As the man descended the stairs at the king’s side, Gareth told himself it was for the best, even as the pain in his chest felt like it was constricting his breathing. Margery deserved a normal man, one who could move with her from court to country, at home anywhere. A man without visions or curses, a man who wouldn’t use her for his own selfish purposes.
The nobleman approached Margery, and brought both her hands to his lips.
Did she already know him, or would this be the first meeting that swept her away with wonder and the beginnings of passion? Gareth found himself walking numbly forward, as if he had to see it all for himself. He deserved every last bit of torture.
Then he saw Margery’s face. She had gone chalk white, her mouth sagging open.
He stepped closer, pushing aside squires and pages.
When the nobleman lifted his head to smile at her, bathed in the approving gaze of the king, Gareth saw her tremble.
“Who is that?” he asked one of Margery’s knights.
“Viscount Fitzwilliam,” the man answered, his dour face transformed with speculation. “Seems like his interest in our mistress has rekindled, eh?”
Margery’s first lover—who had taken her virginity and cast her away without regard to her feelings.
Gareth shouldered aside anyone who stood between him and Margery. The anguish she so desperately tried to hide made him burn with a fury he had never felt before. He wanted to bury his sword in Fitzwilliam’s body and watch his guts spill.
Instead Gareth took Margery’s arm. She stared wide-eyed at Fitzwilliam as if Gareth wasn’t there.
“Mistress Margery,” Gareth said near her ear, “let me see you to your chamber.”
She didn’t react.
“I am sure you would like to settle in, perhaps rest before the evening’s festivities.”
Fitzwilliam gave them a jovial smile. “Margery, we haven’t even had time to talk. Come sit by the hearth with me and tell me all you’ve been doing.”
Gareth eyed him coldly. “It has been a strenuous trip. I will see her to her room.”
Margery suddenly seemed to will herself into awareness. She lifted her chin, and some of her color returned. She gave Fitzwilliam a perfunctory smile, even as she grasped Gareth’s arm with abnormal strength.
“Lord Fitzwilliam, it is good to see you again,” she said coolly. “I look forward to speaking with you later this evening. Sir Gareth, how kind of you to escort me to my chamber.”
But they could not pass the king without a bow and a curtsy. Gareth prayed that their sovereign did not ask his name, because he could very well be ordered from the tournament, leaving Margery defenseless. But King Henry’s gaze remained speculatively on her.
“Mistress Margery.” The king’s voice was soft, as if he knew he had no need to raise it. “We have missed you at court.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said. “Is the queen with you?”
“Alas, she had to remain at Greenwich, but she has been anxious to hear of your decision. Have you met the fine young man who is to be your husband?”
Gareth saw her blush. For someone who just a moment before seemed paralyzed with fright, she had recovered with amazing poise. “I am still considering, Your Majesty.”
He laughed, but he was already looking beyond her to the noblemen who waited for his attention. “We shall talk, mistress. I have been spending much time with young Fitzwilliam. You could do worse than consider him.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she murmured as he and his entourage swept past.
Gareth watched her with concern, but she never looked at him, nor did she push his arm away. Together they entered the Cabots’ home and were escorted to the chamber set aside for her. The maidservant left them alone in the corridor.
Margery released his arm. Her gaze never rose higher than his chin. “Thank you, Gareth. Have a good evening.”
“Margery, if you need to talk—”
“Talk?” she repeated in a brittle voice. “I knew I would have to see Peter eventually, and now it has happened. What is there to talk about? After all, he is just another man I have given myself to.”
She closed the door in his face, and Gareth stood frozen, anguished, his hand flat against the wood that separated them. Was the vision of Peter and Margery kissing meant to warn him of their past, or predict the future? He was sick of always feeling helpless—useless.
And who was he to judge Fitzwilliam, when he had used Margery just as poorly?
Margery stood at the window and stared blankly at the tournament pavilions below.
She had finally seen Peter, but the pain of caring for him had fled, leaving her only sad and bewildered.
Yet there was always the constant worry that he would tell someone of their secret indiscretion. She had to talk to him, find out what he wanted.
And find out why the king had recommended him as a husband.
During supper, Margery knew Gareth lingered near, watching over her. She had never doubted that he worried about her safety—after all, he said he’d sworn an oath to her father. Fine comfort that was.
Still, she’d made sure his bedchamber was near hers, for even now she did not want to be surprised by a greedy man.
Peter sought her out after the meal and drew her aside to a window seat, which overlooked the darkening sky and the multicolored patches of pavilions. She felt safe enough, with hundreds of people in the hall, and Gareth standing sentinel nearby.
She just wanted to have this conversation over with. The suspense had to be worse than knowing.
For a moment she stared into her lap, where Peter’s hand held hers. She removed her fingers from his, then shivered when he let his hand rest on her knee for a moment too long.
Enough with cowardice, she told herself, and raised her gaze to his. She expected to feel the anguish of love lost. Instead she felt…tired.
His smile, once full of promise, was now only patronizing. “My dear girl, it is so good to see you.”
She nodded once and said nothing.
