The King's Mistress

by TERRI BRISBIN

  Looking up even higher, she could see the top of the keep where she had stood that evening with Orrick to watch the sun set. Now, so far beneath it, she marveled at the design and construction of the castle. So close to the edge of the cliff, Silloth appeared to be a huge weapon thrust up into the sky from its base in the sea.

  “Henry granted my father permission to turn the wooden keep to a stone one over fifteen years ago. The designer of it chose to use the natural outcropping of rock and cliffs.” Orrick leaned closer to her and pointed to the landscape above them and to the north. “From the sea, it cannot be distinguished from the cliffs due to its position and color.”

  “So, enemies approaching from the ocean cannot see that there is a defending castle here?”

  “Just so, my lady. A wise strategy?”

  “’Twould appear so. Do the tides rise to that mark on the cliff?” Marguerite pointed to a place where the sea had worn smooth the surface of the rocks.

  “Aye. And since the water moves in from both west and north, the beach is not a haven for those on the attack.”

  She watched the waves break onto the beach. The tide was decreasing now from what she could tell, the water rushing out to the ocean more than it stayed on the beach. It was as she observed the pattern of the moving water that she realized there were no guards with them. Or servants. Were they so safe here?

  “Has Silloth been attacked in the past?”

  “Many times over the centuries. This is a valuable position on the coast so it has been coveted by the Romans, the Britons, Vikings, Scots and the English. All through history it has changed hands as the powers that control the land change.”

  Orrick touched the sides of his horse and Marguerite followed him to a small, rocky outcropping closer to the water’s edge. Once there, he dismounted and helped her to the ground. He untied the sack containing the food and a wineskin from behind his saddle and hobbled both horses to keep them from running away. Holding out his hand again to her, he led her to sit on one of the larger rocks. The surface was flat and now well-heated from the sun.

  Marguerite grew nervous as he sat next to her. Looking around for the guards, Orrick must have seen her expression.

  “What do you fear, lady?” He lifted her chin so that their gazes met. “Your nervousness is obvious to me.”

  “Where are the guards?” She licked her dry lips. “Is it safe to be here?”

  “I had the beach searched before I brought you here,” he said, his eyes glittering with that frequently present glimmer of amusement. “My men are just over the ridge to the south and up on the battlements of the keep. No one can approach here without being seen by them.”

  “Can we be seen?” Marguerite looked back and forth. Being alone with him brought other concerns to mind, but she pushed them away.

  “If I give the signal, my men will come forward. If I do not, they will not. I assure you, lady, we are alone.”

  Exactly what she feared. Through careful fore-thought she had managed to avoid him for more than a fortnight. Though they shared the evening meal and saw each other throughout the day, she had not been alone with him since that night on the battlements on the keep. Marguerite swallowed and glanced back at him.

  She knew he wanted her. He could not completely mask the look of desire in his eyes. He had thought to kiss her on the keep’s roof that night, just as he was doing now. And with no one around them, no one could intervene. The worst of it was that Marguerite found herself wanting him to kiss her.

  Just when her body wanted to lean in to his, she forced herself away. Surprised to see that he had not moved closer, she took in a deep breath and tried to ease the quickening pace of her heart. “To what purpose did you bring me here, my lord?”

  “My lord? I thought you understood my recent order?” That damned glimmer was back in his green eyes.

  “We have not been alone since your order was given, my lord…Orrick.”

  “That is better. My purpose today was a simple one, Marguerite. You have been working constantly with Wilfrid over these past weeks and I thought you could use some time out of doors.”

  “I walk every day,” she began to argue.

  “From the keep to the chapel and back. But to my knowledge you never leave the yard or go to the village. You are not a prisoner in Silloth Keep, so why is that?”

  Orrick reached into the sack and brought out a chunk of cheese. Tearing off a piece, he offered it to her. Biting into his own, he seemed to watch her every move, almost daring her to lie. She tried to swallow the cheese, but it stuck in her throat. Orrick was there immediately with the wineskin.

  “I have no need to go to the village.”

  She wished that he would not press her about this. He did not like it when she said she wanted to leave. He did not like it when she expressed her faith in Henry. So why did he make her answer these questions? When he began to ask something, she lifted her hand to his chest to stop him.

  “My lord. Orrick. I pray thee, do not ask if you wish not to hear my answer.”

  Marguerite watched as his gaze moved down to her hand and, in horror, she realized what she had done and how discolored her hands were. Pulling away, she allowed the sleeves of her gown to cover them. Years of indoctrination made her embarrassed over their condition.

  A lady’s hands should be white and soft-skinned. Dirty hands are the sign of a peasant. Her gown should be clean and her hair always groomed and under a veil.

  “Why do you hide your hands?” Orrick gently grasped her wrists and brought her hands out from the sleeves.

  “The woman my father appointed to teach me the correct ways of appearance and behavior would be horrified to see what I have allowed to happen. I would be punished if I had shown myself in my father’s hall as I do here.”

  He lifted her hands between them and waited for her to look on them. Seeing the ink stains once more, she realized that her recent disregard for her appearance shamed her and her father.

