The Yearning Heart

by Zelma Orr

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  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  Stephen had never seen the queen look lovelier, nor had he noticed before the lines gathering near the intensely alive gray eyes. She still shared her coquettish smile, showing small white teeth, with royalty and burghers alike, favoring them with looks designed to bring them to their knees. Stephen was no exception. After six children, her body was tight and slim with firm breasts, and he found it hard to imagine her youngest son had been born only the previous September.

  Queen Eleanor was partial to the man who looked after her husband's vast holdings, and she was not ignorant of the fact Sir Stephen played a big part in keeping peace in the royal family. Now, she looked down on Stephen's bowed head, at the thick blond curls lying along the collar of a chainse of black, embroidered with red and gold silk threads. Few men could wear black and look well. Stephen could.

  “Sir Stephen.” The queen watched him rise. Beside him was Lady Rebecca, his wife of little more than a year.

  Last Christmas, he had come alone, but this year he had asked permission to bring Rebecca. Graciously, the queen agreed, but now wasn't certain she had done the right thing. Stephen's time would not be all hers when she needed him. With Henry's newest ladylove settled into the best rooms in Woodstock, she needed all of Stephen's courtly attention. Henry had long since forgotten she was his wife of many years, but chose to bring his new lovers even into the home that had once been her favorite. No more. The queen's heart twisted. She would never live in Woodstock again because it would always have the smell and feel of one of Henry's many lovers. Her chin elevated. She would not weep any more over a faithless husband, even if he were the king.

  “Bring Lady Rebecca to sit with me, Stephen,” Eleanor said. “You may go play games with your king while we talk as women will.”

  Stephen realized he was being dismissed, but he hesitated a second, his glance straying to Rebecca. He took a second look. Instead of the shy woman-child who did not care for strangers and who claimed to be unable to talk to royalty, his wife gazed in open admiration at her queen. Her eyes were bright with questions, and he had no doubt that Queen Eleanor was in for a lively conversation, that she would have to pay attention to keep up with Rebecca's quick mind.

  He could only hope Rebecca would refrain from mentioning the king's obsession with women other than the queen. If he let himself wonder, he might spend an uneasy evening in the presence of the king.

  He seated Rebecca, careful of the long silk skirt of purple he had purchased only the day before and spread it so it would not bind. He straightened, looked at Rebecca then at Eleanor, thinking Rebecca is lovelier than the queen. And has a much better temper. Of course, if he had to put up constantly with King Henry's moods, he would not be easy to live with, either. At least he could leave the royal company and go home when his business with the king was finished. Nor did he have to wonder if Rebecca were waiting for him. She always was, and though he wouldn't care to admit it to her, his first thoughts upon arriving at Glastonbury were of Rebecca.

  Now Stephen bowed, murmured his goodbye which neither woman heard, so involved were they already in female subjects. He found his way to the great room where he knew a game of chance would be in progress. He glanced around, happy to find Sir Oliver was not among the gentry gathered for the Christmas celebrations. He wished Rebecca to enjoy her stay in London, and having Lord Oliver there would not be to her liking.

  “When do you move into the new manor house, Rebecca?” Eleanor said.

  Her maidservant had just placed tea and pastries in front of them, and she watched the younger woman study the tempting foods. She glanced down at her waistline that had expanded after giving birth to six children. Then she looked at Rebecca's slender frame and sighed with envy.

  An adorable child, she thought. But Stephen deserves such a wife after losing Lady Mary many winters ago. He is too young not to have a good wife. Still, he had not lacked for female company and, she was sure, a bed companion as well. She herself, thought at one time ...

  Eleanor leaned back in the gold velvet chair designed especially to enhance her coloring and smiled at Rebecca.

  “Stephen says the manor house will not be ready soon if he does not find the time to...”

  Rebecca raised guilty eyes to the queen. She had been about to say ‘time to oversee the ordering of stone.’ Stephen had once grumbled that King Henry's demands left little time to tend his own affairs.

  Eleanor nodded because she agreed with Stephen and did not find fault with the complaint.

