The King's Mistress (9 page)

The noise came from Marguerite's chambers.

He walked to the door between their rooms and pushed it open a crack. The fire in the hearth was low, but he could see her in the bed. Still wearing her gown, she lay curled and moaning. Orrick approached quietly for he realized that she cried out in her sleep. He walked to the side closest to her and leaned over her, pushing her hair away from her face.

Tear-swollen eyes and pale cheeks. He did not like her color. Now that he thought on it, she had been pale at dinner, as well as during their…discussion.

“Marguerite?” he whispered. “Are you well?”

Her eyes fluttered open and met his. Confusion and pain filled them. “I am ill, my lord. I am not…” Her words drifted off even as her eyes closed.

He brushed his hand over her forehead—thank God no fever. 'Twould take too long to rouse Brother Wilfrid to see to her so Orrick decided to call on his mother. Running back to his room, he grabbed his robe and threw it on, tying it as he made his way down the hallway to his mother's chambers. Knocking on her door, he soon had her awake and accompanying him back to Marguerite.

Standing aside as she examined Marguerite, he waited for some word of her condition. He discovered that he was not a patient man. What could be the matter with her? Was she ill? Or was she…? He could not even think the word in his thoughts. Were
his mother's suspicions correct? After a few more minutes, the lady Constance returned to where he stood.

“Is she…?” He could not say it.

“'Tis a woman's illness, Orrick. She is in pain.”

“Did I do this? Did I cause this when…?” He stopped as he remembered to whom he spoke. He was not going to discuss his relations with his wife…with his mother.

His mother frowned at his questions and then shook her head. “You could not have caused this. 'Tis her monthly. Marguerite said she has difficult fluxes. I will get her a heated stone to help her pain, and some of my sleeping draught. 'Twill get her through the night.”

Orrick let out a breath. For a moment he worried that his strenuous possession of her had injured her in some way. But instead, this answered his question—she did not carry the king's child. Still standing by the door, he waited for his mother's return. Marguerite was awake, but no words were spoken between them.

Soon after his mother returned, Marguerite was dressed only in her chemise and held a heated stone wrapped in cloth against her stomach. After drinking the mixture brought by his mother, Marguerite lay silently on her side facing the now-stoked fire. With nothing else to be done, Orrick went back to his room. She would feel better in the morning. Just as he moved to pull the door closed behind him, he noticed her shivering.

Something in her called out to him and he found
himself climbing into her bed and sliding next to her. Maybe it was pity. He knew not and did not wish to know. She protested with a weak moan, but he settled himself under the covers and held her close.

“Let me just warm you, Marguerite,” he whispered. “I want nothing more than to hold you.”

She seemed to accept his offer of comfort and soon he felt her relax in his arms and her breathing became slow and even. As he drifted off to sleep, he realized that he had seen a completely different side of his wife.

What would the morrow bring?

M
arguerite opened her eyes and stretched her limbs to test her body. The pain of the night before was gone, and although her courses were still upon her and would last several more days, she knew the worst was over. As she lay on the bed, she decided that the morning sunlight streaming in through the window was truly the best part of this keep and this room.

The sun was too high for morning. From its position near the top of the opening, it must be close to sext. The day was half over! Pushing back the covers, Marguerite called out for Edmee. As she put her feet to the floor, she realized that so much had happened the night before between Orrick and her.

“My lady! How do you fare this day?” Edmee was cheerful as usual and brought her a cup of ale. “My lord ordered that you should be undisturbed until you were ready to rise.” The servant helped her from the bed and brushed her hair once she was seated at the dressing table. “I can call for a tray for you, if you are hungry.”

Marguerite found she did not have to say a word for Edmee carried on the conversation without her. Soon though, through the maid's efficient services, she stood washed and dressed with her hair braided and veiled. Food held no attraction to her so she finished the cup of ale.

“Lady Constance has asked that you join her in the solar if you feel well enough. Her ladies are working on a new tapestry for the hall and she thought you might help them.”

“Where is Lord Orrick?” No sounds came from his chamber, but in the middle of the day, he would not likely be there.

“My lord is about his business. If you have need of him, I could send someone for him.”

“Nay. I would not disturb his work.”

Marguerite thought back to what she could remember of last night. By the end of the meal she was feeling the effects of the onset of her courses. The nausea and stomach pain increased, but she managed to stay upright in her chair while Orrick finished his meal.

The Scot had made things worse, approaching Orrick as he had and letting her know with a glance that he would spill the secret he knew she had. How would Orrick have reacted if the truth came out in the hall? He had not beaten her as she had expected and prepared for as they'd walked to their chambers.

He was an enigma to her. She insulted and rejected him and he simply walked away. She lied to him and to his people and he did not punish her.

What kind of man was he?

