsh border, of course?”
“As my liege commands, of course.” Griffith gripped Marian even tighter. “But we had first hoped to go to my parents’ home in Wales, where our marriage can be properly celebrated.”
“That’s an excellent idea. In sooth, if you stay far, far away from London, from the court, and from me, it would be even more excellent.”
At the door, Henry laid his hand on the handle and paused. He seemed to be deep in thought, and Griffith tensed. Then, without turning, Henry said, “You have my thanks, Lady Marian, for reminding me of the pleasure my queen will experience with her coronation. As soon as Westminster Abbey can be prepared and the proper celebration can be organized, the archbishop will place the crown on her noble brow, and make her queen in her own right.” He stood in silence, still facing away. Slowly, as if decency were dragged from him, he added, “I will have her write you, Lady Marian, as often as she wishes. Your friendship means a great deal to her, and I look forward to hearing about your accomplishments throughout the long years ahead.”
He stepped out and shut the door before Marian could reply.
For that she was grateful. Putting her face in her hands, she sobbed with relief. As soon as she could, she struggled to speak. “I was afraid…I’d ruined it for her. I was afraid…he’d blame her for my outspokenness and use it as one more excuse to plot against us. But he does love her. He truly does. And do you think�
�—Griffith’s face shimmered before her gaze—“that he means to leave us to raise Lionel in peace?”
“Aye, that’s what I think.” Griffith’s voice sounded deep and rough-edged, as if he, too, fought some great emotion. “Else he’d have called his guards to cut us down and we even now would be dying on the floor.”
“Dying on the floor?” She blinked and focused more clearly on his face, trying to understand what caused that savage tone. The expression she saw made her leap back in horror. “Griffith?”
He followed her, towering over her like a monolith about to topple. “What I want to know is—how do you get yourself into such predicaments?”
22
Stupefied, Marian could only gape at him. “What predicaments?”
“What predicaments?” he roared. “I walk in to find you defying the king of England, and you ask ‘What predicaments?’”
“I didn’t—”
“Every man on the isle of Britain wants you enough to kill for you, and you ask ‘What predicaments?’”
“That’s not—”
“You wear a skirt torn up to your knees, a burn on your hand, and blood splattered on your skirt, and you ask—”
Losing her temper, she stepped up to him and glared. “You pompous, overgrown, arrogant man! You dare talk to me about danger, when I saw you fighting Harbottle with nothing more than a war hammer? When I watched as Cledwyn shot arrows at you? When I saw you ride into Wenthaven’s stronghold alone?”
She realized someone was shouting, and she realized it was she. Glancing guiltily at Lionel, she braced herself for the fear on his little face. Instead she saw a boy petting a dog and watching the proceedings with great interest. Like a spectator at a game of ball, he glanced from Griffith to her, awaiting the next volley.
She didn’t disappoint him. Pressing her finger into Griffith’s leather breastplate, she declared, “I should have put my knife in your heart when I had the chance.”
“You would have, but you knew I was right.”
“I would have, but you don’t have a heart.”
“Don’t I?” He tore off his armor. “Don’t I?” He snatched her hand and placed it on his chest. “My heart beats for you, my lady, in triple time. If it’s not beating for the horrors that truly menace you, it beats for the horrors I imagine menace you. I used to be a stable, reliable, solid man of good reputation. Now I’m always half-mad with worry, anger, and desire.” His palm pressed hers deeper into the warmth of his chest. His eyes narrowed on her face, swept her figure up and down. “Mostly desire.”
“Ha!” She jerked her hand away and stumbled backward. “Mostly silly—”
He didn’t move but observed her with an intensity that reminded her of a stalking beast.
“Mostly silly conceit and stupid male—”
He breathed audibly through lips slightly apart. His eyelids drooped. He looked hungry and sleepy and, as he claimed, half-mad with desire.
“Mostly, um…” She forgot what she wanted to say. She only knew what she wanted to do.
Reach for him. Touch him. Taste him. Mate with him.
He wanted it, too. She could almost smell his arousal, feel his heat.
She held up her hand. It trembled, and she snatched it back to her side. “Now, Griffith. Now, Griffith, we haven’t found a solution for—”
“For what?”
She didn’t know for what.
Backing toward the door, Griffith kept his seductive gaze fixed on her. “Art!”
Art fell into the room, with Dolan atop of him.
“Listening at the keyhole?” Griffith snapped. “Learn anything interesting?”
Abashed, Art scrambled to his feet, but Dolan lolled on the floor and smirked. “Nothin’ we didn’t know.”
“Where’s Henry?” Griffith demanded.
“The king is gone. Run out of here like the devil chased him. Took his whole bodyguard.” Art shook his head. “Didn’t even stop to eat, and that caused some grumbling, I’ll tell ye.”
Griffith smiled grimly. “As I thought.”
“Took ol’ Cledwyn, too,” Dolan said with relish. “His neck’ll be stretched before this fortnight is through.”
“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving dickweed,” Art pronounced.
