“I can’t rest,” she protested.
“You will,” he answered, beginning to feed the horses.
He could almost sense her tension as she repressed her need for activity. She was a warrior, and his heart swelled with pride as she won her battle, then joined him. Moving with a restless energy, she helped him feed and groom the horses before she asked, “If we rest, we might fall asleep. How will we be assured we will wake?”
“An easy dilemma, little warrior.” He handed her a skin filled with water. “Drink all of that. You’ll wake before too many hours have passed, don’t fear.”
Uncomprehending for a moment, she stood, then lifted the skin and swallowed until he thought she must bulge. When she had finished, he drank his fill. Together they staked the horses in the grass, then they arranged the weapons Henry had provided in a careful pattern, so they would be most useful in case of attack. After preparing a bed of boughs, they lay on it, shoulder to shoulder, staring upward without a word.
The moon had not yet risen, and in all of England there could not be a blacker night. One by one, then in clumps of thousands, the stars broke through the sky. A white glow in the east seemed first an illusion, then a promise, and the moon rose as large, full, and pure as the Virgin fat with child.
Such grandeur made their personal impasse appear insignificant, and Griffith grasped Marian’s hand. It trembled in his, and she clutched his fingers with an intensity that made him almost hopeful. But when she spoke, her words shocked him so much that he almost lost his grip.
“Lionel is legitimate.”
His reaction was swift and from the gut. “That’s impossible.”
“I assure you, it is possible. As you may have surmised, Elizabeth is Lionel’s birth mother.”
“Aye, and you, brave woman, took the child and the shame.”
“No shame, but a great danger, for perhaps you didn’t realize Lionel’s father was Elizabeth’s uncle.”
The water he had drunk wasn’t enough, he realized, for his mouth felt dry. “Richard,” he whispered.
“Aye.”
Griffith had speculated first that Richard was Lionel’s father. Then, when he’d discovered Marian was a maiden, he’d speculated Elizabeth was Lionel’s mother. He had deliberately avoided the horrifying thought of Richard and Elizabeth together, understanding well the danger of such a liaison.
Now Marian brought a greater horror to him: the image of marriage between the two most royal folk in all of England and their production of a son. A monarch son, born protected by the canopy of holy Church.
Terror coursed through Griffith’s veins like molten metal through a casting. “I pray you are mistaken, for if Lionel is the legitimate son of Richard and Elizabeth, then he has a better claim to the throne than Henry Tudor.”
“You know me well, Griffith. Better than any man. Do you believe I would take Lionel from the safety of your home for anything less than a meeting with destiny? Do you think I would take him to face death, except for the fear that death will seek him?”
Repulsed and dismayed, he asked, “How could he bed her? How could he wed her? He was her uncle, the brother of her father. The Church forbids such union within such close bonds of consanguinity.”
“As you well know, the pope provides dispensation for royalty to wed if the need arises. Richard was confident he could receive absolution, and even sent an emissary to the pope, but he died at Bosworth Field before acquiring pardon.”
Hope dangled like bait before his nose, and he snapped at it. “Then the marriage is not official.”
She chuckled bitterly. “Who would give credence to such priestly quarrels?”
She was right, and a silence fell between them. In the light of the moon he watched her, touched by the struggle that turned her from a vivacious girl into a driven woman. Her dry eyes didn’t blink but stretched wide and dull, telling the tale of tears shed long ago.
Griffith longed to touch her, to comfort her, but he dared not. The chasm between them stretched deep and ragged, filled with dilemmas that would grab him with clawed feet and drag him down should he try.
With memory weighing on her, she told him, “Elizabeth only did it for her brothers. Richard had put them in the tower, and no one knew what he intended. He declared himself king, and everyone feared what he intended. He invited Elizabeth to court, and we went in hopes of finding what he intended. And then”—her sigh wavered with emotion—“I wished we had never discovered.”
“Did he kill his wife to wed Elizabeth?”