He was nothing like her father, who met her resistance and headstrong behavior with firm discipline and a liberally applied cane. Nor was he like Henry, whose temper could flare at any moment and cause retribution, exile or imprisonment to be rained down upon even his most loyal subject.

She realized as she made her way to the solar that Orrick did indeed have a punishment of his own—the look of pity in his eyes when he told her of her error in judgment was enough to tear her soul apart. The beating she'd expected would have been easier to bear than the expression on his face when he said he would never have touched her without her consent.

In her efforts to be aloof and to control him, she had lost. Instead of remaining faithful in heart and body to Henry and the vows of love they shared, she'd held Orrick up against the other men she knew and had misjudged his lust and drew his touch needlessly.

Marguerite reached the door of the solar and the servant standing outside opened it for her. The room was large, and light streamed into it from not one, but two windows. A number of women worked on the looms, some on the embroidering racks, some on smaller pieces in their laps. Lady Constance called to her and motioned to an empty seat.

She took it silently and examined the work they were doing. The quality was exceptional and when finished it would complement wherever it was hung. Her skills with a needle and thread were passable so she did not fear embarrassing herself. She accepted
one from one of the ladies and began working on the area in front of her, checking with the sketches of the finished drawing from time to time.

The chatting between the women ebbed and flowed and it was during a lull that she noticed one woman off to the side with a babe on her lap. The soft sounds of sucking drew her attention and she could not look away. The woman cradled the babe's head and sang quietly as the child suckled at her breast, and for a moment Marguerite would swear that her own breasts tightened and tingled.

She had not nursed her own babe, not even briefly, for she was more concerned with losing the milk and getting back to court. A wet nurse had done the duty for her and, until this moment, she had given no thought to what she had not done for her child.

Lady Constance must have seen her watching the scene, for she spoke to her. “That is Lady Claire. Her daughter is called Alianor.”

“How old is the babe?” she asked, the words escaping before she could stop them.

“She is almost six months old now, my lady.”

The same age as… Marguerite stopped herself now. Pushing away the thoughts that threatened, she nodded and leaned back to the work before her.

“How do you fare, Lady Marguerite?” Orrick's mother asked.

“I am better today, my lady. I ask your pardon for disturbing your sleep last night.”

“Men so often have no idea of how to deal with
our
complaints. Orrick did the right thing coming to me rather than Brother Wilfrid.”

The women all laughed at her comment. “My thanks for the draught you brought,” she replied. She was grateful for the assistance in the night—to Lady Constance for coming to her aid and to Orrick for…the comfort he offered, as well.

The loud burp from the babe drew all their attention for a moment, but Marguerite's gaze lingered once more on the mother and child. Now fed, the babe began dozing on the woman's shoulder. How did that feel? Had her… No! She must not allow herself to dwell on that.

“I know many women whose monthly courses are lessened after the birth of a baby,” Lady Constance offered. From the lady's expression, it was a hint and an encouragement to the wife of her son rather than a general comment. “The pains and illness can be much easier to bear after childbirth.”

The sudden attention was almost too much for her. Marguerite knew that an heir was the first responsibility of a wife and that most of those in the room expected it of her. Lady Constance and mayhap only her closest confidante knew of the true situation between Orrick and her.

Part of her wanted to strike out and disabuse them of their false expectations. But memories of Orrick's treatment of her held her tongue. They would all know the truth soon enough when Henry called her back. There was no reason to make it their concern now. And she had no wish to embarrass him before his people.

“So I have heard, as well, my lady,” she answered.

Lady Constance turned her attentions back to the
tapestry and Marguerite knew she felt confident that her message had been received. Over the next few hours, the women talked to her of their husbands and their lives, and most spoke in Norman. A few spoke in English and Lady Constance herself translated the words.

“My lady,” Marguerite said in English. “I have informed Lord Orrick that I can speak in your English.”

Although the others looked surprised by her announcement, Lady Constance did not. The Scot must have confided in her or Orrick had. “I cannot speak it well and have difficulty understanding some of it. But I am able to understand the words if spoken slowly. And I would prefer to speak in my own language since you all know that.”

“My son has always favored the English of his upbringing rather than that of his Norman one. He prefers that we speak in English to aid your learning of it.”

The challenge had been made.

The rules were set.

Everyone in the room waited for her objections or her acquiescence in the matter. Unwilling to give in and unwilling to make a scene, she stood and told Lady Constance—in Norman—that she needed a bit of air. Motioning to Edmee, she walked from the solar and left the keep with her maid trailing behind her.

 

“So, how did you know?” Orrick asked as he and Gavin crossed the training yard to observe two men working with quarterstaffs.

“I simply watched her reaction to words spoken around her. Although she controlled herself most of the time, the lady slipped up a few times.”

