Outrageous (3 page)

She weighed it in her hand and sighed with relief. “Sweet Mary has blessed me.”

“The queen sends you much of her meager allowance.”

“Aye,” she agreed, her thoughts on the two-year-old napping in her cottage. “She is ever tender of my well-being.” Then she saw his outrage, which he didn’t bother to hide. Sitting down on a stone bench, she cocked her head and smiled scornfully. “Why, Griffith ap Powel, whatever were you thinking?”

“I was wondering if you have some knowledge the queen wishes withheld, and so dip your hand into her pocket.”

His bluntness proved his blatant disrespect for her, and anger, so recently subdued, again flashed through her. The light breeze off the lake accentuated the burn of her cheeks, and she glared at him. Then
she remembered the secret that was not her own, and she dropped her gaze. In a careful monotone she said, “The Lady Elizabeth is no mark for a blackmailer. She’s lived an exemplary life. How could she not? Her father, King Edward, cherished her first. Then her uncle, King Richard the Third, did his duty by her.”

“
King
Richard?” He sneered. “The usurper, you mean. Richard was Edward’s brother. Edward’s sons should have inherited the throne, but where are they now? Where are they now?”

Clutching the leather, feeling the roll of the coins inside, she again repressed her animosity. “I do not know, but Elizabeth was their sister. She had naught to do with their disappearance.”

“’Twas Richard who imprisoned them in the Tower, from whence they never returned.” He put his foot on the bench beside her, leaned his arm on his knee, and bent his face close against hers. “They disappeared, never to be seen again. I fought for Henry and prayed he would be given the chance to unite the Yorks and the Lancasters in marriage, but when we came to London, we discovered the truth. We discovered the lady Elizabeth had danced with their murderer. She lived in Richard’s court, wore the clothes with which he gifted her, and gave his court a legitimacy it wouldn’t have had without her. Elizabeth shows the streak of decay that has riddled the House of York, and now that decay has passed into the Tudor line.”

Without conscious thought, she swung the gold-filled purse against his face. His nose cracked. Staggering back, he covered his face, and while blood seeped through his fingers, she grasped his shirt in her hands and jerked him toward her.

The linen tore in small, high bursts, but her voice was low and intense. “My lady Elizabeth sacrificed everything to save her brothers. Everything. By my
troth, do not ever malign her in my hearing again, lest I take my sword and run you through.”

She shoved him away and rushed up the path, abandoning the purse in her haste and her fury. When she was sure she was out of sight, she picked up her skirts for more speed and lengthened her stride. She wanted to get away from that boor, that ass, that sycophant of Henry’s.

It probably hadn’t been politic to strike him. Especially not with that heavy purse. She’d heard a crack—had she broken his nose?

Yet how dare he accuse Elizabeth of collaborating with Richard in the death of her brothers? Marian knew the truth of it. She had been placed in Elizabeth’s service at five, for they were the same age and related by blood. From the very beginning it had been made clear to Marian that she was to serve Elizabeth in every way.

At the same time, it had been made clear to Elizabeth that she was a sacrifice to the dynasty. Every motion, every word, every smile, was weighed and judged as worthy or not worthy of a princess of the House of York. A kind, amiable child, Elizabeth strove always to be judged worthy, and if her intelligence was not the highest—well, a princess had no need of intelligence.

No need, until her father, King Edward IV, died. Then came the days of treachery, and Elizabeth was ill prepared to play the political games that drove the country to war. Her beloved uncle took custody of her brothers, declaring he wished only to protect them—then in one sweeping, maddening statement, he had declared them illegitimate. He declared all of Edward’s children illegitimate.

As Richard wished, Parliament named him king.

Marian had held her lady as she wept for her brothers, for her freedom, for her honor, now trampled into the dirt. She’d helped Elizabeth make
plans. When Richard and his wife invited her to court, Marian and Elizabeth had first cried out in fury, then put their heads together and schemed. If Elizabeth were at court, if she played the role of dutiful niece, then perhaps she could discover her brothers’ fates. Perhaps she could influence her uncle, perhaps she could help her brothers escape.

Marian and Elizabeth formed wild plans, trying to cover every eventuality—but they never could have imagined their own final role in Richard’s doomed reign. If only…

Marian sighed. She could drive herself crazy with the if-onlys.

