Rose Bride (12 page)

Nor was it merely the ladies’ fashions which Jane had changed since coming to the throne. Those long hard nights of drinking and debauchery that had so frequently held sway during Anne’s reign were no longer mentioned even in whispers, and most courtiers were expected to retire to bed soon after nightfall. Prayer books had replaced Italian poetry among the courtiers close to Her Majesty, and although there was still dancing in the evenings, it was the slow pavane and dignified courtly measures that were played, not the foot-tapping French tunes that required leaps and lifts.

Jane was a modest and sedate queen, and although she frequently pronounced herself the king’s servant, it seemed to many that her husband might be brought to heel along with his court. Knowing the king as she did, Margerie did not believe Henry would so easily be changed. Nor would his men. The noblemen still drank deep in the evenings, of course, and continued to debauch maidens. They had not become monks overnight. But such misdeeds were achieved in secret now, behind the closed doors of their privy chambers, not openly in a court of lust and appetite.

She turned down a shady woodland path, keen not only to escape the warmth of the rising sun but also to avoid being seen from the palace. But she had not been walking many minutes into the wood before she heard slight noises behind her and realised that she was being followed.

Slightly alarmed, Margerie hurried her pace. The woodland path would curve round again to join the main walk in a few moments, but here she was out of sight of everyone – and possibly out of earshot too.

Still she heard the footsteps following her, growing closer. Flushed and uncertain of her safety, she picked up her skirts to run, and at that instant felt a hand on her shoulder.

‘Mistress Croft?’

Margerie turned at the man’s familiar voice, and fell back several steps in surprise when she saw who had been following her.

‘Lord M-Munro,’ she stammered, her eyes fixed on his face, then belatedly remembered to drop him a curtsey.

Sleek fair hair, blue eyes, strong cheekbones, and a hard muscular body clad in fine dark garments as befitted a man of his rank. Munro looked like a younger version of Lord Wolf, she thought, and was at once on her guard against him.

He was looking at her intently, his blue eyes sharp on her face. ‘Forgive me if I startled you, Mistress Croft. But I must speak to you, and you will not deny me this time.’

Fear spiked inside her as she stared back at Lord Munro. What did this lavishly dressed young nobleman want? Had he followed her and seen his chance, finding her alone and unprotected, out of sight of the palace walls?

There was only one thing courtiers sought from a woman of her reputation, and this tall and muscular young man would have no trouble taking it, however hard she fought.

Margerie raised her chin. ‘My lord?’

‘Mistress Croft, I cannot stop thinking about what happened to you on the night when . . . Well, I am sure you recall the evening to which I refer. I want you to know that none of that was my fault. Nor do I condone what was done to you in the king’s name.’

‘Nothing was done to me,’ she said coldly. ‘A gentleman intervened after your departure, and your companions left me alone.’

There was a slight flush in his cheeks now. ‘I am glad to hear it. I wondered when I heard no boasting from them afterwards. Well, good.’ Lord Munro hesitated. ‘But I would still ask your pardon, for I could have stopped it myself and did not.’

‘You are pardoned.’

‘I thank you.’

‘I must leave you now,’ she murmured, turning away. ‘I have walked too far today, I shall be late for my duties.’

‘Wait.’

She looked down at the jewelled hand that restrained her. ‘My lord?’

‘Please,’ he added, looking embarrassed. ‘There is something I would ask you, Mistress Croft. It is a question of a somewhat private nature.’

A somewhat private nature.

Margerie steeled herself for an unpleasant insult. ‘Let me hear it then, and quickly, for I must return to the palace before I am missed.’

Lord Munro’s expression hardened at her lack of courtesy. ‘Very well, I shall not dress it up in lavish compliments but come straight to the point.’ His blue gaze met hers directly. ‘Will you consent to become my mistress?’

Virgil followed the steward’s assistant up the wooden stairs in the east wing of Richmond Palace, bowing to acquaintances as he passed them but not stopping to exchange words, for his travelling bag weighed heavily on his shoulder. He had refused to allow the man to carry his bag though, for it contained his journal and various private papers, and also delicate vials that he could not risk breaking.

So the court had moved again, though not so far as to make the journey arduous. Richmond Palace stood in an idyllic setting, edged by sprawling woodlands on one side and the River Thames on the other, a beautiful and many-turreted building, not quite palatial but perfect for one of the king’s favourite pursuits, the hunt.

These shifts of residence were tiresome but necessary, to allow each palace to be cleaned and properly refurbished during the king’s absence. And at least Virgil was entitled to bouge of court as one of the king’s physicians, enjoying bed and board free of charge along with the rest of the king’s entourage. Not all courtiers were so lucky, especially those who wished to bring their wives and children to court, and found the king would not pay their keep too. Another good reason not to marry, he thought drily, unless one could marry a woman already in the king’s employ.

‘This will be your chamber, sir.’

The steward’s assistant threw open the door to reveal a bare chamber with two low cots and a straw mattress, one table covered in dust, and an alcove draped across with a threadbare curtain where the chamber pot and washing items were presumably kept.

‘Three sleeping spaces?’

The steward’s assistant shrugged. ‘You were to share this chamber with Master Hight and his apprentice. But Master Hight fell sick three days ago and was sent away from court for fear it was the plague, taking his apprentice with him.’

‘The plague?’

Virgil could not disguise the horror in his voice.

‘We have had no word from him as yet, but that means nothing. It may have been some other sickness laid him low. But until Master Hight returns, you have this chamber to yourself. Unless he dies, in which case the place will be allocated to some other gentleman.’ The man looked him up and down, then glanced at his bag. ‘You have an apprentice? Or a servant to see to your needs?’

