Lionel’s ball jiggled as he walked to stand in front of Griffith, and Griffith held out his hands. “Do you want to sit here, lad?”
Lionel examined Griffith, then thumped his head into Griffith’s lap.
“Lionel!” Marian cried, and half rose to her feet.
“Fret not.” Griffith waved a restraining hand at her, but he sounded strained and his face paled. “He’s just being affectionate.”
“Affection like that could kill a man,” Art said, and Marian covered her mouth with her hand.
Laughing would be bad form, even sympathetic laughter.
Art continued, “Still and all, ye might as well slam yer jingleberries around. Ye don’t make use of ’em.”
Cecily giggled. “Jingleberries?”
But all of Marian’s amusement fled. Griffith had been planning to use his jingleberries not an hour ago, and with her.
If Griffith remembered, he gave no indication. Instead he took a restorative breath and hoisted Lionel onto one leg, making sure the boy’s feet kicked away from him. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he said, “Cecily, you saw him leave, you said. Was he carrying anything?”
“I didn’t say I saw him leave.”
Lionel wiggled to make himself comfortable, and Griffith adjusted him carefully. “You said you left Lionel and went back and watched the cottage. That means—”
“He didn’t take anything…that I noticed.”
Cecily’s color had risen, and Marian and Griffith exchanged looks around her. Marian knew they both wondered if the girl lied about her vigil outside the cottage. It would be like Cecily to want to help but lack the courage to do so. Watching her closely, Marian asked, “From where did you watch?”
Cecily’s lip stuck out. “The orchard.”
“You can’t see much from there,” Marian said. “It’s too far away.”
“Well, where do you suggest I stand next time?” Cecily retorted, too provoked for tact. “On the fence?”
Art stepped between Marian and Cecily and pointed at the wooden ladder that led to the trap door in the ceiling. “Best go up and prepare a bed for yer mistress and the little master afore ye say something ye’ll regret.”
Cecily paled. “We’re not staying here. Are we, my lady?”
Griffith answered almost before she finished. “You’re not staying anywhere else.”
Marian spread her hands. “We’ll go to one of the bedrooms below. After all—”
“You’ll stay here,” Griffith interrupted.
“—what can happen to us in my father’s house?”
Looking more like a beast than ever, Griffith shook back his dark hair and frowned until his eyebrows met in the middle. “The same thing that would have happened to you if you’d been in that cottage today.”
Marian shrugged. “Probably nothing.”
“Woman, you don’t understand.” Griffith’s voice became more emphatic. “Whoever tore your home apart was no kindly servant doing his duty to your father. Someone wanted something desperately. If you’d been in the way, he might have put you out of the way.”
“My father—”
“I don’t understand why you think it’s your father. What would he want to steal? What would he be seeking?” Griffith asked.
She looked everywhere but at him. “I don’t claim to know my father’s mind.”
“Even if he had ordered it done, how safe do you feel with some of his lackeys?” She flinched, and he saw it. “Aye, now we’re getting somewhere. We have no answers to our questions, and until we do, we’ll keep you close.”
She glanced at him, then away. “I can’t stay here with you.”
“Because of your reputation, do you mean?”
Was he being sarcastic? She didn’t know and didn’t care. At least, not much. “I’ll not have them saying I’m warming your bed.”
“Cecily will sleep in the bed with you,” he decided.
“I won’t,” Cecily said with spirit.
Before Griffith could respond, Art walked up to the girl and cuffed her ear. “Ye’ll stay!”
The abused steeple headdress swayed, then toppled to the side, held only by Cecily’s wimple. Her cry may have protested the rough treatment or the order to remain, but Art didn’t care. He pointed up the spiral stair and said, “No lickspittle English serving woman’s going to contradict my master. Now get ye hence afore I slap the other side.”
Marian reproved him, but Cecily didn’t wait for her mistress to vindicate her. Her tears spilled as she jumped up and stood wavering between the door and the stairs. She looked at Marian for one long moment, then sobbed, “I can’t leave you,” and climbed the stairs.
