Outrageous (4 page)

“Then go, of course.” As Cecily hurried away, already primping, Marian added solemnly, “But be careful, Cecily, lest you find yourself cradling a fatherless babe in your own arms.”

“Smacked ye a good one
, she did.” Art pressed a cold wet rag on Griffith’s nose. “I’d like to meet the lady.”

“I’m sure you would.” Griffith shoved Art away, then with careful fingers he felt the place where bone and cartilage connected. “Broken again. Saint Dewi preserve me, ’tis broken again!”

Art agreed. “Aye, she broke it for ye. Keep it up and ye’ll have a face as pretty as mine.”

The swelling caused pressure around his eyes, but Griffith observed his liver-spotted, snaggle-toothed, one-eyed servant. With a groan, he rearranged the rag on his face and wished he’d wrung Marian’s pretty neck. Even more, he wished he hadn’t maligned her lady.

Marian had proved herself loyal to Elizabeth. If Griffith had been a man less in control of himself, he might have given in to the impulse to reply physically to her challenge. But she was loyal, regardless of the danger to herself, and Griffith grudgingly respected that.

“’Tis not as if ye have a face to make a woman swoon, anyway. At least not with joy.” Art chortled until he wheezed. “Yer nose was too big before it was ever broken. Yer hair’s all wild, like some forest animal. Ye have the Powel chin—too square—and yer blessed mother’s eyes—too yellow. ’Course, I don’t understand it, but the women are always lining up for a peek in yer codpiece. Ye haven’t said what happened with the lady…what’s her name?”

“Lady Marian Wenthaven.” Griffith rubbed his forehead and wished his headache would subside. “She’s some relative of the earl’s.”

“Ye haven’t said what happened with Lady Marian,” Art repeated, “but I bet I know. I bet I know.”

A sense of foreboding stopped Griffith as he prepared to lie down, but it couldn’t stop him from asking, “Know what?”

“Fat ol’ Lady Marian made a grab for ye.” Art grabbed the air. “Ye fought the ol’ hag.” He fought with shadows. “And the ugly bitch slammed her ham fist into yer face.”

Interrupting Art’s imitation of womanly dismay, Griffith said, “She’s not fat, old, or ugly.”

Art straightened and his gaze sharpened. “Oh?”

Griffith flopped onto the feather mattress and arranged the pillows behind his back. The activity gave him time to make his plans.

He knew what Art was doing. His beloved body servant had for some reason decided Griffith should marry again, and he scouted every prospect most carefully. Now he fished for information, and if Griffith told him Marian was attractive, Art would be on him like stink on a pig farm. Worse, if Griffith told him she wasn’t attractive, and Art caught sight of her, he’d know Griffith had lied. He’d construe the worst explanation for Griffith’s evasion, so Griffith dared show no appreciation for Marian’s appearance.

Not that he liked lithe women who smiled too much. Or was it too expressively? He told Art, “She’s young.”

Art pounced on the scrap of information. “How young?”

Lesser folk had to utilize words for the emotions Marian’s smiles expressed. Griffith best remembered her scornful smile. Head tilted down, eyes amused, full lips curled just at the corners, a charming dimple in each cheek. “Twenty? Twenty-five years, perhaps?”

“The right age for ye,” Art enthused. “Since ye’re all of twenty-eight. What color is her hair?”

Nay, Griffith best remembered her dare-you smile. Shoulders thrown back, chest extended, all her white teeth flashing, a charming dimple in each cheek. “Red.”

“Red hair?” Art frowned. “Englishwomen don’t have red hair. Must be bright, ugly red from that dye women use.”

Griffith squinted, pretending to think about it, but he remembered. He remembered too well. “It’s not dyed.”

“Copper, then?”

“Red,” Griffith said firmly. “But some men might call it pretty.”

“Like flame, then,” Art said with satisfaction.

“Mm.” Ah, but Griffith remembered her amused smile. Amused eyes slanted up, rosy cheeks lifted, full lips, white teeth, a charming dimple in each cheek…She’d been amused at him. How would she look when they laughed together? “Heated flame,” Griffith mumbled.

Art lifted Marian’s weapon—the purse—from the floor. “What color are her eyes?”

“Green.”

“That’s it,” Art crowed, leaping in the air like a toad on a hot rock. “When a lad knows the color of a lass’s eyes, he’s in love.”

“What?” Griffith roared, throwing aside the rag.

“When a lad—”

Griffith rolled out of bed and took a step toward Art. “I heard you! You gander-head, I don’t even like the woman. She’s immodest, rude, violent, flighty—”

“Sounds like the woman for ye,” Art sang as he prudently backed away.

