Niccolo spoke rapid fire French with an abysmal Italian accent, as well as a dozen other languages, or so he maintained. The man was never still, but jumped about, paced, bounced his legs, cracked his knuckles, or pulled at his long nose. Hugh and Eleanora vowed they found him and his multitudinous tales captivating. Maria had hated him on sight. Night after night as he and Phillip shared their memories, she felt increasingly the outsider, a starving beggar peering in at the banquet.
She took to retiring earlier. Alone in their bed, she tossed or moved to the window where she stared into the long spring evenings. Eastertime of 1323 had arrived, a time of pageantry and passion plays, the time once again of the cherry blossoms. She had met Phillip during that long-ago Cherry Fair. And now he would leave her.
"Isn't Niccolo a fine storyteller?" Phillip said later, as he removed his super tunic and placed it on a wall peg. "The knowledge stored in his brain, the sights his eyes have seen. That is what makes life bearable, to see and learn, to view the wonders God created for man." Crossing to the washstand he cleaned his teeth with a woolen cloth, then washed himself with warm water and scented soap. Maria forced herself to look away from the play of muscles across his naked torso.
Approaching the bed, Phillip looked down on her. "'Tis time we talked, Maria."
Her heart began a frantic pounding. The moment she'd dreaded, the moment for which she'd so carefully rehearsed was at hand.
"No! I already know what you are going to say." Maria's planned calmness slipped away in a rash of fear. "Cannot England be enough for one man? Cornwall has wild cliffs and oceans and you told me yourself that Yorkshire has high mountains and forests no man has yet entered and probably animals no man has looked upon. There are shrines scattered the breadth of the country and miracles and faeries, and London's Smithfield Fair, they say, contains a multitude of freaks. Why go to India or Persia or any of those awful places with their three hundred foot long snakes and Amazons and frightening creatures, where people die and are never heard from again?"
Not daring to look at him, to gauge his displeasure, Maria stumbled on.
"You yourself said that water crossings are nearly unendurable with rotten food and no one washing or shaving and everyone crammed together and with you always being in danger of pirates who would slit your throat for a farthing—"
"Such inconveniences are to be expected..."
"And that the cabins stink of rat urine and feces and vomit and that when the sea is becalmed and you are drifting somewhere out in that vast, hideous world of water, all men do is drink and they go mad and are always fighting and that you even witnessed one sailor murder another and the captain order that he be tied to the corpse and both thrown into the sea."
"Maria..."
"And that during a bad storm the captain had to cut down the mast lest the wind and waves wrench the boat apart and you all sink to a watery grave where you would be eaten by monsters and little Tom and I would never see you again." Her throat felt so constricted she could no longer speak.
Phillip's eyes were soft with compassion. He lifted a strand of her hair and rubbed it gently between his fingers. "How can I expect you to understand, wife, what I do not understand myself?"
Slipping into bed he forced Maria back so that she rested stiffly in his arms. She'd spent all her energy on words and she might as well have been trying to convince a stone for all the good it had done her.
"I told you once that I would prove a poor match for you."
The tears she vowed she would not shed began to fall. She balled her fists, trying to control her trembling.
"I have not been a good husband to you; you have deserved better." He kissed the top of her head. "But I do love you and Tom, in my own fashion, whether you believe me or no."
She managed a choked laugh.
"Other men leave their wives. 'Tis not as if I am the only one."
"They leave because they are obligated to, whether because of their sins or duties to their country. Not because it suits their fancy."
Phillip had no answer for that, for what she said was true. He'd dreaded this encounter, postponed it as long as possible. He didn't want to hurt Maria, but he did not know the words that would ease the blow, that would justify his act to her—or himself.
"Niccolo and I will leave from Dover. We will spend time in Europe, then go to the Holy Land. Perhaps beyond."
"How long will you be gone?" Maria's nails dug into the palms of her clenched fists. No matter how she'd counted herself prepared for this moment, her insides had shattered like a dropped pitcher.
"I cannot say. Three years, mayhap more."
