Outrageous

by Christina Dodd

  With a sour look at his friend, Henry ran his finger across the finely carved crown on his king. “The pretender? His name is Lambert Simnel, and he’s as common as dirt. I knocked him back to his origins.”

  Although Griffith knew royal pretensions should be crushed, still he hated to think of a boy being put into the earth, and he stared at alternating black and white squares until the colors switched.

  “Stop holding your breath,” Henry said irritably. “I didn’t have him killed. I made him a scullery boy.”

  Griffith exhaled in a gasp.

  “’Twas more mercy than he deserved, but he’ll prove a potent lesson to any who dares imagine he can unseat me.” Henry’s lips twisted; he looked less like a royal lion and more like a wolf mad with blood lust. “My son will be the next king. My dynasty will wear the crown.”

  Griffith leaned across the board and grasped Henry’s tight-held fist. “As long as there is breath in my body, it will be so.”

  By slow increments, Henry’s tension eased. “It comforts me to know you are sworn to me. You would be a mighty enemy.”

  Griffith leaned back. “And Lambert Simnel is a feeble enemy.”

  “If he does well, maybe I’ll make him a—”

  “Cook?” Griffith grinned. “I’m glad you were lenient. He was no more than a pawn.”

  Now Henry fondled one of his own pawns on the chessboard, sure satisfaction in his touch. “Well, he’s my pawn, now. The late earl of Lincoln will use him no more.”

  “The earl of Lincoln will burn in hell forever for his treachery to you,” Griffith answered, grimly certain.

  Concentrating on their game, they fell silent once more, and the shouts from outside the window wafted in on the night’s breeze.

  Again Griffith’s hand drifted to his face.

  “Do they itch?” Henry demanded.

  Griffith gripped his hands together. “Do what itch?”

  “Your stitches, man!” Henry tsked in disgust. “You never used to pretend you didn’t understand me. It must be the lady Marian who has so clouded your comprehension.”

  “She has not,” Griffith said indignantly.

  “Then what are you thinking?”

  Feeling foolish, Griffith bent over the chessboard and muttered, “I was wondering if she’ll think me hideous.”

  To his credit, Henry didn’t laugh. He didn’t even seem to find it amusing. He only sighed and pushed back his own thinning hair. “Women do make us vain, don’t they? I never used to worry about my looks. But for Elizabeth, I want to be”—he chuckled—“as handsome as a youth. And for what? For a woman who cherishes me as I am. Who cherishes me, she says, for my kindness.”

  Griffith didn’t know how to answer. He never knew how to respond when Henry spoke of his wife, for Henry and Elizabeth and Griffith and Marian were all partners in a secret. A secret that each comprehended only partially, but one which weighed on them all. Stiffly he said, “The lady Elizabeth is kind, also.”

  “My Elizabeth is a great woman.” Henry kept his gaze on the chessboard. “As is your lady Marian. I doubt the arrangement of your face has any interest to her, and in any case—”

  “I know. In any case, my face was never too handsome. Art has made me well aware of that.” And Marian had made him well aware of his physique. In this time of recuperation, Griffith found himself occasionally remembering her fascination as she examined him. He occasionally remembered the touch of her hand and occasionally remembered her pleasure in his meager talents. In fact, he often had trouble sleeping, or standing, or even sitting, for his body seemed to remember Marian more than just occasionally.

  He glanced at Henry and scooted his chair closer under the table, hoping to hide his condition and praying that Marian would arrive soon.

  Henry’s hand hovered between a rook and a bishop and finally moved the bishop. “He’ll be back soon with Lady Marian.”

  “I pray they have no trouble on the road.” Actually, he prayed Marian would come on command, but he didn’t tell the king. Instead he took Henry’s bishop and grinned in smug triumph.

  Henry sat back and eyed his rapidly deteriorating position with disgust. “Aye, for if they have trouble, you’ll be like a trapped boar, all slashing tusks and wild, glaring eyes.”

  “My thanks, Your Grace.”

  “You’ve placed me in check.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “Don’t you know it’s prudent to let your liege lord triumph?”

