The Innocent (34 page)

Dickon smiled. “Perhaps. Give me but a moment, Your Majesty.” And Dickon scurried out, a man with a mission, as the king grinned at Hastings.

“I know that smile!” William grabbed one of the larger bath sponges and lobbed it, full of water, at the king. With a roar the king threw it back and it caught William full in the face. So with great gusto the two men hurled water and soap at each other and fell to wrestling in the huge stone bath as water sprayed everywhere, some of it catching Dickon and the girl he’d brought back with him. She was attractive: curly hair held back behind her head in a thick braid, and a small, tight waist under high, round breasts—modestly enough covered with a household kirtle and apron.

“Turn your eyes, girl.” The king hopped out of the bath as Dickon rushed to wind him in a linen bath sheet. “Yours is the field, Chamberlain. I shall see you presently, when you are clean.” And with a wink to William, the king left the shambles of the bathroom behind him to dress in an outer room beyond.

“Close the door, girl. And tell me your name.” William liked what he saw, and it seemed a shame to waste what the king had so courteously provided.

“Mary is my name, sir.”

“Well, Mary, bring the pitcher over here.” William drew up his knees, a gesture at modesty, as she closed the door and lifted the pitcher. “Pour it in behind me.” He sighed with contentment as the hot water mingled with what was left in the bath. “They say you’re a good laundress, Mary. Tell me, have you ever washed a man?”

The girl giggled as she poured. “No, sir. It’s not my usual trade.”

“So what is your usual trade, girl?”

“Starch, sir. I prepare the starch for the queen’s gofferer—and I’m in charge of washing all the really delicate linen for Her Majesty, with Rose, one of her maids.”

William was fishing around in the water as she talked, and he finally found what he was looking for.

“Ah, here it is.” It was a large piece of fine white soap made with oil of almond kernel from Castile; fine soap was an eccentric indulgence of the king. “Well, Mary, let’s see how good you really are. Wash my back, if you please.”

For a moment the girl said nothing, then he heard her put the pitcher down. William handed the soap up behind him; tentatively, Mary took it and started to rub his back.

“You’ll likely get quite wet, you know,” he said. The girl looked at him and then dropped her eyes.

“Perhaps you should take them off. Your clothes.” One of her hands strayed to an apron string but then dropped, uncertain. “Of course, you don’t have to. If that’s not what you want…”

Mary smiled slightly. It was enough. “Turn around, girl, let me help you.” William’s throat was tight, his breathing faster, as she obediently turned her back to him. Carefully, he undid her apron and then gently and slowly he pulled the laces from the back of her dress. As he pulled the sides of the garment apart he could see the smooth skin of her shoulders, and her back, down to her buttocks—she was naked under the dress, of course. The warm water and the closeness of the girl made him stir languorously, in anticipation. “Well, Mary, I can see you have a way with starch.” His voice was husky.

“Why is that, sir?” The girl turned around quickly and neatly, her clothes modestly held in front of her, but she’d allowed him to glimpse the side of her body, a hint of breast.

“Look at this.”

The girl laughed when she saw what was poking up in the soapy water and then, deliberately, one by one, dropped her garments on the floor and stood before him, naked. She let him look at her for a moment and then climbed the steps that led up to the bath, easing herself over the rim. Then very slowly, she slid her body over his in the hot water until she lay on top of him, allowing herself to rock gently up and down, up and down with the water. William was impatient, and as she allowed him to kiss her, he pushed his hand between her legs to open her thighs, then, his fingers feeling no resistance, eased himself, slowly, deliciously, up inside her body. She felt so good, hot and soft as butter. She gasped as she felt him enter but then slid herself down, panting slightly, so that he was firmly planted between her legs.

The hot water sucked and gushed between them as he began to move her up and down on his belly, almost weightless in the water; she was slick and the heat of the water surrounding them was almost too exquisite.

“A thorough laundering…” William wanted to prolong the pleasure as long as he could but he was close, especially when she slipped her hand down between them both, her fingers sliding back and forth, first on him, then on her. She was pleasuring them both, something he found deeply exciting and slightly shocking.

