Wolf Bride (27 page)

And yet how much more the queen must be suffering, she thought, and buried her face in the pillow as her heart threatened to burst.

Limping away from the stifling atmosphere of the chamber where his wife had been interrogated, Wolf had made for the small privy garden at the base of the north tower. Wherever possible, he had kept to the side corridors and sought out the shadows, not wishing to be seen. Occasionally he passed an open doorway and saw courtiers within, laughing and talking in the candlelight, some reading aloud, others dancing. The court was frantically keeping itself busy and amused as though nothing was amiss, as though their queen was not in the Tower, awaiting her final condemnation.

Beneath their gaiety, however, Wolf sensed a growing terror, of a kind which would not readily be quietened. Not even by the queen’s trial, for the horror of it all had them in a frenzy, not knowing to whom Cromwell’s finger might point next.

As more gentlemen were drafted in to ask questions and take evidence of those closest to the queen, the court was becoming a circus, where those who had previously watched and applauded the king’s cruelty were suddenly the ones whose sufferings were being applauded. It was no surprise most of the courtiers were frightened out of their wits.

Reaching the privy garden, he hesitated, staying out of sight by habit. The breeze blew through the stone cloisters, and he smelt fragrant flowers ahead in the darkness.

He thought of Eloise, how he had first kissed her in a privy garden like this one, at Greenwich Palace, near the river. She had shown such courage tonight, he thought, and winced inwardly at how desperate she must be feeling, waiting alone in their chambers, not knowing where he was.

But if he was to protect her, that was how it had to be. His jaw tightened. He felt in his leather belt pocket, retrieving the tiny sliver of paper he had found in one of his shoes on their first morning at court. Glancing about to check he was not observed, he read the note again, wishing he recognised the hand.

Written in Latin, the note simply said,
Beware, the king desires your wife
.

Wolf felt again the same quicksilver flash of jealous rage along his veins, then the aftertaste of fear. If true, Henry would stop at nothing to possess her. Not as a wife, for the king would not put soiled goods on his throne, not after the terrible error he had made with Anne Boleyn. Besides, he had Jane Seymour waiting to see which way the wind would blow from Tower Hill.

No, Henry was not looking for that kind of trouble. But he might take Eloise as his mistress, and then demand that Wolf acknowledge the king’s children as his own. It had been done before, those cuckolded husbands welcoming the chance for such easy favour and advancement. But the very thought of Eloise in Henry’s arms was enough to make his gorge rise . . .

So how would Henry achieve his seduction if Wolf refused to allow him access to his wife?

The easiest thing would be to discredit and disgrace Eloise, as Sir Thomas Cromwell had attempted to do tonight, thus forcing Wolf to annul their marriage on the grounds that she had not come to him a virgin. Failing that, he might decide to have Wolf killed. Either by stealth, or through some false accusation that would give the king a reason to order his execution.

My name may be next on that list of suspected lovers of the queen, he thought grimly. That would be the quickest and easiest way to empty Eloise’s bed.

Someone was coming.

Wolf stiffened, listening to the soft footsteps in the cloisters. The clock had not yet struck ten, but it was time for his meeting. The beautiful and very married Mistress Langley had approached him that morning as he prepared to ride out in the hunt, and whispered in his ear, ‘You are in danger, my lord. But you still have friends at court. Come to the privy garden below the north tower, ten of the clock tonight, and I will help you.’

He read the note again.
Cave, rex uxorem tuam cupiat.

Was this secret meeting designed to entrap him in some way, leaving the king’s path open to his wife’s bed?

Wolf shoved the paper back into his pocket, and stepped forward into the moonlight, almost reckless in his desire to meet danger head-on.

He ought to have destroyed the note as soon he found it, he thought wryly. But perhaps he had needed the evidence in his hands a little longer, not quite believing that Henry would allow his overweening lust to rid him of one of his most seasoned soldiers. Not in these dark, unsettled times.

Mistress Langley was cloaked, her hood drawn down. She trod softly through the formal paths of the privy garden, a second figure following behind her.

