Mary Gillgannon

by The Leopard

  It was preposterous, and he knew he would fail her eventually. Perhaps, more than anything, that was why he hadn’t wanted this marriage. He didn’t want to fail Astra, to destroy her fair enchanted dreams. It would be better if he abused her so much that she asked for an annulment. Let some other man try to live up to her fantasy of wedded life. It was not for him.

  But so far, he realized ruefully, he had not had much success in driving Astra away. Here she was, lying beside him, sleeping peacefully, waiting for him to come back to her. If he pulled aside the bedcovers, he would likely find her naked... naked and willing.

  The thought made his throat go dry, and he grew hard almost instantly. How could he resist such damnable temptation, even if he knew it would only lead to more suffering in the end?

  He sighed and turned towards her. In the morning, he would be cold and cruel again. In the morning he would be sober and rested and sated. He would be better able to deal with her. His thoughts wouldn’t be so muddled, twisting and turning in hopeless circles.

  He reached out and touched a silken shoulder. She sighed softly as she turned towards him.

  * * *

  It was a dream. Richard was holding her in his arms, and there was no anger and bitterness between them. His hands were tender, poignant in their gentleness. His body was hot and alive, scalding her. She wanted him with a great surging need that robbed her of fear and wariness, and it was the most natural thing in the world to open her legs for him.

  He slid inside her without the slightest difficulty or hesitation. The fire sprang between them, burning them both as they writhed and twisted.

  The bed danced, the night danced. She escaped the tangled cord that bound her to doubt, to thought, to the boundaries of her soul, and sailed in a long corridor of light, panting and gasping at the bliss of it.

  Richard was with her, above her, within her, as one. He let her caress his face and cry out his name, and in the wordless darkness she even sensed he smiled. It is a dream, she thought. It must be, to be so close, so safe, so happy. And yet there was a raw edge to it, a slippery, savory fierceness, a quickening in the blood, a brutal merging of the flesh.

  She shed her hazy contentment and sought the fury of it, the white-hot ecstasy of their joining. It came upon her like a vast, heaving storm, tearing her to bits, rending her asunder with a bucking, pitching crescendo that wrenched an anguished cry from her lips. She had reached it, some place far away and only half-known, and she was not alone there.

  The storm subsided, and they were only tangled limbs and sticky bodies, hot skin and chests heaving like bellows. The division between their bodies renewed itself. It was dark and late, and Astra realized that she knew the man panting beside her only by his scent and the feel of his skin. He was a stranger still, and when the darkness lifted on the morn, his eyes might well be full of hatred.

  The thought made her draw away. She remembered how he had left her, unsatisfied, humiliated, miserable. He had gone to a whore, to a common, filthy, unchaste woman, but one he liked better than her.

  Tears burned the corners of her eyes. Why had he come back? Why?

  He must have known she despaired, for he reached for her and gave her a vague, familiar pat, such as one might give a dog. Still it soothed her, kept her tears from falling. This time there were no mocking words, only the companionable sound of his breathing. This time he had not taunted her, but took her with a profound possessiveness that left her shuddering. Something seemed changed between them, but she could not be sure what it was.

  She longed to look into his eyes, to search his harshly handsome face for the answer she needed. She heard his soft, rhythmic breathing and sighed.

  It was too late. Already he slept.

  Thirty-four

  “Papa! You’ve come!”

  “My dear Marguerite,” Lord Fitz Hugh responded, giving her a fond kiss as they met in the entrance to the Queen’s gallery. “Is something wrong, sweeting? Your summons was unexpected. I’d not intended to return to court until Candlemas.”

  “Nothing is wrong,” Marguerite reassured him blithely. “But now that my friend Astra has wed, you must see to bequeathing her the manor near the Thames.”

  “Oh, the manor. I’d near forgotten. Well, that is no great matter. With the help of the King’s clerks, it will be at easy enough transaction to complete. Tell me, Marguerite whom did she marry? I hope he is a man worthy of her.”

  “Very worthy. The King himself gave his blessing to the marriage. Lady Astra has wedded Sir Richard, one of the fine young knights who rescued us near Tudbury.”