  “I wouldn’t know how, Your Grace.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Henry grinned at him. Renewed shouting drifted in from outdoors, and running feet began to thump along the wooden floors within the keep. “They must have found a thief. By my troth, there’s a madness out there tonight.”

  The steps moved into the tower, then up the stairs, and someone rapped firmly at the door. The two men looked at it, then at each other, and Henry called, “Enter!”

  Ward, the guard from the curtain wall, stepped in and gave an awkward bow. “Yer Grace, pardon me, but we’ve had a bit o’ a problem. She hasn’t made it here yet, has she?”

  “Not that I noticed,” Henry said, looking entertained. “Who is she?”

  “A madwoman. A witch.” Ward waved an arm. “A bit o’ light skirt wi’ a fancy accent an’ a manic intention t’ meet Yer Grace. If Yer Grace doesn’t mind, I’ll post a guard outside yer door an’ keep ye safe.”

  “So much trouble for one woman,” Henry said.

  “She’s mad, I tell ye, wi’ th’ strength o’ a madwoman. She tossed young Bowey aside wi’ one hand, an’ he’s no little man.”

  Suspicion swelled in Griffith. “Did she kick him in the throat?”

  The guard clutched his own throat at the thought. “Nay, Sir Griffith. In th’ knee.”

  Henry followed Griffith’s thought with ease. “Does this sound like someone you know?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Ward didn’t listen or didn’t understand. “Don’t ye worry, we’ve got th’ keep blocked off downstairs, an’ wi’ a guard here, we’ll have no problem. No problem at—” Sensing someone behind him, he whipped around, but before he’d completed his move, he’d been shoved bodily into the chamber. He tumbled forward, revealing the muddy figure behind him. Then he bounded to his feet.

  Griffith rose and installed himself between the enraged guard and the swaying woman. Placing one hand on Ward, he said, “She’s mine.”

  Ward glanced wildly at the woman, then at Griffith, then at the king. “You don’t say.”

  “I assure you, this wound has not muddled my head. This is my betrothed, Lady Marian Wenthaven, and while I understand your need to protect the king from her, I assure you I can do it as well.” When Ward nodded his comprehension, Griffith removed his restraining hand and gestured to the door. “You may go.”

  The guard dragged his feet, giving Marian a wide berth. Moving out of his way, Marian never turned her back to him, and he watched her as closely as a man watches a wildcat. At the door, he paused and gave Griffith one last chance. “Ye’re sure?”

  Griffith nodded. “Shut the door behind you.”

  Marian waited only until the latch clicked before running to Griffith and clasping his arms in both hands. Her fingers bit into his skin. She lifted her dirty face to his, looking all the world like an orphan—an orphan whose distressed green eyes tore at his heart.

  “Sweetheart, what is it? What’s happened?”

  “Harbottle fell on us.”

  Her contralto voice quavered, and Griffith clutched her, offering comfort even before he knew the outrage. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Me? Nay, not me. ’Tis worse. He took Lionel. He—”

  “Lionel?” Griffith’s arms fell away from her. “Lionel? What was Lionel doing with you?”

  “He’s my son.” She grasped his shoulders and shook him, desperate to make him understand. “Listen to me. Harbottle took Lionel. Griffith, we have to go get him.”

  At the t
able, Henry rose, demanding attention. Reluctantly Marian broke away from Griffith and curtsied, knowing Henry’s identity without introductions. Griffith performed the courtesies in a tight voice, and the king and the mud-maid surveyed each other as keenly as if they were both stripped naked.

  Then Henry gestured to the bench by the fire. “Sit down. You’re tired and wet, and you have a tale I need to hear. Who is Harbottle, and why did he take the child?”

  Marian did as she was told. “The child’s name is Lionel. He is my son, and I could not say why anyone would wish to take him. But as to Harbottle—he is a vagabond knight who once served my father, and I fear the worst.” She stood up and found Griffith at her side. “We must go at once. There is no telling what Harbottle might do with him—throw him away, or beat—”

  She faltered, and four hands assisted her to sit.

  Over the top of her head, Henry said, “She reminds me of Elizabeth with young Arthur. That gentle woman is a tiger at the thought of a threat to the babe.”

