Infamous (2 page)

The ladies had hurriedly changed into their riding dresses and dropped the garments they'd been wearing onto their beds, knowing the servants would pick up after them.

Jory entered Joanna's chamber and swept up the soiled petticoat from last night before the serving women found it. She followed the sound of female voices and found three servants tidying Maud Clifford's chamber. She gave the women a measuring glance, selected one, and took her into her own room. “Dora, you are about my size. How would you like to have this dress I'm wearing?”

“Oh, my lady, it's brocade! Do you mean it?”

“There's a catch. I have need of the plain grey tunic you are wearing. Will you trade with me?”

“Indeed I will, Lady Marjory. I have half a dozen like this.”

Jory unfastened her gown and stepped out of it as Dora hurriedly removed her tunic. Then she lifted her gown over the servant's head and fastened the buttons that ran down the back. “Go and look in the mirror at how lovely you are.” Jory thanked Dora, hung the grey tunic in her wardrobe, and donned another gown.

She picked up Joanna's petticoat, bundled it with one of her own that needed washing, and made her way to the castle laundry. It was a cavernous place beneath the vast kitchens, where dozens of washerwomen toiled daily over a mountain of soiled clothing and household linen. Boiling water, soap, lye, and starch branded them with red chapped hands, the telltale mark of their trade. The laundry also encompassed drying chambers, pressing rooms, and folding and storage areas for the clean linen.

The head laundress bobbed a curtsy, while her young helpers at their scrubbing boards gaped. “How may I serve ye, m'lady?”

Jory's smile encompassed all. “You do such excellent work and I'm here to thank each one of you. Maud Clifford is responsible for Princess Joanna's personal laundry, but I have a shrewd idea that she passes it off to one of you.”

“Mary's the one wi' the gentle hands,” the laundress confirmed.

Jory dropped the petticoats into Mary's washtub and smiled her thanks. “I'd love to look around. The vast scale of your operation is astounding. Would you be kind enough to show me?”

The head laundress swallowed the bait and gestured for Mary to accommodate the princess's lady-in-waiting. Jory took the lead immediately and maneuvered her way to the linen press, where the clean garments for all the castle servants were stored. As they walked between the rows of shelves, her eyes searched for things that would serve her purpose. She saw a pile of white linen headdresses and helped herself.

“I've always wondered what the bathhouse women wear when they scrub the noblemen who visit Windsor. They must get soaking wet.”

“I'll show you, m'lady.” Mary led the way down another aisle. “They wear these cotton smocks that dry quickly.”

Jory fingered the material. “Fascinating…I'll take one.” She lowered her voice to a confidential tone. “When Princess Joanna is wed, she will first move to a splendid country manor house in Clerkenwell, near the Tower. The Earl of Gloucester has more castles and residences than any other noble. If you would like to be part of her household, I will recommend you, Mary.”

“Oh, thank you, my lady. I would love to serve the princess.”

Jory tucked the garments she'd pilfered under her arm and winked at Mary. “Consider it done.”

It wasn't a great distance from the washhouse to Windsor's bathhouse, which was located on the ground floor above the dungeons. The stone edifice was part of the outer wall on the Thames side, where water from the river was piped in and heated. The plan was copied from a system the ancient Romans had built in Britain centuries before.

No lady ever ventured near this strictly male bastion where kings, princes, earls, barons, high-ranking clergy, and the men who held royal office had made their ablutions for over a century. Jory did not dare hesitate about what she intended or her courage would fail her. She had come this far and would not stop now. As she reached the arched entranceway, a cacophony of raised male voices, shouting, cursing, and laughing made her heart pound. She covered her hair with the linen headdress and slipped the cotton smock over her gown. It was such a voluminous garment that it almost drowned her. She gathered its folds about her and stepped inside. When she saw the size of the strapping bathhouse women, she understood why the smocks were so enormous.

She peered through the veil of steam cautiously, realizing that many of the partly obscured figures were unclad males. A matron slapped a wooden tub of soft soap into her hands and pointed. “This is for Gloucester. Make haste!”

She took one step and the woman bawled, “Take the salt.” Jory gripped the block of salt the woman thrust at her. “Salt?”

“For the earl's teeth, ye gormless wench.”

On what felt like stiff wooden legs, Jory staggered in the direction the matron had indicated and was relieved when a young squire with a Gloucester badge on his tunic took the items from her and passed them to a muscular female. When the squire stepped aside to fill a bucket with water, Jory was presented with an unimpeded view of the naked bridegroom lying full length in a white marble tub. The bathing wench slathered a handful of soft soap onto his chest and reached beneath the water, groping toward his private parts.

