Nevril grimaced, causing his scar to stretch taut. “Praise God I did not. Methinks the marshal should manage his own charges. If not,” he said with a shrug, “a hoof on the foot or in the gut is only what the twit deserves.”
Mal raised his brows, surprised at the vehemence from his normally even-tempered man. “And what is stuck in your craw this day, Nevril? You know as well as I how ornery Alpha can be with anyone—even myself betimes.”
The man scratched his beard and glared into the wood. “That maid Tabatha seems to think Bruin could walk on water if he chose. A broken foot might teach her otherwise.”
“Tabatha? Lady Judith’s maid?” Mal frowned. Apparently, even away from Clarendon and the copper-haired witch he was not to have peace from her.
“Aye. That’s the one. She was loitering at the stable again this morrow when I went to get Alpha’s saddle for you. I heard her complainin’ to Bruin that her lady came in very late to the chamber last eve.”
So it had been Judith he’d seen. “Did the maid know where she’d been, so late in the night? Alone?”
Nevril began to reply, then looked sharply at him. “I ne’er said she was alone, my lord.”
“You did not need to,” Mal retorted flatly. “I saw her myself—or at the least, I believed it was her. Wrapped in a cloak as she was, hidden under a hood, I wasn’t certain.” He looked at Nevril expectantly. “But what she would be doing at such an hour, and alone…I cannot guess.”
“Tabatha did not say whence her lady came. But…she was accompanied by one of the king’s guards.” Nevril glanced around and stepped closer. His voice dropped low as he said, “Some nights ago, the king came to their chamber. Alone.”
Malcolm stared at him for a moment as the man’s words sunk in. There was only one reason a man would go to a woman’s chamber alone. “Indeed,” he replied, aware that his expression had gone blank. A loud roaring seemed to fill his ears.
Fool. You fool! You saw the signs.
“The maid insisted I say naught to anyone on it, my lord, for it seemed to upset her—and I have not. Not until this very moment. I do not gossip. But….” Nevril’s voice trailed off and he stared into the forest, as if to avoid seeing his master’s face. “I bethought you should know.”
Mal decided he’d prefer not to understand why his man thought that way. Instead, he nodded and, thankfully, at that moment, Castendown called for the group to mount up again. Mal swung into the saddle of his replacement mount, eager to be on his way—both in thought and in deed.
Praise God I must have naught to do with that woman.
Judith knelt on the cold, hard floor of the chapel.
She held a string of prayer beads formed of stewed and dried rose petals, given her by her cousin Gavin’s wife Madelyne. The faint scent of roses clung to the beads, wafting to Judith’s nose every time she moved from one to the next.
Pater noster, she prayed, eyes closed, head bowed, “qui es in caelis….”
The chapel, a small secondary one tucked in a far corner of the keep, was silent and dark. She was alone in the place which had become her sanctuary. Even the king wouldn’t find her here. And if he did, surely even he wouldn’t order her to come to him from a church.
It had been a week since Henry first summoned her to his private chamber. Since then, Judith had spent three more nights with him.
“I cannot cease thinking of you,” the king had told her after the third night they were together. They were abed, furs and cushions mounded around them; some even on the floor, for Henry was a vigorous lover. “You are my obsession, my fiery lady.”
A silk cloth was her only covering, from waist to foot, and Judith had no choice but to lie there as he trailed a finger over a shoulder and down to circle her breast. Her skin rose in little bumps in its wake.
“You fill my dreams and my thoughts, so that e’en when I meet with my barons or hold court you are never far from my mind.” He leaned forward to press a kiss to the side of her neck, then her shoulder, his tongue slipping out in a gentle caress. Judith shivered a little, for her skin was sensitive there.
“Why do you never smile when you are here with me?” he demanded. “You are known for your wit and vivacity, and yet you are dull and quiet in my chambers.”
“I have little cause to smile,” she replied with fearful honesty.
“I have given you baubles and jewels. I have fed you delicacies, told you of private matters. I have even done as you begged, against my better judgment—allowing you to come and go from me in great secrecy. You are a leman to the King of England, the most powerful man in Christendom. How can you have no cause to smile?” He sounded wounded, and yet genuinely astonished.
“I do not wish to be with you in this manner,” she said. Despite the fact that she’d told him thus in many words and in many ways, he did not—or would not—comprehend.
Nay, ’twas not a lack of comprehension. It was a lack of conscience.