Her cottage stood close against the towering curtain wall that surrounded the castle and protected it from assault, and far from Wenthaven’s keep. She liked it that way. Here she was remote from Lord Wenthaven, the politics he dabbled in, and the schemes he hatched. Here she and her son were safe.

Lionel. Would he be awake now?

Pushing open the gate into the front garden, she called for him, then grinned as the pudgy, dark-haired boy came toddling around the dwelling. She swung him up in her arms and exclaimed, “You’re gritty. Have you been playing in your sand?”

He nodded, beaming, and patted her cheeks with his grubby hands.

“Building a castle?”

He nodded.

“With a moat?”

“Oh, don’t ask him about a moat,” his nursemaid said, coming around the edge of the cottage. “He’ll want to go to the well for water, and then we’ll have a royal mess.”

A handsome girl, Cecily resembled Marian’s mother to an astonishing degree. But where Marian’s mother had been a long-ago, loving memory, Cecily had proved to be silly and easily swayed by fashion,
by opinion, and especially by the appreciation of a man. Any man.

Still, she’d followed Marian, with scarcely a whimper, into the backwater of Castle Wenthaven. “Did he sleep?” Marian asked.

Cecily blew the hair out of her eyes. “He slept a bit, but he’s been active for most of the afternoon.”

Marian squeezed him, kissed him, and agreed, “Aye, he’s a healthy lad.”

“You’d never know he cried his whole first year.”

“’Twas just colic,” Marian said, her attention on Lionel as he wiggled to the ground.

“’Twas just awful,” Cecily answered roundly.

Marian didn’t answer. There were many things she didn’t reveal, but foremost among them was her own initial antipathy to Lionel.

She hadn’t wanted to be a mother. Had had no interest in children. When the midwife had first placed that bloody, waxy bundle in her arms, she’d reacted with quite unmaternal disgust.

“Early babies are always puny and fussy and ugly, they tell me.” Cecily seemed to take Marian’s agreement for granted. “Sometimes I thought he wouldn’t survive his first months.”

Sometimes, late at night when he’d been screaming for hours, Marian hadn’t known if she’d
wanted
him to survive his first months. She hunched her shoulders against the remembered guilt and followed Lionel to the pile of river sand they’d dredged for him.

Cecily tagged along. “But for you, my lady, I’d have gone mad.”

Marian’s remorse had driven her to take on more and more of Lionel’s personal care, and then…oh, then one day he’d smiled at her.

She’d never had a reason to believe in love. She’d never believed in one moment of illumination. But that first toothless grin from the baby in her arms had changed her. With each smile afterward, with each
childhood illness and each youthful triumph, he’d bound her to him. Now his dark head bobbed as he scraped the sand together, and she exulted in the strength of her own devotion. She would lay down her life for him—not because of duty or loyalty, but because of love.

Cecily sighed as loudly as Lionel did when he was seeking attention. “I wish I’d been there to help you through his birth.”

Marian glanced at her incredulously. “You? You come over giddy when a man spits.”

Hanging her head, Cecily admitted, “I know I do, but I’m sure my womanly instincts would have taken over.”

Marian doubted it, but said nothing.

“Of course, you had to accompany the lady Elizabeth into exile. She could hardly remain at court with the rumors that were rife.” Cecily peered around the edge of her gable hood, her big eyes guileless. “About her marrying the king, her uncle, I mean.”

Fingering the letter hidden in her sleeve, Marian said, “I know well what you mean.”

“I’m still surprised you didn’t take me into your confidence. To face such a dishonor, by yourself, without the support of your own dear cousin.” Cecily sniffled a little. “After all, I was your lady’s maid.”

“Cecily.” Marian faced her full on. “Who’s been talking to you?”

Guilt flooded Cecily’s face, and she faltered, “Why do you think someone’s been talking to me?”

“Because you know you never wanted to be at Lionel’s birth. Is one of your friends breeding?”

Confusion, dismay, embarrassment—Cecily displayed all those as she stammered, “N-nay.”

Forthright as always, Marian continued, “If you told someone you helped me with the birth, and you’d help her, too, you’d best admit the falsehood at once.”

Cecily’s mouth puckered as if she’d bitten a lemon.
“I haven’t told anyone a falsehood. But it’s been hard, trying to explain why you left me at court and went off to have Lionel without me. The…other maids hint you didn’t trust me.”

