Mary Gillgannon

by The Leopard

  “Go then.” Eleanor waved her hand in dismissal. “I’ve bored you long enough with my plans for the manor at Woodstock. I don’t mean to keep you from indulging in the little intrigues the young men and ladies of the court are wont to pursue.”

  Astra bowed and hurried from the room. By the time she reached the gilded-ceilinged antechamber, she was breathless with worry. Why did Will want to see her? Was it to warn her? Had the news of the disastrous events at the Black Swan begun circulating among the palace gossips already?

  She clasped her sweaty palms together and approached Will. “Lord de Lacy.” She curtsied.

  “He’s gone,” Will announced, not even bothering to bow or kiss her hand. “Richard’s gone to Wales. The King sent him there. Henry all but banished him from the court.”

  Astra said nothing. A sick ache started in her belly.

  “I cannot help blaming you and Marguerite for your part in this. If you hadn’t been wandering around Southwark like a pair of brainless infants, Richard wouldn’t have been forced to defend you. The man Richard maimed is in the employ of one of Richard’s worst enemies, Guy Faucomberg, the Earl of Rathstowe. Rathstowe went immediately to the King and told Henry about Richard Reivers’s uncontrollable temper and brutal fighting methods. The King was very aggrieved. He ordered Richard off to Wales and threatened to do even worse.”

  Astra swallowed. She had caused trouble for Richard, grave trouble. Somehow she must remedy it.

  “I will go to the Queen,” she announced. “I will explain my part in Richard’s downfall. I will make her understand he was only doing his duty in defending me.”

  Will’s eyes widened. “What of your own reputation, demoiselle? The Queen will be extremely angered to learn of your adventure in Southwark. She might even send you away.”

  “I... I must risk it,” Astra answered in a shaky voice. “I cannot allow Richard to suffer for my mistake.”

  “And what of Marguerite? You will damage her reputation as well. A reputation that, I might add, is already in tatters. No, Astra, bringing disgrace upon yourself will not improve things for Richard. He is already worried you won’t forgive him for again shedding blood in your presence. If he learns your prospects at court have been damaged because of his actions, he will be even more distraught.”

  Astra clenched her hands in frustration. “What am I to do? I can’t let Richard pay for what was Marguerite’s and my mistake.”

  Will’s face softened, and he touched Astra’s arm reassuringly. “I am sorry, demoiselle. It was wrong of me to come to you in anger. I know you did not mean to hurt Richard, and you likely went to Southwark in all innocence of the possible consequences. It is Marguerite who should bear the blame for Richard’s misfortune. Of course, she will have a thousand excuses if she has one.” He sighed. “I think it would be best if you did nothing, Astra. Continue to be dutiful and to cultivate the Queen. In all likelihood, Henry will get over his anger. If Richard serves him well in Wales, we can hope the King will forget the incident.”

  * * *

  If Richard died in Wales, it would be her fault. A tear trickled down Astra’s face, but she did not release her hold on her rosary to wipe it away. More tears blurred her vision, making the chapel candles merge into a glittering tapestry of light. She closed her eyes and imagined Richard dead on some lonely battlefield, his beautiful body maimed and ruined, his dazzling dark eyes closed forever. A new wave of grief washed over her. What if Richard died and she had never had a chance to tell him she loved him, that even though she had tried, she could not forget him? How would she live with herself then?

  For a moment, Astra allowed herself to sink deep into the mire of her misery. Then she impatiently brushed her tears away. She must stop this foolish crying and concentrate on praying. It was the one thing she could do to help Richard. The one way to make up for the pain she had inflicted upon him. She would pray for him, with all her heart she would pray.

  * * *

  She had to be somewhere, Marguerite thought irritably. Astra wouldn’t run off to Wales by herself. She had more sense than that. More sense than most people. Certainly more than that fool Will. Why had he told Astra about Richard’s troubles in the hallway outside the Queen’s private chambers? He should have broken the news more gently and certainly chosen a more private setting.

  Now she had to find Astra and allay her fears about Richard’s situation. After all, Henry lost his temper all the time—and then got over it by the next day. Why should it be any different with Richard? Especially if he fought well for the King in Wales. If Richard could make a difference there, the King would forgive anything.