Griffith marched over and encircled Marian’s wrist with his fingers. Like a manacle, only stronger, warmer, and much, much more sensuous. “Take care of the child. Lady Marian and I are going for a ride.”
“A ride?” Incredulous and obviously aware of their desires, Art waved an encompassing arm. “But there’s plenty of bedrooms in—”
Griffith glared at him. “A ride.”
Dolan elbowed Art. “He means he doesn’t want Lady Marian haunted by any memories.”
“That’s stupid,” Art said. “Where will they go?”
Laughing out loud, Dolan said, “Just about anywhere. How long’s it been since ye were in a desperate hurry?”
Griffith and Marian didn’t wait to hear the reply—Griffith, because he was in a desperate hurry; Marian because he towed her behind him like a plow behind an ox. They went out the main door, and in a blur Marian saw mercenaries trussed together like pigs going to market, smiling servants, exhausted dogs, and a few bandaged men-at-arms.
“Griffith, shouldn’t we—”
“Nay.”
“But some of my folk—”
“They’re fine.”
“You’re heartless.”
Stopping so fast she bumped into him, Griffith took her in his arms and kissed her. Kissed her until she forgot her people and all her responsibility. She forgot war and grief and shame. When he peeled her off him, she dimly heard calls of encouragement, but it made no sense to her. Only his words made sense to her.
“I am not heartless,” Griffith claimed. “Come with me, lady, and I’ll show you.”
“We can take my horse.”
He smiled, the smile that had first lured her. His golden eyes glowed, approving of her, warming her, and soon she found herself before him on her own barebacked horse before she recovered half her good sense. The other half she kept at bay, asking only, “Where are we going?”
“Down by the Severn, where I heard the fairies call.” His arm tightened around her waist. “I’ve wed you in Holy Church—now I’ll call on the magic of the wee folk to bind you to me forever.”
“You don’t need magic.”
“What will it take?”
Laying her head back on his shoulder, she said, “Only love me.”
Exasperation shone from his eyes, and he sighed. “By the saints, woman, what do you think this has all been about?”
What had it all been about? she wondered with a chill. It had been about her insane ambition, and no sweet talk or mad passion could change that. She didn’t want the warmth, the closeness, to slip away, but she couldn’t hold on to it. Slowly she lifted herself away from him. He tried to tug her back, but she resisted. “If you knew the truth about me, you wouldn’t wish to touch me.”
She felt the tension in him, then he loosened his grip and said, “I doubt that.”
“You were right. I did wish the throne for myself as well as Lionel.”
“I know.”
“I’m not his true mother, for his true mother would have never—”
He interrupted. “You’re too hard on yourself.”
“Not hard enough,” she mumbled, and wiped her eyes.
“My mother says the only mother who always does the right thing is the woman without a child.”
He wanted her to smile, and so she did, but it was a wretched thing. The corners of her mouth trembled, and she had to wet her lips before she could say, “My father almost never did the right thing.”
“Maybe he did the best he could according to his knowledge,” Griffith suggested. “Maybe that’s all he knew how to do.”
Remembering her own designs for Lionel, Marian agreed. “Maybe that’s all anybody ever does.”
“Those
people who lived with your father…I was coming in as they were leaving.”
Marian laughed harshly, wondering what he’d thought of the exodus of Wenthaven’s furnishings.
“They said Wenthaven fell from the tower.”
“Aye.” She plucked at the horse’s mane. “He was trying to kill me, and found he couldn’t.” Clutching the coarse hair in a fist, she added, “But Cecily could.”
Speechless for a long moment, he stammered, “Cecily? You—you mean Cecily—”
“Is as big a fool as I am.” She smoothed the horse’s mane with her fingers and remembered Cecily’s honest grief over Wenthaven’s body. “But she’s bearing my half brother, and she’s big and miserable.”
“And after the child is born?”
Marian shrugged. “I suppose she’ll live to plot again.”
Stopping on the slope above the river, Griffith stared out at the winding ribbon of water. There he seemed to find a solution to some dilemma, for when he slid from the horse, he raised a mischievous face to her. “Would you like to give her to Dolan?’
Bracing herself on his shoulders, she stared at him. “Dolan?” she repeated slowly.
“Aye”—he grinned—“Dolan.”
The vision of the wicked old mariner and dainty, pretentious Cecily rose before her eyes, and, irresistibly, she laughed. “Whom are we castigating?”
Chuckling, he drew her down into his arms. “They deserve each other.”
As she watched, his smile faded. Embarrassment and distress swallowed his amusement, and he swallowed before he spoke. “You weren’t the only fool.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were right. Henry did wish to harm Lionel.” He wanted her so badly he could taste it, but he couldn’t let her blame herself when he was equally at fault. He suffered when he put her from him, suffered from the desire to take her and love her forever. Distress bred frustration, and he said, “Yet, damn it! How could Henry have duped me so thoroughly?”
“You’re a man.” She shrugged, quite as if that explained it. “Men like you think only of honor and justice, and never wonder about the emotions. Henry could be kind and just about Lionel—when he hadn’t seen him. But then he looked on that young face and saw Richard the Third.”
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