“Good morning, William.”
Gerald still said nothing but stood frozen, as if he wished himself far from my side – anywhere but where he stood. My husband was wearing his sword, and Gerald’s lay across the room, on my table underneath the window. My lover faced my husband unarmed, before he had even finished dressing.
William’s gaze never strayed from my face. Gerald might as well not have been in the room, for all the attention my husband paid him.
“You are welcome, husband. Will you have breakfast with us before Gerald takes his leave?”
Gerald turned his eyes on me, and I felt the sting of his anger like a slap against my cheek. He had no rights with me as he seemed to think he did. He had agreed to this bargain, as I had. I owed him nothing beyond courtesy. I kept my gaze on my husband.
“I have eaten already, wife. I thank you. I am here only to invite our guest to ride with me this day. We hunt in the southern forest if he would join us.”
Gerald mastered himself and his anger. “My lord, it would be my honor.”
“Good. Then do not let us keep you. I know you do not want to hunt in the same clothes you wore to my table last night.”
Gerald’s gaze darkened. Something passed between them that made me think that they had once known each other better. I saw in that moment that they had once been lovers, and now we had come to this.
I leaned back against my pillow and surrendered. No matter how old I was or how jaded I thought to become, I would never be a match for men brought up among my brother’s courtiers.
Gerald drew his gaze from my husband, their silent communication finished. I thought that he would leave me without another word, but instead he turned and lowered his lips to mine. I could taste nothing of him in that chaste kiss, but the gesture moved me, that he would dare such a thing in front of William.
“I will see you this evening, lady, if it be your will.”
I pushed my husband from my thoughts and focused on my lover’s face. “I will be happy to see you tonight, my lord.”
He took more from my tone than I intended, for he seemed heartened by it. He rose, taking his hose and jerkin in hand. He drew them on without another word, and I marveled that any man could dress himself so quickly.
He bowed first to me, then met my husband’s eyes and bowed to him. William was as unruffled as if they had met in the garden and not beside my marriage bed. He bowed to my lover, but only from the neck, as befitted his rank. Gerald left without another word, and my husband closed the door behind him.
“Will you rise today, lady, or stay abed?”
I listened close for rancor in my young husband’s voice. All I could hear was a note of light teasing.
“Indeed, husband, I will rise. But I believe I will have a glass honeyed wine first.”
My husband must have met the serving girl on the stairs, for he held the flagon I had asked for. William poured a glass for me and one for himself before he sank down on the edge of my bed. I felt a last frisson of regret that he did not want me as a woman, but I let this regret pass. As we sat together, I wondered if perhaps we might be friends.
“So.” William sipped his wine, handing me a bit of bread to sop in mine. “All is well with you this morning, my lady?”
For one horrible moment, I thought that he meant for me to share details of my night with Gerald, perhaps even to reminisce about times of his own. But my good sense prevailed almost immediately, and the tension slipped from my shoulders like water from an overturned glass.
As I drank my wine, I saw in his face that he was concerned for my welfare, that on some level, he regretted that our marriage was a sham, as so many other marriages were.
I did not chastise him for loaning me out. If my womb quickened, it need never happen again. “I am well, my lord. I thank you.”
William looked at me for a long time, no doubt searching my face for some sign of displeasure or ire. I had learned self-control in a harder school than his house, for he found nothing. I drank my wine, finishing the bread he had given me and found myself wishing for more. William leaned over and kissed me, his lips warm and dry on the soft skin of my cheek.
His lips lingered for the briefest moment, and half my mind thought to turn and kiss him in truth. But he stood then, crossing the room in three long strides, setting his untouched wine down on my table.
“I am headed for the southern forest, near the village, my lady. There is a boar and her piglets ranging there that need killing.”
“God ride with you, husband.”
He quirked a smile at me, his eyes lit with the certain knowledge that God did not exist, that religion was a fairy story told to children and peasants. Most in Henry’s court had thought the same, and I saw now that this certainty was held by the people at my brother’s court as well. And yet many of the young men had gone to free Jerusalem from the infidel. I did not understand the minds of men.
“Good day, my lady.”
He was gone without another word, his short cape swirling behind him. He left the door open, and I saw Marie Helene standing beyond it. She looked drawn and pale, as if she had not slept.
