The King's Man

by Elizabeth Kingston

  “My mother did not like it.” She gave a little shrug. “But I would not learn to cause a wound without I learn to heal it also.”

  It took no more than a swift beckoning glance, to bring Hugh Wisbech to his side.

  “Lady Morency will see the gardens tomorrow, where are grown such herbs as are used for healing.”

  “As my lady wishes and my lord commands, I will take her to the place set aside many years hence for the purpose. But I must beg my lady’s forgiveness that all is now little more than weeds overgrown, though the herb-house still stands.”

  “Already you save us from neglect and disrepair, Lady Morency.” He offered her the cup of wine.

  Hugh immediately took this as an invitation to discuss at length the many less tended corners of Morency. Somewhere in an exchange about the merits and disadvantages of erecting a dovecote, Ranulf saw her hands were steady again, her shoulders relaxed.

  The dovecote, the garden of herbs, and he thought now of how the knights’ quarters must be improved and the palisade inspected. With so many hands, much could be done quickly.

  He looked out across the hall and at his knights. Long ago had they sworn him fealty, but never had he thought more for them than he had thought for himself: duty, the sword, and the king’s next command. Now he saw them at table, laughing and drinking and admiring every wench near.

  Loyalty and love. He had come to trust in their loyalty. But he did not know them, or love them.

  He shifted his gaze and caught sight of her Madog, who watched her as she silently cut bits of baked apple. Even now, her cousin watched her in case she should need him, ever vigilant lest there be danger that might harm her.

  “Do you command your cousin watch over you, lady?” he asked mildly.

  She looked at him, startled. He nodded to where Madog stood surveying the hall with frequent glances to the high table where they sat. Her features changed, melting into a warm affection when she looked at Madog.

  “Nay, is no commandment of mine.” A faint ghost of a fond smile lingered on her full lips. “He is wary of uncertain times and strange places. Ever is he ready to defend me.”

  Only a fool would think her incapable of her own defense. But he only said, “Is a rare devotion.”

  “I think not rare. All men are so devoted to their liege.”

  She turned to Hugh Wisbech, bidding him describe the state of the deer park.

  The minstrels sang, and the night came on. He looked out at the gathering of strangers in the hall, and ruminated on this devotion that she believed so common, but that he had never known.

  When the meal was done, he took himself to the chapel. He knelt and prayed and thought of Alice. The chapel had been her favorite place, because she was safe here. He stayed until his legs were numb, straining for any sound or sight of her ghost, knowing that it would not visit him in such a sacred place. Perhaps it would never visit him again.

  He walked in the dark from the chapel, through the courtyard, the new liveliness of the place at war with the memories he could not escape. From shadowy corners that he could only think of as dangerous and lonely, he heard soft and relaxed banter. Worse than the dark memories were those that were filled with warmth, the ones he could not forget.

  There before the northwest tower was where Aymer had presented him with his first horse, a gift for a birthday long past. He had been a poor rider before then, but Aymer would hear no ill of him, not even in so small a thing. He gave Ranulf a horse and took over his lessons himself, showing such patience and pride through all the long hours of learning that all marveled to see it. Ranulf never sat a horse without thinking of it, without hearing Aymer’s instruction and praise.

  And there in a corner next to the main stair was where Ranulf had crouched to hide his tears when he learned of his real father’s death. He had barely known his father. It was Aymer who had found him there and comforted him, telling him all that he knew of Ranulf’s father. He had pulled off his own warm cloak and wrapped it around Ranulf as he shivered, called for a servant to bring a hot drink, and told him he must grow strong and wise to be a credit to his father’s memory. Of course, when the drink was not hot enough, Aymer had also ordered that the servant be scalded so that she might never make that mistake again. And when Maude had dared to protest it, she was left black and blue. But what care did Ranulf have of that cruelty, when he was so well loved? How quickly he had given his heart to this new father, when his real father was still fresh in the grave.