Wolf waited in silence, his eyes narrowed on that hooded second figure, ready to draw his dagger if necessary. He did not know Master Langley, one of the king’s more elevated clerks, but he knew his wife better than most: clever, promiscuous, but always discreet. The perfect mistress, she had borne three children to unknown noblemen, now growing up under the name Langley, yet seemed as seductive as ever.

But who was this mysterious person she had brought to their meeting?

Mistress Langley threw back her hood as she approached, tight red curls framing her face, her white, long-fingered hands adorned with costly rings.

Gifts from some of her grateful lovers, he thought, and lifted his gaze to her face, unable to deny that she was a very handsome woman and reputedly highly skilled in the art of seduction.

She curtseyed, a smile glittering in her eyes as she looked up at him. ‘Lord Wolf.’

‘Mistress Langley.’

‘Kate, please,’ she murmured, and watched with interest as Wolf lifted her hand, pressing it to his lips as he raised her from her curtsey. ‘How you have changed since you were a youth, my lord Wolf. You look so much . . . harder. More like your name. It is a shame we are not better acquainted. But I have not seen you much at court these past few years.’

‘I have been much occupied in serving the king.’

‘Soldiering, yes.’ She ran her tongue along her lips, her brazen gaze dropping hotly to his codpiece, and there was little doubt in his mind what she was imagining. ‘The king speaks so highly of your fighting skills, my lord, I can hardly hear your name spoken without thinking of carnage and bloodshed.’

‘You wished to speak with me privately?’

Kate seemed annoyed by this deliberate snub, but shrugged. ‘You are in a hurry to discover my purpose? But of course you are: your wife is accused of conspiring with the queen against the king’s honour.’

‘Those accusations are wholly without substance,’ he told her sharply, ‘as Cromwell discovered this very evening, on questioning her.’

She laughed. ‘You thought your wife guilty?’

He looked at her, waiting.

‘No doubt you think the queen guilty too.’ Kate Langley’s voice dropped to the merest whisper, audible only to him and the one in grey who stood behind her, still cloaked and hooded. ‘You would be alone in that misapprehension, my lord. Such nonsense, only a child would believe those charges. Adultery, witchcraft, devil worship . . . Even incest with her own brother? Such wild and dizzying accusations. But mud sticks where it will, and if it obscures a name the king wishes to obliterate . . .’

She did not finish, but Wolf had got her gist. His suspicions had been correct. King Henry wished to drive Eloise out of Wolf’s bed and into his own. A creeping horror darkened his heart as he saw what must lie ahead if he failed to change the king’s mind.

‘Why did you bring me here if there is no way to change the course of events? To mock me?’ he demanded, grabbing at her wrist. ‘Or to offer help?’

‘I have never mocked you.’ She tried to tug her wrist free of his grasp, but could not. ‘If I can help you, my lord, I will. You are not without friends at court, though many are afraid to speak out against the king and risk their lives. I have been asked to do what I can for you. But you must remember to repay the favour one day.’

‘I will not be indebted to anyone,’ he said harshly.

She stared. ‘Not even for your life?’

‘Not even then.’

‘And your wife’s? Do you not care what happens to her?’ Her voice was an angry hiss in the moonlight. ‘Whose bed she may be forced to grace?’

‘Damn you!’

Kate wriggled in his grip. ‘You’re hurting me!’

‘Speak plainly then, Mistress Langley, and I will not hurt you. Nor your companion.’ He pushed her aside, turning to face the silent figure in the grey hood, his hand dropping instinctively on his dagger hilt. ‘Who are you? Speak! Throw back your hood: let me see your face.’

It was a woman, he realised with surprise, and felt his nerves jangle as two slender white hands came up to push back the hood. Then she stepped into the patch of moonlight before him, and Wolf sucked in his breath, feeling as though someone had just punched him in the stomach.

‘Margerie!’

