Rose Bride (13 page)

‘Yet old enough to bed a woman, it seems.’

Her friend looked dazed. ‘Has he . . .? Did you . . .? Never say you have already lain with him, Margerie?’

She smiled at that. ‘I have not.’

Kate crossed herself, shaking her head. ‘Thank God,’ she breathed. ‘Not that I would ever condemn another woman for taking pleasure or advancement from a man’s attentions. It is what I have done myself, all my life, and kept my place at court through it. But you are not me, Margerie. Your heart is soft and your bed has stood empty too long. I would not see you hurt by a lover who would call you “mistress” to your face, but a whore before his friends. For we all know with which pack Lord Munro runs, and those noble dogs have no love for you.’

‘They are king’s men, to be sure.’

‘So why accept his offer?’

Margerie hesitated, half tempted to admit the truth. But part of her deal with Lord Munro had been a pact of absolute secrecy, and she did not wish to break that agreement. In this court where a promise meant nothing, and an oath was broken easier than a virgin’s maidenhead, she was determined to keep her word. Even if it meant her friend thought she was lying with a young nobleman who, in truth, took no interest in womankind but merely wished to keep his reputation as a man intact.

‘Will you do this for me, Mistress Croft?’ his lordship had asked, cap in hand, standing almost humble before her in the quiet woodlands, and she had seen a pain in his eyes that she understood only too well. ‘My mother thinks me half a man because I have never lain with a woman. And one day I must marry, and beget an heir, I know it. But that day has not yet come. Meantime, it must seem to the world that I am a man like any other. So if you would consent to pretend to be my mistress, and come to my rooms, then say your time was spent in my bed, I . . . I would make it worth your while.’

She had stared at his lordship, not sure she understood. ‘Spend time in your
bed
?’

‘Alone and unmolested, I swear it,’ he had explained hurriedly. ‘I would be occupied in the next room with . . . with a . . . a friend.’

Her eyes narrowed on his flushed face. By friend, he meant ‘man’, surely? At once she saw a danger. ‘But if this friend . . . is in your rooms too, will not the court believe I have had relations with two men?’

Lord Munro had paused, then nodded abruptly. ‘It may seem so, yes. Could you countenance such a bold lie?’

Margerie had folded her arms, unsure how to respond. She felt sorry for this young man, but her own reputation was at stake too. Queen Jane had made it clear that unchaste behaviour would henceforth be frowned upon, and what if her grandfather heard of such lewd goings-on and wrote to her, shamed by her promiscuity?

‘I cannot—’ she began, but was interrupted.

‘For land,’ Lord Munro said quickly. ‘A goodly estate in Sussex, with grazing rights and several orchards, and the deeds to a country manor that stands upon that land, for you and your heirs, in perpetuity. The bond to be completed within one year of this day, and only if I am satisfied that you have spoken to no other person of its terms.’

She had stared. ‘You are offering me land and a manor house in exchange for being your mistress?’

‘In exchange for your absolute silence that you are
not
my mistress,’ Munro had explained, watching her face eagerly. ‘I will do my utmost to protect you from censure at court, though we must be discreet. The king will accept discretion in a nobleman’s dealings with his mistress, where too open an affair will end in punishment and exile. So in public we shall not acknowledge each other, but it should be believed that you come to my chamber once or twice every sennight to . . . make love.’

Margerie had blushed at his frankness, but said nothing, knowing she should by rights reject him, yet tempted beyond belief by his offer of financial independence.

Lord Munro had drawn off his glove and held out his hand to her. ‘So what do you say, Margerie? Is it a deal? I give you my word of honour, I shall not touch you, nor allow my friend to touch you.’

Not complaining at his intimate use of her name, she had agreed in a daze, only too aware what such payment would mean. It was rare for any woman to be granted land and a home in her own right, to become a landowner was to be a woman of property, an heiress, and no longer reliant on a man for her food and board.