“Did you receive my letter?”
“What do you want, Peter?”
“Want?” He lowered his voice, then looked about to see if anyone was near. “Margery, you already gave me everything I could want.”
Her worst fears were about to become reality. He would tell everyone what she had done. She braced herself to feel terror and anxiety, but she could barely work up the strength to be nervous.
Gareth was watching them, his beautiful face inscrutable as he waved away one eager serving maid after another. He didn’t want her himself, yet was he making sure no one else could have her?
She knew such thoughts were unfair. He was her personal guard, trying to see his task to completion. He had not asked her to throw herself at him. He had given her exactly what she wanted.
It was not his fault that sexual intimacy was no longer enough for her.
“Margery!” Peter sounded annoyed. His brown eyes, which had once seemed so warm, now regarded her with calculating intent.
She gave him a weary smile. “Yes?”
“I have been thinking of our last parting.”
She tensed, but refused to look away.
“Perhaps it was a bit…abrupt.”
“What do you mean?”
“That I have changed my mind.” He took her hand and this time squeezed enough so that she couldn’t pull away. “Margery, I cannot imagine my life without you.”
Once she had lived to hear those words from him. Now all she could think was—liar.
“Peter, do you need money?” she asked. “Does my enlarged dowry draw you more than before?”
His eyes glittered and his smile faded just a bit. “So we are being blunt, are we?”
“I prefer it that way.”
He reached up and caressed her cheek. “Money does increase your desirability—and it makes up for your barrenness. Who knows, you might even yet have children. Or maybe I will give you children we can raise to
gether.”
Margery felt ill. It was as she suspected: he only told her she was barren to be rid of her. And like every other man, it seemed he would have his dalliances outside their marriage, and she would be the one to live with the results. She would have slapped him if he hadn’t chosen their meeting place so well.
She said, “I no longer want to marry you.”
He grinned. “We are already married before God. Should I tell your brothers that?”
She could stand up and walk away; she could argue—if only he didn’t make sense.
She had no illusions that a marriage between Peter and her would ever be a love match. Maybe he’d even spend most of his time in London, and leave her in peace.
Margery glanced at Gareth. He looked as fierce as his Viking ancestors, as if he had a personal stake in his duty as her guard.
But he didn’t.
She glanced once more at Peter.
He was looking at Gareth speculatively. “And who is that, my dear?”
“Just another of my suitors,” she answered with careful indifference.
“He seems…protective of you.”
“‘Jealous’ would be a better word.”
Peter glanced back at her, but before he could speak, she said, “I shall give your proposal consideration, Peter.”
His smile brightened. “I can be patient.”
“You will have to wait until I present my decision to the king.”
He took her hand again and she allowed it, with a sad resignation that she knew would forever be part of her life.
As Gareth watched Margery and Fitzwilliam, he knew only too well that he had no right to feel angry, frustrated, and worried. Whom she married was none of his concern.
Yet it hurt to think she might go back to a man who had used her so cruelly. Could Fitzwilliam have changed? Not much, by her sad expression.
She rose and left Fitzwilliam, and Gareth fell into place beside her. He wanted her to confide in him, to trust him with her secrets, to seek his advice as she had once done. He so badly wanted her happiness. But she said nothing, and he no longer had the right to ask.
For the rest of the week, Gareth watched Margery from afar. She kept to her large circle of friends wherever she went, but her face looked strained as one man after another took turns approaching her.
She was remote and polite to Gareth. The sparkle of laughter that used to linger in her eyes when they were together had gone out.
In a lifetime of disappointments, never had he felt this lost, this discouraged. For Margery, he had destroyed all the walls he’d used to keep people away. Now his heart felt battered, unprotected—and it was his own fault. He tried to remember what it was like to despise her and her family, but all he felt was a profound loneliness. He didn’t understand his own confusion. He ached as if everything worth living for had gone when he’d lost Margery.
Fitzwilliam never strayed far from her side, and after a few days, she ceased to look miserable. She was not happy either, but Gareth hoped that would come with time. His vision had shown him that Margery and Fitzwilliam would be together.
What made it worse was that she continued to look out for Gareth. When he entered the tournament there were grumbles of anger from his opponents, but she smoothed things over with King Henry.
She had been proclaimed the tournament’s captive princess, and the final champion would win her release and perhaps her favor. King Henry made great sport of this playacting. Margery went along with the game amiably, but Gareth knew she only concealed her suffering.
Soon he was competing in archery, horse racing, and especially the joust. He won good sums of money at everything he did, but there was no satisfaction or joy in victory. It was only money to survive on after he’d left Margery. He couldn’t imagine that day. It was as if his true life had begun with her, and when he left, it would all be over.
The final joust for Margery’s favor was between Gareth and Fitzwilliam. Gareth had continued to play the suitor, and he knew Fitzwilliam considered him his main rival.
At his end of the lists, Gareth sat on his stallion, fully armored and carrying his lance, waiting as Fitzwilliam rode past the crowd for their adulation. The king had seated Margery beside him, and then obviously urged her to tie her scarf to Fitzwilliam’s lance.