She was just as he remembered from their betrothal: still ethereal in her beauty, small-waisted, that elfin face unchanged, her green eyes wide and fixed on him in apprehension, as though uncertain of her welcome. Yet there was a new fragility about her, a suggestion that she too had been broken and discarded, and for a moment Wolf felt his whole being tug towards her in sympathy. Then he recalled how she had deserted him for another man, made him a laughing-stock before the court, and he stood in silence, his mouth hard, waiting for her to explain herself.

‘Wolf.’ Margerie managed a smile, though a tremulous one. It did not convince him of her goodwill. ‘Ah, how you have changed since you were a youth. Your eyes are so cold now . . .’

‘As you see.’

‘Was that my doing?’

His voice was terse. ‘What do you want, Margerie? You must have heard that I am married now. Or perhaps you came because of that. You should know, I have no need of a mistress.’

‘So unkind, my lord,’ she murmured, flinching momentarily, as though accustomed to such insults. Her green eyes studied him in the contemplative way he remembered. ‘No doubt I gave you good reason to be angry when we last parted. I did not come here to discuss the past though, but to offer you my help.’

He would not berate himself for having spoken so harshly to a woman, Wolf thought, nettled by her presence and thrown off-balance by her unexpected offer. Margerie was no lady, and she could never be his friend. And if she was not his friend, she might turn out to be his enemy. Yet her hurt expression rubbed at his conscience.

He thought of the letters he had written to Margerie during those first years after she had run away with another man. Letters he had never sent, but had burnt after writing. Letters full of desperate, pleading expressions of his love. Words he could never have said to her face, for fear of opening his heart in public, of breaking down and shaming himself . . .

And yet now, standing before her in the shadowy palace garden, Wolf felt none of the grand passion of his youth. Only pity for the hurt in her eyes, and guilt for the way he had just insulted her, both aloud and in his heart. Margerie was a woman he had once loved, that was all. Not a demon or a goddess. Just a woman, struggling through life with no male protector, who had come here with Kate Langley to offer him help. And he had just insinuated that she was a whore.

‘Forgive me, I should not have spoken to you like that,’ he said, and bowed. ‘I will understand if you prefer to leave.’

But Margerie was smiling. ‘No, I will stay, my lord. Whatever you may think of me, I am sorry for what I did, the way I treated you all those years ago. You were still a boy then, and I was too young myself to understand what had happened between us. I thought for a little while that I was in love with you. But it was just a girl’s dream of love. I mistook your passion for possessiveness, and could only think of escaping before you trapped me forever.’

His eyes met hers, and he nodded curtly. He thought of Eloise, and wondered if she had the same fear. The idea disturbed him.

‘Go on.’

‘I have an idea which may distract the king from pursuing your wife, at least for now, and allow my conscience to be at peace. Given our past
amour
, and the interest of a certain gentleman at court,’ Margerie smiled, looking at him through her lashes so he could not see the expression in her eyes, ‘it would be best if I stayed away. But I have asked my dearest friend Kate if she will lend her support to my scheme.’

Kate Langley glanced across at him drily. ‘And I have agreed. Though considering how uncivil you have been tonight, my lord Wolf, I cannot imagine why.’

‘Because he is so very comely, perhaps?’ Margerie teased her.

Kate folded her arms across her chest, accentuating the high thrust of her breasts, then looked him up and down in a suggestive manner. ‘Perhaps.’

Eloise had been asleep for some hours, twisting and moaning in a terrifying dream of axe blades and smoking stakes, when the door opened and closed in the darkened chamber. The sharp draught was what woke her, and the candle flame beside the bed dipped suddenly, then flickered back into life.

She pushed up on her elbow and peered round the heavy bed curtains, groggy with sleep, shaking away the hideous nightmares with an effort.

At that moment, a hand extinguished the candle. She smelt its thick smoke drifting in the darkness. Someone climbed into bed beside her, the whole mattress shifting with a creaking sound. She knew at once that it was Wolf. His masculine scent was so familiar to her now, she responded at once to his presence, her nipples stiffening beneath her thin nightrail.