  Alice had also crouched there one morning, retching in the dirt, not long before she took her own life. Tears on her face and bruises on her neck, fresh from Aymer’s bed.

  It was a different place now, he told himself. There would be new memories made, and the old ones would die. Then he repeated it, trying to convince himself of it all the way across the hall.

  Alone in his chamber, the servants dismissed, he stood before the great broad window and watched the distant sea. Only a few steps from his door was the lady’s chamber, and yet he did not cross the landing to find her in her bed.

  He could not sleep here. He was sure of it. It was restlessness, but more than that. He could not say, even to himself, what it was that kept him alert. The walls felt too close, radiating a coldness that tried to reach into the center of him. He wished suddenly for his sword, to feel the heaviness of it in his hand. The longing for it was like an ache that ran from his heart down the length of his arm.

  The famed combatant, the king’s favorite killer, easy arrogance and easy laughter. He knew how to be that man. He did not know how to be the lord of this place, except to look to Aymer’s example – and that he would not do.

  “Is a fine view of the sea.”

  He stiffened at the sound of her voice. For a moment, only a moment, he thought it must be a ghost. Never had she spoken to him with such diffidence. Her voice carried softly across the length of the room, from where she stood in the doorway. He knew without turning where she was, and waited without answering to see if she would come to him.

  She did not.

  “There is a great tree that hides it from view in the... the other chamber.” Her voice was a shy, wispy thing floating on the night air.

  Only a sliver of moon was in the sky, but it shone brightly on the water. He fixed his eyes on that distant glittering. He would wager his sword that she had never before now so hesitated or stammered in her speech.

  “Cut it down.”

  He tensed in the little silence that followed his words, waiting to know how she would respond. He thought if she answered him with meekness in her voice that he might throw himself into the sea.

  “I will not be so hasty,” she said finally, her voice a touch stronger now. He could hear the slight impatience in it, could see without looking that her brows drew together in that familiar scowl.

  He thought of telling her that there had been two trees there, outside her window. He had cut the other down himself, years ago, because it was the one where they had found Alice swinging.

  But this is a different place now, he reminded himself again. It must be different.

  He turned to find her standing at the edge of the firelight, only a few steps inside the chamber. The sight of her sent a jolt of alarm through him – fear and anger, a kind of panic racing through his veins.

  She wore a thin green robe over thin white linen, silk slippers on her feet and her hair uncovered in a soft cloud about her shoulders. There was yet a shyness about her, a timidity that he had never seen before that actually made her seem small. She was the very picture of a soft and pliable bride.

  It should have stirred his lust, called forth his hunger for her. But it did not.

  The firelight cast shadows in the hollows of her throat. He could see nothing but the delicate curve of her collarbone, the pulse beating there. Did she not see, could she not feel how exposed she was?

  She gave a little shrug, utterly uncharacteristic of her. “Surely there will be work in plent
y for the household, without I tell them remove a tree so that I may better my view.”

  He thought he might weep with dismay, or roar with rage, that she should be so soft and calm and womanly. But he could do neither, and so he answered with an ordinary rancor.

  “Their work will ne’er be done, if their lady be so poor as to cringe before her servants.” Her eyes widened in surprise at the criticism for only a moment, her frown just beginning to deepen as he continued, “But what know you of being a lady?”

  He was walking toward her now, a forceful impulse driving him, the same as he had felt when she stood alone before Edward and his court. Spots of color rose to her cheeks, a spark of anger in her look that filled him with satisfaction.

  “I was trained from girlhood to be Lady of Morency.”

  Her chin came up, her shoulders back, all of her soft lines becoming harder as he came nearer.

  “Aye, and that girlhood was lost to your playing at manhood. Will your men-at-arms put down their swords and take up the needle, then?”

