Mumbling an excuse to her dancing partner, she hurried from Windsor, out into the pleasance.
The night was lovely, cool and quiet after the noise inside. Several other couples shared the garden, either strolling the pebbled paths or seeking privacy upon one of the many stone benches. Maria looked up to the inky darkness, sprinkled by a million radiant stars. Darkness always brought out such strange emotions—sadness and longings and desires she could not understand. Darkness reminded her of Phillip. She hugged her arms together. And Richard? In two days he would be married.
The prospect pains me not at all. But if only something would remain constant.
"Maria." Richard stood silhouetted in the light from the banquet hall.
Her heart leapt. "What are you doing here? You will be missed."
"I made the appropriate excuses. My guests can spare me for a few moments."
He crossed to her, stopping when less than a hand's length separated them. He breathed deeply of the fragrant air. "'Tis a beautiful night. I think such a night doesn't suit my mood."
Her sleeve brushed his tunic. "Why, sire?"
"These past weeks have been taxing. I have never been one for much ceremony." He paused. "And sometimes I doubt the rightness of this marriage."
"Why? Everyone says Lady Beatrice is a fine match."
"And what do you say? How do you feel?"
It was as if Maria were standing on the edge of a precipice. She groped for the proper words. "'Tis the natural thing to do, of course. But once you are married I will be even lonelier. I will feel somehow that I have lost you."
"You will always have me, my lady. That will never change."
The words could be interpreted in so many ways—in friendship or in love. Maria remembered his declarations near the cherry tree and at the Leopard's Head. Had they been empty words intended to seduce her?
"I wish that were so. I wish that something or someone would remain constant. With Phillip gone and you marrying I feel so... desolate."
"I never knew my marriage would affect you at all."
"Aye. You have been a friend to me as well as my lord and..."
"A murrain on your friendship," Richard interrupted. "I don't want it. I never have. You know that full well by now."
Maria looked him full in the face. She'd known it in so many diverse moods—the face of a king, the face of a bastard, Richard's face.
"What have you wanted from me, my lord?"
He looked past her to the moon. "Your body. Your soul. Every part of you. Is that plain enough?" His head bent to her; his lips hovered inches above her own. "I know 'tis wrong of me to think it, let alone say it, and I have tried to pretend otherwise. That there is naught between us. But tonight I do not care about right and wrong or anything beyond this moment." His mouth brushed the corners of her own, then settled over its fullness.
Through her surprise, Maria found herself responding—even as she'd responded to Phillip. The intensity of her feelings frightened her. She pushed against his chest. "Nay. We cannot."
Maria bolted past him. The moon, caught in a twisted snarl of branches, broke free to follow her flight along a pebbled path, past couples lounging on the secluded benches. She'd reached her apartment in Windsor's upper ward before she was aware that Richard had followed. She ran blindly on until he jerked her arm and spun her around to face him.
"Do not, my lord. You must return..."
Richard's lips crushed hers in a brutalizing kiss. Maria struggled against him. "'Tis wrong," she gasped, twisting away.
He caught her again. Her mouth opened under his onslaught of kisses. He forced her back against the doorway to the ceremonial apartments, where he resided.
"Please do not. When you kiss me so, I cannot think."
His breath was hot against her ear. "I do not want either of us to think. Let me make love to thee, Maria. Just this once."
Not only desire marked Richard's face, but a yearning she'd never before seen—not with Phillip, not with any man. She felt her resolve melt away and as his lips brushed her forehead, cheeks, the hollow neath her eyelids, the tip of her nose and the corners of her mouth, flames of desire leapt outward from the pit of her stomach. Richard whispered her name until she was light headed and felt as if she were floating. If he loosed her she was certain she would rise past Windsor's apartments to the moon hovering among the stars.
Maria's arms crept around his neck; her fingers closed in the soft thick hair curling at its nape. Richard's hand reached up to cup her left breast. His right hand slid down her rib cage, searing through the velvet of her kirtle. His hand trailed upward to her other breast, teasing, tantalizing with its deliberateness.