Marian wrung her hands. “Now look what you did. You made her cry.”
Art sneered. “Stupid twit must cry all the time.”
“Aye, and then she changes pillows to leave me the soggy one.”
Griffith chuckled with satisfaction. “So you’ll stay.”
She drew another breath to argue, but Art announced, “The hunt has returned.”
Standing, Marian dusted off her seat. “Then I shall go speak with Wenthaven.”
Griffith tried to stand up, but Lionel clung to him and he sank back. “You can’t go alone.”
“You can’t go with me.” He tried to protest, but she cut him off. “You’re not a complete fool. I have to know if Wenthaven sent that messenger of hell to my cottage. If he did, I have to know why. If he didn’t…”
“If he didn’t?” Art asked.
“If he didn’t, he’s slipping. He used to brag he knew everything that occurred on his property.” Marian lifted an amused brow. “I would enjoy telling him that more than anything.”
“Marian.” Griffith’s deep, resounding voice called her back.
“What?” Even to her own ears she sounded surly, but she didn’t want another lecture. Didn’t like the responsibility this man wanted to take for her.
He dangled a bag. “I have your gold.”
“My gold! I’d forgotten.”
“Forgotten? How could you have forgotten the gold? ’Twas what the thieves sought, was it not?”
Griffith sounded as if he suspected the truth, and she suspected it would be too easy to tell him. She’d never wanted to confide in anyone before, and she didn’t understand what alchemy this servant of the king had used to tempt her.
She crossed the room without replying, but when she would have taken the bag, he snatched it away. “I’ll let you go alone to see your father for a promise.”
“And what’s that?”
“That you return here to spend the night. Give me your word.” His upraised hand cut off her protest. “Give me your word, or I’ll not give you the money.”
She eyed the leather mutinously.
“As long as you keep to your bed upstairs,” Griffith went on, beguiling as the serpent in Paradise, “your reputation will be in no danger. And you should have no difficulty with that, for you like me not. I’m an ugly beast whose complete loyalty lies with Henry Tudor. I think King Henry should beat your lady Elizabeth for her treacheries during Richard’s reign, and I think you should be wed to a man who’ll beat you twice a day so you’ll not stray.”
She repeated the phrase she’d lived by since her return to Castle Wenthaven. “I’ll never wed.” But the words meant nothing to her.
“I think you will.”
It was a challenge. Everything he’d said had been a challenge, emphasized by the warmth of his gaze. His eyes glowed a golden color: like sunshine, like fire. He reminded her of her surrender in the orchard.
Griffith hadn’t forgotten, as she hoped. He looked, instead, like a man biding his time.
“I’ll come back,” she finally said.
He handed her the bag of gold without a smile, but she felt waves of his satisfaction lapping over her.
Before she could repent her foolishness, Art plucked the bag from her fingers. “I’ll put it here”—he made a production of placing it a
top the tall cupboard—“and ye can get it later. And my lady, don’t worry yerself about the other. Griffith is an ugly beast, and unworthy of ye. Why, I wager ye don’t even know the color of his eyes.”
Marian squinted at Art. “They’re rather…yellow.”
“Brown as mud,” Art scoffed. “’Least, when he’s not excited.”
“I’ve never seen them look like that,” she protested. “They’re golden as England’s crown.”
Art smirked at her, then at Griffith. She looked from one to the other, confused by the unspoken communication between them. When it became clear they wouldn’t enlighten her, she swirled her coat and left.
The solid oak door could not be slammed. It was too heavy and the hinges too unwieldy. But it gave a muffled thud as if she’d given it her best try, and Griffith pressed one finger lightly above the bruise that discolored his nose. “Do you think I convinced her of the danger?”
“Ye convinced her there is danger, but I believe she perceives a greater danger inside this room,” Art said.
Lionel threw the ball, and Griffith let him down to toddle after it. “I’ve made damn poor work of protecting her.”
“Henry will not be pleased.”
