Constant Heart (42 page)

“Nay.” I hawked with Lytham. The attraction of the sport lay in the partner, not the activity.

“Why so melancholy?”

“I am not.” And I was not. I was just . . . changed.

Lady de Winter and her husband came to visit on the way to one of their estates that winter. If they had been excused from court, had taken the chance to leave, then surely might not Lytham do the same? And if he might, then why had he not?

Lady de Winter spoke to me of nothing while her husband flirted with my maids. A hand circling one of their slender wrists drew my attention for its indiscretion. And when Lady de Winter perceived me not to be listening, it drew hers as well.

“He finds something to engage his affections wherever he goes.” She took my arm and pulled me around so that our backs were turned toward them.

“And this does not bother you?”

“Bother me? It delights me! If he is talking to some maid, then he cannot be talking to me. God rot them both. God rot them all. The man and
all
his paramours.”

I could not understand the alliance of the de Winters. In my observation, he was far more solicitous of other women’s health than his own wife’s. But if Lady de Winter did not please him, he could well send her away. As Lytham had me.

In thinking of him, I could not stop myself from speaking of him. “How goes Lytham?”

“You have had no word?”

“Of what?”

“He probably lacks the time to write. He is day and night at the Queen’s side.”

Day
and
night?

She must have seen my frown. “Well, ’tis what is
said
. I have not seen him of late, for I have not been well. But, come! ’Tis a triumph.”

“Of course, ’tis a triumph.”

“Then why do you look so grieved?”

“I just . . . it is just . . .”

“You love Lytham too much, girl. Can you not see how I despise de Winter?” She had turned us back around to view the merriments, and her eyes were throwing daggers at him.

Aye. I saw too well how much her own heart was hurting.

“Love will do you no good. And much more harm.”

I hoped for Lytham into spring. Surely, I thought, we would see him for St. Matthias’s Day. And then I was certain he would pass through for Shrovetide and then for Easter. But he did not.

It was nearing summer when he finally returned. And when he came, it was with Nicholas and all of his men. And he embraced me right in the middle of the courtyard.

“Have you missed me as I have missed you?”

I could not allow him to guess that my heart was beating furiously within my chest. “Miss you? I have not had time to think about you.”

He led the way into the Great Hall, triumph evident in every step.

“I gained some more rents and a waiving of some more taxes.”

“Excellent. See the new cushions on the seats?”

He blabbered on about Her Majesty. About this thing which she had said. And that thing that he had answered. By the time supper was over, I was sick unto death of them both. And so I took myself to bed.

But I woke that night with a start. Someone’s cold toes were begging warmth from mine and clever lips nibbled at my ear.

I pulled the covers up over my head.

I felt a hand caress my hip and quickly nudged it away with my elbow.

“Marget, my sweet.”

He tried again, running his hand up and down my back. Usually I responded by curling into him like a kitten, but that night I rolled onto my back.

“What is it, lady?”

What is it?
What else could it be! “I have no taste for another’s bone.”

“Of what do you speak?”

I sat up, clutching the warmth of the covers to my chest. “Think you that I will be content with another woman’s leavings? You cannot spend half the year with the Queen at court and expect me to be grateful that she allows me the scraps of one week’s end.”

He stared at me with something close to amazement, and then he began to laugh.

“And I will not have you laugh at me in my own chambers.

Get out!”

“I cannot—”

“Away!” I gave him a shove that sent him sprawling onto the floor. And still he laughed.

“But ’tis just that—”

“I am sure the royal bed has finer pleasures than I can offer.”

“Marget, my sweet, your rage does nothing but endear you to my heart.”

“You come here with nothing but words and cold toes expecting that all will be forgiven? I remind you, as others so often have, that I am but a knight’s daughter. And among such classes there is still a thing called honor!”

“And upon my honor, I will tell you, lady wife, that I have never even glimpsed the inside of Her Majesty’s bedchamber.”

“And further you—have not?”

“I have not.”

“But . . . Lady de Winter said . . . she said you were at the Queen’s side day and night.”

“And so I was. For Her Grace plays like a fiend at cards and she loves to dance. And if she cannot dance, then she takes pleasure from seeing others do the same.”

“So you . . . played cards and . . . danced? This six months?”

“Aye.”

“And ’tis all that you did?”

“For the better part. There were some masques. There was some intrigue. There were quarrels betwixt Essex and Raleigh. And then quarrels betwixt Essex and Cecil. I never wanted for entertainment. And I have never worked harder in my life. How many ways are there to flatter a sovereign? One can compare her to the moon and to the sun. To Gloriana and Diana. To Astraea and Flora. And then one begins to worry. And so I galloped toward home the first chance I found only to have my own wife round on me and push me from her bed! Must I think of some pretty compliment for you too?” He pushed to his knees and extended an arm toward me. “Dear lady, your affections are as enduring as a boulder . . . and just as able to crush the life of those standing too close.” His eyes ranged my face. “It does not please? Then I offer you this: ‘My lady is like the white rose, offering excellent hips and sweet perfume to those that gaze upon her beauty and naught but pain in the plucking.’ ”

I blanched. It was true. I had done that very thing. I let go the covers and extended a hand toward him. And he came forward to clasp it with a kiss. It was one of the sweetest I had ever known.