‘I need none,’ Virgil said shortly, and threw his bag onto one of the cots. ‘My chests of medicaments and other supplies should follow in a day or two. I put them on a cart and rode ahead. But I have no apprentice, and my servant, Ned, was assigned to Master Greene’s service when the court moved. So it is only I who am in need of bouge of court.’

The man nodded. ‘Very good, sir. I will inform the chief steward.’

When the door had closed behind him, Virgil went to the generous window and looked down, a smile on his face.

He always enjoyed the court’s sojourns at Richmond for, although not as stately as the king’s other residences, it had a certain charm with its enclosed privy gardens – the rose garden, in particular, was famed at this season for its fine specimens – and a pretty orchard that took him back to his childhood in Kent. Though the royal apartments along the river front were very handsome, the palace had been built as a hunting lodge, less generous in its proportions than Greenwich; sleeping quarters for commoners were often cramped and cold in winter, with many in the king’s household forced to share. But now he had been given a chamber on his own, with a view over rolling ground towards woodlands where he might stand and breathe in the clean air of the countryside.

Perhaps his luck was turning.

Virgil turned back to the bed and began to unpack his few possessions, accustomed to seeing to his own needs and not missing his servant. He was itching to begin work on the king’s new aphrodisiac, sure now that he could produce something to arouse and maintain a man’s performance in bed, even one in middle age and dubious health. But until his chests of medicaments arrived, each bottle and flask wrapped carefully in wool to reduce the chance of breakage between Greenwich and Richmond Palace, that would not be possible.

He drew out his nightclothes, and suddenly remembered walking down to Margerie Croft in the moonlit gardens wearing nothing but these under his cloak. Arousal flooded him at the memory, and Virgil was surprised to feel his breathing quicken. What he would not give to have Mistress Croft naked and spread across his bed right now, her red hair flowing loose over his pillows, her green eyes lusting boldly for his touch . . .

God’s blood! Was she a witch, to move a man to full arousal even when he had not seen her in weeks?

A knock at the door surprised him. ‘Enter!’

It was Ned, grinning. Virgil smiled back, for he instinctively liked the boy. But he could not hide his surprise on seeing him. ‘I thought you served Master Greene now,’ he said, dropping the nightshirt. ‘Has he dismissed you?’

‘Master Greene’s chamber is but across the hall, Master Elton, and when he heard you were to be lodged here, he told me to serve you both.’

‘I see.’ Virgil laughed, and felt for a penny in his belt pouch. Tossing it to the boy, who caught it with an eager look on his face, he nodded to the clothes laid out on the bed. ‘In that case, you may start by hanging up my robes, then pack away the rest of my clothes in that chest. And mind you guard against moths.’

‘Aye, sir,’ the boy said cheerfully, then paused halfway across the chamber and fished a crumpled paper from within his tunic. ‘I nearly forgot, sir. This came for you three days ago, and Master Greene bade me keep charge of it until your return to court.’

Virgil took the letter and smoothed it out. ‘Good lad,’ he said drily, then recognised the hand.

Leaving the child to continue with his work, he took the letter to the window and broke the seal straightaway, holding it to the light as he read. It was from Christina.

Virgilio Christina salutem

I trust this letter finds you well.

My uncle having finally agreed to my leaving this house where I am little better than a prisoner, I shall be presented at court as soon as his physician declares me well enough to travel. Moreover, if I survive the journey, he swears that his objections to our match will be at an end and we may be married.

I know you were planning to visit me this autumn, but it seems I shall be visiting you instead. How does that prospect please you? As much as it pleases me, I trust.

I miss you, my dearest friend, and hold you constantly in my prayers.

vale bene, Christina

Virgil closed his eyes in horror. Christina would surely not contemplate travelling to court? ‘Jesus Christ,’ he swore under his breath, then crossed himself to avert bad luck.

Such an arduous journey would kill her, almost certainly. He opened his eyes on a wave of pain and read her letter again, trying to gauge her mood from the words. Foolish girl, he thought, and crumpled the paper in his fist. Stubborn as ever, and intent on killing herself to prove that she was alive. Though if Christina died on this ill-advised journey, her death would be on his head. For he had brought her to a state of unruly desperation by giving her hope.

Virgil stared out at the palace grounds, watching trees sway gently in the wind. Yes, this was his fault. But he had given her his word years ago, and now his word must be honoured.

When he was still a youth and she little better than a child he had found his young friend Christina in tears, lying on her sickbed and despairing what might happen to her in the future. That day he had asked her to marry him, and she had gladly accepted, knowing it would allow her to reject any other offers as she grew older, and also one day might bring a life beyond those grim four walls she called her ‘prison’.

But in truth he had never believed Christina would live this long. Not to full adulthood. Not to the point where their marriage might become a real possibility.

And nor had she.

CHAPTER NINE

‘And what reply did you give in response to Lord Munro’s insolent offer?’ Kate demanded, staring at her.

Margerie set another neat stitch in the embroidery frame, then paused, admiring her handiwork.

‘I said yes, of course.’

Kate’s eyes bulged and she gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth. ‘Margerie Croft, don’t you dare lie to me! Tell me you never agreed to be that man’s mistress!’

‘Hush, for God’s sake,’ she hissed. ‘Unless you wish the whole court to know my business?’

Margerie glanced cautiously about the narrow chamber, but to her relief the other ladies of the royal wardrobe were also talking amongst themselves. Certainly none seemed to have been listening to their low-voiced conversation. Nonetheless, it would not be wise to discuss Lord Munro’s proposal too openly. The court had grown too sombre since Jane Seymour’s elevation to queen for such loose talk of secret lovers and mistresses to prosper.

Kate’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘Forgive me, but Lord Munro of all men . . . Why, the youth is barely old enough to grow a beard.’