  Fitz Hugh nodded. “I remember him now. He was without land himself, if I recall. No wonder they need the manor.”

  “Richard may be poor, but Astra loves him dearly. Oh Papa, is it not like a jongleur’s tale, a handsome, courageous knight and a fair damsel wedding for love?”

  “Love?” Fitz Hugh barked, his thick brows pulling into a frown. “Well now, that is a dubious reason to marry. I hope you don’t have any silly notions of a love match.”

  “Of course not, Papa. Indeed, these months at court have taught me that there is a much deeper purpose to life than I ever dreamed. In fact, that is why I called you here—to discuss my future.”

  “Your future, aye,” Fitz Hugh nodded emphatically. “Indeed, that is the very thing I wish to speak about. I am on the verge of negotiating a marriage contract for you that will be the envy of every man at court.”

  Marguerite’s eyes lit up. “A marriage contract? Truly?”

  “I’m certain the man will meet with your satisfaction, Marguerite,” her father answered smugly. “He is young, lusty and well-favored in looks. I surmised you were aiming for exactly that.”

  Marguerite blushed. “Who is he, Papa?”

  “Guy Faucomberg—heir of one of the finest families in England.”

  Marguerite’s mouth gaped open.

  “You know him, don’t you? I thought so. His father said he was at court this summer. So, then, Marguerite, what do you think of him?”

  Her mind whirled. Faucomberg. Will and Richard despised him. Astra said he gave her the shivers. Still, he was indecently rich, and if there was a way to convince him the babe was his...

  “Are you pleased, Marguerite?” her father asked impatiently. “I’ve worked hard on this match. It means enlarging the Fitz Hugh estates most favorably, and you will be a wealthy woman in your own right. Should Faucomberg be killed in war, you never need marry again, except of course, where the King commanded.”

  “Of course, I am delighted, Papa.” She planted a kiss on his broad cheek. “Do you have any idea when the wedding will take place?”

  Her father shrugged. “I have no idea. Your mother will be seeing to that end of the venture,”

  Marguerite gave him her most radiant smile. “I hope it can be soon, Papa. Very soon.”

  * * *

  “Guy Faucomberg!” Will exclaimed.

  “I know you are not fond of the man,” said Astra. “But still, it is a fortuitous turn of events. At least Marguerite has given up her absurd notion of taking holy vows. I am very much relieved.”

  Astra and Will de Lacy were walking in the Queen’s garden. It was a fine fair day, and while Astra noted wistfully that most of the flowers were dying, the warm sunny weather belied the fact that summer was over.

  “Well, I am not relieved,” Will muttered. “Poor Marguerite. She would be better off having the child without a husband than cursing the babe to a sire like that.”

  “Really, Will—you mislike the man that much?”

  “Aye, I do. He’s a cruel devil who treats women like the dirt beneath his feet. What do you think will happen when Faucomberg learns Marguerite was enceinte when they wed? We can only hope he doesn’t beat her and make her lose the babe!”

  “He won’t find out,” Astra answered confidently. “Marguerite is pressing her father to have the wedding take place right away, and when the babe is born, she means to bribe
the midwife to say it was simply born before its time.”

  “Jesu, it’s obvious you grew up in a convent, Astra. Faucomberg may be pigheaded in some ways, but he’s not utterly stupid. He’ll know something is amiss when a summer babe comes in the spring and is born full-grown and healthy.”

  “Perhaps he won’t care. Perhaps by then he’ll be in love with Marguerite.”

  Will’s blue eyes narrowed coldly. “Believe me, Astra, Rathstowe isn’t going to fall in love with anyone, leastwise his wife. Marguerite will be lucky if he doesn’t kill her for her deceit.”

  “Surely you’re wrong,” Astra responded in a shaken voice. “You know how angry Richard was with me, but he never abused me physically and even now he seems to be getting over his bitterness.”

  “I’m pleased Richard has come to his senses, but I do not think you can compare him to Rathstowe. Richard was blinded by his anger. But underneath he is good man—as loyal and decent as anyone. Rathstowe is not cut of the same cloth.”

