Authors: Jennifer Blake
Marguerite was only marginally aware of the discussion between the two men as she and Astrid finished making the chamber presentable. She was glad Oliver had invaded, even if without permission. That he occu
pied David’s attention gave her time to gather her scattered wits.
How could a simple kiss unsettle her so? She felt its effects still as a tumbling rush in her veins, an almost painful throbbing in her lips. The center of her belly felt hollow, and an odd weakness in her limbs made her long to lie down, close her eyes and remember.
His mouth had been so very smooth, and warm, so warm. She had not expected it. Somehow, she’d thought it would be rough, prickly with beard and demanding rather than enticing. Her tongue had slipped into his mouth, and he seemed to expect it, even to enjoy it. Strange. She had wanted to extend her discoveries, to probe deeper, searching out every cranny, to taste more of him, and still more.
Was this what seduction was like, this need to draw close to another person, so close that your body and his became one? Could it be this vital urge to mate, a yearning that seemed as natural as the seasons sliding one into the other?
Her purpose in this was not to be enthralled, she told herself with fierce solemnity. The attack today was proof of the danger in David’s agreement with Henry. He should not feel he must please the king in order to protect her. No, not at all. A far better safeguard would be to become her husband, as she had thought in the beginning, one who would respect and honor her, yet be immune to the curse that hung over her as the last of the Three Graces.
Such a coil it was, this business of vows and pledges and of honor among men. The trouble it caused was
beyond calculation. Yet how much more mean and vicious life would be without it.
Oh, but what could she do to destroy David’s hard resolve never to possess her? More kisses, she thought, but surely there was something else? Suppose she were to trail her fingers down his chest, slide them over the flat, hard surface of his belly and down to his long length under his braies. Her palm itched at the thought, while her stomach muscles fluttered in reaction. Would he like that? Would he allow it?
She should have done it while she had the chance, while he lay at her mercy. Even now, Oliver was taking a woven coverlet from the end of the bed and spreading it over him from his chest to his toes. The next time would not be so easy.
The next time
. What a wanton she was to anticipate it even now.
“Lady Marguerite? Did you hear?”
She turned so quickly her skirts swirled around her ankles. Meeting the expectant gaze David turned in her direction, she ventured, “You were speaking to me?”
“On the matter of where you will sleep this night…” he began.
“I mean to remain here.”
His regard did not waver. “Your good name will suffer.”
“It is past redemption anyway,” she answered with a lift of her chin. “Henry issued his command that I remain with you while you lay in the great hall. If those present suspected there was something between us, after the way you carried me off and the time we’ve spent closeted together since, it has now been confirmed.”
“What can he be thinking?” David asked, grim puzzlement warring with the glimmer of pain in his eyes. “Is he so certain you will remain unwed that he cares nothing for what may be said of you? Or is it something more?”
She met his gaze an instant before looking away again. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Nor am I, unless…but that makes no sense.” He paused. “The only certainty is that Henry has a reason.”
“Don’t trouble about it now,” Marguerite said in dismissal. “You should try to sleep.”
“If you will order a pallet brought, I will ease down on it while you lie here.” He indicated the narrow bed he occupied.
“I shall order two, one for my use and one for Astrid.”
“Nay, Lady Marguerite. ’Twill be best if I…”
“Can you not call me Marguerite?” she asked with exasperation. “It seems foolish to be so formal while discussing exactly how we will sleep together.”
His face darkened, as did the tips of his ears that were exposed where she had brushed back his damp hair after wiping the blood from it. “We will not be sleeping together.”
“As near as makes no difference.”
“At the king’s behest.”
Her smile was wry. “I am to guard against whatever you might let fall in delirium, I believe.”
“Or anything I might do.”
Color invaded her face, for she could feel the burn of it. “Just so.”
“God’s teeth,” he muttered, then closed his eyes
with a frown of pain. “You must do what you will then, milady.”
She lifted a brow. “Milady?”
“Marguerite,” he repeated with the ghost of a smile, though he did not open his eyes.
Taking him at his word, she directed Astrid to the task of finding some manner of sleeping mats for the two of them, and Oliver to carry them for her.