  Marguerite wondered if Astra would listen to her reassurances. She’d likely think she’d ruined Richard’s life and be beside herself with worry. Marguerite quickened her pace, thinking furiously. If she were Astra, where would she go? The thought of the chapel suddenly sprang to mind.

  Candles glowed along the walls, filling the small nave with an unearthly, flickering light. Marguerite stepped forward slowly and saw Astra near the altar. She was praying so intently she did not hear Marguerite’s approach.

  Marguerite paused a few paces away from her friend’s kneeling form. Astra was so pale, her delicate features might have been carved out of ivory. Her eyes were closed, the long lashes perfectly still. A tendril of golden hair had escaped from her blue veil and curled against her cheek. It seemed as if a nimbus of light surrounded her. Marguerite caught her breath. Astra looked like a vision—a blessed angel or the incarnation of the Holy Mother herself.

  Astra’s lips began to move, breaking the spell. Marguerite stepped forward and called her friend’s name.

  Astra rose stiffly. “You’ve heard?”

  Marguerite nodded.

  “Oh, Marguerite, I don’t know what to do. I’ve very nearly destroyed Richard’s life! If the King doesn’t forgive him or any harm befalls him in Wales...”

  “It’s not your fault! Don’t even listen to Will. He can be such a dolt sometimes. It was Richard’s own temper that got him into this predicament. He was defending us, aye, but he didn’t need to put out a man’s eye to do it. There were plenty of other knights in the tavern that night who could have come to our aid. No, Richard simply lost control. He has a violent temper, and when Fitz Warren taunted him about his mother, he turned into an animal.”

  Astra shuddered. There was truth in Marguerite’s words. Sometimes Richard terrified her. There was a side of him that was untamed and wholly wild. He reminded her of the deadly beasts imprisoned in King Henry’s menagerie. “Surely Richard has been taunted before,” she remarked in a troubled voice. “I’ve heard it’s a common ploy in battle to use insults to distract your opponent into letting down his guard.”

  Marguerite’s face was thoughtful. “The difference is, with Richard, the scurrilous remark has validity. Baldwin told me himself—Richard’s mother really was a whore.”

  Astra’s eyes went wide. “His mother was... was one of those women?”

  Marguerite nodded. “I don’t know the details, but Baldwin says it’s true. Fitz Warren obviously knew about it as well and deliberately goaded Richard. In truth, I cannot feel sorry for Fitz Warren, despite the pain he must have suffered. Taunting a man like Richard was a stupid thing to do.”

  Astra groped her way to the rail at the altar and leaned heavily against it. “Dear God. Poor Richard. No wonder he is so bitter about women.”

  “Well, now you know,” Marguerite said casually. “Richard has obviously known a lifetime of adversity. A short campaign in Wales isn’t likely to do him in. Come along, Astra. You must have something to eat. The Queen said you had not yet broken your fast today.”

  “As if I could eat!” Astra moaned. “My stomach is rolling around like butter in a churn. No matter what you say, I cannot help worrying about Richard. It’s untrue that I am not to blame for his problems. I asked him to help us. He would not have fought Fitz Warren if I had not requested his aid.”

>   “Oh, bother, Astra, he was only doing his duty. A knight is supposed to rescue helpless women.”

  Astra clutched her prayer necklace tightly. “There is something else that troubles me. I worry Richard will die without ever knowing how I feel about him.”

  “How do you feel about him?”

  “I believe I am in love with him. It’s not merely lust that makes him occupy my thoughts so constantly. I care deeply for Richard. When I found out he was in trouble with the King, I realized I would do anything I could to help him.”

  “Well now, that complicates things, doesn’t it?” Marguerite gave a sudden sigh. “Why is it that women always fall in love with men who can never marry them?”

  Astra looked at her sharply. Marguerite shrugged and continued. “It’s true. Will said Richard is determined to marry a rich woman. Of course, that was some time ago. Perhaps Richard has changed his mind.” She darted Astra a swift, calculated glance. “There are ways to encourage a man to marry you. If you were to allow him favors and get with child...”