"For so long now," he whispered, "I have dreamed of this moment."
Maria's mouth opened under the delicious assault of Richard's lips. As they tasted and explored each other, her limbs lightened to water. He bunched the folds of her skirt, hiking it past her calves. Intoxicating sensations, like heady wine, coursed through her, even as her mind counseled caution. She ignored the warnings. Maria no longer cared to listen to what was right or wrong, to weigh the consequences of her act. Now, this moment, was enough.
Sweeping her into his arms Richard carried her through the doorway of the apartments, up the stairs to his chamber. When he released her, he kissed the hollow of her neck, then caught her right earlobe gently with his teeth. His tongue travelled a light pathway along her jaw line, up to her mouth, outlined, teased and trailed to her left ear. Maria swayed against him, pressing every closer. Slipping her hands neath his tunic and shirt she felt bare skin. His muscles jumped upon contact.
Swiftly Richard removed his clothing until he was clad only in form fitting chausses. He moved to take her in his arms, but Maria shook her head.
"Just for a moment, let me look at thee." It was against convention to behave so boldly, but wasn't everything about this night contrary to her upbringing? Maria couldn't help but exult in the sheer magnificence of Richard's body. How could poets and minstrels praise women's anemic charms when their softness could never match the true beauty of a knight's physique? Moonlight silhouetted every hard curve and swelling line of Richard's massive chest and arms, the shadow of his chest hair against the surrounding skin. A jagged scar followed the outline of his left pectoral, slashing past his nipple.
"Bannockburn?"
"Aye."
Bannockburn meant Phillip. Maria shoved all thought of her husband aside. With her lips she traced the uneven course of Richard's scar, feeling the ridges of puckered tissue, as well as the slamming of his heart.
"Please, Maria, have you no idea what you are doing to me?"
Pulling her upright, he worked her skirt ever higher. Before she was even certain what was happening, her outer garments lay at her feet. Nothing save the flimsy length of chemise now separated them, which Richard ripped to her waist. His gaze burned a trail along the contours of her body, but Maria saw something more mixed with desire—that unsettling tenderness. More than lust the tenderness sealed for Maria the rightness of their act.
"I think this moment was inevitable," she whispered. "From the very first."
Richard carried her to his bed and settled atop her. Naked flesh met naked flesh. Though her body moved with a will of its own, Maria's thoughts remained coherent. Richard would make love to her. They would commit the ultimate sin and repent of it the rest of their lives. But it did not matter. For this moment Richard of Sussex belonged to her. The world did not exist beyond this them and this bed—not Windsor Castle, nor Phillip, nor the morrow...
"I love thee, Maria," Richard whispered as he entered her. "Until death parts us I will love no one else."
* * *
Maria crossed to an unshuttered window. Lights from Windsor's Banquet Hall, situated higher than the lower ward, radiated into the night, piercing even the darkness of Richard's chamber. Occasionally she heard a shriek of laughter, the murmur of voices. The outer world, with its responsibilities, was
beginning to intrude.
Coming up behind her, Richard slipped his arms around her naked waist. She leaned against him.
Nothing has changed. When we leave this room Richard will return to Beatrice, I will soon be bound for Deerhurst, and we will both have to beg the church's forgiveness for our sins.
"Let us pretend that 'tis just you and me," Maria whispered, "and that we have forever."
"But we do not." Richard buried his lips in her fragrant hair. "Not even love can make time stand still."
He turned her around to face him. "And I do love thee."
Maria reached up to smooth the tangle of hair tumbling across his forehead. Their parting had already begun and she could not even echo his declaration. 'Twas true that no woman could be in love with two men and she loved Phillip, but she felt such a tenderness toward Richard.
Is this then the true wage of sin? Not death, as the priests preach, but the emptiness accompanying the deed? Nay. The emptiness has naught to do with the sin, but rather the knowledge of its ending. Is it sin at all? Does God really begrudge us our fleeting moment together?