She sat up, but he didn’t think she saw him or their surroundings. “Did Richard kill Anne? I don’t know. All I know is Richard was the coldest man I’d ever met. He wanted Elizabeth, not for her youth and beauty, but for the stability a marriage with her would bring to his reign. Well”—she shrugged—“he wanted her for the same reason Henry wanted her. Union with King Edward’s daughter makes the throne impregnable, doesn’t it?”
Cautiously he replied, “So I believe.”
“He promised her if she’d bed him, he’d release her brothers. The young king and the dear little duke of York.” A bitter smile tugged at her lips. “I didn’t believe him, of course, and I don’t think Elizabeth did, either, but what was she to do?”
“They were dead already,” Griffith said.
“We had no bodies to bury. ’Tis difficult to bid farewell until one sees…well.” She plucked a leafing twig from the mat beneath them, then broke it and broke it again. The running sap pooled in her palm, and with a gesture of distaste, she wiped it on her skirt. Then she scrubbed at it, complaining, “It won’t come off.”
He took her hand and used the corner of his rough homespun to rub at the sticky juice. “Once it stains, it is difficult to remove. But see, the surcoat which you once scorned has removed it.” He released her, and she stared into her palm as if she could read the message there.
“Griffith? When this is over, do you think we…?”
He waited, breathless.
“But you don’t know the whole story yet.” She dismissed her unspoken plea with a wave of the offending hand. “He—”
“He…who?”
“Richard.” The name sounded sour on her lips. “He got Elizabeth with child immediately, and that both pleased and dismayed him. When Anne died, he wasted no time wedding Elizabeth, but we had to do so in secret, for the rumors were circulating, and the whispers were ugly. Richard didn’t seem to understand, even then, that decent folks found murder, deceit, and usurpation crimes to be punished, rather than strategies to be rewarded.”
“Who knew of the ceremony?” he demanded.
“Elizabeth. Richard. The priest. The duke of Norfolk. And me.”
He felt almost faint with fear. “I’ve heard not a whisper of it.”
“The priest is dead. He died, I heard, on his way to Rome to receive the necessary papal bulls. The duke of Norfolk is dead, killed at Bosworth Field. Richard is dead, also at Bosworth Field.”
“You are alive.”
“Aye.”
She was too calm for his liking. She didn’t—couldn’t—understand the danger, and he said, “And if you want to stay that way, you’ll not ever tell another soul this tale which you told me this day.”
“Will you kill me, then?”
He laughed in angry amusement. “Not I, my dear. Just this morning I pledged to protect you. But I also stood beside Henry at Bosworth and watched the English knights kill Richard. I heard the great vow which Henry made, swearing by the nails of the cross he would do everything he must to preserve his throne, and I warn you, if a whisper of this ever escapes, Henry will deliver you and your son from the tribulations of earthly life.”
As simply as a child with its catechism, she asked, “What of my vow?”
The words, the tone, chilled him. “What vow?”
“When Richard was killed, Elizabeth knew the babe in her belly was doomed. So I attended Lionel’s birth. I stood beside Elizabeth, held her hands, gav
e my blood when she dug her nails into me. I saw Elizabeth suffer the agony of childbirth, and saw the birth of her resolution, too. When she placed Lionel’s naked, squalling body in my hands, she made me swear I would do everything to raise him to the station to which he was born. She put her faith in me. Would you ask me to betray it?”
He looked around at the black bowl of sky, seeking answers, but he had only his own feelings to draw on. “Aye, I would ask you to betray that vow. You are—”
A woman. You are my wife. You’ll do as I say. The sentiments came easily to him, but he knew they would have as little weight as feathers on the wind. He had to appeal to her logic and to her love of Lionel. To that end he said, “Have you thought of what this would mean? For you to succeed, you must enlist the help of ambitious, unscrupulous men.”
With half a smile, she said, “I have my father.”
“Do you think he wouldn’t take the throne for Lionel, then take the throne from Lionel?” he demanded.