“But, Gavin, what made you suspect her of dishonesty? You know her not.” Orrick called out directions to the men fighting and waited for Gavin's explanation.

“She has grown up in and around the king and his court. Subterfuge, deceit and dissembling are in their natures.”

“Harsh words about my wife,” he said, noticing the frown that crossed his friend's brow. “Am I never to trust her?”

“She must prove herself worthy of that trust before you give it, Orrick. Anything else will lead to nothing good.”

He paused again to instruct the soldiers and then turned to face Gavin. “Has she no good qualities? Does her past color everything about her now?”

“Do you ask this to convince me or yourself?”

“Neither. I seek but to understand her. In each encounter, I see a different facet of her and do not know which is truly her.” Orrick dragged his hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “I think there is good in her, but that she has been taught and rewarded for behaving in certain ways.”

Gavin snorted. “I would say so. The king had his uses for her and she—”

Orrick waved him silent. “I refer not to her skills in bed.” Actually he did not want to think about that. The image of Marguerite beneath him, naked and
writhing in passion, was too powerful. “Her father raised her as the pawn he needed to remain close to Henry. She was groomed for the position and believes it was her due.”

“As are most noble and all royal women raised to be,” Gavin answered. “'Tis the way of things in your world, whether English or Norman or French.”

“And you Scots? Are your women not used in marriage the same way? And sometimes outside of marriage?” Gavin glared his answer and Orrick continued. “She is not so different than other women.”

“Except that she is your wife. And she is more intelligent than any woman I have ever met. 'Twas a brilliant strategy to keep us believing she could not understand our words. It enabled her to learn much about us and yet she gave away nothing about herself.”

“I have learned some small things about her. I do not claim complete understanding yet. But I will. Given time, I will learn the rest of her secrets.”

Orrick nodded as the men finished their exercises and moved out of the way so others could try. The next two on the field looked as though they had already been at the receiving end of a lesson, for they both wore blackened and bruised eyes and several gashes on their faces.

“Are you certain you wish to know them, Orrick? And will she learn yours?”

“My secrets? I have no secrets, Gavin.”

He paused and waited. They watched these two stumble across the yard and avoid hitting each other
more than they attempted to hit. Something was wrong here.

“The widow Ardys? Although you are discreet and even your mother knows not of her, some do. What will your new wife think of the mistress you keep?”

Gavin's words startled him, for Ardys was not his mistress—he considered her a friend and a companion. They were even bedmates at times. But he did not keep a mistress. Before he could argue to point, Gavin was over the fence and running toward the two men. Orrick followed to discover what was going on.

The men, seeing Gavin's approach, ran to Orrick and dropped to their knees. Gavin called out for them to be gone, but they did not move.

“What goes on here? How did you get those welts?” Orrick pointed to their faces, but they looked at Gavin. “How?” Orrick demanded.

“I did it, my lord,” Gavin answered.

Confused, Orrick looked to Gavin for an explanation. The men paled even more.

“Why?” Orrick put his fists on his hips and waited. Something serious must have happened for Gavin to beat these men. “When?”

A crowd began to gather and Gavin looked worried. “My lord, let us continue this inside.”

“Gavin… I trust you to oversee my men when I am not here. Explain it to me now,” Orrick ground out harshly. The bile in his stomach threatened to overflow, for if Gavin raised his hands against Orrick's own men, it was a serious matter.

“They insulted the Lady Marguerite the day you left for the abbey.”

“What did they say?”

Orrick stood motionless waiting to hear. The blood pounded in his head. He could only imagine what rumors and tales were going around his village. If anyone had heard his mother's pronouncement the day of his betrothal, they knew the truth about Marguerite.

“My lord!” the man Thurlow called out. “We meant nothing by it. We was just talking. We meant no insult.” He reached out for Orrick's tunic, pleading, “Please, my lord.”

Orrick looked at Gavin and realized in that moment that whatever they'd said, it had been heard by Marguerite and anyone else in the yard at the time. And that their words had startled her into giving away her secret to Gavin, who must have observed her reaction and known she understood the insult.

“She heard them?” Gavin nodded. “She understood?” Again his friend confirmed his fear. “Summon François and tell him to bring two whips,” he called out to one of the soldiers in the yard. “Tie them to the fence now,” he ordered.

His anger increased as he waited for his orders to be carried out. Soon, the yard was surrounded by villagers who had already heard of the ruckus. Good, they should all know what would befall them if they spoke against Lady Marguerite.

In spite of her past, in spite of her current denial of its permanence, she was his wife and their lady. An insult to her was an insult to him. As much as
he worked to rule his people without cruelty or abuse, there were times when physical punishment must be used, and it was his role as lord to mete it out. And he hated it each time. He would not shirk from it, though.