“Henry be damned,” Griffith snapped, aggravated beyond tact. “I would that I knew from whence danger approaches. We arrived only yesterday. Was the destruction of her home the result of our arrival?”
“Or did we arrive just in time?”
The doleful inquiry struck at the heart of Griffith’s worry. “Has someone perceived the hazard we could be to their plans, or did someone know why we came?”
Art picked up the thought. “Someone like Wenthaven?”
“Aye, Wenthaven.”
With a crooked smile, Art asked, “Want me to go down to the laundry and rub up against the widow Jane?”
“So I do.” Standing, Griffith hoisted Lionel in his arms. “And I promised Lionel a walk this morning. ’Tis afternoon, but mayhap Lionel and I could visit the mercenaries. They could show Lionel their armor and weapons while I chat with their captain.”
“And keep an eye on the lady Marian and Wenthaven?”
“And keep an eye on the lady Marian and Wenthaven.”
6
The cacophonous sounds attacked Marian’s ears as soon as she stepped out of the manor. Dogs snarled over the remains of the boar and some unfortunate squirrels they’d caught. Disheveled women shrieked to one another. Horses stomped and snorted, tired yet still high-spirited. Men slapped one another on the back and shouted in sham camaraderie. Servants ran through the crowd with mugs of ale and platters piled with meat, answering bellows of, “Here, boy. Me first!”
The whole yard smelled of blood, of virility, of hunger and thirst and tethered carnal passion. The titillation of the hunt was not yet over and wouldn’t be until all of Wenthaven’s guests had indulged themselves in food and drink and sex. Like hunting dogs on the trail, the men sniffed at the milling women, then one by one cut a female from the pack. The tables, the corners, the corridors, would be rife with indulgence tonight.
Marian skirted the crowd cautiously, watching for Harbottle while searching for her father. Grasping the sleeve of a maid, she demanded, “Is Wenthaven in the kennels?”
The maid rubbed her well-pinched rump. “Where else would he be?”
Marian looked distastefully over the heads of the frantic revelers. “Aye, where else?” Of all her father’s traits, this was the one she least admired. He organized excitement, provided a plentiful supply of drink, then sat back and watched as women destroyed friendships over a strutting cock and men dueled to the death over whores.
Tomorrow morning, at a huge breakfast, a suave Wenthaven would question each participant of the hunt. He would point out any indiscretions that might have escaped general consideration and smile as he bound ever more captives to his bounty. For where else could they go? No respectable household would welcome one of Wenthaven’s soiled cohorts.
Marian stepped inside the wooden fence of the kennels and knelt in the grass to greet the filthy, panting spaniels. “Did you have a good time?” she crooned as she petted their heads.
Sheldon, the kennel keeper, strolled up, wiping his hand on a cloth. “Aye, that they did, m’lady. They’re th’ best o’ th’ breed in all England.”
Amused, she asked, “Only England?”
He grinned. “Even th’ filthy Spaniards can’t sire ’em any better than we do.”
She scratched behind the ear of one of the smaller spaniels and asked the animal, “Did you flush some woodcocks?”
“Got a dozen or more!” Sheldon answered for the dog.
A panting in her ear alerted her, but not soon enough, and a long tongue licked her cheek and ear. “Ugh! Don’t kiss me,” she said, pushing at the large dog.
Mathe dropped to the ground and rolled onto his back in total submission, his eyes sad, his tail swishing.
Sheldon said, “Mathe thinks everyone should get a kiss today. He flushed a red deer, an’ he’s feelin’ proud.”
“A red deer?”
“Aye, an’ they’re none so plentiful as they once were.”
Relenting, Marian rubbed the dog’s stomach. “Clever lad. Clever boy. But must you grovel?”
Shaking his head at the pathetic demonstration, Sheldon said, “He only grovels fer ye, Lady Marian. ’Tis a proper response fer any male when confronted by a female strong as yerself.”
Marian laughed out loud and stood. “I wish the other males understood. The tall males.” She indicated a man’s height with her hands.
“They’re just fightin’ their instincts,” Sheldon said. He shooed the dogs away from her. “Yer father’s back helpin’ with th’ dippin’, if ’tis him ye seek.”