"Three years?" Maria twisted in his arms. "Nay, do not. I could not survive without you. I know that I have not been a good wife, that my nagging has distanced us—"
"'Tis no lack in you that has brought this about. You are all a man could want in a wife. There is something inside of me that has always tormented me, a restlessness that does not afflict other men. I would that I could be different, but I cannot."
"You do not love me, you never did." She began to sob uncontrollably. "But I do love you and I am begging you, do not leave."
Phillip put his arm around her shoulder. She jerked away. He could think of no good way to make her cease crying but in hopes of placating her, said, "When I am gone, if you should need anything, our lord Sussex will be there for you. He has promised me."
"Richard? When will he have time for me? He is to be married within the month."
"We have already discussed it. You need but ask him..."
"Oh, aye, ask him when he will play me false just as you've done."
Phillip's expression was peculiar. "'Tis his obligation as our liege lord to care for us. I wasn't speaking on a more personal level."
Bolting from the bed Maria shook her fist in his face. "I wish we'd never married. And if you leave me do not ever bother to come back for we are finished as man and wife."
"Do not spout nonsense." Phillip was shocked by her venomous words. "You cannot do such a thing and 'tis foolish to make idle threats. Now come back to bed. I would not part with such harshness between us."
Maria jerked out of his reach. "'Tis not a threat. As God is my witness, if you leave me I will bar you forever from my bed and my life."
Chapter 23
Windsor Castle
Richard of Sussex and Beatrice, Countess of Lancaster, were scheduled to be married two days hence, on Whitsunday, the first Sunday in June. Windsor Castle, a favorite royal reserve since William the Conqueror's time, overlooked a verdant valley checkered with fields and meadows, currently thick with tents and pavilions. Maria had to concede that if she could have picked her marriage destination she would have chosen Windsor. Legend told that King Arthur and his knights had once walked its halls, and with its round tower, sprawling wings and colorful pennants, the castle appeared a proper home for mythical kings. Was it a tribute to Richard's nature or his feelings for his affianced that he had chosen such a romantic setting for their marriage?
Maria had been in attendance for nearly a week, which meant endless hours of miserable pretense. Pretending she was happy for the betrothed couple, and not at all unhappy over the departure of her husband, which she mentioned only if someone directly questioned her. She clung to her family, sharing a barge down the River Thames with Eleanora, riding often with Hugh into the wooded Chiltern Hills, and keeping to herself as much as possible. Today was the last day of jousting, and while she could not bypass the event, at least its ending would mark one day closer to returning home.
"Good morrow. Lady Rendell! I have not seen you since Rockingham. Isn't Windsor Castle lovely this time of year? And I must admit that Lord Sussex has outdone himself on his wedding festivities."
Maria looked up from her position near the gallery steps surrounding Windsor's lists to see Queen Isabella, dazzling in purple samite, smiling down at her. Flustered, Maria managed a curtsy in the confined space. Beyond, the grand melee, which i
ncluded all tourney combatants, was readying to begin.
"Your Grace, I would not think you would remember me." She couldn't comprehend how Isabella, who came in contact with thousands of people, might remember her from a time six years past.
The queen smiled indulgently. "I have a memory for faces, Lady Rendell. How fares your son Thomas? He is the same age as my Eleanor, is he not?"
Following a few more pleasantries, Queen Isabella continued to her seat beneath a gilded canopy. Sitting sedately, she folded her hands in her lap and pretended interest in the joust, though she could concentrate on nothing but the current joyous news. Last night Roger Mortimer had escaped the Tower of London! She could scarcely hide her elation. Since the uprisings that had culminated in Thomas Lancaster's death, the most powerful of the Marcher barons had been imprisoned in the appallingly mean confines of Lantern Tower.
But 'twould take more than bars to hold that one, Isabella thought, hiding her smile behind a fan.
Lord Mortimer had escaped the tower and was now on his way to safety in Normandy. Isabella was certain of his destination, because she was one of several who had engineered Mortimer's escape.
