The King's Mistress (21 page)

When she wanted Henry, he did worry that it was because he was not worthy or rich or handsome or
powerful enough. When she wanted him, he worried that it was because he was too learned and patient and good-hearted and not more his manly attributes.

“If it were only that easy,” he said.

“If ye would stop trying to reason everything oot and just start acting on what ye feel for her, ye would see this as I do. Ye want her. Ye love her. Ye go and bring her back. King be damned.”

“Talk like that is treasonous, friend.”

Gavin waved him off. “Henry wasna man enough to keep her in the first place. Go and get her.”

“And if she does not wish to come back?” He had been a fool. Marguerite did not deserve to be mistreated again.

“Ye are her husband. Go, get her, bring her back,” Gavin told him. “And tup her until she canna move.” He paused and frowned. “Or is that beat her until she canna run? Whichever isna important. Just go and get her.”

He tried not to laugh. 'Twas too important to him, but his friend's drunken assessment, as it was, made him see his mistake. He had either thought or felt, and each of the wrong time. When he should have reacted physically, he was deliberate and considered and calculated every action before he took any. When Marguerite needed his thoughtfulness, he could only feel. Orrick knew that even though he expected complete change from her, he did not expect to change at all to be the man she needed.

“Daft Englishmen!” Gavin blurted out again.

“Tell me, friend, how many wives have you had to beat into submission?”

An expression of horror settled on his face. “We Scots dinna need to beat our women. And I would never raise a hand to mine.”

Orrick stood, knowing now that he could not allow Marguerite to face the king alone. “'Tis time, Gavin. Are you with me?”

Gavin stood now and nodded. “Do we go and get her?”

“If she'll come back with me.”

“Have ye not heard a word I've said, mon? Ye bring her back.”

“Oh, aye. ‘And tup her until she canna move.'” 'Twas easier to agree with him when he was this drunk.

“Now ye have it. I'll see to the horses.”

W
ith François and her new maid at her side, Marguerite made her way through the castle at Carlisle to the chamber assigned to her. The dedication ceremony had been overlong, hot and tiresome. All she could think about was seeking a time of rest in her chambers before her presence was required at the feast to mark the king's visit here.

The corridors were lined with toadies hoping to catch the king's eye or hoping to press their case with one of his ministers or favorites. Watching the desperation in their expressions, she wondered how she had endured it for all those years.

Of course, she thought, turning another corner, 'twas easier to bear when you were holding the power and not seeking it. Hearing her name, Marguerite looked around to find the source. Recognizing the abbot, she waited for him to catch up and curtsied to him.

“Abbot Godfrey, I thought you might be here,”
she said, genuinely glad to see someone she knew. “I looked at Mass but could not see you.”

“When the king comes, we must all attend,” Godfrey replied. She watched as he surveyed those nearby, and when he did not find the person he sought out, he turned to her. “Where is Lord Orrick? I thought to speak to him before the festivities.” She noticed that François shook his head at the monk's glance.

“Lord Orrick is in Silloth. I have answered the summons of the king without him.” Bold words, but she did not feel so bold now. Truthfully, she felt sick without Orrick at her side.

The monk frowned and mumbled under his breath before taking her hand and leading her to a more private alcove. At her nod, François and the girl stepped away and stood between them and anyone who might approach.

“My lady, I find myself concerned about your presence here without Lord Orrick. Surely there are some who will…some who will…” He seemed to search for words that were not there.

“Some will take the wrong meaning from my attendance here without my husband?” she said.

“Respectfully, my lady, yes.” Godfrey looked at her with pain in his eyes. “I thought that you and Lord Orrick had settled things between you. He seemed quite happy when last he visited the abbey.”

“Things have changed, good abbot.” She sighed. Weariness was overtaking her and she felt light-headed. “Can we speak more about this later? May
hap after the feast tonight? I seek my chambers now.”

“Are you well, my lady?” He took her hand and touched her cheek. “You are pale.”

“My thanks for your kind concern, abbot. The journey was longer and harder than I expected.” Marguerite pressed a linen square to her sweaty brow. She felt the perspiration trickling down her neck and back, as well. “We arrived late last night and were not assigned rooms immediately. I am certain that I will recover with but a short rest and a good meal.”

“François,” he called as they stepped out into the corridor. He pointed at her maid and nodded. “See to your lady.”

As she walked to her chambers, she wondered if Godfrey would press her about what she might have to do. She felt his disapproval already. What would his reaction be if he knew she would be summoned to the king's private quarters this night?

