A King's Betrayal (2 page)

Three

‘Richard has sent word that he will visit us on his way to Ireland.’ Lord Tomas Ryston looked at his beautiful wife as she sat on a stool, preparing herself for bed, the harsh set of his features giving nothing away. The year was 1399. It was three years and nine months since he’d married her and brought her to this castle on the borders of Wales.  In all that time he had never visited her bed nor done more than place a chaste kiss on her brow.  He had listened to her cries of agony as she gave birth to a child, a daughter, and he had stood by when the King visited his mistress and child, for he knew that they were still lovers when Richard chose to lift his royal finger.  ‘He will stay but one night, but I was sure you would be happy to receive him.’

             
‘Yes, of course.  I am always happy to receive His Majesty,’ Beatrice said, rising to her feet.  She smiled at him and once again her sensual beauty struck at his stomach, making him aware of  hot desire, which he hid from her, as he had from the beginning, smothering his jealousy.  It was little wonder that the King was drawn back to her again and again, despite the danger of discovery.  Richard might be fond of his child bride, but he needed a woman in his bed.  ‘Are you to accompany Richard to Ireland, Tomas?’

             
‘If he asks it of me.  You know that I am his servant to command, as I have ever been.’

             
Beatrice nodded, brushing back a lock of her thick hair.  A tiny pulse beat at his temple as he noticed the full swell of her breasts beneath her silk tunic.  God how he wanted her!  Controlling his urge to take her in his arms and declare his love, he schooled his features to remain wooden, hiding the urgent need.  When he’d given Richard his promise to honour and care for her he had not taken his vow lightly.  He was the guardian of the King’s daughter and mistress.  For that he had been given the rank of Lord, honours and a pension.  The castle and lands were Beatrice’s own, as Richard had promised her.  However, Tomas had lands of his own elsewhere in Wales – lands that had been his from soon after his birth.  His lands had not been taken from the lords the King had punished, as Beatrice’s had.   With Arundel tried for treason and beheaded in 1397, the king had struck at those he hated with breathtaking vengeance. Richard had recently taken yet more punitive measures against the ruthless barons who had once tried to seize his throne. Henry Bolingbroke, son of John of Gaunt, who had but recently died, had been banished some years previously, but now Richard had taken Bolingbroke’s lands in Wales, something Tomas thought unwise, though his loyalty to Richard prevented him from saying it to anyone but his king in private.

             
‘I wish that Richard would let us return to court.  I weary of living here sometimes.  Do you not miss the court, Tomas?’

             
Tomas saw the discontent about her mouth and his expression hardened.  Why must she always hanker for something she could not have?  She was beautiful but her pride and ambition might ruin them one day.

             
‘I am content to oversee my lands and yours,’ he told her, but a nerve jumped in his throat, because at times his need of her was almost overpowering.  She was his wife!  He had a right to order her to his bed, to force her to be his in all ways.  Yet he knew that he would not take what was not offered freely.  ‘If Richard asks service of me I shall give it, but I will not ask him to allow you to return to court, Beatrice.’

             
‘You know, don’t you?’  Her smooth forehead creased, her eyes narrowed, intent.  ‘You know that he comes to my bed when he visits – you know that I am once again with child, his child.’

             
‘I thought it might be so,’ Tomas said, his voice hoarse, tense as he struggled to hold back the roar of rage inside him.  The bitterness tasted like iron in his mouth.  ‘You will tell him of your condition when he visits?’

             
‘Yes.  I believe I shall have a son this time,’ she said, a little smile of pride on her lips.  ‘Richard’s queen is still a child herself.  She may never give him an heir.  Richard should acknowledge my children.  One day he may need us.’

             
‘You know he will not do so, Beatrice.  If you plague him with your requests you may drive him away.’

             
‘Would that not please you?’  She held her head proudly, a glint of anger in her eyes.  ‘Or will you be content with the scraps Richard throws you?  I know a daughter was not important enough to make him acknowledge her in public but if I have a son he must surely see that the boy may be his only heir.  He had no children with Anne of Bohemia but I have given him two.  How can he ignore me?  I should be at least a duchess – and my children should know the name of their true father. He could legitimise my children, make them his heirs.’

             
Tomas balled his fists at his sides.  Sometimes her pride and her temper made him want to strike her.  Had she no idea how wounding her words were to a proud man?  No doubt she thought him Richard’s lapdog because he had wed her and stood by while she continued to cuckold him, but he had taken her for one reason and one reason alone. 

             
‘You should curb your tongue when you speak with Richard,’ he said.  ‘You may win titles and honours from him if that is your wish, but you must speak fair and show modesty.  If you are too bold he may deny the child is his.’

             
‘How could it be otherwise?  You have not once come to my bed since we were married.’

             
‘It is only your word against his.  Who would believe you?’

             
‘You would be believed.’

             
‘Why should I make a fool of myself to satisfy your pride, Beatrice?  If Richard gives you more honours and lands will that content you?’

             
‘My son should be King of England.  Richard made me that promise when he seduced me.’

             
‘Had you stood out for marriage you might have won all you desire, but a king must marry for reasons of State – and Richard could have almost any woman he wanted.  If he chooses to visit you, you must think yourself fortunate. Have a care, lady.  You know his temper.’

             
Beatrice glared at him.  ‘If you had an ounce of pride you would not put up with the situation.  You should demand at least an earldom this time.’

