by Olga Daniels
“There, my dear,” he murmured. “My new little sweetheart—it makes me feel young again to hold you in my arms.”
“But, sire, you are not old. You are in the prime of your life,” she murmured.
“Would that it were so,” he sighed.
His hands moved up and down her back, stroking her through the silken gown, from her buttocks to her neck. He nuzzled his fingers into her hair. Her flesh cringed beneath the gossamer gown. Perhaps if she stayed very still he would fall asleep and she could slip away unnoticed—but the thought was banished even as it came into her mind.
“Lovely. So lovely,” he murmured.
His eyes opened, he gazed at her and his expression was kindly. Could this really be the man who had ordered the deaths of so many people, including that of his own wife? He seemed so ordinary, no different from any other man, and yet he was the one wielding immense power. Richard’s face flew into her mind—how different it had been when she had lain in his arms. Powerfully in memory came a vision of him, his touch, his whispered words, the warm muskiness of his body. Tears filled her eyes with longing for what had been and could never be again.
Henry’s voice interrupted her racing thoughts. “Kiss me, sweetheart,” he said, not as an order, but with gentleness. He ran his fingers over her face as he repeated, “Kiss me.”
She raised herself up, leaned over, took his head between her hands, felt the bristle of his moustache and beard. She sensed rather than saw that there was a smile on his face as she lowered her head, found his lips and brushed hers against them. He responded instantly, his mouth seeming to chew at hers. No response stirred in her, nor indeed did she notice any hot-blooded arousal from Henry. He had an air of lazy pleasure rather than passion.
“Do you love me, Meg?” he asked.
She prevaricated in her answer. “Am I not kissing you, sire?”
“You are, and it is delicious. I have not been kissed so since my dear Jane died.”
“That was so sad,” she said. “The whole country wept for you, even though they celebrated the birth of your son and heir, Prince Edward.”
“Aye. A son. I have a son at last!”
“It is no more than you deserve, Your Majesty,” Meg said, ever mindful that she must speak sweetly to the King. Richard’s life depended upon it. “England is fortunate to have such a good King. I believe the little Prince is a fine strong boy and I pray that he may always be worthy of his illustrious father.”
“But it’s not enough to secure the succession. I should have more. There have been times when I have thought myself accursed,” said Henry. “I have put my wives with child so often, and yet I have only one living son.”
“You have two bonny daughters, the little princesses Mary and Elizabeth,” Meg pointed out.
“Girls! A man should have sons to succeed him. I must marry again.”
“I understand your ambassadors have been seeking a bride for you from the courts of Europe,” Meg said softly.
“Aye, but they have found no one to my liking.” He kissed her again. “I think I should take an Englishwoman to wife, Meg. What say you to that?”
“It is entirely your decision, Your Majesty.”
The conversation was disturbing, as was his gentle lovemaking. Yet words were staving off the moment she dreaded. For though he showed no urgency she assumed the time would come when he would require more than kisses. Her uncle’s words flashed into her mind “If he gets you with child—he’ll marry you immediately.”
“I understand that you have royal ancestors. Is that so?” he asked.
“On my mother’s side,” Meg said. Playing for time, she decided to launch into an explanation. “Before she married she was Lady Elizabeth Alpington. She was descended from King Edward, but to be truthful I’m never quite sure whether it was from Edward IV or Edward III. Whichever it was, she was his great-great-granddaughter.” She paused thoughtfully. “Or maybe she was his great-great-great-granddaughter.”
“If your mother was descended from Edward IV, she must also have been descended from Edward III,” said Henry. She detected a dry note in his voice. The candlelight was too dim to read anything from his face. Did he realise she was talking for the sake of it?
“Well, fancy that!” she said. “How foolish of me. I really should have taken more notice when my dear mother explained the connection. Please accept my apologies, Your Majesty. I mean no disrespect, but you will understand that in those days when I was in the nunnery in Norwich I never expected to come to London, and certainly never dreamed that I would ever meet any members of the royal family.”
“It is of no great moment,” said Henry. “Kiss me again, sweetheart.”
She complied with his request and permitted her mouth to be locked to his for a minute or two. Then, lifting her head as if suddenly struck with a thought, she continued, “One thing I do remember was that the King and his Queen were said to have had a great many sons and also five daughters, one of whom was my ancestress.”
Henry chuckled. “Both Edward III and Edward IV had five daughters.” His laughter was infectious.
“Really? Isn’t that quite amazing, sire?” She laughed with him, for it seemed to her an amusing coincidence!
He spent more time kissing her.
When she could escape she said, as if casually, “So you see, the connection is rather remote. I could be descended from any one of those ten ladies and I have absolutely no idea which.”
“I shall instruct my archivist to look it up,” Henry said solemnly.
“I believe John of Gaunt came into it somewhere,” Meg said.
“I’m sure he did!” exclaimed Henry, with another burst of laughter. “The descent of my own family from his is complicated enough.”
“Really?” Meg said again with genuine surprise.
“Yes, really!” the King mimicked her.
Then they both laughed quite merrily, until Henry pulled her head back to his and kissed her.
