by Diana Rubino
It was not him atop her, his barrel-chested torso and bony ribs digging into her, it was not the white-haired Mortimer Pilkington, but her beloved Matthew, his rugged body thrusting as they clung wildly to each other, her legs wound around his firm buttocks, her breath coming in gasps and moans and cries of his name with each frantic thrust that she threw back passionately, her fingers twined through the thick mat of glossy hair, his sharp profile in the hollow of her neck as she turned to look at the beautiful man atop her, inside her.
She eased him in and she and Mortimer Pilkington joined as man and wife, slowly, as their uncertainty and remoteness demanded. She opened her eyes once and glimpsed a man she knew not, a man she loved not, not wanting to know what was going on in his mind and his heart, not caring if he loved her, for what filled her thoughts was the life inside her, the gift Matthew had given her, and she clung to that one attachment to him.
After one, two, three, four thrusts he emitted a half-groan, half-cough, cleared his throat and dismounted her.
Their coupling finished, Mortimer showed her to the privy, and he promptly fell asleep, huddled closely to his side of the bed, nearly hanging off the edge, leaving her the rest.
She climbed back into it, shivering, and pulled the cover up over her head, clutching the life of Matthew's babe within her. Tears poured out of her eyes, down her cheeks, into the corners of her mouth, sweet and salty at the same time. Warm, like mother's milk they flowed, soaking the pillows, all her emotions gushing out as well and leaving her feeling drained. She thought of Matthew, the shock he would feel, the betrayal when he discovered she was another man's wife…
"Please forgive me, Matthew," she whispered into the pillow again and again, twisting his ring around her finger with the hand that now wore her wedding ring.
She would write to him and explain that the King had forced them to marry. She would then give birth quietly at one of Mortimer's other residences and announce the birth three months later.
As her new husband slept at her side, she prayed for her child's future, and hopes all would be well. But all the same, as the wind howled around the chill, dank house, she had the worst feeling of foreboding that all her optimistic thoughts could never dispel.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The first room she had wanted to see at Cleobury was the library, so Mortimer showed it to her the next morning. A servant scurried by as they walked down the long hallway, past more bedrooms and a roomy solar, to where the library jutted out from the landing of an oaken staircase.
The walls were a rich paneled oak, and another white marble fireplace displayed his coat of arms above the mantel. The lush greenery of the grounds mingled with brilliant sunlight peeking in the white-framed leaded windows, below which were bookshelves stuffed with volumes of all heights and widths. A brass telescope stood perched before one window, pointing outward towards the heavens. Plush chairs faced the center of the room, surrounding tables covered with thick and thin volumes. A tilted reading stand beside each chair held open volumes. A thick Persian rug covered the floor, a profusion of pinks, turquoises and golds. A writing desk stood against the far wall, stocked with parchment, pens and ink.
"I wish to write a few letters, Mortimer, to... to the family, if you do not mind."
"As you wish. I shall be behind the house, in the stables. Join me there and we shall go riding."
She nodded dutifully as Mortimer turned and descended the stairs. She was relieved he did not ask any more questions, and was further relieved that he'd left her alone. She crossed the library, glancing at some of the volumes as she went. There were history books about Greece and Rome, grouped according to subject matter.
On the next shelf were books of science and anatomy. Natural history and botany followed on the next shelf, and astronomy books after that.
She guessed the shelf at the far end of the room to be the theological section as she approached the desk and pulled out the chair, careful not to make marks on the delicate rug. She sat down to write the most difficult thing she'd ever had to write in her life: the letter to Matthew telling him that she was married.
My beloved Matthew,
It pains me greatly to have to tell you this. Knowing deep in my heart that you and I could never be, I did what the King, in his infinite wisdom, bade me to do. I have married. I am now the wife of Mortimer Pilkington, and am expecting his child in December.
Mortimer is a devoted husband and a kindly gentleman, and I shall learn to cherish him with the affection and fondness he deserves.
I shall never forget the moments we shared and hope you will hold our precious moments in your heart and not think too badly of me for being so worldly as to desire a good match rather than a love match.
Forever yours, Amethyst
A tear plopped onto the sheet and smudged her name. She longed to crumple the letter up and write a truer version of what had really happened. To pour out her heart to him on paper as she had done for so many years. Instead she reached for the sealing wax and closed the letter with a resounding thud.
A week later she was in the solar alone. Mortimer had gone out, so she'd lit a blazing fire in the hearth and was strumming her lute, playing some of her favorite pieces from court. Losing herself in her music, her fond court memories were her only escape from the bleak wall of travail she'd run into.
She began to sing softly, her eyes closed, her voice in perfect tune and concordant harmony with the soft tones she was strumming with her plectrum.
She felt a presence behind her, and abruptly stopped and spun around.
