Authors: Jennifer Blake
“No,” she answered, looking away in her turn.
“I will give you whatever is in my power,” he said with as much sincerity as he could manage. “I know it isn’t what you might have chosen, but you will have little to regret.”
“You don’t understand,” she whispered.
That was beyond true, but he had no time to go into it. “At least give thought to what I have said. We will speak of it again when I return.”
She swung her head to look back at him again. “Where do you go?”
“To a gathering of barons who may join me, or at least pretend to change their allegiance that others may do the same.”
“Pretend?”
“At Henry’s instigation, to lend credence to my supposed claim as Edward V.”
“That seems a dangerous game,” she said, her voice a thread of sound. “How do you know they won’t capture and kill you to be rid of the Yorkist threat you represent?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t. My dependence is on the word of Henry VII.”
She did not look any happier. “He seems to be wasting no time in carrying the thing forward.”
“As you say.”
“Who rides with you?”
“My men-at-arms. Oliver. The Comte de Neve.”
“Not the
comtesse?
”
“It is no venture for females.”
“Well enough. You will take care, nonetheless?”
He stared at her a moment while bemusement shifted through him. His mind was so beset that he spoke before he thought. “Are you—can you be—jealous, after all?”
“Don’t be daft,” she answered with a glance as sharp as the rebuff.
She was, no matter how she denied it. This lady he had revered for long years as an angelic being was all
too human. More, she was jealous of him who had never been worthy of it before, never thought he would be. “No,” he said softly.
“I’m only fearful of what may happen.”
“Yes.” His voice turned harsh as he absorbed that evidence of her concern.
And because of it, he had to swoop down upon her and take her lips in a kiss so fast she could not protest. With the taste of it upon his mouth, he left her then. He left her before he could decide that Henry’s crown would be well lost in exchange for a day spent in bed with Marguerite.
The meeting of barons was a strained affair with plentiful displays of arrogance, suspicion and bombast. It would have proceeded with more dispatch and less recrimination if Henry could have been present, but was concluded with some degree of satisfaction anyway. By the time David returned to the Norman keep, he was bone weary, disgusted at the task imposed upon him, and his temper as frayed as the moth-eaten banners that swayed above the hall’s dais.
It did nothing for his state of mind to discover that Marguerite was not in the solar they shared. Not that he expected to find her there as naked as when he had left, but it had been a persistent fantasy. She was not in the hall, the kitchens, the storerooms or the stable. She had not left through the gate on horseback, though the guards could not say she had not slipped past them afoot. No one had seen her in at least an hour, possibly longer, and none could say where she had last been occupied.
Climbing to the battlements to scan the wooded area
around the keep was a last resort. David took the steps two at a time with fear as his companion. He could think of far too many things that might have happened to her, each worse than the last. He should have made certain the guards knew she was not to leave the keep under any circumstances, should have set men to guard her as he had during the journey hither, should have taken her with him, should have told her how he would mourn if she came to harm. He should have told her he loved her, and made her believe it this time.
By the time he reached the top of the steps, his heart was clamoring in his chest, his stomach twisted in a knot and his brain curdling in the acid of his regret. He was desperate to look down from the height he’d reached, yet dreaded what he might find. He slowed, stood for a moment at the top, holding the healed slash in his side that still hurt after a day of exertion, trying to catch his breath.
He heard her first, the lilt of her voice like a melody on the light wind that blew around the battlements. It came to him from the far side of where he stood, beyond the bulk of the main rooftop. Relief shuddered down his spine and circled his chest to squeeze it tight. He took a fast step in that direction, then paused as he caught another voice in answer to whatever Marguerite had said.
Celestine, the Comtesse de Neve. That languorous yet breathy voice was unmistakable. She was here on the battlements with Marguerite.
Celestine had ignored Marguerite’s existence in days past, except for glances tinged with petty resentment. Marguerite had returned the favor. What, then, could have brought them together?