“She’s not my type.” Griffith drew a deep breath and contained his outrage. Keeping careful eye contact with his sniggering servant, he explained, “You know I like a domestic woman, adept with a needle, content to stay home. I don’t like a woman who casts her gaze about freely, who fights like a man, whose red hair proves her freakish nature. I don’t like a woman so handsome men fight for her and with her for the privilege of her bed.”

Art limped to the bedside table and dropped the purse with a resounding
clunk
. “Ye just told me she was
not
old, fat, and ugly.”

“So?”

“Ye didn’t tell me she was handsome.”

“So?”

Art hummed a little tune. “Are we going to stay here, then?”

“The sun’s gone down, you silly old dickweed,” Griffith answered. “Of course we’re staying—tonight, and until I deliver that damn purse. But only until I deliver the purse.
So
?”

“So nothing. Ye’re young and strong. Ye know yer mind best.”

“And you’ll not interfere?”

“Nay, master.”

“Ha. When a cat can lick her ear!”

Pleased, Art limped back to the pile of saddlebags and leather pouches they’d brought from London. “Never seen a castle like this in Wales. Why don’t ye lie down again? Ye’re looking choleric.”

Griffith grunted as he lay down. “Will I never win with you?”

Art ignored him, showing his Welsh contempt for the English and their fighting skills. “Instead of catapults and weapons, the grounds inside the walls are full of flowers. ’Twould be conquered in a fortnight in Wales.”

Distracted, Griffith said, “Perhaps putting his castle on an island in a lake gives Wenthaven a feeling of security.”

“Bah! They keep the chickens penned and his men-at-arms hidden in their own barracks.”

“Not his men-at-arms,” Griffith corrected. “These are mercenaries.”

“Ah.” Art comprehended immediately. “No wonder the earl keeps them separate from himself, then. They’re likely to see a chance to conquer from within. Especially since he’s hired a wad of them. Doesn’t he know having yer own men is best?”

Griffith stroked his chin. “He
has
hired an army, hasn’t he?”

“Heard a lot of Welsh out there.”

“’Tis common knowledge the Welsh are the best fighters in the Isles.”

“And why shouldn’t our lads fight for English coin and English plunder? Want me to go chat with them, casual-like, and find out what’s up?” While Griffith hesitated, Art opened the bags and dumped them onto the floor. “What do ye want me to save out?”

“Traveling clothes. We’re leaving for home tomorrow.”

“’Tis a shame not to stay and get acquainted with Lady Marian.”

“Traveling clothes,” Griffith repeated with emphasis. He didn’t want to discuss Marian with Art anymore. He didn’t even want to think about Marian.

An Englishwoman, he thought contemptuously. He’d learned the depths of an Englishwoman’s love when he rode to London after the victory of Bosworth Field and heard the tales of Elizabeth of York.

He’d told Marian the truth. Elizabeth’s callous disregard for her brothers’ fate and the rumors of her willing liaison with Richard had sickened him. They had sickened Henry, too, and he dragged his feet about marrying the strumpet. Then Parliament made their sentiments known. Henry must keep to his pledge to wed Elizabeth. Henry had bowed to necessity, repeating his battlefield vow—that nothing and no one would take the throne from him.

Girding his loins, he’d met with Elizabeth—and come away with a changed attitude. Neither a blow to the skull nor a caress to the groin should have softened Henry so, but he married Elizabeth without another murmur and behaved in a seemly manner about it.

Elizabeth seemed a charming woman, Griffith admitted, but her betrayal with Richard could not be banished from his mind, and he wondered how Henry managed to subdue his revulsion. Perhaps he’d been seduced by her youth and charm, perhaps…Griffith remembered the tiny span of Marian’s waist and speculated about the breasts he’d glimpsed beneath the fur-trimmed neckline.

Perhaps, Griffith admitted, Henry had lost his heart to an Englishwoman’s arts. But sorrow, war, and anguish had hardened Griffith’s character. He’d never chosen to bless any woman with more affection than he gave his falcons.

And he never would. He never would.

“I said”—Art rubbed his eye in exaggerated pain—“I
said
, this old wound’s a-painin’ me.”

“I heard you,” Griffith said, irritated. “You don’t have to shout.”

Crossing his arms across his chest, Art repeated, “This old wound’s a-painin’ me, and ye’re daydreaming.”

“I’m not, and your eye doesn’t hurt. You know it. You always say that when you want your way.”

“’Tis a shame not to check out Wenthaven’s plans,” Art coaxed.