A tall lad of about twenty stood at the entrance, his doublet embroidered with crimson thread, a red ruffled chemay peeking through, his breeches and nether stocks black, edged with red and silver sarsenet. Sloping atop his head was a black velvet cap with curled brim, which shaded his dark eyes, but she could tell they pierced straight through her. His pointy patrician nose crinkled in mild antipathy, and the lips were no more than a thin slash of distaste. His dark hair was cropped in the French fashion and he sported a neatly clipped beard, another fashion statement the modish King Henry had started.
He crossed his arms over his chest and stood silently, as if waiting for her to rise and curtsy to him. She knew instantly who he was—those discerning black eyes were Mortimer's, the hostile gaze learned only from years of watching it being stared down at him, the height, the stance, everything.
"So you must be Mortimer's son..."
Having taken an instant dislike to him, only by virtue of who he was, she decided there would be no peace unless she made the first magnanimous move. She realized Mortimer hadn't even told her his son's name, having referred to him only once, in the carriage, the obvious loathing deepening his malevolent disposition even more. "I...haven't been told your name."
"So...you are my father's new wife. I expected a more mature woman...a stepmother, not an older sister."
Any other man would have meant that as a compliment, but he certainly did not.
"Why, did he not tell you anything of me at all?"
"He did not know anything of you at all. Except you did a spread with some Warwickshire hayseed." His sharp gaze travelled to her abdomen, and a look of contemptuous disgust curled his lip. "Now I've got to share my home with a squalling bastard and pretend that he is my half-brother!"
By now she was seething, and wanted to smack that smirk right off the Pilkington face. "Listen, you toad. I am your stepmother and you will treat me with respect. You will speak to me only when spoken to, and regard me with the reverence worthy of a gentleman!"
"Oh...and you are a lady, I presume? Letting yourself get poked by some country clodhopper while all the while dallying round court as the King's whore? I shall treat you with the respect you deserve...you half-guinea slut."
She rose, the lute sliding to the floor and hitting the carpet with a thump. She lunged for him, her hand outstretched, ready to land a crack across his cheek. He caught her wrist in his and squeezed so ti
ghtly, her hand began to numb.
She squirmed under his grasp, but he held her fast. He was much stronger than he looked. "Let me go, you bastard, let me go!"
"I am not the bastard here!" he seethed, his teeth clenched, yanking her closer to him until his lips were barely an inch away from hers.
She could smell ale on his breath, could see tiny beads of sweat spurting around the rim of the hat. "I was legitimate, I have every right to be here. You are the intruder! And as long as you and your Warwickshire urchin reside in this house, I am going to make your life a living hell!"
He relinquished his grip on her wrist and flung her aside. She missed crashing into the fireplace by inches.
"You're drunk!" she spat. "You are a drunken sod! Just be gone and stay out of my way!"
He stared her down for another minute and they stood, Amethyst crouched into the fireplace. He said, "I hope your bastard turns to stone inside you and you bring forth a hideous monster. Then we will be free of your clutches and you can go back to whoring around the palace!"
She grabbed one of the andirons and flung it at him. He leapt out of the way and stormed out of the solar.
Once she was alone again, shivering and shaking, she realized she still hadn't found out the creature's name.
"Mortimer! Mortimer! I must speak with you!" She met him at the stables as he tossed the reins to his groom and, brushing the dirt off his hands, walked past her up the path to the house.
"Go to the bedchamber and wait for me. I feel like partaking of my wife before supper."
She ignored him. "Mortimer, your son...I must speak to you of him."
He stopped at the foot of the staircase and turned, not making eye contact, never having looked her directly in the eye since their wedding day. "Do not ever speak to me of that wretch. I hate the very ground he walks on. He killed my Esther and he is doomed to rot for it!"
"But Mortimer..."
She grabbed his sleeve and he yanked it away, slapping her lightly across the face.
"Do as I say. Go to the bed and await me!" He pounded up the stairs, leaving her cheek stinging from the blow and her eyes stinging with tears.
She had no choice but to do as she was told.
Soon he was naked and climbed atop his wife, forced her legs apart, positioned his pelvis between her thighs and began thrusting. He was fully erect and she lay beneath him, passively, eyes shut tight, rapidly trying to paint that picture of Matthew in her mind—first the blond head, then the green eyes, the chiseled bone structure, the lean, hard body.
It worked, he was there, and she felt a surge of desire, making Mortimer more ardent. He pumped away as if she weren't there, satisfying his urges, and she knew he hadn't had his arms around a woman in a long, long time.
He wheezed and puffed, galloping away, sliding in and out of her, his tongue thrust into her ear, his saliva dripping down her neck, and she lay beneath him, desperately clinging to Matthew's image.
Finally it was over. He rolled off her, smacked her bottom lustily as she curled away from him in misery, and ordered her to dress for dinner.
She finally found out his son's name was Roland, having asked one of the cooks after Mortimer left for his daily ride through the country the following day.