“Wenthaven prefers subtle power. He would uphold Lionel’s birthright.”
“And warp the lad into his own image.”
She straightened. “I wouldn’t allow that.”
“How do you imagine you would stop him?”
“Wenthaven has no interest in raising a child. He would gladly leave Lionel to me.”
Her arrogance staggered him. “You would live at court?”
“With Lionel. Aye, of course.”
“What about me? What about our marriage?”
She blushed and then paled. “You didn’t wish to wed me anyway. We’ve not consummated it—”
“We haven’t?”
“—since the ceremony, and I’m sure we could petition for an annulment.”
“If I don’t agree to such a course?”
She blushed again. “I hoped you would say that. I knew you would see your dilemma.”
His irony had a sharp, shining edge. “Which dilemma?”
“You have sworn to uphold Henry’s claim to the throne, but you see now it is based on a mistaken premise. Examine your conscience, Griffith. Where do your loyalties lie? With Henry, or with the true king of England?”
The complex world of honor had entrapped wiser men than he, and Griffith felt the pressure of uncertainty wearing at his resolve. Defensive, he answered, “I swore my oath to Henry before he was king, and again afterward. So I swore it to the man, not the office, and you with your wily ways cannot lure me from that truth.”
“But you fret about Lionel. You ask how he will grow into an honorable man under the influence of my father. If you were to take charge of Lionel, I have no doubt—”
“Is this why you chose this barren place to tell me the tale?” he burst out. “To present temptation as surely as the snake presented the apple? Am I a fool to be flattered by your confidence and seduced from my duty?”
“This sweep of events is greater than you and me, yet we can be part of it.”
“We can bring England to the brink of hell. Henry is powerful, well entrenched in the running of the country, with many noble allies who command many men. They would not abandon a strong man to follow a two-year-old child, especially a child born of union witnessed by dead men and two girls. How do you imagine you, a mere woman, could break the might of Henry Tudor?”
Leaning down, she lifted her skirt, binding his eyes to the long glide of her leg clear to her thigh. The garter there was tied in a complex knot, and with care she untied it and pulled loose a leather bag. From inside it, she drew a parchment, weathered by much handling, and she shook the creases from it and handed it to him. “With this. This is the page of the registry, bearing witness to the marriage of Elizabeth, daughter of Edward, to Richard, king of England.”
18
Touched by moonlight, the spidery writing blared at Griffith like the flourish of a trumpet.
Marian gloated at his wide eyes and open mouth, at the astonishment writ on every line of his body. It was working, just as she’d planned. This would convince him of the rightness of her quest and would bring him into the battle on Lionel’s behalf.
Then the parchment began to shake. She watched as the shaking traveled up his arm to his whole body, and she grasped his elbow in alarm. “Griffith? Are you ill?”
The anguish and horror in his gaze slashed at her, bringing home her mistake, as did the trembling of his voice when he asked, “Why did you show this to me? Do you wish me to dispose of it for you?”
“Not dispose of it, nay!” She snatched at her precious parchment, but he held it out of her reach. “I showed it to you so you would realize all portents point to Lionel’s succession.”
Like the knell of a church bell at a funeral, his solemn voice pronounced, “I am Henry’s man, and this is treason I hold in my hand.”
“Not treason!” she cried. “’Tis Lionel’s birthright.”
“’Tis Lionel’s death warrant.” Despite the evening chill, moisture sheened his brow. “I could take it from you.”
She looked at the irreplaceable document, held above her head, and examined the width of his shoulders and the strength of his arms. She could do nothing to stop him if he chose to keep it or destroy it. Her gamble had failed, and now she could only try to repair the damage. “You could keep it,” she answered steadily, “but you won’t. You are too honorable.”
Had she convinced him, or was she merely reading his character correctly at last? It didn’t matter, for he dropped the parchment, and she lunged, catching it before it fell in the dirt.