  Griffith didn’t agree, but he didn’t say anything. In the silence it occurred to Marian that she had come to him, hoping to find a rock to lean upon, but instead he seemed hard, cold, and indifferent.

  “Where’s Art?” he asked.

  She died inside. “Art?”

  “Aye, Art, my squire, my friend. The only one we trusted to bring you from Wales to me. Where is he?”

  A fire burned at her back, but it couldn’t heat her, and she shivered.

  “Marian.” Griffith leaned down so his face was even with hers. “Where is Art?”

  She tried to say it. She really did. She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. Couldn’t come, not in the face of Griffith’s pain.

  “Is he dead?” Griffith whispered.

  “Harbottle killed him.”

  “Was there a ravine nearby?”

  She understood. “Nay. I…nay. I bandaged his head myself, and would have stayed until the end, but he bade me come for you.” He didn’t speak. “For Lionel. He was worried about Lionel. We must go tonight, for every minute Lionel slips farther away.”

  Griffith turned away from her and her demands, and she didn’t understand why. Why wasn’t he concerned about Lionel?

  Henry watched Griffith, too, until his gaze fell on Marian’s bewildered face. With a tact rare to kings, he stepped into the breach. “Lionel has value to you, of course. Would that be the reason Harbottle took him? For power over you?”

  “Or revenge on her.” Griffith found a rug and tossed it over her shivering shoulders, but when she tried to thank him, he brushed her aside and spoke only to Henry. “She hurt him badly, both in body and in vanity, and that is a possibility.”

  Henry asked, “Could he still be serving Wenthaven?”

  Marian shook her head. “My father said Harbottle had slipped his leash. Wenthaven has no more damning complaint.”

  “Then might he be seeking revenge on your father?” Henry suggested. “Blackmailing your father?”

  “Wenthaven wanted aught to do with Lionel. Harbottle would never be so mad as to think Wenthaven would pay to have Lionel returned.” She discovered, to her horror, that she had started to cry.

  Without regard to her muddy clothes, Henry sat on the bench beside her and passed her a napkin with which to wipe her face. Low and vehemently, he asked, “Does Wenthaven have any reason to think Lionel is a special child? A child of interest to more than those who love him?”

  She understood him very well. What plots did he hide? What fury did he experience? What anger and humiliation did Elizabeth’s spouse feel at the mere thought of the babe she had borne?

  When she failed to answer, he said, “Lionel is the queen’s godchild, and therefore precious above the crown jewels to her. I would never allow any harm to come to him, if it is in my power to help.”

  Of course, she thought, he wouldn’t want Lionel in the wrong hands, to be used as a weapon against him. But her cynicism couldn’t stand up in face of Henry’s seeming sincerity. She’d been so sure he was like the two other kings she’d known: boastful, power mad, vengeful, and cruel. Was he saying he knew of Lionel’s unsavory beginnings, but that for Elizabeth, he would forget them and protect the innocent lad? It seemed so to Marian’s muddled mind, but if she were mistaken, the consequences were too horrible to contemplate.

  Bewildered, she looked up at Griffith, but he watched them without expression. He had left her alone with Henry, to make her own decisions about the king’s character and intentions. Picking her words with care, she said, “I have never given Wenthaven any reason to think Lionel is anything more than my precious son.”

  “Yet Wenthaven often knows more than one would hope.”

  “Lionel resembles his father,” she said abruptly, then bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that—Henry had every reason to hate Lionel’s father and every reason to know who he was. But it was a truth she could no longer hide, and one Wenthaven might have realized.

  Henry leaned back with a sigh. “That is unfortunate, of course, but most children do resemble one or the other of their parents. My son, Arthur, already resembles his mother, with his fair skin and hair. To hold her own child in her arms is a comfort to her. Since she lost her brothers and so much she loved, she can scarcely bear to hear of cruel separations. Your plight would tear at her heart, for you love your son. Don’t you?”

  “He’s my son. My”—she sketched the sun in the sky—“sun.”