“Why did you send me away?”

“Because I thought you better entertained here at Holleystone. And in truth, I was afraid that if you stayed, I could not court the Queen the way I had to.”

“It was not because you did not want me?”

“I ever want you. You cannot doubt the truth in that.”

I blushed to hear it.

49

W
hen Lytham went back to court in London, I went with him. I hoped and prayed during the next few weeks that the seed of love that had been planted and renewed would produce a babe. But it did not happen.

What if like so many of the women at court, I was destined to be childless? What then would happen to Lytham’s estate? And what would happen to me if I failed in this duty? Even as I grieved my dead babes, I also grieved for myself. For my position. For my failure. Though I tried to keep it hidden, Lytham tried to search it out.

I sighed one forenoon as I listened to him play the English horn.

He stopped his song. “Why so sad, my sweet?”

“I am not.”

He put the horn back to his mouth and played a progression of notes in a sad, mournful key. “Says she of wounded eyes.”

“My lord . . .”

He set the horn down and came to my side. “Must you address me as my lord? Could you not call me Lytham? When you call me Lytham, you speak to me of amusements and trivialities.” He looked at me with a hope I could not return.

“My lord.”

“So it is to be of business, then?”

“It is to be of posterity.”

“Then say what you will.”

“What if . . . what if I cannot . . . ever . . . have a babe. One who lives?”

“Your flowers have not stopped?”

I tried to smile. I tried to shake my head, but I discovered that I could do nothing at all. Little surprise for one who had failed at the very first responsibility of marriage. “Nay. They have not. It is only that, considering what has happened in the past, it is very difficult to consider the future.”

There was no change in his visage. No lowering of his eyes. But I noticed that the light had gone from them.

“I must ask you, my lord, is there no one, no close relation of blood, that you might recognize as your heir?” Some person, as Lady de Winter had hinted, heretofore gone unrecognized to preserve my dignity?

She was asking me if I had an illegitimate child! And what was I to say? I needed words, divinely inspired. Oh, sweet Marget, why are you asking me to betray your trust? I could answer in the negative, but that would do nothing to quiet the concern in her eyes. And it would not have been the truth.

I looked away from her. Sighed. “I have one son.”

Her gaze dove from mine. She folded her hands and placed them into her lap. “How . . . old is this . . . son?”

“He has seven years.”

I could see her do the calculations. Not ten and seven? Not twenty and seven? Seven years before we had been joined in marriage? But it was not as she was thinking. She closed her eyes. Bowed her head. “Then he must be brought into our household.”

“Truly—”

“Do not say it.”

“I must tell you—”

“I do not need to know.” The words sounded as a hiss escaping between her teeth.

“But he is—”

“I will not hear it. Whatever words you speak, I cannot care. The boy may be brought into this house, and he may be raised as your own. He must be. I know this. But I cannot hear how it was for you those years ago when I remember still how it was for me.”

“How it was for you? For you? Let me tell you how it was for me! I had vowed never to look upon a woman again. Never to touch one. Never to trust one. And then I arranged to have myself married to a veritable raven-haired Helen with which half the court fell in love.”

“Truly, my lord.” She said it as if she scoffed at my sentiments.

“Truly! And so, even as I doubted her constancy, I was ever confronted by examples of her fidelity. And even when I thought her a Clytemnestra, eating at my very soul, she changed into a Circe and had me lying, like a dog at her feet! It was enough to drive me mad!”

“You love me.” Why did she have to sound so resigned?

“Sweet heaven, how could I not? There is not strength enough given to man!”

“But then, this boy . . . ?”

“He is
Elinor’s
son. He is called William.”

“But why did you annul the marriage if—”

“She did not tell me until after the annulment.”

“But why?”

I felt my hands claw my hairs. “I do not know.” I never had, and always it had puzzled me.

“Forgive me for asking, my lord, but how do you know that he is yours?”

I lifted my eyes to hers. “One has only to look upon him to know.”

We gazed at each other for several long moments. And then she broke the silence. “What is being done with him?”

“I do not know.”

“He is your son and you do not—”

“It is not my place to know. He does not bear my name. I
have
been informed that he has been placed into service in a nobleman’s house. The home of Elinor’s brother.”

“And what is to become of him?”

I shrugged. “He will become part of the man’s household.”

“But not the
son
of such a household.”

“Marget.
Our
son will be the son of such a household.”

“But what if there is no son?”

I knelt before her and took her hands into my own. “There are many years left, my sweet, before that will be determined, but
if
that happens, then I can officially adopt William as my own and make him the heir to my estate. There can be nothing about which to worry.”

“As long as your future is secured.”

“My future
is
secured. And I prefer to spend it with you.” There. Those words, at last, had made her smile.

In some ways, knowing about William eased my mind. In others, it only underlined my complete failure as a wife. I wished, more than anything, to do something, to be somebody of use to my husband.