For all her flighty manner, Celestine doted on intrigue. The few short days he had been involved with her in Paris had been marked by her delight in the hide-and-seek of cuckolding her husband. She had been ecstatic over repaying him for his numerous affairs, and in the same coin. The lady had also been more than familiar with Charles VIII, and was an enthusiastic advocate for whatever might benefit her royal lover. The
comte
might have the diplomatic title from the French king, but it was the
comtesse
who was most often closeted with him.
These things could have nothing whatever to do with the discussion between Celestine and Marguerite. Then again they might have every bearing. Either way, David could not let the opportunity to discover what the
comtesse
was about pass him by.
With silent footsteps, he eased along the rooftop, following the windblown sound of feminine voices. They stood at the battlements at the rear of the castle, he thought, overlooking the densest section of the surrounding woodland. As the words they tossed back and forth grew clearer, he stopped and put his back to the wall he followed, leaning against the sun-warmed stone.
“A onetime Master of Revels to your Henry? But no,
ma chère
. How can you think I would know this Leon de Amboise?”
“He always seemed something more than a mere musician or director of entertainments,” Marguerite said in idle tones. “My sisters and I felt sure he was in service to Charles VIII. This was years ago, of course.”
“C’est vrai?”
The Frenchwoman’s indifference could not have been plainer. “I never heard his name.”
“He was most handsome, which made me think he might have come to your notice.”
David remembered Leon as well, though he’d not thought him particularly handsome. Leon’s sister had been a mistress to Henry before his marriage, had borne a child, little Madeleine, who was taken as their own by Isabel and Braesford when the child’s mother had been killed. Leon had disappeared not long afterward.
If Leon was an agent for the French king, it was never proven. Nor had David seen anything of the man on his adventures across the continent. Still, Marguerite might well suppose that Celestine could know him if both were in the pay of France.
Celestine gave a tinkling laugh. “Another golden one like David?”
“Dark, rather, but accomplished.”
“In bed, yes? Ah, but I refuse to believe he could compete!”
It was a moment before Marguerite spoke, and her voice had a compressed sound. “You are saying…”
“But yes, a most prodigious lover, our David, truly insatiable, I give you my word. Large, also! Large in all ways, you comprehend! Well, you have seen the
comte
’s lack of stature, so understand my awe, yes?”
David felt sweat trickle between his shoulder blades. Sainted Mother. The woman’s artless lack of restraint brought back forgotten memories. As uninhibited and demanding as a cat in heat, the
comtesse
had instructed him in myriad ways to please a woman. So busy was he in wondering if Marguerite would like them that he almost missed her reply.
“I can imagine.”
Could she indeed. The top of his head felt sun-blasted as he thought of it.
“Such natural talent he had, such sure hands,” the
comtesse
went on. “Never have I known a man with greater veneration for a woman’s body. He did not simply grab and push himself inside like most, certain that the woman must of course be satisfied if they hammer fast, fast on their way to pleasure. Idiots! No, no, he took half his joy in tending the enjoyment of his partner.” She sighed. “I have found no other so caring, so selfless.”
“He…he completed the act?” Marguerite asked, though distaste was strong beneath the curiosity in her voice.
“But of course he did,
ma chère!
Have I not said he was prodigious! Such strength, such endurance, such absolute control held until the ultimate moment! It makes my soul quake to think of it even now.”
“I…I’m sure.”
“Forgive me,” Celestine said with an arch pretense of compunction. “You will be ready to scratch my eyes out, yes? I did not mean to dwell on these delights. You must not be jealous.”
“Jealous? Why should everyone… I mean, why should you think that.”
She sounded bored, David thought, not at all as she had sounded just that morning. What in the name of heaven was going on?
“Shall I admit I would like you to be?” Celestine asked. “I was quite crushed to see him with you. He left me, you know, walked away as if I meant nothing, as
if none of the skill as a lover I imparted to him meant anything at all.”