  “Hands marked by honest work are not an embarrassment.”

  “But they are, my—Orrick. ’Tis grooming and appearance and bearing that separates the noble-born from the peasants.”

  “Mayhap in the land of your childhood, Marguerite. Mayhap at the king’s court. But not here in Silloth. Here, the work you do for the good of all matters more than how you look accomplishing it. Here, who you are matters more than what you wear.”

  She frowned at him. His thinking was so peculiar. How could he believe these notions? At court, she…

  “I am sounding like a monk once again,” he said in explanation. “And being a barbarian from the godforsaken outskirts of civilization, I do not comprehend the overwhelming importance of clean hands and ornately arranged hair.”

  Orrick stood and turned away from her, facing into the winds that skipped over the ocean. When he did not face her, she slid off the rocks and walked to his side. Why could he not understand?

  “Orrick,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “Please hear me. I mean no insult to you by my words or by being ill at ease over my hands. This is who I am.”

  “No, Marguerite, this is not who you are. It is who they made you think you must be.”

  “It is the only way I know to be, Orrick. It is not pretense. It is me.”

  He grasped her by the shoulders and stared down at her, his eyes piercing her with their intensity. “And you would return to that? To a place and to people who value you for your appearance over your contributions? To those who offer you disguise and affectation instead of honest feelings?”

  “I…” Marguerite choked on the words she tried to force out. She wanted to scream out “Yes,” but something would not free the assertion from within her. Her place was not here. She did not want to live here. Pulling free of his hold, she stumbled back.

  “Have any of your family or those you called friend answered your call for help? Have they inter-ceded on your behalf with Henry?” he asked, stepping forward. His voice quieted unt
il she could almost not hear it above the crashing of the waves. “Will they endanger their own standing to speak for you? Those are the traits of true friends.”

  She could not answer him, for her thoughts and feelings were jumbled inside of her. Unable to speak, she did the only thing she could. Marguerite lifted her skirts and ran.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In spite of the way his words sounded, he was no holy brother. When the sun shone down on her hair in its enchanting disarray, when her blue eyes glittered like jewels and when her lips parted ever so slightly, he wanted to bury his hardness in her. His body constantly reminded him of the earthy sin of lust whenever he saw his wife…or heard her…or thought about her. Even now, he ached for her.

  Whistling out his signal, Orrick waited for his men to return and follow Marguerite before stripping off his clothes and diving into the cold water. Battling against the temperature of the water and the ocean currents were usually enough to stave off his physical reaction to Marguerite. Today he doubted it would be successful.

  With steady strokes, he swam a distance offshore and then parallel to the edge of the water. Pausing for a moment, he whistled again, letting the one soldier remaining on the beach and the guards on the keep see his position. He may be irrational swimming in the wild ocean, but he was not foolish enough to do it when none could see him. Content that he was under surveillance, he went back to his ritual.

  When he felt as though his arms and legs were like stones pulling him down, he pushed his way to shore and walked to the rocks where he’d brought Marguerite. The guard standing between the cliff and the water returned to his post farther down the beach and Orrick gathered up his clothes. Finding the sack of food, he took out the remaining cooked meat, bread and cheese and ate every bit. He waited for the wind and warmth of the sun to dry him off. Drinking deeply from the wineskin, he wondered if he’d pushed her too hard today.

  As he suspected and Wilfrid confirmed, she was an intelligent woman with a gift in languages and the decidedly unfemale ability to reason and debate important and worldly issues. Wilfrid had laughed as he told Orrick of some of the discussions that occurred while sorting and organizing his workroom. The old man was more rested and in better spirits since Marguerite started her work there and Orrick felt vindicated even if he had put them together under false pretenses.

  Orrick wondered what Marguerite would think if she knew that her father had educated her the same way and in the same subjects and skills that the queen had been educated in. Wilfrid remarked more than once that Marguerite’s wisdom and knowledge and canny sense of politics rivaled Eleanor of Aquitaine’s. Unfortunately for Marguerite’s father, her young and inexperienced heart got in the way of his plans and fouled up his strategy of replacing the old queen with a new, younger version of the same woman.

  Orrick recognized that, if given enough time, she would put all the pieces together. He knew that she would realize that she was not returning to court. He prayed that she would accept her gifts and use them for the welfare of their people. And he hoped that she would open her heart to the love he wanted to share with her.

  He stuffed the remnants of the food back into the sack. After tugging his stockings back on and pulling his tunic and over-tunic over his head, Orrick allowed himself to laugh at the last thought. His efforts to avoid feeling anything for her were lackluster at best.

  From their first encounter, she had entranced him. Anger, pity, admiration, exasperation, fondness, challenge and an almost overwhelming desire were only some of the emotions she engendered in him. He was not certain why he had been granted the ability to see so much about her, especially the fears she would not even admit to herself and the needs she could not acknowledge.