If Maria were God she would be too busy admiring her handiwork, counting and rearranging the stars in her heaven, studying the face of the man in the moon to worry over the actions of two lonely people...
"You know 'tis over, do you not, my love?"
She closed her eyes. "Aye."
"Because of Phillip." Richard's voice caught on his name. "I have betrayed him and betrayed him willingly, and I must live with that. But it cannot happen again."
"He will never know. And if he did he wouldn't care. Phillip doesn't love me. He never did." Easier to justify her adultery by believing in her husband's indifference.
"You know him not at all, or you would not say that. Your husband is driven by demands and desires we cannot know. And he does love you, but love is not the end all, Maria. There are other things."
She covered her face, trying unsuccessfully to hold back her tears. Taking her in his arms Richard stroked her hair until she quieted. "You are wed to Phillip and your duty and love belong with him," he said softly. "The past cannot be changed, nor should it be. But a measure of my future, at least, will not come to pass. I will not wed the Lady Beatrice."
"Jesu!" Maria breathed. "You must. The scandal would be dreadful."
Richard smiled. "You once braved something similar and survived nicely. Besides, by lauds all of Windsor will know what we've done. I will put a fine face on the broken engagement and enlist Edward's help with some appropriate excuse. Perhaps the Scots will suddenly break the truce so recently signed, or I will be called west to search for Roger Mortimer. Whatever, we will think of something. After you I will have no other woman."
"I almost wish we had not had this time, for it makes the very thought of parting unbearable." Maria pressed against him. "Phillip will be gone such a long time, and I will be so lonely for you both. Won't you just visit sometimes for I will soon be living at Deerhurst and 'tis such an isolated manor—"
"Nay, lovedy. I will maintain a distant interest—as I do with most of my vassals. More we dare not."
They heard footsteps on the stair, the murmur of female voices. Queen Isabella and two of her maids were returning from the banquet. Richard wrapped her in a bone crushing embrace. "I love thee always," he whispered against Maria's ear.
And if I do not love you, she wondered in return, then why does our parting hurt so?
Chapter 24
Paris, November 1325
Queen Isabella flung open a hinged diamond paned window and placed her elbows on the casing. The small apartment she'd inhabited these past few months was located on the third floor of an unremarkable half-timbered dwelling. Like so many others in this part of Paris's Right Bank, the apartment cantilevered over the story below and leaned out above a narrow street cluttered by business signs shaped like the products they advertised.
Sighing contentedly, Isabella gazed out at the darkened city of her childhood. After the nightly Angelus signaled bedtime, Paris plunged into darkness. Only around its crossroads or in grottoes dedicated to patron saints did candles or an occasional lamp provide light. The smell of rotting garbage wafted upward from the deserted lane. While Paris's main streets were paved and wide enough to accommodate two passing chariots, the city's more than three hundred fifty side streets were topped by mud and offal.
The Right Bank, located beyond the old walls, was the area of commerce, industry, and the luxury trades. Wealthy residences also clustered here, and from their elaborately ornamented belvederes watchmen maintained vigilance. As a child Isabella had enjoyed her occasional outings to the public markets, which were largely serviced by riverboats traveling the River Seine. Soap makers, hatters, cabinetmakers, potters, furriers, barbers, and apothecaries with rows of strange-smelling potions packed in peculiar-shaped bottles all inhabited the Right Bank. Traffic jams were a way of life with basket-laden pack mules struggling for space against street vendors and porters bearing bundles of wood or charcoal. In the plazas jongleurs performed acrobatic stunts and feats of magic, or recited satiric tales, and when the king's vintage was readied, public criers cried the royal wine.
Hearing movement from behind, childhood memories fled. "Soon I must return to the Louvre," the queen said. "Charles may have a reputation as a philanderer but he would frown on his sister's indiscreet behavior."
Isabella stretched languidly but made no move to dress. She hated the very thought of the royal palace, where decorum must once more be put on as firmly as the crown atop her head.