Jory stared in amazement. Gilbert de Clare's limbs displayed a few scars and his muscles were ropey and knotted from years of use, but he did not have the body of an old man. The hair on both his chest and head was sparse and grizzled, yet the features of his face were strong.
Joanna, Gloucester is no lapdog!

“Rinse!” The order from the bath wench brought the bucket of water that the squire held pouring down upon the earl.

De Clare gave a bark of laughter. “You'll need more water than that to drown me, lad.”

The strapping woman hauled up Gloucester's leg and examined his foot. She looked at Jory and ordered, “Pumice stone.”

A canvas curtain that hung beside the bathtub was drawn aside. A naked man rose up and stepped from his own marble tub. He handed the bath woman his pumice. “Take mine—I'm done.”

Jory stood rooted to the spot and gaped. The male who stood resplendent before her was tall and powerfully built. His broad chest was covered by a pelt of wet black hair and his impossibly wide shoulders rippled with smooth, glistening muscle. Jory did not dare raise her eyes to his face, but looked her fill at the rest of his body. Water droplets trickled down his flat belly and narrow hips. Her gaze followed them as they ran down his long flanks, which bulged with saddle muscles. Her attention shifted to the forbidden place between his legs. His cock and balls were nestled among a heavy thatch of wet black curls that in no way obscured their size. She was shocked at the amplitude of his sex, yet amazed that the male groin could hold her in thrall to such a degree that she was mesmerized.

The spell was broken when the man picked up a towel and slung it about his hips. The object of her fascination was now covered, enabling her to think more clearly, and it forcefully struck her that she should not be here doing this scandalous thing. Jory backed away slowly, desperately trying to avoid drawing attention to herself, but the two men began conversing and she might have been a block of salt for all the notice they paid her.

As she made her way back to the Upper Ward, she walked as if she were in a trance. Her thoughts were all centered on the powerful naked body she had just witnessed. She had no doubt that it belonged to the compelling noble who had riveted her attention when he rode in this morning, yet his identity was still a mystery. The commanding figure in the sable armor had enthralled her, and now that she had seen him nude, she was completely entranced. Though she hadn't the vaguest notion who he was, she felt his strong magnetic power, which held her in thrall.

Who are you? Who the devil are you?
She was bemused that the word
devil
came to mind, yet she knew the reason. He was dark and powerful, sinfully enticing, and he had an aura of forbidden danger about him. Jory sensed all this before she had even seen his face.

She was filled with a driving need to find out who he was. Tonight she would search until she found him. Tonight she would see his face and look into his eyes. Would his visage attract her or repel her? Jory shivered with anticipation.

“I
don't wish to wear that head veil.” Joanna waved a dismissive hand at her lady as she studied her reflection in the polished silver mirror. “My hair is too lovely to cover.” She had already refused to wear the virginal white roses the queen had provided.

Jory stepped forward. “You could wear a jeweled circlet.”

“Yes, bring the one that's tiered like a crown. It won't hurt to remind Gloucester that a royal princess stands above an earl.”

Jory brought it and stood on tiptoe to fit it into place, as amusement danced in her eyes. “Would you like your ermine cape?”

“I shall save that for the wedding.” Joanna's laughter trailed away as her glance swept over Jory. “Why aren't you dressed?”

Jory lowered her voice. “Tonight I have a secret mission.”

Joanna slanted a knowing eyebrow. “An assignation?”

“First I must stalk and identify my quarry.”

“Happy hunting! Your prey doesn't stand a chance.”

 

Jory waited until the princess and her ladies-in-waiting departed for the banquet. Joanna's chamber was in such disarray that she tidied the room and hung up all the garments that had been strewn about. Jory had a fine appreciation of beautiful clothes and because she'd had the talented services of the royal dressmakers for the past two years, she had developed an elegant fashion sense. She had learned which styles flattered her petite figure and which shades best set off her delicate coloring.

When the room was restored to order, Jory returned to her own chamber and donned the plain grey tunic and white linen headdress. Excitement bubbled inside her as she surveyed her appearance in the mirror to make sure she could pass as a castle servant. She tucked an errant tendril behind her ear and said a quick prayer.

 

Windsor's Great Hall was packed to overflowing. The earls and barons had come to see and be seen. Those in attendance were obviously in favor with King Edward at the moment. It was a rare chance for the nobles to gather in one place at one time to converse, exchange ideas, air differences, protest taxes, plot intrigues, forge alliances, negotiate deals, and make advantageous matrimonial matches for their sons and daughters.

The attendants who comprised the nobles' retinues were primarily interested in eating, drinking, gambling, and indulging any other vices that slaked their appetites.

By the time Jory arrived, the banquet was well under way. She had stopped in the kitchen and helped herself to some roast fowl and a quince tart. Then she picked up a jug of ale and entered the hall. She put a safe distance between herself and the royal dais, where the Plantagenets, their guest of honor, Gilbert of Gloucester, and the nobles who held high office were seated.