Nodding her thanks, she sauntered through the yard, noting the pristine condition of the runs and kennels. The lavish enclosure would have made many a stable hand weep with joy, for Wenthaven spared no expense in his breeding program. His land spaniels, both large and small, had gained a reputation in this part of England as the best game flushers to be obtained, and his dogs alone kept Wenthaven on civil terms with his nobler neighbors.
That was the reason, he had told Marian, he took such care of the dogs. But seeing him now, his torso bare, his arms deep in dirty water, rinsing a struggling bitch, Marian didn’t believe it. “Ah, Wenthaven, if your enemies could see you now.”
Wenthaven couldn’t have heard her soft step on the grass through the constant barking, yet he didn’t seem startled. “If they could see me now, they’d want to buy this ill-mannered spaniel, and I’d let them have her. Damned dog.” Releasing her, he watched as she scrambled out of the tub. One of the kennel keepers scooped her up. “Dry her well. I don’t want to hear her coughing again,” Wenthaven ordered.
“Aye, m’lord.” The kennel keeper bowed, then called, “Here, boys! M’lord needs clean water fer th’ next dog. Hurry!”
Two kennel boys struggled to empty the washtub and the rinse tub as two more ran to the well with buckets. In a well-rehearsed drill, they scoured the tubs clean, put them back up on the benches that raised them to waist level, then filled them with fresh water.
Wenthaven grumbled as he examined his wet and wrinkled fingers. “I have to watch them all the time, or they’ll not care for the dogs properly.”
“Sheldon’s capable, isn’t he?” Marian asked.
“He’s the best kennel keeper in England. I’d have no less.”
“Then trust him.”
“I do trust him.” Wenthaven stepped back up to the newly filled washtub and whistled. His favorite bitch leaped to her feet and jumped in. Water flew, drenching the apron Wenthaven had tied around his waist, and in the tone he reserved for his favorites, he crooned, “Ah, you’re a sweet doggie. Aye, you are.” The small blond spaniel splashed in the water, trying to lick his face, and Wenthaven put his cheek down. “Such a good dog. Such a good Honey.” He plunged his hands into the soft soap he used to kill
fleas and transferred a gob of it to the dog. With a jerk of the head, he indicated Marian should stand opposite the tub where he could see her, then asked, “What brings you here?”
She took her position boldly: fists on hips, legs astraddle. “The ransacking of my cottage.”
The bitch in the tub growled at the angry tone of Marian’s voice.
“Someone ransacked your cottage?” Wenthaven asked.
“On your decree, I vow.”
Wenthaven sounded quite mild as he denied it.
“Come, Wenthaven,” Marian said. “You have your finger in every pie for fifty miles about. Don’t tell me you didn’t know about this.”
“I try to keep my finger in every pie,” he corrected. “It would seem I failed, and most miserably. What was taken?”
“I don’t know. I only know…” She faltered as the impact of the destruction struck her. Before, she’d been concerned with Lionel. Now, she realized how many of her personal items had been demolished. Mementos of the court, gifts from Lady Elizabeth, treasures of her childhood, all gone in a whirlwind.
“Your son escaped without injury?”
She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “Aye.”
“That’s all that matters, is it not? You’re like your mother in that. Your child is all you live for.”
She drew a breath and let it out in a sigh. “That’s correct.”
Wenthaven leaned over Honey and scrubbed the soap into her neck. “So. You’ve come to me for money to replace your clothes? Were your clothes included in the ruin? No matter. ’Tis time you had new.”
Frustrated, she cried, “I didn’t come to you for new clothes! I came to you to ask you why you had someone—”
“Could someone, perhaps, have been searching for something?”
She averted her gaze. “What would they want?”
“That is indeed the question. If I had had someone search your cottage, you’d have never known, and why would I have someone rip it to shreds? Be logical, Marian. That’s not my style.”
She hesitated slightly before agreeing.
“And why would I steal from you? Everything you have is mine.”
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