“I am your king,” he reminded her. “Your liege lord. You are my vassal. You are beholden to me, you have sworn fealty to me. Do you not forget that.” His voice had cooled and now when he reached for her, his touch was not quite so gentle.
Now, in the chapel, in her sanctuary, Judith closed her eyes and pushed away the memory. She must accept her fate. Such was her life, her lot as a woman—for women had little or no choice in whom they wed. In truth, she reminded herself over and over, lying with the king was no worse than being wed to a man for whom she had no affection or care. She must do as her lord or husband commanded, must copulate with him as he wished, must bear his heirs as necessary…must even accept a slap or blow as her due, if he so chose.
Many women suffered such a fate—or worse. And being with the king was mayhap a better fate than being wed to a man she misliked—for surely Henry would soon tire of her, as he had each of his other mistresses.
And at the least, the king wasn’t rough or cruel. There were times when she could nearly forget he wasn’t someone with whom she wished to be, when she even felt a niggling of pleasure. But those times were rare, and only after Henry urged her to drink more wine than she needed.
She’d had no maidenhead when coming to the king’s bed. For that Judith must thank Gregory. Though they lay together only two times before he went off to join the traitor Fantin de Belgrume’s cause—and was eventually killed—she was no shy virgin at Henry’s hands.
Thus far, he’d been willing to keep their liaison a secret. That alone was, mayhap, testament to his attraction to her. For in the past, his lemans were never a mystery; everyone at court knew who they were. The women oft couldn’t conceal their pride and self-importance at being chosen to warm the king’s bed. It was an honor.
But Judith felt no honor in her predicament.
Pray the queen didn’t find out.
Pray the king didn’t get Judith with child.
Those were the petitions she asked, over and over. I can bear it…I will bear it willingly, Father, if You will allow those cups to pass me by.
Nearly a fortnight after leaving Clarendon, Malcolm and his companions rode over the drawbridge into the bailey. With them were the four brigands who’d survived after a violent clash near the town of Vartington. The other three thieves had perished in the skirmish.
None from the royal party died, though Claude, one of Dirick of Ludingdon’s squires, and a man-at-arms from Castendown were seriously injured. Mal, for his part, had no more than a cut on his thigh and an ugly scrape along the right side of his torso from the edge of his shield when he was nearly knocked off Alpha’s substitute.
A fortnight spent beneath the stars and sun, chasing down outlaws, tracking them for miles across the open land, fighting victoriously in a battle that could hardly be called thus—and all the while, jesting and conversing with peers of a like mind—had put him in a fine mood.
But now, as he dismounted from the stalwart horse named Theseus—who, though sturdy and strong was no Alpha—Malcolm’s fine mood ebbed.
He delayed going into the keep, taking the time to visit his warhorse and assure himself the leg was healed. Ludingdon and Castendown would report to the king, bringing the prisoners to him for their sentencing. Mal was relieved he wouldn’t have to face King Henry quite yet. He wasn’t certain he could hide his festering dislike for the man.
But that was naught compared to what he’d come to feel toward Judith. Sunny-faced, flirtatious, flamboyant Judith. A trusted confidante of the queen, cuckolding her mistress with the king. A two-faced, treacherous viper. He would never have guessed it of the girl he’d known at Kentworth or the teasing woman who connived to help an awkward young squire learn to fight with his sword.
’Twas no wonder Judith was all smiles when she spoke of the queen’s refusal to allow her to marry. If she should wed, Judith would be forced to leave her position as the king’s leman.
Once assured of Alpha’s good health, Mal had no further excuse to remain in the stable. Yet he took his time walking to the keep. Without realizing it, the roundabout path he took brought him past the rear of the mews.
As luck would have it, just as he walked by, Judith appeared. She slipped out of the building, closing the side door quickly behind her in an effort to keep the raptors from escaping.
Mal could have kept walking; in fact, he should have increased his speed and passed her by before she caught sight of him. But his traitorous feet did not obey the logic of this internal command, and when Judith turned, she saw him immediately.
“Warwick,” she said, clearly surprised. “You’ve returned.”
“Lady Judith,” he replied in steady tones. In spite of his feelings and what he knew and had come to understand, Mal couldn’t help but drink in the sight of her. It was at that moment he realized how fully gone he was when it came to this woman.
And because he looked at her so closely—his eyes tracing rapidly over the simple loops of blazing braid over her ears, the delicate, curvaceous figure in its dark blue bliaut—he saw that her face was thinner, her cheekbones and jaw seemed sharper. Her eyes had no sparkle and in the stead of a warm smile, her lips barely curved.