A tentative dawn began inching across the eastern sky. She smiled as she remembered her recent triumphal return, with her countrymen waving and cheering so tumultuously they'd drowned out the ringing of the city's church bells. Parisians had strewn flowers along her route and kissed the hem of her skirt as she passed by. Their exuberant welcome had provided a soothing balm to a sorely wounded self-esteem. For seventeen years she'd tried to be a good wife to Edward Caernarvon, but he had always treated her ill. Now he had quarreled with her brother the king, Charles IV, over Gascony, which was a foreign province of England, and which had been recently confiscated. Edward, using circuitous reasoning Isabella could only guess at, had blamed her and had sought to punish her by staying away from their marriage bed.
Small loss, she'd thought at the time, but his continued coldness had triggered rumors that his emissaries were travelling to Rome to seek a divorce.
The very idea of such an act made Isabella grind her teeth with rage.
That Edward should seek to rid himself of me, when he is the one guilty of unpardonable sin!
The situation with the Despensers had degenerated so badly that in September of 1324, Hugh the Younger had openly confiscated all of Isabella's estates and imprisoned her servants, dispatching them to religious houses throughout England. The worsening conflict in Gascony had provided an unexpected relief for the queen.
"Perhaps I myself should travel to France," she'd suggested to Edward. "Charles has always doted on me. I believe he would listen to England's side if 'twas properly presented."
Reluctantly King Edward had agreed and in March of 1325 Queen Isabella had crossed the channel to her homeland. Seeking to make a good impression, Edward had even loosened the royal purse strings enough to allow her a new wardrobe. She'd entered Paris regally attired in a black velvet so voluminous and long that only the tips of her white checkered leather riding boots peeked from beneath the hem. Her pale hair had been left unplaited and held on either side of her head by cases of gold fretwork.
As she'd ridden to the royal palace, smiling and waving to children and shopkeepers, her thoughts had been on her forthcoming meeting with her brother the king. And one other—Roger Mortimer.
Will I still find Mortimer captivating? she'd wondered. Does he yet even reside at the French court? Has he found a younger woman whose charms he prefers?
Isabella might have been Queen of England but Mortimer
made her feel as vulnerable as a maid suffering her first crush. Remembering her uncertainty, Isabella smiled. Such doubts now seemed foolish.
Her gaze swept the Paris skyline. In the Ile de la Cite, surrounded by the River Seine, the spire of the Cathedral of Notre Dame soared above the rest of the buildings. No English church could favorably compare with Notre Dame, which contained room enough for nine thousand worshippers. Near the cathedral stood the Queen's temporary residence, the royal palace. In the fauborgs, where houses possessed gardens and on Sundays the bourgeois promenaded, windmills labored in the damp November air. Amid harvested vineyards, abbeys etched against the lightening sky.
Paris rumbled awake. Shutters slammed, dogs barked, roosters crowed, servants, empty pails in hand, stumbled to the nearest public fountains.
Calloused hands slid around Isabella's naked waist. She leaned back, into the arms of Roger Mortimer. "I love it here," she whispered. "'Tis like I never left."
"I hate it," Mortimer said decisively. "On the Left Bank those university students are as plenteous as rats. They prattle about reason and philosophy and other matters of no consequence and the booksellers around Notre Dame are so numerous I cannot move without stepping on one of them. I despise the shouts of the muleteers, the stench of the butchers and tanners around the Chatelet, the moneychangers on the Grand Pont who have robbed me of my money as truly as a bandit. Everything about this city..."
Isabella laughed. "My wild Marcher lord. You just mislike being imprisoned by any city."
"There is no place like the March," he said flatly. "I will not rest until once again I race across its hills."
The earl's powerful fingers tightened around her waist, but he wasn't thinking of lovemaking. Roger Mortimer approached all of life with an intensity that was as overwhelming as it was intriguing. His dynamism and self-confidence had long ago convinced the queen that he was capable of deeds other men only dreamed of. In this case the intimation behind his words frightened her.
The Lion and the Leopard Page 17