On Windsor's field, trumpets blew, destriers thundered toward each other, barons broke lances and knocked out teeth or spilled blood, but the Queen was lost in her last conversation with Mortimer. When she'd told him every detail had been arranged the look in Roger's dark eyes had been exciting to behold.
"Someday I will repay you for your favor," Mortimer had said, and she knew he did not mean in coin. The very thought of the Marcher baron made Isabella's heart beat faster. From his many months of imprisonment Mortimer was romantically gaunt and even jail could not lighten his swarthy complexion. He possessed such a confidently masculine air that she felt pleasantly dominated by his very nearness. Like so many Marcher lords he was arrogant and supremely self-assured—a marvelous change from a husband who was more ineffectual than most women.
Roger Mortimer is all male. He looks at me as Edward never has and no other man would dare.
When her fourth child, Joan of the Tower, had been born, Isabella had been housed in the Tower of London's royal apartments and it was during this time that she had come into more intimate contact with Mortimer. Isabella found herself irresistibly drawn to him, and she had ultimately allowed herself to be enticed to participate in his escape plan.
It was not only infatuation with Roger Mortimer that caused her to act, however. Increasingly the Despensers terrified her. She counted them capable of any cruelty. Though her husband's coffers were overflowing, he allowed his favorites to treat her as poorly as any serving maid. Her royal apartments had been abominable—rat infested and with a leaking roof through which rain had dripped upon her poor newborn babe. Repeatedly, both Despensers attempted to cut back her allowance while simultaneously adding to their own multifarious holdings. Whenever Isabella pondered the Despensers or her gripple miser of a husband, she fumed with impotent fury.
But not today.
Today Roger Mortimer was free of the tower and life looked sweeter than it had in years.
* * *
Maria and Eleanora shared quarters in Windsor's Upper Ward, where the domestic quarters and king's offices were located. They were jammed in a small room with a dozen other ladies, for Windsor was packed from storeroom to tower. In the lower ward harried pages scurried in and out of the king's ceremonial apartments; an endless stream of food carts was unloaded in front of Windsor's several kitchens. Hawking and hunting parties vied for space with noble ladies and their entourages, minstrels, musicians, clergymen, and armored knights returning from the lists.
The press of people and various activities did nothing to ease Maria's unhappiness. Phillip was gone, perhaps never to return, and it wouldn't be because of any travel misadventures. Rather she suspected their acrimonious parting gave him the excuse to do what he had always intended, abandon her and little Tom.
As bad as their parting was Richard's impending marriage. She assured herself that she was merely upset because he didn't have any time for her, though that was normal with all the events surrounding his wedding. They'd only spoken once, long enough for Richard to inquire after her health and Phillip's leave-taking, though Lady Beatrice had whisked him away before she had time to answer. Maria decided she hated Richard's fiancé. Others might marvel at Beatrice's petite height, voluptuous figure and comely countenance but they were merely indulging in court speak to put a fine gloss on the truth, which was that the woman was short, fat and cursed with a face best viewed at night.
How will you enjoy waking up to that, m'lord Sussex?
On the evening following the grand melee, Maria entered Windsor's Great Hall for another evening of feasting and dancing. She had long ago become sated by food that in its variety and abundance confounded belief, and had politely declined all requests to dance.
Soon this will be over, she told herself while searching for a place to sit, and I'll be home where I can be miserable without interruption.
She heard her name called and was dismayed to see her brother-in-law and his wife coming toward her.
"Do come and sit near us." Lady Jean slipped her arm through Maria's. Throughout the past several days Maria had often encountered her in-laws, but while Jean remained unfailingly sweet, Humphrey Rendell eyed her as if she were afflicted with a pestilence.
"You look so lovely tonight," said Jean. "I've not seen a caul of seed pearls so intricately worked before. And the green of your kirtle well becomes you. Does not our lady Maria look breathtaking, husband?"
"Indeed." Humphrey contemptuously noted the cut of her gown, the lushness of her figure. "You do not appear to be suffering overmuch from my brother's leaving."