Anchoring her wrist with the grasp of his hand, he whispered, “Bury it. Burn it. Take your knife and shred it. As long as the proof of that wedding exists, evil men would be seeking Lionel to use him against the king—as they have done now, even without that proof.”
Righteousness burned in her. “What about my vow to Elizabeth?”
“Your vow to Elizabeth!” He snorted. “I read the letter Elizabeth sent to you. Didn’t you?”
“Aye, I did. In it she spoke of Lionel and how tenderly she thinks of him.”
“And?” he prompted.
She shrugged, impatient with this empty conversation. “She spoke of her other son, Arthur, and of her husband, Henry.”
“And?” he insisted.
Bewildered, she said, “And…what?”
“Didn’t she tell you about her love for Arthur, and how he repairs the emptiness left by the death of her brothers?”
“Well…aye, I suppose.”
“Didn’t she tell you of her husband, the king, and how he encourages her to send you money for the well-being of Lionel?” He peered at her, and her blank expression seemed to drive him into a frenzy. He caught her by the shoulders and shook her. “Don’t you understand what she was saying?”
Marian shook her head. She didn’t understand what Griffith wanted. She didn’t see what seemed so obvious to him. She didn’t understand anything at all.
Griffith pushed her away as if the touch of her disgusted him. “You close your eyes deliberately. What value is a vow extorted by a woman suffering from the exhaustion of childbirth, a woman grieved from the death of her brothers and unsure of her own fate? Don’t you understand? Elizabeth has found contentment with her son and her husband, and she wants you to forget the past and move on.”
Stunned by his wild imaginings, Marian stammered, “She…does…not.”
“Does Elizabeth want her second son killed to make way for her first?”
Marian defended Elizabeth almost on instinct. “Elizabeth is the most loving creature in the world. She wishes death for no one, and certainly”—she gasped as the truth of it hit her, but she denied it—“her second son would not have to die.”
“Don’t play the fool, Marian. You lived at court. You were part of the greatest intrigue in English history. You know the truth.” She covered her ears, but he took her hands away. “Arthur would have to die. Henry would have to die—and Henry is easily as devoted a father as you are a devoted mother. It w
ould be a bloody fight.”
Griffith was flinging facts at her—facts she hadn’t wanted to face. Facts that scourged her as precisely as a whip in the hand of an inquisitor.
He continued relentlessly. “For Lionel to become king, Henry must be a victim, and Arthur, and even your dear friend Elizabeth. That’s what Elizabeth was trying to tell you. That’s what you must accept.”
Breathing was an effort. The bleeding of her heart seemed to have clogged her lungs. Thinking became impossible. The agony of the truth destroyed her mind.
Struggling to articulate some of her own conviction, she found herself reduced to reciting the old litany with which she’d supported her hopes. “Lionel is my son, the heir to the throne, and he deserves better than a life as a bastard.”
Griffith swelled with a kind of triumph. “Aye, he does, and I’ve offered Lionel just that. I will make him my son, give him part of my estate, and love him as my own.”
It was a great offer, a generous offer, but she rejected it unconditionally, and he knew it even before she could find a way to soften the blow. In a rage of disappointment and bitterness, Griffith said, “You would have Lionel live a life defined by threats against his person and his power, a life where life itself is a gift to be stolen by one stray arrow, by a single knife blade to the heart. That is the life of a child king. That is what you wish for him.”
“Nay, not so.” She shook with the same palsy that had earlier afflicted him, and his accusations drove her half-mad with grief. “I can protect him. I am not so selfish.”
“Aren’t you?” He picked up the hand that held the parchment and pushed it before her eyes. “Perhaps you should wonder who you’re saving this for? Is it for Lionel, or is it for you?”
“Not me!” She denied it instinctively, knowing she wanted only the best for Lionel, knowing no thought of her own benefit ever stirred her soul. For that was surely the blackest sin—using the child of her heart for advancement. Only a monster, only a depraved creature, would dream so deceitful a dream. She hadn’t.
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