“John of Gaunt was married three times, as I have been, but his wives were more fruitful than mine; they gave him eight children.” He had become more serious. He lay back, looking up at her. She wished she could read his thoughts.
He caressed her and kissed her. His hands pulled the flimsy silken nightgown from her shoulders. When he started to fondle her breasts she drew in a sharp breath. It took all her will-power to stay still and endure the intimate touch of his large fat hands on those sensitive and tender parts of her body.
She wanted to scream and run from the room, but steeled herself to bear it. She could not, must not allow modesty to rule her. Richard’s life as well as her own depended on her acquiescing to the lusts of the King. She racked her brain to find words that might distract his interest, but could think of nothing.
Suddenly he groaned, a long drawn-out, piercing sound.
“Your Majesty—are you all right?” Meg asked anxiously.
“No. It’s these accursed legs of mine.”
“Let me look at them,” she said.
“They are not a pretty sight,” he said with unexpected humility.
“I have a little experience of nursing. With your permission, sire, I believe I could make you more comfortable.”
He groaned again. “Anything. Anything—the pain is tormenting me.”
Without waiting for further consent she carefully lifted the bedclothes. His short, fat legs stuck out from beneath the long nightshirt. They were wrapped around in bandages, through which blood was seeping. If she had come to him from the nunnery she would have brought clean dressings, herbal ointments to apply to the wounds and physic to alleviate the pain.
He moaned again; his face was contorted. She pulled the bell-rope for the attendant.
“His Majesty needs fresh dressings on his legs,” she told the young nobleman who came into the room. “Bring warm water, clean bandages, comfrey ointment, an infusion of lovage—and more candles so that I can see to work, and sprigs of lavender to freshen the ai
r.”
“Shall I call His Majesty’s physician?” asked the attendant. He scarcely glanced at the King; his eyes were fixed on Meg, whose luscious figure was but half concealed by the silken nightgown.
“No,” growled the King. “I can’t bear to have his rough hands on me. Lady Meg will attend to me.”
“Don’t stand there!” Meg snapped at the impudent young man. “Get those things and bring them here immediately.”
Even before the door had closed behind him Meg was unwrapping the heavily soiled wrappings from the suppurating ulcers on the King’s legs.
“I fear this may hurt, Your Majesty,” she warned. The dressings had adhered to the wound.
“I know. It always does.” He clenched his fists as she applied water and eased the cloth away.
“You are being very brave, as befits a King of England,” she said. “I shall be as gentle as I can.”
“Being the King can get wearisome at times,” he murmured. “I’m a lonely man, sweetheart.”
“But you are surrounded with the cream of society,” she protested, talking as she worked on his leg. “My life has been so ordinary by comparison. After my father was killed my mother was forced to flee and take refuge in the nunnery, and that is where I grew up. I had lived nowhere else until a short time ago, when my mother died and my uncle sent for me.”
“Your mother was forced to flee?” he questioned. “What do you mean by that?”
“My poor mother went through a terrible time. My father was killed in battle in France. I believe your army was advancing on Paris—”
“Ah, yes!” said Henry. “I had hopes of capturing the French crown. We should have gone on. I believe to this day we could have won—I was misled by Wolsey.”
The young nobleman returned, bearing a tray on which were all the medicaments Meg had asked for, and more besides. She checked them over and was satisfied.
“Do you require any assistance, Lady Meg?” he asked.
“Nothing, thank you. You may go.” She spoke sharply and waved him away, embarrassed by his stare. Then immediately turned her attention back to the King.
“You were telling me about the march on Paris, sire,” she said.
“It’s as clear to me as if it was yesterday,” he mused. “Some of my men were caught in a trap, ambushed. Your father was there, you say?”
“I believe so. It was months before my mother received news of him. She was told that he died instantly, without suffering. An arrow pierced his heart. I have thought about him often and wished that I had known him.”
“Your father’s name?”
“Lionel, Earl Thurton.” She pronounced it with pride.
“Of Bixholm?”
“Most certainly Bixholm was his. Edmund, my uncle, is his younger brother. The title passed to him on the death of my father, but Edmund was not satisfied with that. He claimed the whole of the estate as well.”
With deft fingers and the lightest of touches she spread a cooling ointment on the wound. The King lay back, more relaxed now—in discomfort, perhaps, but no longer in pain. Their conversation was distracting him.
“My father was with Your Majesty on that magnificent gathering they call the Field of the Cloth of Gold.”
“Of course! I remember him!” exclaimed Henry. “One of my most honourable and brave commanders in the field. I looked on him as a friend. But how was it that your mother did not continue to live at Bixholm? Surely that was her right?”
“My uncle was determined to take possession of all,” Meg said. “He threatened her, and she knew him to be utterly ruthless. Whenever my father was absent, Uncle Edmund took charge of the estate. He spent money carelessly and caused problems among the tenantry. He is a cruel man.”
“Very different from his brother,” Henry said. “It is obvious that you and your mother have been severely wronged. I shall instruct my lawyers to look into the case.”
“That is exceedingly kind, Your Majesty,” said Meg. She paused thoughtfully and looked up into Henry’s big, square face as she added, not entirely without guile, “And he has lied to you.”