It should have been a terrible moment for Gareth. But as he looked across the tournament field, past the crowds cheering for Fitzwilliam and booing him, an incredible calm descended over him.
He loved Margery.
She made the best of every situation with a courage he could never begin to imitate. She had intelligence, and a gift for enjoying life to its fullest. She cared for other people more than herself. And he finally understood and accepted that he would do anything for her happiness.
Fitzwilliam was obviously the king’s favorite, and Margery would have a better life with a man such as he, of her own class. Gareth and his problems would only make her miserable.
The rest was easy. As his horse thundered down the lists, Gareth let Fitzwilliam’s lance hit his shield. He let go of the reins and tumbled backward onto the ground. The impact stunned him for a moment; then he rolled over and sat up. He’d have new bruises, but nothing was broken. After removing his helmet, he got to his feet.
The cheers were deafening as Fitzwilliam approached the royal stand. The king brought Margery to Fitzwilliam and put their hands together, and Gareth turned and went back to his tent—alone.
Margery had been home at Hawksbury for a sennight. No matter what task she was performing, the image of Gareth falling from his horse constantly flashed in her mind. The terror had lodged so deeply in her throat that she thought she’d never breathe again. She had barely noticed Peter or the king or the cheering celebration. Only when Gareth had gotten stiffly to his feet had life returned to her heart and soul with a wave of relief.
As she lay in bed late one night, she still didn’t understand why Gareth had done it. Only she seemed to realize he had fallen deliberately. It was as if he was releasing her back to Peter. What did it matter to Gareth who she chose?
Something wasn’t making sense, but she couldn’t figure it out.
There was only a week remaining until she met again with the king. Margery had gone over her list of potential husbands, and realized with dismay that she could either choose a man she was uncertain about, or she could choose Peter—who held no illusions for her.
There was really only one choice. Peter had threatened to tell everyone her sins, knowing that she couldn’t embarrass her family that way. She was trapped.
Everything was made worse by the fact that Gareth was avoiding her. At night he assigned a guard to her door, and came no more to protect her himself.
Her bedchamber was no longer a haven. In her mind she saw Gareth before the hearth, behind the draperies, above her in bed. None of it could ever again be real.
The loneliness of her life was overwhelming—all because she loved Gareth.
With bittersweet irony, she could finally admit it to herself. Her marriage proposal hadn’t been about helping each other; she had been desperate not to lose the one person in life who made her happy, made her feel whole.
Gareth.
Even his name made her bury her face in her pillow and cry. How would she get through her days without him? He was drawing farther away from her, and she didn’t know what to do to stop it.
As the days sped by Margery abandoned her list of suitors. She had no choice but to marry Peter, or cause a huge scandal.
Other men still continued to appear at the castle to court her, but she didn’t turn them away. What did it matter anymore?
She sat before the hearth in the great hall, her embroidery untouched in her lap. Gareth sat at a nearby table, a book opened before him. She tried not to look at him, for the pain was nearly unbearable. Yet she glanced at him occasionally, and he never seemed to turn the page. What thoughts moved through his mind? Was he anxious to leave? Even glad t
hat the king’s celebration was almost upon them?
Her latest suitor, Sir Bradley Palmer, had arrived just that afternoon. He must have barely twenty years, and seemed so young to her. Sir Bradley was eager to face life, while she felt only old and tired.
Sir Bradley came into the hall, walking by Gareth, who looked up. When their gazes met, Margery watched in amazement as Sir Bradley stumbled back, fear widening his eyes. Gareth calmly closed the book, waiting in what seemed like resignation.
Was this yet another man Gareth had defeated in tournaments?
Sir Bradley approached her with haste, looking over his shoulder repeatedly at Gareth. “Mistress Margery, I am sorry to be so bold, but do you not realize what man lies hidden here?”
“Hidden?” she asked with incomprehension.
“That man!” He turned and pointed at Gareth. His voice was loud, and soon he had the attention of the entire hall. “Surely you do not know his true identity.”
Gareth watched Sir Bradley with an impassive gaze.
“He is Sir Gareth Beaumont,” she said, knowing she’d done all this before.
The man’s eyebrows rose. “He does not even change his name. His gall astounds me. I am from Sussex, mistress, and there we all know who he is. Beaumont acquired another name when we squired together—Warfield’s Wizard.”
Chapter 25
All eyes turned to Gareth, and Margery felt panic take hold of her. “Warfield’s Wizard? Surely you must have the wrong—”
“No!” The young man’s voice rose through the hall. “I worked my way from page to squire at his side—always, he was different. He knew things others didn’t. Beaumont made Lord Warfield’s son ill, and foretold it with a vision. We knew to run in fear when his eyes would look far away, and his face darkened with a frown.”
A chill of recognition moved through Margery. She met Gareth’s calm eyes, remembering his blank gaze, his frown of pain. Always, he knew when she needed help, even knew where she’d been taken by Sir Humphrey. She wanted Gareth to deny it all, but he said nothing, just watched her with grim resignation.
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