When she reached her door, Marguerite waved off the help of the maid. Edmee had stayed behind at Silloth and, although Marguerite understood the reasons, she was not yet comfortable with the manners of Jolie.

She loosened the wimple and barbette that covered her hair and mopped her neck with the linen. Untying the laces at her neckline, she took in a deep breath and tried to refresh herself. When the profuse sweating stopped, she lay back on the raised pallet and, in only a minute, could feel sleep pulling her down.
Was she taking ill? Did some sickness attack her now?

As she fell asleep, she remembered the last time she'd felt these symptoms. Her resulting laugh was one of desperation and not humor.

 

Her maid woke her so that there was enough time to dress for dinner. Marguerite had purposely brought the beautiful blue satin-and-silk gown she wore when she married Orrick, to remind Henry and those who would be witness that she belonged to another man. Although her hair was braided, she wore a veil that matched the dress exactly and a circlet of gold to hold it in place.

She did not have a looking glass with her, but François's glance and then glance again told her that the work on her appearance was successful. And it must be, for to display anything but strength or beauty before those in attendance was an opening for attack. Marguerite knew the tactics and measures used by those who lived in the shadow of the king, and although out of practice, she remembered her lessons well.

François led the way to the dining hall, and as she walked down the corridors, many surreptitious glances, smiles and smirks were sent her way. One younger woman stepped in front of her and waited for Marguerite to face her. This must be Henry's newest conquest.

“Marguerite,” the girl said with a nod.

“Adelaide. You look well,” Marguerite said.

“I would think you too humiliated to show your
face in his court again,” she murmured in a voice that was filled with sweetness and venom. “Especially since your husband has abandoned you to the king's whim.”

“Humiliated, lady? I think not. My husband is one of the great lords here in the north and was detained from arriving with me.”

Adelaide's laugh ended with a snort—not a genteel one, but one that demonstrated her disdain and disbelief. “Come now, Marguerite. You have long lost the king's favor, and being summoned back to his bed now will not in any way diminish my place as his favorite.”

“I do not seek Henry's bed, Adelaide. You may keep your place in it.” She leaned over closer. “I have found great happiness with Lord Orrick and need not look to the king for anything.”

“Your husband apparently does not share your convictions. He is probably too embarrassed to show his face here since he knows that Henry wants you in his bed.” Adelaide laughed again. “Your husband…”

“Is terribly late and begs his ladywife's pardon.”

Orrick took her hand and kissed it and somehow managed to force Adelaide to one side. Marguerite blinked several times for she was certain he was a figment in her mind and not truly here before her.

“Orrick?”

“Aye, love. I do ask your pardon for my tardy arrival and for so many other things, but there will be time for that later. Come, let us seek seats and you can tell me of the dedication ceremony.”

He entwined his fingers around hers and began to walk toward the large chamber ahead. She pulled him to stop.

“We should talk now, Orrick. I have been given a chamber here in the castle and we could go there to talk.”

Now that he was here, she wanted to work out the problems between themselves before any more occurred because of her coming without him. Part of her wanted to take him and ride back to Silloth without stopping.

“There are too many about, Marguerite, and there is too much to be said.” He smiled and lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing it softly. “Come—” he tugged her hand “—let us eat and meet whatever is heading our way together.”

She followed him into the hall where they were met by one of the masters of protocol who handled the seating arrangements for large banquets like this one.

“My lady, there is a seat reserved for you at the king's table there,” he said, pointing to the front of the room.

She hesitated, for the man did not mention Orrick's place. “And where is my lord's place?”

The two looked completely confused. Finally the younger one explained. “My lord, we did not know of your arrival. We will find you a place at one of the other tables.”

“That is not acceptable,” Marguerite exclaimed. “Lord Orrick of Silloth is one of the king's most important vassals in the north and will be treated
with the respect he deserves. If he does not sit at the king's table, then I will not. Then the king will not be happy….” She let the threat hang out there.

Men like this—most men in fact—did not know how to deal with an angry woman. To add to the moment, she stamped her feet and huffed out a breath. Wide-eyed at her temper, one of them went running to the front of the room where he and another engaged in a heated discussion. Orrick wore an expression of vague amusement and she could only wonder what thoughts were behind it.

“You are scaring them, my lady. They do not know how to handle an angry Marguerite of Alencon.”

“But their reactions tell me they have heard the stories.”