“David left you?”
Heat burned the back of his neck at he listened. The urge to break up the discussion nearly propelled him into the middle of it. What held him back was dread that it was too late already.
“He tired of me and moved on,” Celestine said, “the only man ever to so insult me.”
“I can see it would have been a trial to come upon him again here with Henry.”
Was that sympathy for the Frenchwoman in Marguerite’s voice? David frowned as he considered it.
“Indeed. A woman has her pride.”
“Though surely you had been in the habit of seeing him in France? He was a favorite with Charles, after all.”
Celestine’s laugh was sharp. “I made sure our paths seldom crossed.”
“But you joined him, joined us, when we left Henry. Why put yourself to the pain of it? Unless you have hope?”
“Of rekindling his interest? I am not so foolish. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
“I’m sure you are mistaken.”
For an instant, Marguerite’s voice sounded diffident, as if she wished to be convinced. It was a task David would have relished had things been different.
“Not about such a thing,
chère.
I am told he abducted you as you rode to be married, carried you off upon his saddlebow. This is so?”
“It happened that way, yes.”
“
Quelle horreur!
How terrifying it must have been to be at his mercy. Yes, and how devastating to know the deed meant your ruin. One doesn’t soon recover from such a tragedy.”
“Tragedy?”
Celestine’s laugh was brittle. “Was it not so bad, then, being in his power? I confess I would not have fought his seduction so very hard myself. But then Henry ordered you to tend him after his injury in the attack. Not only were you subject to his will before, but all were shown clearly that your good name meant nothing to him or to your king.”
A choking sensation caught David in his throat as he waited for Marguerite’s answer. That he saw a glimmering of what might be going forward helped it not at all.
“These things happen,” Marguerite returned in even tones. “As the king’s ward, I must do as I am bid.”
Blackness descended over him. He had thought Marguerite willing, had been sure her care, her smiles and companionship while he was injured meant she returned what he felt. He had been certain that she welcomed his kisses, was enthralled by what he had shown her of desire. Could it all have been from mere acceptance of her fate, or worse, the pretense of it?
“You would like to escape him, yes? Or see to it he can hold you no longer?”
Marguerite was silent.
“It can be arranged, I believe,” Celestine went on in her light voice, so at odds with what she was saying. “That is, if you were to persuade him to ride out in a small party, were to lead him in a certain direction that might be suggested to you?”
David’s heartbeat faded into near stillness. He cared nothing for the plotting of the
comtesse,
could not even be surprised she and the
comte
might seek to prevent his interference in Warbeck’s bid for the throne. Loyalties were hopelessly tangled in this business of kings and crowns, and gold could sway anyone from one side to the other. No, it was Marguerite’s reaction that mattered.
Surely she must realize this morning ride so casually mentioned could end in ambush. She had to see there could be no escape for her, as Celestine viewed it, unless he was taken prisoner or killed.
She must know that all she need do to be free of him was tell him to his face that she wished it?
David held his breath, the better to hear what she would answer.
Long moments passed while he longed to be able to see her face, to know what she was thinking and feeling. Finally, she spoke.
“David has weighty matters on his mind. I misdoubt he will set them aside for a pleasure outing.”
“I feel sure,” Celestine said, her voice heavy with suggestion, “that you may convince him of the benefit.”
“Supposing I could…”
“Yes,
chère?
”
“What direction had you in mind?”
David closed his eyes, swallowing hard as he let his head fall back against the stone wall behind him. Marguerite had agreed, was even now listening as Celestine told her what she must do and when. He could not believe it. Everything he knew of her, everything he had ever known, said she would never stoop to such a thing.
He’d have expected her to spit fire at the mere idea, not only for his sake but because it assumed she was without heart or principles.
Why was she doing it? Why?
Had she changed so much in the years since they were together at Braesford? Or had the change come about since his return? Was this about her need to escape the prospect of being married to him rather than a betrayal?