“Not trust you?” Understanding now, Marian pulled the diminutive Cecily into her arms. “Of course I trust you.” Marian compensated for the half lie with a hearty hug. “If the other maids are teasing, you tell them the truth. ’Twas my concern for you that made me leave you at court. I wanted you to find a husband, to settle down in your own home, before anyone discovered my secret. I didn’t want you to be ruined with me—as you have been.”

“Nay,” Cecily mumbled.

“Aye, you have, and scarcely a word of blame have you uttered. I’m an ungrateful wretch if you don’t know how much I appreciate your sacrifice.”

Cecily pulled away. “Nay, you’re not an ungrateful wretch. You’ve been good to me. You call me cousin—”

“You
are
my cousin.”

“From the wrong side of the blanket.” Realizing, perhaps, her faux pas, Cecily glanced at Lionel and mumbled, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I’m not like you. I’m not clever with letters, and I can’t use a sword at all.”

Marian grinned and knelt beside the ecstatic two-year-old. Scraping together a pile of sand, she said, “There are some who claim that’s to your advantage.”

“The men talk, and I hear them. Some of them think you’re dashing.”

“And some of them don’t,” Marian said, remembering the scowl that had blackened the Welshman’s face and the blood that spurted when she’d taught him respect for his betters. Sir Griffith had a rough appeal, like that of an untamed mountain, all craggy and fraught with mystery, and she wished she hadn’t hit him.

But he’d deserved it, and besides, God rot him, he’d made her drop the purse.

She’d have to go and beg him for it. And he would make her beg, no doubt. Marian squirmed. She had to have that money, but she didn’t want to see the dark, tall man again. She didn’t want to listen to that voice of velvet express his disapproval of her. She really didn’t want to apologize, and she would have to, if she sought him out. Perhaps there was another way. Perhaps…Her eyes narrowed. Aye, she’d think of another way.

“That man today thought you were dashing.”

Her mind still on Griffith, Marian frowned. “Oh, no, he didn’t.”

“He did, too. Why else would he have fought with you for the privilege of your bed?”

“What?” At first confused, Marian realized Cecily referred to that boor Harbottle, and she dismissed him with a wave. “Him. He’s nothing but one of a legion of asses who think me easy prey. I taught him better.”

“I’ve spoken to him. He’d marry you.”

Her cousin’s surrogate offer, made in a tone intended to induce gratitude, infuriated Marian, and she controlled herself only with an effort. “No doubt he would, to raise his station and lower mine. No, I thank you.”

“If you don’t marry, you’ll not be able to have a legitimate child.”

Marian stood in a flurry. “So I’m destined to have another bastard, do you mean?”

“No!” Cecily’s full lips pouted in dismay. “No, I—”

“There may be bastards galore in England, and some of them may live rich lives. But their fathers acknowledge them. It proves how virile those noblemen are. How manly.” Marian glared at her cousin, and Cecily shrank away. “Lionel doesn’t have a father to acknowledge him. Lionel has only me, and I’ll protect him, and nobody had better ever—” A tug on her skirt stopped her. Lionel stood, his hands
clenched in the folds of her dress, looking up at her with distressed brown eyes, and the invective died on her tongue. She sank to her knees, put her arms around him, and lifted her face to the breeze. When she could speak civilly, she asked, “Would you like me to help you build a road?”

He nodded, his gaze sliding to Cecily.

Still angry at the serving maid, but angrier still at her own loss of control, Marian said, “Cecily can cut the bread for our supper, lovey. Would you like honey, too?”

He nodded again, but Cecily clasped her hands in supplication. “Oh, Lady Marian, I had hoped…”

Marian knew what she hoped. “Aye?” she asked, although she’d already decided to grant Cecily’s wish, to let her go to be away from her.

“I hoped I could go into the manor and join with the others in their festivities.”

“Join the others?” Marian knew she shouldn’t tease, but her pride still stung from Cecily’s tactlessness. “I thought you joined only one.”

“I’ll be out all night, my lady, if you don’t need me.”

“Oh, Cecily.” Marian’s heart twisted at the doom her maid courted, and she couldn’t keep from asking, “Whom do you meet?”

Cecily’s teeth gleamed as she smiled and sniffed. “He’s a man of whom you would approve. He’s clever and great.”