“Lied to me? How is that?” His voice was sharp and angry.
“You kindly enquired about Sir Richard de Heigham, the gentleman with whom I danced.”
“Yes?”
“It is not true that he has returned to Bixholm. My uncle has him here, locked in the dungeon in truly appalling conditions.” Her voice shook a little, for Richard’s desperate plight haunted her vividly.
“What charges have been made against him?” His searching question reminded her that the King was no fool.
“None. Sir Richard has behaved entirely honourably and he is one of Your Majesty’s most loyal subjects.”
She spoke guardedly, mindful that Henry would be angered if he suspected that Richard had already captured her heart. The word “treason” was bandied about easily. This was no ordinary man who was lying back so trustingly as she practised her medical expertise on his painful legs. He had power over life and death and did not hesitate to use it. She had to attend to her task calmly, as if she had no other thought in her mind.
“There, Your Majesty. That’s the worst of it seen to. Does it feel easier?”
“It does, my dear. Much better.”
She began to wind on the clean bandage. He startled her with another probing question.
“What is this man to you, Meg?”
“Sir Richard?” she asked, trying to sound as if she had forgotten what they were talking about.
“Yes. Richard de Heigham,” he said dryly.
“Why, he means nothing to me. Nothing at all. I was only interested because he has suffered in the same way I have. By right this castle, Leet Castle, is his. He too was cheated out of his inheritance by Edmund Thurton.”
“Have you proof of this?”
“He has told me himself.” She went on to explain the circumstances as Richard had told her. “It is one of the reasons he has been incarcerated in the dungeon.”
“You mean Thurton’s had de Heigham falsely arrested?” Henry’s voice was angry.
“That is so,” Meg said.
“The devil he has! I need de Heigham to lead the hunting party I’ve planned for tomorrow. How dare he imprison my loyal subjects and claim ownership of estates he has no right to? He shan’t get away with this.”
Henry reached up to pull the bell-rope that hung from the head of the big bed. The young nobleman was back instantly.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Send my Officer of the Guard in to me.”
Within seconds the officer appeared.
“Arrest Edmund Thurton. Take him to the dungeon. And whilst you are there, release Richard de Heigham.”
“Yes, sire. It shall be done.”
“Go, then. See to it.” Henry waved the officer away.
He sank back on to the pillow. The dressings were finished. “There, sweetheart,” he said. “Does that please you?”
She dared not express her joy openly. “I have always been told you are a good and just King,” she said. “Now I know that to be true.”
Her most cherished wish had been fulfilled: Richard would be freed. It was wonderful to think that she had been able to save him—but at what cost to herself? He had no love for her. He had made that abundantly clear. She had given her heart to him wholly and irrevocably, but he had no real and lasting affection for her. She had provided a pleasant diversion for him, but the magic that was love had not bitten deep into him. For her it was more than life itself.
A great weariness came over her. She cleared away the bowls and soiled dressings, burned sprigs of lavender in the candle flame to sweeten the air. Blood had spilled on to her nightgown. The stain would never wash out, but she would throw the garment away. She mixed a sedative for Henry. He took it as obediently as a child, gave a long drawn-out sigh and lay back on the pillows.
“Sweet Meg, you have been very good to me,” he murmured.
�
��It was my pleasure to be of assistance, Your Majesty.”
“These accursed legs! They spoil my life,” he grumbled. He reached out for her hand. “I must apologise to you, sweetheart.”
“But there is nothing for you to apologise for, sire.”
“There is! There is!” He sounded angry and exasperated. “I should have made love to you properly and I didn’t! I couldn’t—though I wanted to.”
“Hush,” she said soothingly. “’Tis no matter.” She patted his hand in a friendly fashion. He must never know that she was grateful it was so.
“Now I fear it is too late,” he murmured. “That sedative is making me sleepy.”
“You must rest, sire.”
“Will you not call me Henry, sweetheart?” he said.
“Most willingly, if it is your wish, Henry.”
“Stay with me,” he murmured. “Come back into my bed. Give me one more of your sweet kisses.”
She obeyed and kissed him lightly, with gratitude in her heart. It was warm in the bed beside him. She felt safe. Briefly he cuddled her in his arms.
“Goodnight, Henry,” she whispered.
He snored gently and did not reply.
She did not expect to sleep, but it was morning when she awoke.
Taking care not to disturb the King, she slid off the bed, picked up her shawl and wrapped it around her. She wished it was larger as she tried to hide within it. In particular she tried to hold it over the stain of dried blood on her nightgown. She told herself she had done nothing about which she should feel ashamed, yet that feeling was uppermost in her mind as she hurried out of his bed-chamber.
Several gentlemen were gathered in the ante-room. They were grouped along each side of the room, leaving empty a corridor down the centre. She ignored their lascivious and curious stares; pride came to her aid. She would not allow them to demean her, for she knew herself to be as good as any. Lifting her head, she stepped out with determination, her eyes fixed straight ahead, making for the door at the opposite end.
Before she reached it a familiar figure stepped forward in front of her. Tall, broad-shouldered, carrying himself with a swagger, richly clad in a fustian doublet. Dark eyes flecked with gold were focused on her—she knew them so well—