The King's Mistress

by TERRI BRISBIN

  “Apparently that is not enough for her to refuse the king’s advances. If you had seen the look of joy on her face at the news of her return to him, you would not being taking her side in this.”

  The slap to his head surprised him. Ardys had the strong swing of a practiced man and he stumbled back.

  “I thought you different. Now you are being stupid and I cannot abide stupidity.”

  “Mayhap I need to remind you that striking your lord is a punishable offense?” He did not like that she used their comfortable, easy relationship to attack him now.

  She walked away. “Only if he is not being stupid and does not deserve it. If he is not acting responsibly, then it is up to those of us who can to do what we must to remind him.”

  He laughed at that. Saluting her with his now-empty cup, he laughed again. She had a quick mind and a quick wit…and a quick hand. But that did not change his mind or his heart in this.

  “If she loves me as you say,” he began. Ardys cursed under her breath, but he continued. “If she does, why is that not enough to keep her at my side and out of the king’s bed?”

  “Have you asked that of her, Orrick?”

  He had not. When faced with her reaction to the king’s call, he had walked away. The joyful look on her face and the smile she had reserved for him alone spoke louder than any words she could say. Marguerite wanted to go back to Henry.

  The cup was ripped from his hand, his cloak thrown in his face and he was pushed bodily out the door. Ardys stood with her hands on her hips glaring at him.

  “Mayhap, my lord, when you begin thinking with your head and not your cock, the answer may come to you. Do not return here while there is still turmoil between you and the lady.”

  Orrick stood outside Ardys’s cottage and stared at the door, now shut in his face. She should not dare to speak to him like that. She should fear his wrath.

  He left his horse tied at the side of her house and walked up the path toward the keep. He would have to speak to Marguerite before she left. His mother had pleaded her case. Ardys had pleaded her case. But neither of them had seen Marguerite’s own words against him.

  The king had sent back to him the letters written by her in those first months and, in spite of knowing her condition at that time, the words tore him apart. The lies she had written about him were the worst and they grew darker with each letter. None of them would defend her if they knew how she had really felt about him and about them. By the time he reached the keep, his righteous anger surrounded him and he was ready to face Marguerite with her sins.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  She sat in the seat she’d come to like, and waited. She was not certain whether she waited for Orrick to come or for the morning and her departure from Silloth, but she waited in the silent darkness.

  Gavin had followed her into the village and stood waiting when she ran from Ardys’s cottage. If he had given any sign of pity or even sympathy, she would have broken down, but he did not. He simply offered her his arm and escorted her back here and now he stood as a sort of guard outside her door.

  She’d almost expected the crashing of the door or shouting to herald Orrick’s entrance. Instead, one moment the opening between their rooms was closed and the next he stood in it. He walked in, but did not approach her. Marguerite would rather face him standing; however, she felt her legs shaking and knew they would not hold her.

  “So, the preparations were made for your trip back to the king?”

  “It should be our journey, Orrick. We were both summoned.”

  “I find that the thought of accompanying you back to him, back to his bed, is not to my liking,” he snarled. “Although the king may think it amusing, I will not be your whoremaster and your cuckold at the same time.”

  “I do not go to his bed, Orrick. Why will you not believe me?” Marguerite shook her head.

  “The king wrote that, in light of my obvious disdain for his gift as demonstrated by these, he would welcome you back.”

  He raised his hand and threw the collection of letters at her. They scattered as they flew and landed on the floor around her. Her letters. Even in the dark she recognized them as the ones she wrote and sent off to the king in the hopes that he would take her back. She had written so many untruths in her desperation during those early months here. Before she discovered the truth. Before she loved Orrick.

  “I was desperate then. You know that.”

  “So desperate that you gave your body to me to placate me. As you have said you would do with the king now. Your pattern of lies and deceit has not ended after all.”

  So, Lady Constance had told him everything she’d said.

  “I do not want to give myself to him, Orrick, but if it will save you and all that you hold dear, I will.”

  “Even knowing it will destroy what we have between us?”

  She nodded. She hoped it would not come to that. She hoped that she could call on the king’s mercy and avoid paying that price. But Marguerite loved Orrick so much that she was willing to risk all to save him. “Come with me. Do not let me forget the person I am now and go back to the one I was before.”

  “Such a noble sacrifice.” He spat out the words without looking at her. “I suspect that you would not find it such a hardship to accept his generosity again. To return to the position for which you trained so many years.” He turned his hard gaze on her to finish. “Flat on your back in his bed. Or does the king take you as your barbarian husband did, against the door of your chambers?”

  She gasped as he tried to turn what they did into something ugly and dirty. Whatever she had expected from him, this venom was not it. This was an Orrick she had never seen before, one who would not listen to reason at all.

  “A few months ago, I might have wanted that, Orrick. But that was before learning the truth about him and before I knew that I loved you.”

  “I saw the joy on your face at his call,” he accused. “I saw the exultation in your expression that he wanted you back.”