  “You will be closer to London, so you may come more often with Stephen.” She leaned forward. “Tell me, does Malvina still reside at Glastonbury?”

  “Yes, Your Highness, she is my maidservant.” She did not add her misgivings about the woman's attention to her husband. Stephen would not like her to gossip with his queen. Especially about Malvina.

  “She quite often accompanied Stephen and Mary when they came to court.”

  Mary, Stephen's dead wife. He never mentioned her and the one time Rebecca asked Malvina about Mary, she had seemed loathe to talk about her.

  “Stephen's wife. What was she like?” Learning about Mary surely would not be considered idle gossip.

  “Mary was beautiful. Red hair and green eyes. A gentlewoman. Stephen did not soon get over her.”

  If Stephen still loved her, Rebecca should, at the least, know the woman she could never replace.

  And what about Malvina? Rebecca wanted to ask of her queen, but that would be gossip, which Stephen forbade.

  “Come, let us talk about happy times. Minstrels will gather at evening meal to celebrate. I have a friend who is a troubadour, and he will read for us.”

  Rebecca forgot Malvina. Not since school had she heard a reading of poetry and her heart speeded up at the thought of enjoying it once more.

  “Oh, I will so love it,” she said and was rewarded with Eleanor's approving smile.

  “I will send a maidservant to help you dress, my dear,” the queen said. “It is only fitting that Sir Stephen's wife have her own attendant.”

  The queen inclined her head at Rebecca's sweeping curtsy and watched the graceful movements of the slender body as she walked away.

  Ah, Stephen, she thought. I somewhat envy your young bride the times in your arms. Many are the moments I have spent thinking of such, but ...

  “Henry's romantic thoughts seem only to surface at Christmas.” She had complained to Stephen in the few moments she engaged him in conversation. “I take great pains not to become with child again at my age.”

  Stephen had nodded in agreement with her but didn't speak. Indeed, she did not wish an answer. This special reeve of his majesty was the only one she would speak her mind to and know he would not repeat her words. Her thoughts had been centered on other things as she went on speaking of Henry.

  “He allows his own feelings to interfere with his duties, Stephen. I do not like Sir Thomas, but Henry appointed him as archbishop, and now he must live with his mistake. Sir Thomas thinks himself lord of all and above the kingdom itself. Henry is a hard man to understand in the best of times, but Thomas pushed him so it was certain to come to this. Now Henry tries to wreak childish vengeance on Thomas because he feels betrayed by someone he brought out of poverty to the highest honor. You have not seen rage such as when Thomas fled to France before Henry could bring charges against him.”

  She seemed to shake herself before adding, “But somehow, Henry's feelings toward me have been a bit better since that time. Mayhap it took his friend's betrayal to let him know I am here.” She smiled at Stephen. “You must listen to our tirades each time you visit, so it is no wonder you wait until summoned before visiting the royal chambers.”

  “I am at your service, your majesty,” Stephen said.

  What Eleanor said was true. The only time he appeared in London anymore was when summoned or time for his reports came. He much preferred sta
ying at Glastonbury, seeing to his lands, talking with the men who worked them—and going home to Rebecca at the end of each day.

  “I am your friend as well,” he said.

  That the queen sometimes thought she'd like him to be more than a friend never crossed Stephen's mind. She was his queen, she was royalty, and he did not think disloyal thoughts of either the king or queen.

  He was happy the queen made no mention of the new lady in the king's life. It was enough that gossip of the mysterious Lady Rosamond passed among servants and attendants. He preferred not to contribute to Eleanor's misery.

  “Yes, Stephen, you are a good friend, and I thank you,” the queen said.

  Why could not Thomas be as Stephen—a friend as well as a loyal subject to King Henry? And why could Henry not desire her as Stephen's eyes said he desired Rebecca?

  * * * *

  The young woman Queen Eleanor promised her appeared to help Rebecca dress just as the bells began to ring heralding the beginning of the evening's festivities. The room given to Rebecca and Stephen was in the back of the castle with a wide window overlooking a garden, a garden now ragged and dark-streaked from yesterday's light snowfall.