Oliver gave a grunt that might have meant anything from disgust to approval. “That’s all very well,” he said, “but what of me?”
“Dullard,” Astrid said before Marguerite could answer. “It’s your turn to sleep across the doorway.”
He sighed, looking as woebegone as a lost child. “
Sì,
but it will be a long night.”
“Very well,” the serving woman said, “you may have a pallet, too. There, are you satisfied?”
“
Bene,
though it would be better if I had a foot warmer. You are such a short bit you could easily fit across the bottom of my makeshift bed.”
“Jackanapes!” Astrid spat at him while setting her hands on her hips. “As if I would sleep with you on any part of it—though you’re not so long yourself.”
“Long enough,” he replied, waggling his brows.
“Bragging dog,” she cried. “You may find your own bed, now, for I’ll not aid you.”
He laughed, and trailed behind her to complete the task assigned.
Marguerite gazed after the Italian with a frown between her eyes. What was he about with his teasing of Astrid? She greatly feared her tiny friend would be hurt by it, and yet so few paid her any attention. It was pos
sible an end should be made before it got out of hand. She would do that, except they both seemed to enjoy it so.
As it happened, no one had time for sleep. David’s wound became feverish by nightfall, and grew steadily worse as the hours advanced. Oliver was kept busy carrying water from the spigot in the great hall, one that drained down from a rooftop cistern. He also helped restrain David when he tried to leave his bed and buckle on his sword to go off to fight, and urged him to swallow the bitter brews of herbs and wine that Astrid made from her stores. Marguerite wrung out cloth after cloth, using them to sponge David’s skin with endless gentle strokes designed to soothe as well as cool.
She had envisioned trailing her fingers over his body below his bandaging. It had not been like this.
Near dawn the fever lessened somewhat, and her patient fell into a fitful sleep. Oliver returned to his post outside the door. Astrid stretched out on her pallet against the far wall, and was soon asleep in her sound fashion that was near stupor. Marguerite sank down onto her own mat of straw that lay at a right angle to the head of David’s bed. Leaning her back against the bed frame near his pillow, she closed her eyes, intending to rest them for a moment or two.
A wafting of cool, fresh air jerked her awake. Henry VII strode into the chamber with his seneschal on his heels and Oliver close behind them. He did not halt until he stood over the low bed where David lay.
“We regret disturbing you, Lady Marguerite,” the king said with the briefest of glances in her direction, “though we are pleased to see you are looking after Sir
David with such care. No, don’t try to rise. We will consider your curtsy as made with the usual grace.”
“Your Majesty,” she murmured in acknowledgment. Her mind was still fuzzy with sleep, yet she thought there was an undercurrent of satisfaction in the king’s voice that had little to do with approval for the way she had carried out his command. A possible reason for it brushed her, but he went on before she could grasp and hold it complete.
“We are told he was fevered during the night.”
She agreed, explaining the circumstances.
The king stared down at David, his expression bleak. “We must pray he mends quickly, for much depends upon it.”
“Yes, sire.”
He was silent a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was brooding. “The Golden Knight. He does, verily, have the look of a Plantagenet.”
“So everyone says.”
“You would not remember Edward and Richard, I suppose, being so young.”
“No, sire.”
“Formidable men, they were, in their different ways, running true to the bloodline.”
It was a reminder, if any were required, that, though his father had been a Welshman, Edmund Tudor, Henry was a Plantagenet in his mother’s line. He and the kings who had ruled immediately before him, the brothers Edward IV and Richard III, were all descended from Edward III. That Henry had come to the throne in this war of cousins was a great oddity of fate, for others had been far closer to the throne by right of birth. Thirty
years of bloodletting had cleared his way. And still it had taken an armed invasion, a battle and yet more deaths before he grasped the crown. Was it any wonder he clutched it so fiercely, would do anything to keep it?
Marguerite moistened her lips. “I know little of the Plantagenets, it’s true, but David is no uncommon man, either.”
“We depend upon it, which is why we are concerned. There was mention of disturbance to his eyesight?”