  “I am guilty of feeling that.”

  “Hah! Finally you speak the truth to me. He has but to send for you and give you some paltry gift and you run to him.” He came closer now and she could see him clench and release his fists. “You sell yourself too cheaply, lady.”

  She did rise to her feet now and walked to him. “I confess to you that, for a short moment, I did feel triumphant at his call. ’Twas but a momentary lapse in reason.”

  He shook his head and stepped away from her as though he could not stand her presence. This was what she had feared when she went to him that night in Abbeytown. That, if he knew all of her faults and sins, he would turn away from her. As if she had predicted it would happen, he did exactly that.

  “For more than half of my life, my intent has been to possess and keep the king’s attention. My father forced me to live his desire for power and even accept his dream as my own for years, until I believed it and pursued it to the exclusion of all else.”

  Marguerite moved closer to him again and looked at his hardened expression. “So, even though Henry tossed me aside, even after he took my sister to his bed, even after he took everything from me that I could give, I felt a moment of victory.

  “I do not want him, Orrick. I do not want his gifts or his touch. It was simply a moment when I allowed all those years to crowd out all that we have now.”

  She could see that he battled within himself over whether or not to believe her words. “Come with me. Let us face the king together. Trust me.”

  Orrick gazed on her now with an expression of such wanting and need that it shook her to her core. “Do not go, Marguerite. Trust me to handle this as I know it must be handled.”

  “But you do not know the king as I do, Orrick. I have lived in his court and seen many men more powerful than you be destroyed at his whim or because they chose the wrong way to confront him. I do trust you, Orrick, but in this you must trust me.”

  She waited, knowing that this was the most
important moment between them, more important than when she professed her love to him. He turned away, telling in a gesture more than he said in words. Marguerite watched as he walked to the hearth and leaned against it, staring into the fire.

  “If you trusted me, you would have told me about the one thing that ties you more to Henry than you will ever be tied to me.”

  “He took my virginity, Orrick, but that does not signify now.”

  “The babe,” he whispered. “You gave him a child. That cannot be changed.”

  She staggered back and fell against the bed. He knew about the babe. “You know?”

  He still would not look on her. “I have known for months and have waited for you to love me enough, to trust me enough, to share this final secret. I cannot compete with the king, Marguerite. I cannot compete with my king over the power and the riches he gave you, and now I find I cannot compete with the man over being the first in your body, the first in your heart and the first to give you a child.”

  “You think this a competition? Over me?”

  “Is it not?” he asked. “And if you answer his call now, the king has won.”

  She clasped her hands in her lap and realized that she had no way to convince him but to reveal what she had not dared to think on for a long time. But in her efforts to make him understand, would she lose him?

  “I have not been able to confess the sins from that time, Orrick. I did not even think I had sinned in being with Henry. ’Twas just the way I was taught to live, but you taught me so much more. And although I could bear the disdain from those in Henry’s world and even those in yours, I could not bear to think of the way you would despise me if you knew the rest of it.”

  “Marguerite, bearing a child is not your fault. Why do you think I would hate you over that?”

  “This is not about trust, Orrick. It is about facing my sins and my fears. I did not tell you because I could not. If I told you about the babe, I would have to tell you… I would have to tell you how I prayed she would die.”

  “Die?” His face blanched as he said the word.

  “I was so selfish, Orrick, so evil that once I knew I had not borne him a son, I wanted nothing but to return to the king without the burden of his bastard daughter. Babies die so easily, and when she did not, I sinned again in turning away from her and not allowing myself to even think of her existence.”

  “You could not raise her yourself, Marguerite. Surely…”

  “The couple raising her believe her to be Dominique’s daughter and I never told them the truth of it. Not thinking on her and denying her existence was still easier than remembering my fervent prayers for her death and my disappointment that she lived. ’Tis easier not to think about her at all than to be forced to confront that I was so stupid and selfish and misguided that I could want the falseness of the king even more than a child of my own flesh and blood.”

  She shivered as she thought of her arrogance during those days. When Dominique made the offhanded remark that she could pass the babe off as hers, Marguerite had seized it. She wanted nothing that would interfere with her plans to return to Henry and regain his love and her power. Nothing.

  Including the child she’d borne.

  The pain of it paralyzed her now. Before being exposed to Orrick and his people, she thought nothing of her actions. But learning about goodness and fairness and real love from him made her see the terrible errors of her past. If she could not forgive her own trespasses, how could he? He did not ask any other questions, so she stood to face him and find out the true cost of baring her soul to him.

  “Now that you know my darkest sin, will you still profess your love for me as you promised?”

  The look of horror was all the answer she needed from him.

  The journey would take about a sennight. The slowest part was reaching Abbeytown through the heavily-wooded land. Once past there they would meet the old Roman road that led into Carlisle from the west. Since most of the road would be traversing his lands, Orrick had no doubt that they would arrive safely. The troop of ten soldiers led by four of his knights would guarantee it.