  Astra sighed. “I hope you’re wrong, for I doubt I can persuade Marguerite from the marriage. She feels it is the only way to avoid telling her father the truth, and she is determined to avoid that at all costs.”

  “Why? I can’t think Fitz Hugh is such a monster he would not forgive his daughter her predicament.”

  “Of course he would forgive her. But Marguerite worships her father, and she is loathe to disappoint him once again. To prevent that, she is willing to do anything—even waste away in a convent the rest of her life.”

  Will shook his head. “The convent will seem like heaven compared to the hell Rathstowe will put Marguerite through if he learns the truth. If you cannot persuade her to give up this madness, I must see to it.”

  He turned to leave the garden, but Astra touched his arm. “I appreciate your concern for Marguerite, Will, but in truth, I did not ask you here to discuss Marguerite’s predicament, but my own.”

  Will glanced at her in alarm. “Astra, what is it? You said things were better with Richard.”

  “Aye, they are. He is calmer these days, much less angry, but still he worries me.”

  “Why?”

  Astra leaned down to pick a slightly wilted aster from among the dried weeds, searching for the words to explain her problem. Richard was no longer cold and mocking, but he was not the man she had fallen in love with either. “I should not complain, but I cannot help it, Will. I think something is wrong with Richard. He speaks to me seldom, comes to me only for lovemaking. Sometimes I find him looking at me in a way that makes me afraid.”

  “Afraid? How so?”

  “As if he pitied me. As if he knew what was to happen to me, and it grieved him somehow.”

  “Does he still seek to... to punish you?” Will asked hesitantly.

  Astra blushed. “Nay, he is not so harsh these days. He does not taunt me or mock me. But that is what worries me, Will. He says almost nothing to me at all. Richard, who once dazzled me with his witty jests and enchanting words, who once we were wed regularly tormented me with his vulgar talk and base gibes, he is nearly silent these days.”

  “I have marked it, too, and I know not what to make of it. It seems as if some ill-humor has befallen the Leopard, some burden that he cannot or will not speak, of.”

  Apparently sensing her distress, Will hurried to add, “I’m sure his melancholy will be fleeting. Richard has always been one for strange moods. But in the end, he returns to his usual light-hearted, charming self.”

  “I hope you are right,” Astra murmured. “I cannot shake this cold dread that clutches my heart. But perhaps some of my worry is for Marguerite. Go, Will, and talk to her. Try to stop her from wedding Faucomberg, before it’s too late.”

  Will nodded and hurried from the garden.

  * * *

  The courtyard of Westminster bustled with activity as the dozens of grooms, squires and servants prepared for the King’s hunt. Will dodged the mayhem of horses, hounds and retainers and hurried toward the tall elegant woman dressed in a stunning black velvet riding costume, her sleeves slashed with scarlet sarcenet, her black veil studded with rubies.

  “Lady Marguerite!”

  She turned and gave him a dazzling smile. “Will, come and greet my father. He just arrived at court this morn.”

  “Lord Fitz Hugh.” Will bowed deeply.

  “Ah, de Lacy. I must congratulate you. I charged you with the onerous task of looking after my daughter while she was in London, and I must say you have done well. I have just spoken to the Queen and other than one little escapade in Southwark, Marguerite has avoided trouble for the longest stretch that I can recall.”

  “It was my pleasure, your lordship,” Will offered stiffly.

  “Nonsense. I know exactly what my daughter is like, and I anticipated that the temptations of a King’s court would prove even worse than those of an isolated country priory. I’m very impressed you have managed to prevent her from tarnishing her reputation beyond what a decent man can allow.”

  Will’s eyes met Marguerite’s. He saw defiance etched in their gleaming depths, and he gave her a sad smile. “I would speak to you later,” he murmured as he bent to kiss her hand.

  “De Lacy, I won’t have you thinking I mean to let your efforts to protect my daughter’s virtue go unremarked,” Fitz Hugh was saying in his bluff, hearty voice. “If you would but ask a boon of me, I would be delighted to reward you in some fashion.”

  “No reward is necessary, your lordship. I did what I did out of fondness for your daughter.”