  “That is what Elizabeth told me.” Henry stroked his thinning hair in a nervous gesture. “Does this Harbottle have reason to know of Lionel’s special charms?”

  “Nay. Even if my father knew, he would never tell so weak a vessel as Harbottle.”

  Griffith interrupted. “I’m afraid Harbottle might be suspicious. While in our custody in Wales, he had access to more knowledge than was good for him.” Marian gaped at Griffith in dismay, and he said, “I beg your forgiveness, Marian, but I fear ’tis true.”

  “Traitor!” she cried.

  “Am I?” His mouth tightened, and he looked, to her tired gaze, taller and grimmer. “Then let me ask you a question. How came you so far so swiftly? We sent Art not nine days ago with strict instructions to bring you to me. King Henry instructed, also, that Lionel be left with my parents, for fear some dread deed should take him from us. How came you so swiftly, and why did you bring the lad against royal orders?”

  In the flurry of her need, she’d lost sight of the explanations she would be required to make. But she faced them now, and she foundered in her duplicity.

  Ironically, she looked to Henry for succor, but he frowned, puzzled. “With the crisis, I had lost sight of your disobedience. Why did you bring the lad? Tell us the truth.”

  “I don’t know the truth anymore,” she said in despair. “There are too many truths, and too many lies, and I can’t discern the difference.”

  Griffith said, “The truth, my liege, is that she left Castle Powel before Art arrived, without taking an escort or even taking good sense. She was fleeing the dreadful fate of being my wife. Art found her, and died for her. Lionel is gone, but once I have recovered him for her, she will flee me again. Isn’t that correct, Marian?”

  He thrust his face close to hers, and his eyes glowed with the same yellow flame that had lit them the first time he had met her.

  She realized that he despised her.

  She hadn’t thought how deceitful she had been or that she might hurt him. He’d been the man to turn to, the man she depended on. In the midst of her own grief, she hadn’t thought of Griffith’s agony at the death of his old friend, nor had she realized she was responsible for everything. For Art’s murder. For Lionel’s kidnapping.

  She had tried to do what was right, and everything was horribly wrong.

  Straightening her shoulders, she looked into his heated gaze. “I beg you to forgive me. I should have sought help elsewhere, but when Harbottle took my lad, I thought only of you. I knew you
would save him, and I beg you to do so, regardless of his mother’s transgressions.”

  “You knew I would save him? Or Art told you I would save him?”

  “’Twas I. I’m sorry. ’Twas unforgivable to think you would care after all I have done.”

  “You?” His deep voice trembled, intense and hopeful. “Do not lie to me. Is it true you trust me to find your son?”

  “I trust you.”

  “You came here, to Kenilworth, to the king’s own place, without reservation?”

  “Without…” She tried to say it but couldn’t. “With almost no…”

  With a curse, Griffith turned away. He strode to the tall, narrow window, leaned out, and roared like a wounded beast.

  Beside her, Henry flinched. Outside, she knew, men cowered, and within her own breast, Griffith’s roar seemed an answer to her own desolation. The tears she’d never shed in all the years of loneliness—for Elizabeth, for Lionel, for herself—now mixed and flowed with the misery she experienced at disappointing this stalwart man.

  Already this wretched love brought her grief, and something brought him grief, also. Was it his love for her?

  She could scarcely see, but she went to him, laid her head on his back, and hugged his waist. There was nothing to say, so she held her peace, but within her clasp she felt his trembling ease as he adjusted to the agony of loss and betrayal.

  Was there hope for them? Were they bound to an ill-fated love? Or could she somehow bring Griffith to the side of right and justice? For Lionel, she had to try.

  Sucking in air as if he needed the cool and damp to restore his composure, he turned in her arms and looked down at her. “You must rest.”

  “Nay, I must go.”

  “’Twill take time to prepare for this expedition, and you’ll be no good to me in your present condition.”

  “You’ll go?”

  “Did you doubt it?”

  “Nay. I always knew—”

  He cut off her protestations. “You need a hot bath to ease your muscles, a hot meal, and sleep. Come, Marian, you know it’s true.”

  From his place before the fire, Henry said, “Even the hardiest warrior must prepare himself before battle.”