  Astra stared at her friend, utterly aghast. “No! I would never agree to such an abhorrent scheme. To trick a man into marrying you—what horrible thing to do!”

  “Of course I don’t mean you should trick him. Merely give him a tiny nudge.”

  “I could never do something so dishonest. If Richard doesn’t offer for my hand of his own accord, it was not meant to be!”

  “Perhaps he will. After a few weeks moping in the Welsh Marches, dreaming of you every hour of the day, Richard may finally face the fact that he loves you, too. Once he admits that, the rest will fall into place. There is really no impediment to your marriage except Richard’s obstinacy.”

  Astra nodded. Her eyes grew damp as she dared to hope, to dream of a future with her enchanting Richard. With an abrupt shake of her head, she sought to dispel the impractical thoughts from her mind. “What a coil it all is. I wish I could tell Richard how I feel. If only he was not in Wales!”

  Marguerite wrinkled her brow in thought and then her face lit up. “The Queen expects you to accompany her when the court moves to Woodstock for a fortnight of hunting, and Woodstock is much closer to Wales than London. It’s likely that there will be couriers sending news to the King about the war. Why not ask one of them to take a message?”

  “I can’t do it. My feelings are much too personal to entrust to a messenger.”

  “Mmmm,” Marguerite muttered. “I will have to think on it. There must be a way. I wish I could go with you to Woodstock.”

  “Why can you not?”

  “Because the Queen hasn’t asked me,” Marguerite answered with a twitch of her dark brows. “She’s very fond of you, and she’s heard enough rumors to guess I haven’t been the best influence for you. I suspect she thinks a few weeks away from me will do you good.”

  Astra glanced at her friend, wondering if it was true.

  Eighteen

  Damn Wales—and damn its miserable weather. Richard pulled up the hood of his cloak and gazed dismally into the sodden gray twilight. It was going to rain again, for about the thousandth time since they’d arrived.

  “Any sign of them?” asked Tom Stroket, the stout knight who shared guard duty with him.

  Richard shook his head. “They’re likely in hiding, waiting to ambush us as soon as we move out. That’s the way of the Welsh bastards.”

  Stroket nodded glumly. A drop of rain fell on his big Norman nose and dribbled off the tip. “It’s a demonic form of warfare. They refuse to meet us in pitched battle and then cut us down one by one. You never hear a sound, and then all at once there is a dagger buried in your throat or a gray goose-feathered shaft quivering from your belly.” He shifted his broad shoulders uneasily. “I’ve heard some of the men are refusing to do guard duty. They say it’s too risky. But you, you volunteered for it. Are you really that fearless?”

  Richard cleared his throat and spat. “I’ve fought in Wales before. If you can stand the miserable weather and the vile diet of fatty mutton and coarse porridge, it’s not so bad.”

  “When were you here?”

  “A few years ago. It was a wasted effort, like this one. Since Henry failed in the twenties, there hasn’t been much chance for the English.”

  “Henry lost then, didn’t he?”

  “Having no taste for the misery of a Welsh campaign, Henry went off to fight in France instead. But, aye, in effect, he gave up most of what John gained in Wales during his reign. The truth is, Henry’s not cut out for fighting wars like this one.” Richard shifted restlessly. “He’s too soft. To win you’d have to go in and burn and slaughter and kill until you’ve brought them to their knees. Henry doesn’t have the stomach for it.”

  “Henry doesn’t have the stomach for a lot of things,” Stroket commented softly.

  In the dim light, blue eyes met black ones warily. “Have you thought about it?” Stroket asked after a moment. “Have you thought about hiring yourself out, maybe even to the French?”

  “Christ, of course I’ve thought about it,” Richard growled. “Who wouldn’t, in my situation? I’ve fought for Henry for years, and all I’ve ever gotten for my trouble is a set of armor and a new warhorse every few years. I’m not getting any younger.”

  “They say King Louis is very generous with his soldiers. Some of the better born knights he’s made his vassals, put them in charge of fine estates, even castles.”

  “Still,” Richard mused. “It means betraying your homeland, your king. Henry and Louis aren’t at war now, but sooner or later it could happen. Then it would mean facing your old comrades across a battlefield.”