‘A twelvemonth pretending to be your mistress,’ she had agreed, shaking his hand.

Lord Munro had smiled at last, his blue eyes warmer now. ‘A twelvemonth on my terms, and the land is yours.’

Now Kate was looking at her expectantly, and Margerie could not tell her how this business had come about, nor that she was not Lord Munro’s mistress, but must lie to her dearest friend. For if she told the truth, and word got out, she would stand to lose the land and property Munro had promised her. And she had never owned anything in her life. Nothing but her reputation.

‘I accepted his offer,’ she told her friend lightly, ‘because he pleases me.’

‘Munro pleases you?’

‘You sound surprised. Should he not?’

Kate shrugged, lowering her gaze to the embroidery frame they had both been working on that morning. It depicted a hunting scene, with two dogs dragging down a stag, and men in the foreground, carrying knives and sticks, their faces flushed with excitement and exertion.

‘I thought him one of those youths who rather prefers the company of other men, that is all.’ Her friend held a pale green embroidery silk up to the frame, testing the delicate colour against the others. ‘But I must have been mistaken.’

‘Yes, you must.’

Kate looked at her sideways. ‘And your handsome doctor?’ Her tone was sly. ‘Master Elton has returned to court, you know. I thought you wished to make his better acquaintance.’

Margerie sucked in her breath. Her lip wobbled as she bit it, steadying herself. Master Elton was a dream she could no longer pursue. Not unless she wished the court to think she had the energy and lewd shamelessness to take three men into her bed. Such a scandal would almost certainly bring her behaviour to the attention of the queen.

Besides, the good doctor might have wanted her badly at Greenwich, but he would not look at her again once he heard the rumours about her and Munro, which would surely start to circulate after she had spent her first evening in the young lord’s company. Virgil Elton was a respectable man, and betrothed to another woman by his own admission. He would not waste his time on Munro’s mistress, however desirable he had once thought her.

Her hands trembled as she took up her needle again, but Margerie dismissed the deep sense of loss aching inside her. Better to have the lifetime of independence that Munro had offered her than a few brief nights of pleasure with a man who could never be hers. Though in her heart she knew it would not be easy to set aside all thoughts of Virgil Elton.

Virgil Elton had found it impossible to stop thinking of Margerie Croft. Nor was there any reason he should do so, when he was not yet married and she could so easily be his. After all, once he was wedded to Christina – the thought was strange enough to make him uneasy – he would still have physical needs, and Christina was unlikely ever to be well enough to satisfy them. To keep a mistress at court was the obvious solution.

One evening, after three days of waking with a stone-hard cock, Margerie’s face and luscious body in his dreams, Virgil made his way with determination to the women’s quarters where his resourceful servant, Ned, had discovered she was lodged. He had no very good idea what he would say when he got there. But it would have made little difference if he had prepared some elaborate excuse, for as soon as he made his way up the winding stair and found Mistress Croft standing in the open doorway, he stopped and stared, unable to speak a word.

‘Master Elton!’

Her eyes widened at the sight of him, her lips parting, and she half-turned towards him. Her bodice stretched about her breasts, pulled in tight by a belt at her waist, the long draped folds of her gown hiding the delectable beauty of long legs beneath. Virgil gazed at her in the doorway, and was haunted by the memory of her body against his in the rustling darkness of that yew hedge, so sweetly hot and yielding he had been lost in lust as she kissed him.

His cock hardening, Virgil sketched a curt bow that he hoped would conceal his arousal. ‘Mistress Croft.’

She curtseyed in response, her expression oddly cautious, considering their last meeting. The bodice gaped as she dipped down, and he caught a tantalising glimpse of her breasts, pale and rounded.

‘How . . . How may I help you, sir?’ she asked, and he could hear her voice trembling.

‘Forgive my intrusion, mistress. I merely wish to satisfy myself . . . that you are not in need of further medicament. I feared you might have run out by now. If so, you are more than welcome to come to my workshop, Mistress Croft, where I will furnish you with a fresh supply.’