  He had meant to mock with a laugh, but he could only think of her with her men, of her clad in armor with a weapon at her side. Where was her mail? What was her defense in this wicked place? If he chose now to reach for her, for that slim and fragile bone that lay exposed at the base of her neck – how could she protect herself?

  She seemed to catch his mood, her eyes narrowing, assessing. And then, from one breath to the next, the air in the room changed. Though nothing about her had changed at all, she was transformed from uncertain girl to fearsome opponent. It was only a shift in her balance, a miniscule change in her stance, a focused stillness to her. She stood ready, wary, alive.

  Something inside him, wound so tightly only an instant before, relaxed. He let go a breath he had not known he’d been holding, and leaned lightly against the bedpost.

  “My preparation to be Lady Morency was interrupted by your blade, not my own,” she said.

  He smiled, and inclined his head in acknowledgement. It was nothing but the truth, and one he was happy to admit now as the relief spread through him. This was closer to the Gwenllian he knew, and she was no shy soft thing.

  She glanced toward the bed, then back at him.

  “Was it here you killed him?”

  He felt the smile slide from his face, but could do nothing to stop it.

  “Nay.”

  Her eyes held him, wide and gray, compelling truth from him.

  “Where?”

  “The north tower.”

  She would have lain there, with Aymer. The realization hit him with an unexpected force. Years ago, if it had been different, she would have lain in the room where he had crept in the night to slay his foster father. He tried to imagine her young and helpless at Aymer’s side, and could not. She stood here now in that ready stance, a challenge in her voice and her eyes unflinching. In this moment, he could believe what she had said a lifetime ago: she feared no man.

  Nevertheless, he wished she had not spoken of it. It had brought a vivid picture of the killing, a breath of the bloody past here to this room, one of the few places in Morency where he had no memory of evil deeds happening.

  She opened her mouth to speak, and for fear she would speak of Aymer, he spoke first.

  “Neither was there murder done in your own chamber, lady, but if you fear the dead will haunt you there, the priests will come to bless the rooms.”

  Her expression was one of deep offense.

  “I need me no priest’s mumblings to keep me safe,” she said.

  “How lucky for you.”

  He pushed himself off the bedpost and stepped closer to her. She did not flinch as he came on, which satisfied him even as it angered him.

  “You have not your arms nor servant to protect you.”

  “Nor need of any.” There was the hint of question in it, as though she invited him to confirm it even as she dismissed it for folly.

  “Nay, though you wander alone at night, only to catch sight of the sea.”

  “Wander! But five steps did I take, from my room to yours, and was no thought of the sea that drove me.”

  In the moment the words burst from her, her eyes slid away suddenly, embarrassed. He watched a flush spread up her throat. It brought his attention again to the delicate hollow there.

  He smiled, a comfortable goading. He let the words hang in the air between them for a moment, to watch her flush deepen a little, before he adopted a knowing tone.

  “Then what pretty thoughts brought you here, lady? Why come you to my chamber?”

  With a lady at court, it would be easy banter, a knowing wink. But with her–so serious and grave, so uneasy in the clothes of a woman–it became gentle mockery, a sly challenge.

  Instead of the awkward shrinking he expected, she turned her face to him. She looked at him unwavering.

  “To lie with you.” Her voice was husky but firm. “To take you inside me.”

  He stood immobile, feeling her words sink down in him. He became aware of the scent that came from her. It was a smell that he could suddenly taste in his mouth, a potion that called up the wilderness of Wales and the dark hut where he had first seen her. The smell of the brew she had used in healing him rose up from her now, and he realized that she must have folded the same herbs into her clothes.

  He thought of that, of those few simple leaves which bound that moment to this one, and watched as she untied the robe from her shoulders and let it slip to the ground.

  Her eyes were unfaltering on his, filled with a hunger he knew too, as she pulled the linen shift over her head. She stood before him naked, her skin gleaming white, waiting for him to reach for her.