Maria flushed. '"Tis a private matter, sir, which I handle in my own way." Feeling hurt and resentful, she found a seat as far from her obnoxious brother-in-law as possible.
Across from her, Eleanora sat with Michael Hallam and their father, who was obviously enjoying the company of a chatty widow. Unbidden, Maria raised her eyes to the high table. The king and queen, all those seated at the dais, appeared to be exquisite creatures from another world. The placement of candles flattered their faces, highlighted the dazzling hues of their clothing and sparkled off their crowns and jewelry. Even Richard, who had inherited his father's plain taste in clothes, wore a rich blue velvet, a gold coronet on his head, and several rings upon his fingers. Though always handsome, tonight he seemed as breathtaking but alien as a mythical god. Maria could scarce connect this dazzling suitor whispering in the ear of his betrothed to the man she'd known.
"Does not our queen look ravishing this even?" Her dinner companion, Geoffrey Marchaut, had mistaken the object of Maria's interest. "But His Grace looks a bit glum. I wager he's not recovered from Lord Mortimer's escape. He is sending troops to Mortimer's Marcher properties to recapture him. I hold out little hope of his success, however, for Mortimer is as sly as he is dangerous."
"I know little about political matters." Maria accepted a drink of wine from Lord Marchaut but shook her head when he urged her to eat. "I have no appetite."
"I have not seen you at court before, m'lady, which has been my misfortune." Sir Geoffrey's eyes kindled with interest.
"I am but a simple country maid, sire. I am more comfortable at Fordwich or Deerhurst than at court." Maria turned away. Her head was beginning to ache. Here, surrounded by people, she had never felt so alone.
Near the dais, Robin, the king's favorite minstrel, was just finishing the last of a dozen cansos dedicated to the Lady Beatrice. He was replaced by several jesters who kept up a steady banter of ribald jokes aimed at Richard and his lady. The jests were pointed and often crude but the two were hardly novices at love.
Following the banquet's end, pages removed the tables to allow for dancing.
Maria stood to leave. Geoffrey caught her arm. "Would you stay awhile, my lady? Just one dance with me?"
Geoffrey's eyes were dark an
d dancing as a gypsy's. His unruly hair reminded her of Phillip's.
When she hesitated, he pressed. "You are such a comely woman, Lady Rendell. Surely, you are the most beautiful woman at Windsor, nay in all of England."
Maria laughed. Geoffrey was obviously so enthralled with the notion of courtly love that his natural good sense had been replaced by hyperbole.
He flushed and appeared so crestfallen that Maria relented. What harm could a measure of kindness cause? "I would be delighted to dance with you, Sir Geoffrey."
* * *
"You are looking especially lovely this evening, Lady Rendell. No wonder Lord Marchaut cannot keep his eyes from you."
Maria looked up in surprise. She'd been concentrating so intently on the intricate steps of this particular carol she'd not even noticed her partner. Being in such sudden close proximity to Richard left her short of breath.
"My lord Sussex." She looked quickly down at her feet, well aware of the warmth of his hand and his body as his tunic brushed her arm.
"I have been seeking opportunity to speak more privately with you, but my time has not been my own. Who would have thought marriage would prove so complicated?"
"You have no idea, my lord." She thought of her lost husband and her resultant emptiness. "Your... the Lady Beatrice is really quite... lovely. I am happy for you." She scrutinized the stone floor and her velvet slippers peeking from the hem of her gown.
"And unhappy for yourself? How are you faring without your husband? Have you had a need for my help?"
Maria's hand trembled in Richard's.
Aye. If you could have been near to ease the parting, if you hadn't also betrayed me... Unnerved by the dangerous turn of her thoughts she shook her head. When she could trust her voice she said, "My lord husband and I quarreled. I said certain things I should not have. I do not think he will ever return."
Before Richard could further question, the lilting sounds from the minstrel's gallery signaled a change in partners. Maria searched for a way to gracefully exit the hall. She had no wish to further speak with Richard. His presence was too disturbing, and her emotions threatened to betray her at every turn.
The Lion and the Leopard Page 16