  For the past two days and nights, he had paced the confines of his chambers trying to force from his mind the sight of her standing before him confessing her sins. He had hated her in those moments, for her words made him realize that he had failed her.

  He did not hate her. It was more about hating himself for not being the man she needed. Through the months when she wanted to return to Henry, he had convinced himself that he was patient and knowing and strong enough to wait it out. Orrick knew from the moment the king offered her as wife to him that she was not going back. So, being older and wiser, he allowed himself to feel pride over his control of his reactions to her behavior.

  And he had played her as much as Henry had.

  He did not sit idly by while her character was torn down and rebuilt; he manipulated her with her needs and fears just as the king and her father had. Then he had enjoyed all the fruits of his work as she gave herself—body and soul—to him. He used her for her talents and benefited from it.

  Just as Henry had. And as every man in her life had. For all his supposed goodness and mercy and patience, he was no better than those before him. Even when he was able to convince himself that he did it for love of her, his guilt haunted him.

  And instead of revealing the secret he knew burdened her heart, he stood back sanctimoniously and expected her to trust him enough to divulge it to him.

  Orrick turned back to the rolls now before him and tried to concentrate on the figures he was supposed to be examining for Norwyn. The harvest had been a good one here in Silloth. Counting up the columns and comparing them to those of the year past, he was pleased with the increase.

  His pleasure lasted for a minute and then he shoved the parchments across the table, not caring if they fell. He was not fooling himself. He could not do this without her. He did not want to do this without her. But, when she begged for his help and his trust, he’d refused her.

  He was no better than those before him.

  Without warning, the door opened with such force that it crashed back against the wall. Gavin came in and slammed the door closed. He carried a jug and two cups and thumped them down on the table, too.

  Before he could ask, Gavin filled the two cups, shoved one in Orrick’s hand and then downed the contents of his own. With a glare, he motioned for Orrick to do the same. He drank it in a couple of mouthfuls and put the cup down. Gavin repeated filling and drinking his and waited while Orrick did so, as well. The Scot paused after two, filling the cups again but not drinking his.

  “If ye had just tupped or beaten her into submission, this wouldna be happening.” Gavin’s English tended to slip as his intake of ale increased. These cups had not been his only ones.

  “Stay out of this, Gavin,” he warned.

  “But no, ye had to prance around, acting all high and mighty instead of doing what ye should have.”

  Orrick let out a breath. “And that would have been what?”

  “Tupping or beating her until she accepted the marriage. Ye have too much monk in ye, Orrick. Too much monk.”

  “You think it would have made her settle in better?”

  “Aye. She would have known where she stood and ye wouldna have needed to bribe her with books.” Gavin did drink the ale now. “Books? Daft Englishmen!” He swayed a bit on his stool. “Ye know what this was really aboot, dinna ye?”

  “You are going to tell me?”

  “Whose is bigger?” Orrick frowned, not understanding. “Ye or Henry. Who has the bigger cock?”

  He should have punched him right then and there, but Gavin could fight better drunk than anyone else could sober, so he indulged him. “And that’s the answer to my problems?”

  “She didna tell ye, did she? So, every time she says she’s wanting to go back to him, ye’re worrying it is because his is bigger. When she tells ye she’s happy here with ye, ye’re worrying ’tis becaus
e yers is bigger. Damn it, Orrick! Go to Henry and just get it over with.”

  If Gavin were not so serious and so drunk, he would have ignored it. If it were not true, he could have. In his forthright way, his friend had named his deepest fear although not in the way he thought it. He’d allowed himself to name it only a few times and tried to cover it with a veneer of learning and superior detachment.

  It was all about insecurity of the male persuasion.

  When she wanted Henry, he did worry that it was because he was not worthy or rich or handsome or powerful enough. When she wanted him, he worried that it was because he was too learned and patient and good-hearted and not more his manly attributes.

  “If it were only that easy,” he said.

  “If ye would stop trying to reason everything oot and just start acting on what ye feel for her, ye would see this as I do. Ye want her. Ye love her. Ye go and bring her back. King be damned.”

  “Talk like that is treasonous, friend.”

  Gavin waved him off. “Henry wasna man enough to keep her in the first place. Go and get her.”

  “And if she does not wish to come back?” He had been a fool. Marguerite did not deserve to be mistreated again.

  “Ye are her husband. Go, get her, bring her back,” Gavin told him. “And tup her until she canna move.” He paused and frowned. “Or is that beat her until she canna run? Whichever isna important. Just go and get her.”

  He tried not to laugh. ’Twas too important to him, but his friend’s drunken assessment, as it was, made him see his mistake. He had either thought or felt, and each of the wrong time. When he should have reacted physically, he was deliberate and considered and calculated every action before he took any. When Marguerite needed his thoughtfulness, he could only feel. Orrick knew that even though he expected complete change from her, he did not expect to change at all to be the man she needed.

  “Daft Englishmen!” Gavin blurted out again.