She had understood his veiled invitation, he was sure of it. There was colour in her face now, her green eyes over-bright. But she did not smile in return.

‘Sir, I thank you for this kind attention. But I am much improved since . . . since the court moved from Greenwich.’

Virgil stared. Was she rejecting him? An unexpected sensation stole his breath away and for a moment he could not answer. Then he nodded, smiling again to hide his reaction.

‘You have no more need of my sleeping draught, in fact?’

‘Just so,’ she murmured.

‘Indeed, I am glad to hear that.’

Virgil was not glad, but he had at least understood
her
, that was for certain. She did not wish to repeat the breathless attack of lust they had experienced that night in the gardens at Greenwich, nor had she any plans to consummate the attraction between them. There was no more to be said.

‘It seems you are cured of your indisposition. I will bid you a good evening then, Mistress Croft.’

Her slight curtsey dismissed him, its brevity almost insolent as she turned away. ‘Good evening, Master Elton.’

So that was that, he thought, and frowned. The meeting had not gone as he had planned. But at least he was left in no doubt of her feelings towards him. He must have been mistaken when he thought Mistress Croft open to his advances. Or perhaps he had left it too late and some other man had laid a claim on her while he was away from court.

Virgil made his way back to his bedchamber, suddenly aware of a need to be alone where no man might see him. He found Ned on his knees lighting the fire, and sent the boy on his way after the exchange of a few idle words. The room was oddly silent after Ned had gone. But then he had hoped to be bringing back a glorious companion for the night, and instead he was alone.

What had he expected? That Margerie Croft would be his for the asking? This was a woman who had refused to lie with the King of England. What would persuade her to accept a humble court physician instead, even one whose godfather had been one of the king’s favourite tutors?

The steady glow and crackle of the fire comforted him as he took a book from his bedside, and pulled up his chair to the hearth. But even as he admired the remarkable balance and logic of Sallust’s Latin prose, his thoughts were elsewhere, remembering the expression on her face, the way Margerie had avoided looking at him directly, the strange hesitancy of her speech . . .

Had Margerie Croft lied to him tonight? And if so, why?

Five nights later, he had his answer. He had been summoned to the bedside of Sir Christopher late one evening, one of the men he had interrupted during Margerie’s attempted rape earlier that year. The knight had been wounded in the leg during a jousting contest before the king and queen, and was feverish. It was clear from his initial examination that the humours were out of balance and the man needed to be bled. Virgil had performed the deed himself, placing the leeches carefully at certain points on his body while Sir Christopher swore and ranted against the opponent who had bested him.

‘An idiot who can barely sit a horse,’ he was telling his friend, who was standing beside the bed with folded arms. ‘Now I shall hear nothing at court but this failure for the next month at least. And all because my guard was weak. Otherwise the fool could not have got near me.’

Virgil’s lips twitched. ‘There,’ he murmured, beginning to remove the leeches, dropping each one into a small copper bowl. ‘Your bleeding should bring the fever down. That, along with the cooling draught I will leave you. One drop on your tongue every hour tonight will suffice, sir, and if you are still feverish in the morning send your boy to me and I will attend you again.’

‘Too full of himself by far, that dolt Munro,’ his patient told his friend, ignoring Virgil. ‘On any other day I could have taken him down with one hand tied behind my back, I swear it.’

Virgil set the cooling draught beside Sir Christopher’s bed, then packed the leeches away one by one in their slimy container, careful not to make any comment. He disliked the man intensely, but one could not pick one’s patients at court. Or not without exciting the kind of attention he preferred to avoid.

Sir Christopher continued, ‘So now my lord Munro has a mistress, and this, we are to believe, has changed him overnight from a boy with two left feet to a champion of the joust. As though all it takes to make a man is a night or two with a skilful whore.’