Edward had nearly finished dressing in the other room outside the great bath but he could hear what was going on, as the door was slightly ajar. “Thank you, Dickon. I’ll call if I need you.” The man bowed and left the room, face carefully expressionless, as Edward sauntered over to the bathroom door and peered through the opening. It was erotic watching other people make love and, although it wasn’t the first time he’d seen William with a woman, the sight of the couple in the bath set his blood racing: William was riding the girl now as she held on to the taps, eyes closed, her mouth open in pleasure.

The king gently pulled the door closed, deeply aroused. And thought of Anne. And smiled. There would be revels tonight, and the queen, exhausted as she was, would surely need to keep to her bed; he would instruct Moss. And it was time for Anne to answer the question he had asked of her; there was a mystery there and he would enjoy the solving of it…

As with all Christmas revels, of course, the most important thing was that the hall was warm but not so well lit that certain assignations could not take place in the shadows, supposedly unnoticed.

It was late in the evening now but the king had been drinking lightly, just enough, and was increasingly of the mood to enjoy himself. The queen’s chair of state, beside his, was empty; Moss had hurried to obey the wishes of his king and now, after the administration of a draft, Elizabeth would sleep until morning.

Anne, too, was sleepy because she was pretty close to drunk; in her fever to deal with the conflicts raging in her heart and her conscience, she’d gulped down whole wine—usually she drank it watered—

and it had gone straight to her head. And when she tried to eat to balance the increasingly heady feeling, she’d found she had no appetite because there, at the head of the hall, was the king—and all she knew was that she must, absolutely must, avoid looking at him.

But the night wore on and from time to time she’d stolen a glance at Edward, and, just now, she looked up to find his eyes on hers. He raised his cup, bowed slightly, and drained it completely—without looking away.

Anne, feeling the heat rise to her face, dropped her glance. The whole room must have seen the king.

But Evelyn was flirting with the man who was serving them yet more food—gobbets of pork in a sauce of pickled walnuts and cinnamon and cloves—and Dame Jehanne was talking brightly to her neighbor, one of the queen’s underpantrymen. No one at her table had seen.

Suddenly, there was wild applause—the Torch Dance! With a nod from the king, the musicians struck up the opening as servants brought lit tapers to the courtiers.

In the dance each lady carried a light and it was the job of her suitor to blow the candle out. But there were rules to what was, effectively, a dance of stylized seduction: the lady could shield her candle with one hand and the gentleman was not allowed to touch her—he could only use his mouth to accomplish his task. If the candle was blown out, that couple retired until, at last, only one pair was left who danced closer and closer to each other until the flame was finally extinguished. The music was provocative, too

—a quick, insistent beat from the tabors underlying a gliding, sinuous rhythm from the viols with the melody of a single flute that worked its way into the blood.

Anne saw the king stand. He was going to join the dance. She didn’t want to watch him flirt with the court beauties and so she wriggled off the tightly crowded bench with a mumbled excuse to Dame Jehanne that she was going to the garderobe.

Rose cast a sardonic glance at the girl as she hurried, a little unsteadily, out of the hall. “Ha,” she said to Dorcas resentfully, “thinks she’s got us all fooled, Mistress Mealymouth.”

“Who’dya mean?” Dorcas was fuddled by the wine, the heat and, the food.

“That one. Anne. Gives herself airs, thinks she’s too good for us. Plays at being the virgin. Bah!”

“Isn’t she?” Dorcas was really confused now.

“What?”

“Anne. Isn’t she a virgin?”

Rose snorted, and Dame Jehanne, who had heard the last exchange, sent a quelling glance down the table at them both. “She’s always down on me,” hissed Rose to Dorcas, “just because I speak the truth, unvarnished…”

But she forgot her anger the moment the good-looking servitor leaned over her shoulder, saying, “More pork, young mistress? Tastes just like man’s flesh, I hear.” And he dared to wink at her.

That made Rose feel much better, until Dorcas, in a loud beery whisper asked, “Are you then?”

“What?”

“A virgin?”

Rose choked. The servitor heard her and as he leaned down to ladle some of the dish onto her trencher he said, “Always at your service…” And he winked again, lewdly, so the warm thoughts that flashed into her head—plus the tight buttocks she saw under his short jerkin as he swaggered away—drove Anne from her mind.