From a dimly lit alcove, her gaze swept the long table. The queen sat on King Edward's left, his son and heir, on his right. Though the youthful Prince Edward was younger than Joanna, there was a strict pecking order. The Earl of Gloucester was seated next to the princess, and Jory smiled, knowing that Joanna thought herself magnanimous to even acknowledge his presence. Gilbert de Clare didn't seem to mind. John de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford and Constable of England, was seated on his other side and the two military men were deep in conversation.

Thomas of Lancaster, the king's nephew and high steward, was seated next to the queen, and then came Roger Bigod, the Earl of Norfolk and Marshal of England. Jory's eyes widened as they fell on her own uncle, John de Warenne. Though he was the Earl of Surrey, she'd had no idea King Edward held him in such high esteem.

Jory had not been aware of her uncle's arrival, and she now realized her brother, Lynx, and his wife, Sylvia, would be here too.
They must not see me playing the role of serving wench or there will be merry hell to pay!
She cautioned herself to watch out for them and keep a safe distance.

The Great Hall was filled with rows of trestle tables and benches to accommodate the throng of nobles and their attendants. Huge platters of fish, eels, roast fowl, haunches of beef, and whole piglets were placed on every table so the guests could serve themselves, and as Jory glanced around she saw that the dishes were now empty and the bones picked clean. The nobles sat with their own people to eat, but once the tables were cleared, they would be eager to walk about and seek out their friends and allies.

She set off with her jug of ale, ignoring the many tankards thrust at her to be filled. As she nimbly dodged the male hands that reached out to pat her bottom or touch other parts of her anatomy, she scrutinized the badges on the men's tunics. She saw every device and animal imaginable as she searched for a golden bear on a field of jet. She had traversed the entire length of the hall, yet still the badge that she sought eluded her.

A deep male voice echoed in her ear. “Demoiselle, my throat is as dry as an Arabian desert. Will you take pity on one who thirsts?”

Jory whirled around and stared into a pair of eyes so dark they looked purplish black. He was the most handsome man she had ever gazed upon, and pride was stamped in every line of his face. Displaying inbred manners, he arose gallantly and waited for her to fill his tankard. She had to raise her chin and tilt her head back to look up at him, now that he had risen to his full height.

As her avid gaze traveled up his broad chest she saw the golden bear emblazoned on his black velvet doublet and as their eyes met, her brain clicked with recognition and she identified the device.
Warwick! God's blood, the man is the infamous Earl of Warwick! The one they call the Wolfhound
. Jory stood motionless, staring wide-eyed, like a doe poised for flight. Warning bells sounded in her head. She thrust the jug of ale at him and fled.

His attention obviously engaged, the earl set the jug on the table, detached himself from his men, and followed the maid.

Jory's feet did not stop moving until she was outside. She took several deep breaths, filling her lungs with fresh night air.

“Pardon, demoiselle. If you desire some company, you need look no farther. I am Guy de Beauchamp, at your service.”

She turned and looked up at him. “Warwick?”

With some amusement he acknowledged, “Aye, I am Warwick.” He held out his hand to her.

She tore her gaze from his face and looked at his hand. It was large, calloused, with long shapely fingers, and it was compelling beyond measure.
How can I refuse him? He possesses an invisible force that draws me.
Her impulsive nature willfully banished her trepidation. She placed her hand in his and he curled his fingers about it. She felt his warmth seep into her, and something far more potent: She felt his power.

“What shall I call you, little maid?”

“My name is Mar—” She stopped, appalled that she had almost blurted her true identity. She watched his mouth curve and thought it beautiful.

“Margret? Will you walk with me, Margret?”

“Where, my lord?”

“Wherever you will.”

His voice was so deep and lyrical, it insinuated itself inside her. She was acutely aware that Guy de Beauchamp had an innate French charm and gallantry that set her pulses racing madly.

She thought of walking by the river, then with great daring, changed her mind. “I should like to walk in the garden.”

His fingers tightened about her hand. “I shall follow wherever you lead, demoiselle.”

She knew he was telling her what she wanted to hear. He wasn't blatantly lying, merely blurring the truth. For she knew down to her bones that
he
would do the leading. And she would let him.

Hand in hand they entered the Upper Ward and walked along the terrace that took them past the State Apartments. They went through a stone archway that led to the formal garden. The royal garden was walled and private, but Jory was familiar with a hidden entrance. She slipped her hand from his and with nimble fingers unlatched the gate.

Once they were inside, Warwick did not recapture her hand; instead he slid his arm about her shoulders. His closeness coupled with her own daring sent shivery excitement spiraling inside her, and her senses became drenched with the intoxicating perfume of night-blooming flowers and his potent male scent.