  Stroket nodded. “If only there was some way to know what the situation is in France. It could all be talk. I have half a mind to go over there and see for myself how the wind blows.”

  “If you find out anything, let me know. I’m not fit for court life, of that I’m certain. I’m going to have to make my fortune by other means.”

  “You sound bitter. Did something happen in London to sour you on Henry?”

  “You might say that. I went to the King directly and asked him for a grant. He treated me like an errant lapdog.”

  “Perhaps it is time to turn mercenary.”

  Richard nodded. He could not help thinking about Astra. How would she react if he betrayed Henry and hired himself out?

  “There’s something else bothering you, isn’t there, Reivers?” Stroket mused shrewdly. “I’ve never known you to be so morose and moody on campaign before.”

  Richard met Stroket’s blue eyes briefly. “I guess you could say I finally succumbed. There’s this woman in London—”

  “A woman!” Stroket guffawed. “Mary’s tits, Reivers! What did it take to win your heart—a gold-plated pussy?”

  Richard grimaced at Stroket’s crude words. “Not exactly. Although if beauty were wealth, she would be a great heiress.”

  “She’s the most beauteous creature to grace this fair earth, eh?”

  Richard smiled stiffly. “Of course.”

  “But you haven’t wed her yet—why not?”

  Richard considered telling his friend the truth, that Astra didn’t want him, that she was too refined and gentle a woman to be attracted to a crude, violent soldier. Then he shrugged. “She’s poor. I can’t see clear to making her my wife until I know I can take care of her. You know how it is. After the wedding comes a passel of brats you have to feed. I’ve always been a soldier, Tom, just my sword, my armor and my warhorse. How can I hope to look after a family?”

  “Plenty of men do it. The woman stays home and takes care of the brats, while you go off fighting, earning their bread with your blood and sweat.”

  “And if I’m killed—what future do they have? No thanks. My mother got caught in that trap, and I saw what became of her. I’m not leaving any wife of mine to such a fate.”

  “Then look to France, comrade,” Stroket said with a wink. “There’s no wealth to be had in England unless your name is
Berenger or Lusignan. Come to think of it, by the time the King’s clan of scavenging relatives is done, there may not even be an England.”

  Tom got up and walked off to piss. Richard slumped gloomily into his oiled leather cape, then spat on the ground, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of the horrible sour wine they were given in their rations. France sounded wonderful—sunshine, fragrant meadows, crusty bread, good wine. A virtual paradise, and if Stroket could be trusted, still up for grabs. Aye, it was something to consider. He’d never thought to betray his King, but that was before Henry had shown himself to be such a weak bastard. Any king who let an idiot like Faucomberg dictate to him wasn’t much of a king at all.

  Richard ran his hand over his face, rubbing away the wetness. There really wasn’t anything to keep him in England now. Astra didn’t want him. He’d never forget the horror on her face as she watched Fitz Warren writhing in his own blood. No, she’d never forgive him. She considered him a monster, a beast.

  A painful pang of longing swept through him. He had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted Astra. This time it was more than a yearning his loins or an itch in his blood. He wanted something more than simply to take his angel to bed. He wanted to possess her, to meld her soul with his own, to capture some of her purity and sweetness forever.

  Richard clenched his fists until the cold metal of his lance bit into his flesh. He couldn’t give up yet—that would mean letting Faucomberg and his kind finally win. His mind drifted back, remembering the taunts: “Bastard. Whoreson. Beggar.” Even now the words retained their power to wound. It seemed only yesterday that he had been a ragged, unwanted, unloved boy. A boy who wondered daily if it would not have been better if he had not been born, if his slut of a mother should not have killed him when he was in her womb.

  No, he would not give up. He must keep trying to win Henry over. If he could lead a successful encounter with the Welsh, the King would have to reward him. Beating the Welsh was not impossible. You merely had to think as they did.

  He glanced out into the gathering darkness, an idea forming gradually in his mind. The Welsh had always defeated the English by stealth and cunning. What if the same tactics were used against them? The Welsh would not expect a small body of English to sneak up on them in the night. If he could find out where their camp was, have the men in his command forego their splendid armor and don rough garments, use daggers and cunning instead of numbers...