The bedclothes behind her stirred, pulling taut behind her shoulders as David levered himself up upon one elbow. “A complaint that is better this morning, Your Majesty.”
“We are pleased to hear it,” the king said, his gaze searching and less convinced than his words.
“It came from the blow to his head, along with a severe headache,” Marguerite informed the king, her voice rigorously even. “Astrid names the malady a concussion.”
“Not uncommon, as such things go,” David said.
His voice was half as strong as usual, she thought. The king frowned in recognition of that fact, as well. She was just as glad he’d noted it, as she had no wish to point it out.
“So we believe,” Henry replied, “still you must not exert yourself or become chilled. Your well-being is too valuable to us to take chances.” He turned his gaze upon Marguerite. “You have everything he requires, everything you require, as well?”
“Indeed, sire.”
“We would send our personal physician, but came
away from Westminster without him as this was to have been a swift hunt with an early return.”
She was surprised at Henry’s consideration in explaining matters, but could not regret the physician’s absence. The man was too fond of his lancet, claiming a good bleeding cured all ills. That seemed the last thing that was needful. “A kind thought, sire, but we will make do with Astrid’s skill.”
“She belonged to the gypsies, as I recall. Her knowledge of medicaments comes from them?”
“She traveled with them before reaching Your Majesty’s court, I believe, but was never of that tribe. Though wellborn, she was put away as an embarrassment to her family.”
Henry inclined his head. “Ah, yes, we remember the tale from when she was with our queen. God’s ways are inscrutable.” He paused. “We will trust in her good offices for now, but may yet send for our physician. Toward that need, you will send word to us if there is any change.”
It was a command rather than a request, and doubtless referred to a change for the worse. Marguerite lowered her lashes as she agreed in proper form.
“Excellent.” Henry turned from her to meet David’s gaze again. “We pray to see you fit and ready for duty again soon.”
“Sire.” The bedclothes rustled again as David sketched a truncated bow.
“When your health allows, you will continue with the program of instruction outlined.”
“As you will.”
“We will look in upon you again to mark your progress.”
The king swung around in a flurry of braid-edged wool. Then he was gone, his footsteps and those of his seneschal thudding on the stone floor before fading away down the corridor. Oliver followed the pair, closing the door firmly behind him.
Marguerite closed her eyes and leaned her head back upon the straw mattress. For no good reason that she could think of, tears burned their way into her eyes, rimming her lashes. She sniffed a little, and tried to swallow them down again. Blindly, she sought the well-chewed corner of her veil to blot them.
It was then she felt David’s touch on her face, brushing gently over her cheek and under one eye. Collecting the salty wetness on the edge of his finger, he removed it. As she reared back a little, turning her head, she saw him carry it to his lips.
“What are you doing?” she asked in husky surprise.
“Breaking my fast with angel’s tears.”
A watery laugh gurgled in her throat. “Not very satisfying, I fear.”
“Depends on your meaning.”
“I suspect you need food.” If they were back to him being worshipful she was not sure she liked it.
“I could eat,” he said in dry agreement.
It was an excellent sign, one that threatened to make her eyes water again. “Yes,” she said, pushing to her feet, swiping away the rest of the stupid tears, “so could I.”
The day that followed set the pattern for the rest of the week. David ate, slept and gingerly exercised his
torn side. In between, he watched her, touched her with careful familiarity, and seldom allowed her to leave his side. Each afternoon, his fever rose, climbing as the night advanced and only falling again when the midnight hours had passed. Slowly, slowly, he grew stronger and more himself.
Marguerite, mindful of the king’s command, began to polish David’s speech as he slept less. It was no great task, as he had patterned it after Braesford’s long ago. All that was required was to remove some of the army camp roughness and a certain northern inflection. She also drilled him further in the use of titles and the rules of precedence, bowing and curtsying to him as he lay frowning in concentration, giving herself the name of this duke and that earl, of a duchess, a mere lady, or a churchman of higher or lower degree. She noted the way he dealt with wine and meats now, but could find no fault. In fact, he had a certain fastidiousness she thought many English nobles might copy to good effect.