  Fitz Hugh frowned. “That simply won’t do, de Lacy. I intend to repay you, and so I shall. If you cannot think of anything this moment, give the matter some thought over the next few days.” He smiled broadly, and his dark eyes twinkled. “You’d be a fool not to take advantage of me. I vow I am so pleased with myself these days, I’d agree to almost anything you might ask.”

  Will felt his heart sinking as he responded to Fitz Hugh’s prompt. “And why is it that you are pleased, my lord?”

  Lord Fitz Hugh puffed out his chest. “A few days hence, I expect to announce a brilliant match for my daughter’s hand. I can’t mention the man’s name yet, because the final negotiations aren’t complete, but suffice to say it will be the wedding of the season.”

  “That is good news, your lordship. When will the happy event take place?”

  Lord Fitz Hugh frowned. “Her mother fancied a Yuletide wedding at Ravensmore, but my Marguerite is impatient for the deed to be done.”

  “That’s right, Papa,” Marguerite said sweetly. “I really don’t want to wait.”

  Will gave Marguerite a swift, knowing look. “I wouldn’t rush things, Lord Fitz Hugh. A few weeks is hardly enough time to plan for a wedding. The contracts must be signed, and there is all that business of gowns and food and entertainment to be arranged.”

  Marguerite gave Will a hostile look. “If I am to be wed, I’d rather not waste time about it, Papa.”

  Fitz Hugh shrugged. “Of course, if the wedding can be moved up, I will see to it. ‘Twould be a relief to dispense with the foolish frivolity women seem to insist on.”

  Marguerite rewarded her father with a spellbinding smile. Will swallowed uneasily. He had to speak to Marguerite as soon as possible. As far as he was concerned, she was about to bind herself for life to a man as cold-hearted and cruel as the devil himself.

  * * *

  The autumn air rang out with the clatter of hoofs, the anxious bark of the hunting dogs and the jingle of the noblemen’s spurs. At the head of the brightly-garbed procession of the King’s hunting party, the scarlet and gold royal banners snapped and whipped in the breeze. High ranking noblemen, knights and ladies in a brilliant procession of saffron and purple samite, gold and black diapered silk, crimson, green and deep blue velvet rode in a long line down the dusty road. Bringing up the rear were the royal servants: dog handlers, falconers, personal retainers, as well as carts carrying food and other provisions.

 
; Astra cast a sideway glance at her husband as they rode in the middle of the caravan. As always, her heartbeat quickened at the sight of him. Unlike the rest of the splendid company, he wore a rather ragged-looking leather tunic and worn green chausses tied with cross-garters. He looked more like a huntsman than a knight, but the old clothes became him, their roughness contrasting appealingly with his gleaming dark hair and velvety brown skin. Astra thought he had never looked more handsome, and her breath caught each time she remembered that he had actually asked her to go along on the royal hunt.

  Distracted, Astra forgot to guide her horse, and the rather plodding black gelding stumbled slightly. She clutched the horse’s mane nervously, afraid she would suffer the indignity of falling from her mount before the hunt even began. For all that her charming green velvet riding costume made her look like a fine lady, her lack of skill on a horse reminded her that she was naught but a simple country girl.

  In contrast, Richard sat his horse with the easy grace with which he did everything. His spirited chestnut mare pranced and jerked at the reins as if she could not wait to run. She had long delicate legs, an aristocratic, almost dainty head and an elegant, curved neck. To Astra, she seemed too fine and lovely a thing to have much speed or endurance, but Richard vowed that she was likely the fastest horse in the field today. He proudly told Astra that he had won the mare in the tournament at Tudbury and that she had been brought back from the Holy Land by a crusading nobleman.

  They rode north from London, journeying to the Royal forest. The day was surprisingly warm for October, the sky blue and clear, the sunshine bathing them in mellow golden light. Astra felt a great contentment in riding beside Richard, even though he said little and seldom glanced her way.

  Ahead of them, Marguerite struggled to control her frolicsome white palfrey. Her face was flushed from laughing and she paused frequently beside some knight or lady to exchange teasing comments with them. Watching her, Astra knew that Will had not yet told her his worries about Lord Faucomberg. Even blithe, carefree Marguerite could not be oblivious to such a horrendous warning.