"But we don't speak of 'im to Sir Mortimer and we don't speak to Sir Mortimer of 'im, and 'tis a cold day in 'ell when they speak to each other."
"But why, Martha? And why is Roland so mean?"
"All 'is life Mortimer told 'im 'e killed 'is mum, since she died when she birthed 'im. 'E told Roland 'e should never been born, and 'e lives with that all 'is life."
She looked away, shaking her head sadly. She could almost feel sorry for the lout.
Apart from the appalling altercation with her stepson, life seemed to settle into a deceptive quiet. Mortimer was away inspecting his sheep or in London haggling with buyers of his wool three to four days a week and never took her with him on business. On his days at the manor he saddled up one of his palfreys and she saddled Honey, who had been sent on from Whitehall with the rest of her things. Together they rode through the countryside, over the ancient network of sweeping, forking Roman highways branching out from London.
She gazed over the meadows dotted with grazing sheep, upon strips of gently sloping earth in an array of greens, from the light chartreuse of the apple orchards to the deepest emerald, the color of Matthew's eyes, and she felt him there with her, knowing he was breathing the same fresh spring air, with the same sun following him on his journeys.
They rode through snug hamlets, peaked roofs and towering church steeples enclosing the bustle of the folk as they scurried about their business, shouting over the screech of cartwheels, neighing horses, squealing hogs and the sloshing of the waterwheel.
Her mount galloped alongside her husband's. They hardly exchanged a word; her mind was entranced with thoughts of Matthew—where was he, what was he doing, was he smiling?
They would return home and sup in the great hall, engage in a game of chess or he would simply retire to the library, leaving her alone to retreat to the solar and her lute to lose herself in her private world of music.
She wrote letters home, many letters, to her mother, to Emerald, to her Aunt Margaret Pole, giving Princess Mary her regards. When Mortimer demanded his conjugal rights, she complied.
Roland made an occasional appearance, yet he was never there during mealtimes. She hadn't seen him exchange more than two words with his father. The tension between the two men chilled her like the biting wind on a frosty winter's day and made her skin crawl. The obvious lack of love in this house made the very flagstones on the floor seem colder, even with a blazing fire in the hearth.
She had never known that Hell could be so cold…..
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thus the chilling months passed, with Amethyst in abject misery at Cleobury, until one day they received an invitation from Sabine to her fiftieth birthday celebration at Warwick Castle. She mentioned in the letter that she was eager to meet her new son-in-law.
The trouble was that her son-in-law was at least ten years older than she. As much as Amethyst longed for her home, she faced this visit with apprehension. What would Mortimer and her family possibly talk about? He was not the talkative type. The entire trip would be a disaster, she was sure, but go she must, or else her family would really know something was seriously amiss.
The tears stung her eyes and she sobbed out loud at the sight of her home looming up ahead of them in the distance. Mortimer looked over at her with a questioning look and she did not offer an explanation.
The next day she was walking alone through the meadows surrounding the castle. Mortimer had gone riding with Sabine and her retinue, as he was acting the true nobleman in such a stately home.
The cool spring breeze brought with it a promise of the warmth and rebirth the earth was going to bring forth. She faced west, in the direction of the sun, as it peeked through a patch of clouds in the distance. The earth was moist and soft beneath her feet.The recent storms had soaked the ground and drenched the gardens, leaving the flowers wilting and spent.
She slowed when she saw a rider in the distance. When he came into focus, she saw him pull his reins and turn the mount in her direction, then begin a canter towards her. The blond glow about his head and emerald green eyes took shape. It was Matthew, she knew, and she didn't want to face him, although she stood frozen to the ground, unable to tear her gaze away.
He caught up with her in minutes. He'd already captured her eye and she had no means of escape. Her heart began beating wildly and took a passionate leap as their eyes met. "Amethyst! What are you doing here?"
"Visiting. It is my mother's birthday."
"Why did you not tell me you were in Warwickshire?"
"Why, Matthew? It would serve no purpose."
He held her fast with his gaze, and if she had her wish, she would let him sweep her onto his mount and gallop into the sunset together, never to return.
"I am not upset with you, Amethyst. You did what you had to do."
She finally tore her gaze from his, unable to look into his eyes, the way he still adored her, beckoned her. She could not bear to look at him, knowing what she was hiding. "Matthew, we mustn't meet again. It does me no good, it does us no good. Our paths crossed briefly, and have diverged."
He gazed at her, all his emotions writ plain upon his handsome face. "How about now? Our paths crossed today... Or were you barely a mile from the Kenilworth grounds for another purpose?"
Was she that close? "I've been walking a few hours. I didn't realize..."
He dismounted, approached her and placed his hands on her shoulders, his fingers searing the flesh where they touched, sending hot flames through her. Her gaze drank in all of him, the sun-bleached hair tousled by the wind, the brows knitted into a furrow of stupefaction, the lips moistened by his tongue so invitingly.