             
Tomas moved towards her, and now he could not control his anger.  A nerve twitched at the corner of his eye, his mouth drawn into a hard line.

             
‘Be careful, Beatrice.  I have tolerated your behaviour for reasons of my own, but I shall not be dictated to.  I could beat that bastard out of you and if you push me too far I might do it.’

             
Beatrice shrank back from him, crossing her arms protectively across her body.  ‘You would not…’  her breath caught in her throat and she looked frightened.  ‘Forgive me, Tomas.  I should not have confronted you.  It is just that I…’ Tears stood in her eyes and she sank back on the edge of her bed, bowing her head.  ‘I thought he loved me.  Even now he swears he loves me but he will not acknowledge my sweet Elspeth as his daughter.’

             
‘It may be as well if he does not,’ Tomas said.  ‘Richard’s crown does not sit easily on his head, Beatrice.  There are always those who would depose him and place another on the throne.  The barons want more power for themselves and he will not give it. They are unruly and ambitious. One day they may rise up against him.  Should that happen, your child might be taken from us and murdered.’

             
‘No!  Not my sweet Elspeth.’  Beatrice turned pale.  ‘How could that be?  Do you know of plots against Richard?  You must tell him, Tomas.  You must warn him.’

             
‘Richard has his spies.  If I have heard rumours living here, then he has heard them long since.  If he listened to those who care for him he would not go to Ireland, but he rules by divine right and will not listen.  Richard believes that he alone has the right to govern England and everything he does is meant to strengthen his position, but I fear he makes mistakes.  His harshness alienates his nobles. One day he may push someone too far and then…’
             

             
Tears were sliding down Beatrice’s cheeks.  Tomas wanted to wipe them away.  He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, to make her forget Richard and his broken promises.  Richard was his king and he owed him loyalty, but there were times when Tomas wished him dead.  Perhaps when Richard was dead, Beatrice would turn to him.  Perhaps then she would love him.

             
‘Richard will be here tomorrow,’ he said.  ‘Goodnight, Beatrice.  Remember what has passed between us for I would not see you ruin yourself.’

* * *

Beatrice lay back against her cushions, resisting the urge to throw one at her husband’s retreating back.  He was such a cold unresponsive man and sometimes she wanted to fly at him, to score his face with her nails and scream abuse at him.  She had deliberately provoked him to anger, because his calm manner irritated her beyond belief.  For a moment she had thought he would take her by force and she had almost wanted it, wanted to see some show of emotion in him.  What kind of a man was he?   Why had he never attempted to make her his wife in truth?  Why did he stand by and pretend that he did not notice when Richard came to her bed?  No true man would accept such humiliation and turn the other cheek.

             
She plucked at the silken quilt with restless fingers.  Tomas had not forbidden her to speak to the King about legitimising her children, but that was not his way.  He had merely told her what she already knew.  Richard was fond of their daughter.  Elspeth was an enchanting child with hair the colour of ripe corn, more gold than red.  She had her colouring from her father, of course, but in all else she was Beatrice’s child.  Like quick silver, she was always laughing and playing games.  All Beatrice’s women adored her and vied with each other to attend the child. People said that she was special, a golden child.

Elspeth was quick to learn, her intelligence beyond her years.  Beatrice told her stories and legends, teaching her things that a child of her age could hardly be expected to know or understand.  Elspeth was the daughter of the King of England and should know the history of her country and her father’s family.  One day she might be the key to the throne itself and her mother intended her education to fit her for that purpose.  Beatrice had listened to her husband’s warnings often enough, but her ambition was as fierce as ever.  Even if Elspeth could not be the queen herself, she might marry a man who stood close in line to the throne, because her father’s blood meant that many would think such an alliance the next best thing to having Richard’s son on the throne.

             
Supposing the French princess never gave him a son…supposing Beatrice’s second child was a boy.  Surely Richard would see the sense of her request then?  If anything should happen to him as things stood he had no heir – but if Richard acknowledged her son he could be King when his father died.  Tomas would say she was building castles in the air, and perhaps that was true, but Richard had promised her she would be his wife.  He had broken that promise, but now that she was with child once more he must surely see that he owed her this much…

Beatrice allowed her husband to greet the King alone.  She had heard the herald’s horn and knew that Richard’s train had arrived at the castle some time back, but instead of joining them in the hall she waited in her chamber. The men would speak of things that bored her: Richard’s visit to Ireland and various new laws and other matters of State that held little interest for her.  She had sent for Elspeth and spent an hour braiding the child’s hair, telling her stories, holding her on her knee kissing her and petting her.  Richard had given her one of his precious books, which had pictures as well as verse.  The pictures were carved into wood, a process that took weeks, and then covered in ink before being pressed to the velum.  The making of a book took months, even years sometimes, which was why they were such precious things that even the King of England had no more than a dozen precious volumes.  Beatrice showed the bound manuscript to her daughter, showing her the pictures and words.  She was aware that they made a pretty picture and when Richard came his heart would be softened.

             
She was singing to the child when he came.  Her senses told her at once for he always wore the same scent – cedar and musk and a hint of rose – which came from the chest in which his clothes were stored with rose petals.  Her nerves tingled but she did not turn immediately, continuing her song until she felt the touch of his lips on her head.

             
‘You are well, lady?’

             
Beatrice set the child down and a waiting woman took her away, leaving them alone.  She stood and turned to greet him, a smile on her lips.  ‘I am well, as you see, Sire.  I am more than well for I bear a child – your child.’