Their footsteps slowed as they came upon an inviting garden seat tucked beneath the cascading branches of a willow tree. The moonlight bathed them in haunting silver and dark shadows. Jory gasped as his powerful hands encircled her waist and lifted her to stand on the bench, eliminating their difference in height.

His dark eyes studied her heart-shaped face with great intensity. “You are exceedingly young,
ma petite
.”

“I am eighteen!” she protested.

His mouth curved. “A delightful age of innocence.”

“Yes…no! Perhaps,” she added provocatively.

“An innocence that thirsts for a deeper knowledge and hungers for a wider experience…perhaps?”

“Yes, indeed, my lord,” she murmured breathlessly.

His long fingers cupped her face, holding her captive. His mouth hovered above hers for a full tantalizing minute before his lips touched hers. She closed her eyes and swayed, intoxicated by the taste of his kiss.

His arms swept about her to steady her; then he lifted her and held her against his hard body. This time he took full possession of her mouth, easily persuading her to open her lips to his questing tongue. He thrust inside the velvet cave of her mouth, tasting her honeyed sweetness. He allowed her body to slowly slide down his until her feet once more touched the bench. Then his hands caressed her back with long, drugging strokes that moved ever lower until he had captured her bottom cheeks.

Held against his powerful body, Jory pictured him naked and was lost, lost in a sea of desire. She was aware of his hard arousal brushing against her soft thighs and felt her mons tingle in response. She gripped his muscular shoulders and arched against him, but because of their disparate size, her woman's center rubbed against his belly. She moaned softly with frustration.

He lowered himself to the bench, pulled her into his lap, and took possession of her lips. Long, lingering kisses progressed to deeply sensual persuasive ones, and then his mouth became demanding as he ravished her with his tongue.

She could feel his hard shaft beneath her, and shifted her bum to better accommodate his great size. He lifted the hem of her tunic and slid his fingers around her slim ankle. His bold hand moved up her shapely calf, fondled her knee, and then moved beyond her garter to the expanse of bare thigh above her hose. When he began to stroke her naked flesh with his calloused palm, she wanted to scream with excitement.

He nuzzled her ear with his lips. “Open for me,
chéri
.”

Jory's eyes flew open as if she had just come out of a trance. She closed her legs tightly, trapping his seeking fingers. “You must stop! This is wrong…I should not be here like this.”

His dark eyes searched her face. “I will stop, though you cannot deny you invited my advances.” His voice held regret. “I have no need to force a woman.”

“I did invite your kisses…They held me spellbound,” she confessed breathlessly. Her breasts rose and fell with agitation over her dilemma. She craved his touch. She desired this man with every fiber of her being, yet at the same time she cursed herself for behaving like a whore. She feared the great Warwick would neither respect nor value a woman who was wanton.

She eased the vice grip of her thighs and felt his palm slide down her leg. When his hand emerged from beneath her skirt, she was shocked to see that his cunning fingers had stolen her garter.

He cocked a black eyebrow. “Just as I suspected. You are no serving wench. Confess the truth and shame the devil!”

Jory was aghast. “How did you know, my lord?”

“Serving wenches are coarse. You are made of finer stuff. I suspect you are a gently bred tiring woman to a noble lady.” He grinned. “Does she know you have pilfered her garters?”

Relief flooded over her.
Thank heaven he thinks I'm a servant!

“No wonder you asked me to stop. You deserve better than a quick tumble in the grass. Will you come to my chamber?”

Jory licked her lips and tasted his kisses. Desire flared up in her for the wicked Warwick, and she knew she must escape before the dangerous devil mesmerized her completely. She slid from his knee. “It's late…I must go…I have duties…”

“My invitation is open.” He held her with his dark eyes. “Will you come to my chamber tomorrow night?”

She gazed at him with longing.
He possesses an invisible force that draws me. How can I refuse him?

His mouth curved. “I know you will not refuse me, demoiselle.”

Jory backed away, breaking the spell. Then she turned and ran.

 

Warwick returned to the hall. He was relieved that the dais was now empty. The queen had retired and the bride-to-be had obviously made her escape. He saw half a dozen earls conversing with the king and decided to join them. He took a tankard of ale from a server's tray and drained it. By the time he had walked the length of the great chamber, he had received three blatant invitations and two that were more subtle from noble ladies who had accompanied their husbands to Windsor for the royal wedding. Guy de Beauchamp was accustomed to female attention. His dark, predatory looks coupled with his reputation as a fierce warrior on the battlefield, were tempting enough. When the dangerous rumors of his dealings with women were added, the more daring matrons were eager to risk playing with fire for the chance to be scorched by Warwick's smoldering passion. He kept walking and ignored the invitations. Over the years he'd had a bellyful of spoiled, highborn noble ladies.