Anne’s thoughts, though, were anguished as she hurried from the noisy hall. The king—the way he had looked at her, so steadily. He must just be playing with her; surely it was just another diversion, if all they said about him was true? But she wasn’t going to do that, be a diversion. Was she? She felt like crying, felt like laughing, as she ran. Felt like—

“So, now it is time to redeem your promise.” Anne had rounded a dark corner and there, standing in the light of the wall sconces, alone, was the king. He held out his hand. “Come.”

For one frozen moment she stood there and then, slowly, one hesitant foot after another, she walked toward him, heart pounding, throat dry until she stood no more than a foot away.

He was not smiling. “Give me your hand.” The voice was low, the words a breath, and for a rational moment her mind cut through the clamor of her body urging caution. But then she looked up into his eyes and what she saw there, the intensity, drew her like a magnet. Silently, she held out her hand; he clasped it and then drew her to him inexorably. For a moment they stood there, locked by each other’s eyes, but then he bent down, slowly, slowly, and gathering her to his body, kissed her so softly. And then again. Deeper. Slower.

Her eyes closed as she let him take her mouth and then he kissed her throat, and her mouth yet again.

Urgently, her body held tight to his, his kisses came faster and faster, deeper and harder—until Anne’s blood hammered so noisily she felt she would faint.

But now they could hear revelers leaving the hall. Quickly, Edward slipped off his handsome three-quarter cloak and draped it around Anne’s shoulders—on her it brushed the floor. Lady Margaret’s gift, the distinctive green dress, was covered and the deeply furred hood put her face into shadow, only her eyes gleamed. And then they were running together, his arm around her waist, hurrying away from the hall and across one of the inner courts toward his suite of apartments.

The cold outside was vicious; it was a wet, wild night. Even the sentries guarding the outer entrance to the king’s rooms were huddled together around a brazier under the overhang of the porch shadowing the iron-studded door. But Edward had a private way to his quarters, a small door beside one of the great, multipaned oriel windows he’d added to the ancient building. He pulled back a hanging curtain of cold, wet ivy and there it was, unlocked. A deft twist of the iron handle and they were inside in the dark, unseen by the men guarding the main entrance.

“Come here.”

She could see very little as her eyes adjusted after the flaring light of torches outside, but she knew he was close, she could smell him. And then his hands were around her waist and he’d plunged his mouth down on hers again, her body crushed to his. It lasted for a moment but in that moment her hands slid up around his neck, her breasts flattened against his chest, and he felt her heart hammering.

He laughed in the darkness—it was a warm sound, happy from sheer delight. “Close now, my darling.”

He was beside her now and a moment later he’d pushed another small door open and they were in his private apartments, alone in the softly lighted room with a fire burning gently in the huge corner hearth.

On a table was a large silver flagon of wine, two golden cups, and food enough for ten. There were tapestries on the wall and a great carpet, glowing like a pool filled with dark and gorgeous jewels on the boarded floor.

The king unclasped his cloak from around Anne’s throat and tossed it aside toward the bed, which lay with its snowy white sheets, its ermine counterpane, in the shadows of the room. And he led her toward the fire, saying, “Come, warm yourself. Eat. You have nothing to fear.”

As if in a dream—perhaps she would wake soon, and it would be tomorrow?—she allowed herself to stand in front of the flames holding up her hands to warm them.

“What are you thinking?” He spoke quietly.

She looked up at him trustingly. He was leaning on the carved chimney breast, close by but not touching her. She sighed. “Ah, sire, wondrous things. Terrible things.”

“Are you here willingly?”

She stared into the heart of the flames, into the glowing coals, as she thought of her answer and then looked up into his eyes fearlessly. “Yes. God forgive me.”

He frowned slightly but then his brow cleared as he stretched out his hand and softly touched the veiling covering her hair. Gently, he searched for the pins holding it to her head and, one by one, removed them. The gauzy fabric floated to the floor. Now his hands were busy in her hair, unraveling the thick coils.

“Shake your head.” He spoke softly, his voice husky. Hesitantly, she did as he asked and the rich, shining strands tumbled down past her waist, glinting where the fire caught deep red and gold lights in the darkness of her hair. There was silence, except for rain beating on the windows. The two of them, man and woman, gazed at one another.