  Stephen told her he had used this same room on other trips into London so as to be near the king while giving his reports on royal holdings.

  “I'm happy to have you with me this time, Rebecca,” Stephen said.

  She stood in front of him to straighten the gold embroidered chainse. So handsome, she thought, as she secured a hook. Stephen is better looking by far than King Henry. She giggled. The king had this ring of rusty hair around the edge of ...

  “And what is funny, Rebecca?” Stephen's hands came up and fastened on her hips.

  She tilted her head back and looked into Stephen's eyes, so dark, with black lashes framing them. Oh, yes, very handsome. And he's mine. At least, all mine for this journey. She refused to think of Malvina waiting back at Glastonbury.

  “Funny, my lord?”

  His hands tightened and pressed her against him. He forgot what he'd asked her as he gazed into her laughing eyes. He wanted her with a sudden fierce heat that hardened his body.

  “I haven't time, Rebecca,” he said. His breath was coming rapidly, and he opened and closed his fingers around her arms.

  “Time for what, my lord?”

  “Time for you.” He yanked her to him and closed his mouth over hers, slid his tongue inside her parted lips, and suckled.

  She went limp against him, but her arms went up and she linked fingers behind his neck. Her body moved in sinuous rhythm with his, and she delighted in the feel of his arousal pressing into her belly. She sighed as he lifted his head.

  “Rebecca?” By God's eye, he wanted to relieve the desire he read in her eyes and rid himself of the clawing demand inside his own body.

  “Stephen.” She opened her eyes—saw the fiery emotion in his face. Her heart soared with the knowledge she could make him look that way.

  He set her away and muttered something she didn't understand, grabbed his gloves from the table and stalked to the door. With the door opened, he turned. His eyes went up and down her slender figure, to the wide eyes, parted pink lips. He shook his head.

  “I'll be back,” he said.

  Rebecca stood with clasped hands and whirling mind and watched him go.

  * * * *

  Stephen had gone to present the king with details on taxes and crop yields. And to listen to his complaints about Eleanor, their children, and not the least, Sir Thomas Becket.

  “You have collected the taxes well, Stephen,” King Henry said, nodding at the papers scattered over the table in front of them. The king drank from a silver goblet at his elbow, peering from beneath thick brows at his noble officer.

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Stephen kept his own counsel as to the way his burdened subjects received the king's increased demands. The people grumbled against the vast amounts spent for royal pleasures. For marriages. For knighting of the king's eldest son. For ransom, in case the king should be kidnapped.

  Silently, Stephen agreed with them.

  “My queen desires to travel to Poitiers immediately after Christmas.” Henry scowled into his wine goblet. “The country has taken all my time, and rebellion is still a cross I must consider.” He looked up. “Would that you were a knight, Stephen, I would take you into battle, for it is sure to come.”

  Stephen went still, a thrill of fear for his king and queen uppermost in his thoughts. Had the king's open break with Sir Thomas unsettled his mind? The man who was once Henry's closest friend accused of betrayal, somehow binding the accusation by running away in the middle of the night. The king's thundering condemnation of Sir Thomas had rung through the palace halls, bringing unease to all who heard.

  Stephen did not want to think of open warfare that would destroy England.

  “I would make a poor soldier, Your Highness,” he said. “My hands cannot hold a sword steady as the pen.”

  “Aye, ‘tis true. I need you to do the good job you always do for me.” Henry suddenly smiled. “Go then. You have listened enough to my ramblings. Go to Rebecca. Ah, a lovely woman, a lovely woman. You should be proud.”

  Stephen gratefully took his leave. He would not want his king to know the thoughts he'd had of Rebecca whilst he sat listening to the king's tirade. The heat stayed inside him, and he was anxious to satisfy the need he had for Rebecca. Surprised, he realized she had stayed on his mind most of the time since they'd left home. Usually, he could work on business matters, think about ways to help the king work out his problems, plan different phases of the house in Salisbury, wonder about the planting of crops in the spring.