  It had been his gift even from his childhood. He could see straight to the heart of someone. It made him the peacemaker between his brothers then and it made it so much more difficult as lord now. To crush someone or punish them simply because he had the right to do so was impossible when he could discern their motives and intentions. To strike out in anger was usually not something he did, except, it seemed, when it involved Marguerite’s feelings.

  This ability made it possible for him to accept her declarations of love for the king and her insistence that she would not stay here. He could discern that she had suffered deep wounds to her soul that made it impossible, for now, to accept what he offered.

  So, he would bide his time and prod her to the decisions that no one else but she could make. He only hoped that he would be part of the future she chose for herself when her heart healed.

  His wife reacted as he knew she would—she withdrew to her room, feverishly writing more letters to those at court who could plead her case with the king. She took her meals in her chambers and would not speak to anyone who went to inquire after her.

  Everyone in the keep seemed to be affected by the change in mood between the lord and lady. Wilfrid looked askance at him when Orrick told him not to expect Marguerite’s presence in his workroom for a few days. Edmee, enjoying her free time in the pursuit of things other than household tasks, was called back to attend to Marguerite’s needs. Gavin was beaten to a pulp on a daily basis as Orrick found another way to wear himself out.

  And to his amazement, everyone tried in their own way to entreat her from her rooms. Including himself. When Edmee mentioned Marguerite’s continued concern over the ink stains on her hands, Brother Wilfrid provided concoctions meant to remove them. When Edmee told Lady Constance that she was unable to dress her lady’s hair, his mother sent her own maid to see to the task. Even he tried to do something to cheer her—he had a new tunic and gown made to replace the one that she had damaged during her hours in Wilfrid’s workroom and a sturdy apron made for her use there.

  Orrick recognized that she was trying to confirm herself by falling back to the ways she’d been trained. Whenever threatened, she first retreated and then came out changed a bit. To his surprise, she arrived in the hall for the evening meal just two days after seeking the refuge of her rooms.

  He stood at her approach, as did everyone in the hall. Guiding her to her chair, Orrick marveled at her appearance. She was breathtaking in her beauty. Her hair was twisted and tied in some elaborate style with a veil and circlet of gold over it. The dress she wore was the one he had given her, but the necklace of expensive jewels around her neck was not.

  Orrick fought the urge to laugh out at her obvious tactics. He might have been insulted by the band of gold and rubies and emeralds had he not known that she was trying to protect herself from his advances. So, he was accomplishing something!

  The meal was served and Orrick waited to see how she responded during it. Once more, the polite, accomplished woman was presented, the one who answered questions and shared his food, but kept her distance. Halfway through the main courses, he realized she spoke in English. Did she know what she did?

  All through the meal, he observed her touching the necklace. He did not believe she did it consciously, but several times her hand reached up to touch the stones or the gold and moved them to lie in a certain way. Orrick wondered what the significance of this particular bauble was to her. Finally the meal was over and he rose to escort her back to her room.

  “My lord, with your permission I would like to visit Brother Wilfrid before I retire.”

  It was not the usual thing to do, but Orrick saw no harm in it. If she wished to speak to the monk, he had no objections. “If you wish,” he answered. “I will escort you there.”

  She nodded and placed her hand on his. Walking down from the dais, he led her through the corridors to the workroom off the kitchen and storage rooms near the back entrance of the keep.

  When they were but a few steps away from their destination, he paused to ask her, “Do you intend to tell him you will not be returning to help him?”

  As she looked at him, a frown crossed her brow. “Why would you think that, my lord?”

  He was about to correct her, for he loved t
he sound of his name on her lips, when two kitchen maids walked past them.

  “Your distress over the condition of your hands. If working with quill and ink will mark your hands, we should find some other way for you to assist him.”

  “I confess, my lord, that the sight of my black fingers did disturb me at first, but I have thought on your words and decided to continue working with Wilfrid. At least until his replacement arrives from the abbey.”

  Orrick felt a pang of guilt at his deception. No replacement would come for he had not requested one.

  “Besides, Wilfrid sent me the most wonderful cleanser that removes most of the ink,” she said, lifting her hands to his inspection. Although a few shadows remained, most of the stains were gone. “And the apron you gave me will protect my gown from damage in his workroom. My thanks for it…and the gowns.”

  Her voice deepened to an attractive husky whisper that sent chills through him. She turned to go into the room, but he held her back for a moment, pulling her to face him. Nodding at the necklace she wore, he spoke. “I cannot compete with the gifts you have received from the king, but I meant it with all the best intentions. I did not mean to hurt your feelings about your attention to the womanly details of dress and appearance and wished to compensate you for the loss of the gown you’ve been wearing to work with Wilfrid.”

  Marguerite lifted her face to meet his eyes. “And I accept your gift in the way it was intended.”

  Orrick could resist her no longer. Without touching any other part of her, he joined their mouths in a heated kiss. Stepping closer, he lifted his mouth from hers and then took hers again, moving his tongue inside to taste her. When she offered no resistance, he moved his hand to the back of her head and brought her closer. Orrick felt her hands clutch at his arms and felt her opening to him so he wrapped his arms around her and held her.