Orrick laughed at her words, probably as he remembered a few outbursts from that Marguerite in her first weeks at Silloth. Now, she feared overplaying the role and truly angering the king. An angry Henry would be a resistant Henry.

“And how would you handle it, my lord?” she asked, watching the overseers scampering up and down the king's table, now rearranging some of the chairs.

“I am beginning to suspect that Gavin's methods might be best.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “He recommends that women be either tupped or beaten into submission or obedience.”

“And you support his methods?” They must have been drinking to come up with such a solution.

“We shared a few too many cups of ale when we
discussed the correct way of handling our problems and specifically you.”

“I can hardly wait to hear the rest of this, but it appears our places are now secure at Henry's table.” Marguerite watched as the men waved them to the front dais.

“Gavin has suggested that when I speak to the king about you, I remember that the basis of our dispute is really not about you but about…” Orrick laughed again and she enjoyed the sound of it. “He argued that 'tis all about the size of our—the king's and mine—private members.”

Marguerite stopped completely now and only moved when Orrick slid his arm around her and made her walk. How did men come up with these ideas? Ah, too much ale and too much time. As they reached the front and were about to climb the steps, Orrick leaned over so that only she could hear.

“He suggested that when we meet the king, we should present them and decide whose is larger. After that, I should take you home and, well, I have told you the rest of it.”

Somehow, between his outrageous words and his guidance, they had managed to take their seats without her beginning to worry about what was to come. And from the look of concern in his gaze, she suspected he did it apurpose. She took in a deep breath and offered up a silent prayer of thanks that he was there, at her side, for she would rather not deal with Henry alone.

The king's herald called out to the crowd and everyone stood as Henry and his entourage entered
the hall. Marguerite recognized his closest advisors and ministers as they followed behind in a near run to keep up with the king's energetic pace. As they climbed to the dais, Henry's gaze caught hers and she trembled. Not in attraction this time, but in fear, for his commands this night could destroy any chance of happiness for she and Orrick.

Orrick must have felt it or seen it. He touched her back gently to let her know he was there and then whispered to her, “You could end the anticipation now by simply telling me whose is larger.”

She laughed out at his preposterous words and wanted to throw herself into his arms, but the king's voice interrupted.

“Something amusing, Marguerite?”

Henry stopped in front of them and she dropped into a deep curtsy before him. When she raised her eyes a discreet distance, his hand was held out to help her rise. Giving him hers, she stood before him and prepared to take her first close look at her former lover since she'd discovered the truth about him as a man.

Marguerite saw him now through the eyes of a woman in love, in love with her husband, and not overwhelmed by all the king offered. His innate sexuality and power could not be denied, but her blood did not boil nor her heart quicken as their eyes met. Had he always been this old? Still in his prime at two score and five, he appeared older now than when she last saw him in the summer.

“What was so humorous?” His eyes narrowed
and she knew he feared they had been finding amusement at his cost.

“My lady was reminding me of my deplorable table manners, Sire,” Orrick said, bowing deeply to the king.

“I did not expect you here, my lord. I'd been told that you were absent from the dedication this morn.”

Marguerite noticed he had not released her hand yet, and as he addressed Orrick, he raised it to his mouth and kissed it.

“I confess to being tardy, Sire, and beg your pardon for it. But, as my lady so quickly pointed out to me, I could never miss such an important obligation as this.”

Henry looked stymied, for to do more, while so many nobles and clergy watched, would risk the approval of those he needed to rule. Taking the unmarried daughter of an ally as his mistress with the consent and encouragement of her father was one thing. Taking the wife of a faithful vassal in his presence and over his objections was quite another. Orrick's attendance would make things difficult for the king.

When he could say nothing else, he let her hand drop and continued on to his seat in the center of the long table. Once he was seated, everyone took their places and servants began to circulate with the bowls of water and cloths so diners could clean their hands before sharing in the meal. As they shared the silver plate and cup between them, Marguerite began to relax.

“I may not have completely agreed with Gavin's
assessment of the situation, but I think his idea may have some merit.” He turned to her and offered her the cup of wine. “I am sure, however, that not accompanying you was the wrong thing to do, and I will ask for your forgiveness for that and many other things when we have some private time.”

Her heart swelled at his words. Orrick was at her side and would be there for whatever came to pass. Dinner passed quickly for she wanted nothing more than to return to their quarters and settle the discord between them. She was so happy that she forgot what she should have remembered.