  Lately, he thought a lot about Rebecca.

  * * * *

  At the royal dinner and dance that night, Rebecca sat at a table between Penelope, Lady Bickford's youngest daughter who giggled at everything, and Lord Botsworth, whose sweaty hands strayed to her knee beneath the table. Tempted to slap his face, Rebecca instead pushed his pudgy fingers away and moved out of his reach.

  If he touches me again, I shall spill my water into his lap, mayhap cool him off.

  She raised her head, clear blue eyes searching for her husband and found him easily as he stood head above the men surrounding him. He was smiling at someone's remark, his teeth flashing beneath the thick mustache, when he glanced across the room.

  Rebecca stiffened, startled by the deep slash of feeling in her stomach. She wet her lips, conscious of Sir Stephen's darker blue eyes still on her. She recalled vividly his remarks that morning, the way their bodies blended, and the almost vicious wish to have Stephen inside her.

  Her cheeks heated, and she looked away, turning to answer Penelope's giggling questions.

  Her thoughts remained on Stephen, recalling the odd yearning inside at times after he made love to her. He did not profess to love her. In truth, she knew he did not. She was a wife, a bought-and-paid-for possession one was not required to love. Still, there were times when his tenderness left her dreamy and unsatisfied. When she could never get enough of him, his kisses, his body pounding into hers. She did not know what was wrong with her.

  “My lady,” Stephen's voice interrupted her musings. “I would have you dance with me.”

  Encircled by his arms, Rebecca moved to the music of the royal musicians.

  “The gown is most becoming, Rebecca. You are lovely.”

  The gown was blue velvet, one she had chosen their first day in London. It flowed around her, tight over her slim waist, sleeves full and pointed over her small hands. The color reflected in her eyes and enhanced the pale rose of her soft mouth.

  She smiled with pleasure but didn't answer him. Even after he released her to someone else for a dance, he remained nearby. She was conscious of Stephen watching her. Every time she looked up, his eyes were on her. It was early by royal standards when Stephen told her he was ready to leave.

  “I have listened to complaints and politic
s until my ears ring,” he said. “I am not paid well enough to linger in this madness.”

  They wished everyone well and left the great hall.

  In the dimness of the hallway, Stephen's arm wrapped around Rebecca as he led her toward their room. Inside, a candle glowed by the bed and another on a table in the adjoining dressing room. The white velvet cover was turned back to reveal pale yellow sheets.

  Luxury, Rebecca thought. Oh, it's lovely.

  “Would you like me to unhook your dress since Malvina is not about?”

  The name brought a slight chill to her but she dismissed it. Malvina was in Glastonbury. Stephen was hers alone, at least for a few more days. She felt his hands at her neck, and then the looseness as the clasps gave. The soft material slid from her shoulders, and his lips brushed the exposed flesh.

  “I'll be with you in a few moments,” Stephen whispered. “Be ready for me, Rebecca.” He moved toward the dressing room.

  She gazed at the broadness of her husband's back, the same startled feeling she had at the dance tightening her stomach. One small hand pressed the flatness beneath the velvet cloth, and she wondered at the difference inside her body.

  Her gown put aside, Rebecca went to sit on the side of the bed to brush her hair. It crackled and flew with each stroke of the brush in the cold air. Smoothing it with her fingers, she wound the long gold fall of hair into a single thick rope and let it hang in front of her shoulder. She took a gown of pale blue shimmering cloth from the chest, one she had picked for herself. Stephen had not yet seen it.

  “Beautiful.”

  She turned to face him as he lounged in the doorway. He neither knocked nor signaled a warning when coming to her room, but appeared whenever he chose. It was his right of possession to do so, and Rebecca did not mind.

  His waistcoat had been removed, and the richly embroidered silk shirt was unbuttoned and pulled from straight-cut woolen trousers. He crossed the room and pulled her into his arms, his big hand fastening into the fairness of her hair.

  She pushed his shirt aside and laid her cheek on the broad chest. The same fiery feeling went through her stomach, but this time, it lingered and slid into her thighs. Her body quivered.