Griffith hesitated. As the king’s representative, he should try to discover what Wenthaven plotted, if anything. But Wenthaven was deep in the royal confidence and surely knew his future lay with Henry. “I’ll send a message,” Griffith said. “If Henry wants me to come back, he’ll command me.”

Sanguine, Art flung wide the doors of the carved wood cabinet. “Guess I’ll put the bags in this fancy cupboard.”

“Wenthaven can afford a fancy cupboard and a choice castle. He’s one of the dowager queen’s upstart relatives.” Griffith stretched out on the bed with a sigh. “He married well and held some prime positions during Edward’s reign.”

Art nodded. “Got his money the hard way, then. By scheming.” Holding up one of Griffith’s shirts, he flapped the sleeves. “Look at this. This proves what I was saying. Yer arms are so long ye can scratch yer knees without bending down. Not that that doesn’t give ye a good reach with a blade, and not that I haven’t had reason to be thankful for yer reach. Yer big old chest makes ye look like a barrel, and yer legs are so long I have trouble keeping ye in hose.”

“Are you trying to make me feel better?” Griffith asked irritably.

“Of course. How else can I prove this lass hasn’t ruined yer looks? I say, if ye want her, better take her quick, else some other man will steal her from under yer”—Art snatched away the now-warm rag and replaced it with a cold one—“nose.”

“I don’t want her.”

“Then why is the bone in yer drawers as puffy as that bone on yer face?”

Griffith came up with a roar. “Damn it, Art, shut your muzzle before I knock the rest of your teeth down your throat.”

“Ooh, frightened, I am.”

Removing the rag and throwing it aside, Griffith
insisted, “I’m not interested in a woman who has no control over her impulses.”

As little awed by Griffith’s severity as by his threats, Art cocked his head, his eyes as inquisitive as a sparrow’s. “And why is she lacking in control?”

“She was the favorite lady-in-waiting of Elizabeth of York. Marian could have made a great marriage, been a great influence. Instead she destroyed her chance for one moment in a great lord’s bed.”

“’Tis not an uncommon sin.”

“She bore a bastard.” Griffith heard the condemnation in his own voice and knew Art would make him repent for it.

“Ah.” Head bobbing, Art pranced around the bed in a sprightly step. “So her sin is not fornication, but gestation. Not the sin itself, but being caught.”

The trouble with old and trusted servants, Griffith reflected grimly, was not their insights, but the fact they felt compelled to share them. Intent on discouraging any more of Art’s ungainly strutting and critical comments, Griffith said, “Anyone who cannot control himself is not worthy of having mastery or authority over others.”

“’Tis a country proverb, and a good one.” Art stopped dancing and eyed Griffith’s dour expression. “Too bad ye’ve not always followed it.”

On this subject, Griffith could not shout—at least not at Art, who had lost his eye to Griffith’s youthful folly. “I learned my lesson early.”

“Perhaps Marian lass learned the same lesson, but the proof of her mistake is not so easily hidden.”

Deep in Griffith’s heart the knife of memory twisted, and he bled anew. The blade was a shard of glass, a broken icicle, or perhaps plain rusting steel, for memory, he’d discovered, had the capacity to wound forever and ever.

“There, lad.” Art pushed him back on the bed and changed his rag again. “’Twas a low blow, and I’m
sorry for it. I was just trying to point out we all make our mistakes, and ye’ve judged this girl too harshly.” Turning away, he muttered loudly enough for Griffith to hear, “And all because she’s got ye playing solo on yer skin flute.”

Dignity had somehow escaped him, but Griffith answered, “I’m here on Henry’s business—for no other reason.”

Art opened a pocket on his own saddlebag, pulled out a folded paper, and extended it.

Scarlet wax fastened the edge, and Griffith recognized the design of the seal. With foreboding, he accepted it and looked inquiringly at Art.

“Our sovereign sent this letter—hand delivered by that little secretary of his—with instructions it should be delivered after ye’d met Lady Marian.” Although he couldn’t read, Art leaned way over the bed as Griffith skimmed the contents and inspected the writing with a knowledgeable eye. “Anything interesting?”

After rolling the paper, Griffith handed it to Art. “Burn it, then unpack the bags. We’re staying at Wenthaven Castle, God rot it!”

Art scratched behind his ear where his last few wisps of hair remained. “The king doesn’t say why?”

“It’s Henry’s style. Orders, but no explanations. That’s why he sent a letter to you—by Oliver King, no less. If Henry had commanded me himself, I’d have demanded the truth.”