  He looked at her, at every part of her. He loved the litheness of her body, the strength of her limbs when she wrapped herself around him. He loved the curves that he had found hidden in her angular frame, the sweet swell of her belly, the dimples low on her back, the soft slope of her breasts.

  When he did not move, she reached for him. She closed the distance between them, her scent rising around him like a drug. She took his hand and guided it to the join of her legs, moving her feet apart, pressing his fingers into the abundant moisture there, the slick heat.

  The boldness of it stunned him, but only for a moment. Then he touched her with purpose, heard her gasp, and knew himself a fool to ever think her meek, or weak.

  She laid her hand against his throat, her ripe mouth parting as her breath came heavy, and he knew himself an even greater fool to ever think she was not the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld.

  “Ranulf,” she whispered as she pulled him toward the bed. And he knew himself in love with her.

  CHAPTER 14

  The orchards had become her favorite place to escape the demands of her new role as Lady Morency. It was nearly always quiet among the trees, just the low hum of passing bees and the very distant noise of the castle. At first she found respite among the plums, but they grew heavy and would be harvested now. Hugh Wisbech asked her how much of the fruit should be preserved whole and in jams, how much made into wine, and if she should like some of the freshly picked plums served in sauces and if so, with which meats?

  Gwenllian had stared blankly at this, then mumbled something about how they should do as had been done in years past, before fleeing to the apple trees. All the fruit there was pleasantly small and green and hard, and she wouldn’t have to know what to do with it for some weeks.

  For four days now, she had spent at least half her hours in desperate uncertainty. Each day, she visited the kitchens and looked on mutely as she tried to remember long-forgotten lessons about how to properly salt the meat or brine the fish. Every servant there, even to the young girl whose sole task was to carry pails of water, seemed to know what they were doing far better than did the mistress who was supposed to watch over their tasks. Instead of instructing or overseeing their labor, she only spoke cordially with the cook about what was in season and what would be served. Whatever the
cook had planned always sounded reasonable, and so Gwenllian agreed and moved on to the herb house with relief.

  It was only in the herb house that she felt sure of herself. Even in a woman’s dress, with the white scarf pulled securely over her hair, she felt at ease so long as there was a medicine to brew or a hurt to be eased. In there, she did not need to know how many yards of linen may be made with a given amount of flax. Among the plants and potions, there were no fighting men silently expecting that she prove her place among them, no delicate balance to be struck, no constant effort. Only an hour ago she had stood with a sheaf of leaves from a St. John’s plant, spreading them to dry and reflecting that, in this place at least, she began to feel perfectly at home for the first time in her life.

  The thought had startled her, and now she could not rid herself of it. She sat and pulled a heavy piece of paper from the little wooden box Suzanna had given her, quill poised to write. But it was impossible to know what to put down in a letter to her friend. She could not find words to admit the difficulty of acting the part of Lady Morency day in and out. Nor could she say how she missed her fighting men, or of the secret and unexpected relief of not holding command. Most troubling was the shame and confusion that pressed on her each day so that it made her impatient with herself, and with these alien sentiments.

  She stared at the page and listened to the distant sound of the sea, then closed her eyes. Immediately she thought of her husband. Of kisses and whispers in the dark, and his hands running gently over her hair. If her days were shame and confusion, her nights were only certainty and hunger. And yet of all the thoughts crowding her mind, this was the most overwhelming.

  She wanted to ask Suzanna, so much more familiar with courtly ways, if this was how lovers spoke to ladies, for it could not be how husbands spoke to their wives. When in utter nakedness he stood her before the firelight, kneeling before her, and asked her where each mark on her had come from – and when she answered (a mishap while trying to learn the longbow, a poorly judged lunge in her first spar with Madog, an ill-fated fumbling while boiling nettles) he kissed each place, pulling from her a history of her body, of her life. But when he looked up at her, she touched her fingers to the scar on his brow and asked the same, and he only pulled her mouth down to his and all conversation was lost.