I beckoned, and she came to me quickly, closing the door firmly behind her. I saw the sorrow in her eyes, and I knew it was for me. I realized then how much she must have loved her husband and how much she must miss him.
I held her in my arms her while she shed the tears that I could not. “There is no reason to weep. I am a rich woman, far better off than most.”
When she drew back to dry her eyes on the kerchief from her sleeve, I saw in her sorrow a hint of what a true marriage was like. She wept for me, that I would never know it.
Gerald stayed in my husband’s house for a fortnight and we played at love every night, far into the dawn. We often went down by the riverside during the long afternoons and made love among the irises that grew there. If anyone from the castle or the fields saw us, no one ever told me.
Gerald left me to travel to the Levant, as Jean Pierre had before him, but this time I felt no pain at the parting. I wondered as I raised my hand to him and watched him ride away, if this was how a man felt, when he could finally be free of a woman. Pleasure in the memory of the time spent, but also relief that it was over.
With Gerald gone, I went back to my quiet ways, praying daily and going to Mass, though the sin of adultery still rested on my soul. My husband’s guests had long since gone and Marie Helene and I resumed our long walks by the river. As fall came on and the heat of August faded into September, I found myself grateful for my quiet life. My time with Gerald seemed like a sweet dream that I had just waked from.
The dream lingered, however, for as September drew to a close, the mornings found me bent over a silver bowl at dawn.
Marie Helene, now my bedfellow again, held my hair back when it slipped from its ribbon. I had forgotten the misery of early pregnancy, but it came back to me as I leaned over the heavy bowl, unable to eat a bite of bread until noon or after.
On the third day of this, I met Marie Helene’s eyes. We had not spoken of my sudden illness, though all the household knew already.
“Lady, I think there may be more to this than the fish you ate on Friday.”
I laughed at her, my nausea fading. When it did not come back again, I reached for the cup of water and the willow bark twig Marie Helene had laid at my elbow.
I cleaned my teeth and chewed my mint, remembering when I had done the same at Eleanor’s prompting, before going to see the king. I pushed these memories from my mind and all the helpless fear they engendered. I was a woman grown, mistress of my own household. As long as my husband stood behind me, I had nothing to fear.
The entire reason I had taken Gerald to my bed was to quicken my womb with an heir for Ponthieu. Surely, my husband would remember this and not turn from me. Though, in my years at court, I had learned that a man’s whims were worse than any woman’s.
I saw in Marie Helene’s face that she feared for me. From
my clothes press she drew out my most somber gown. After she dressed me, we knelt together and said a rosary for the fate of my unborn child. When we rose again, I turned to her.
“I will go and make my confession.”
She said nothing, but only looked at me. She knew that I had not been to confession since I first lay with Gerald in my marriage bed.
“When I have done this, I will go and see my husband.”
She wrapped her slender arms around me, as if she might shield me from fate. I felt the fear in her touch. I knew that she, too, had visited the past. Her mind was back among my enemies, among the people I had loved. Henry and Eleanor, who had used me and betrayed me, then left me in a nunnery to rot.
I blinked at the darkness of my thoughts. They were another thing I must do penance for.
“Do not fear for me, Marie Helene. William will not turn from me.”
“He could put you aside for unfaithfulness.”
“He will not. I promise you.”
I made my way to the chapel, schooling my thoughts to God and to repentance. I would not carry a child with a mortal sin on my soul. It was for the child’s sake and not mine that I knelt in the church that day and confessed myself to the priest before the morning mass. He heard me out, though I shocked him to the core, for he was a simple country man who had seen nothing of the court or its ways. He listened to my litany of sins, and it was the horror in his eyes that brought home to me the sin that I had done.
He gave me no penance, saying only that the sins themselves were penance enough. He absolved me before I rose and prayed with me for the life of my child.
A fever came and took that priest before the winter was done, but I have remembered his kindness all my life. He was one of the only true men of God that I have ever known.
I came to my husband’s rooms while he was still out hunting deer. His man bowed to me and let me in without question. His eyes were gentle, and I found myself sorry that I had never taken the time to learn his name.
“Your Highness, you honor us with your presence in this house.”
I searched for signs of mockery in his face, for all the household knew of my condition. Some of the maids had known before I did. I had lost count of the days between my monthly courses and had only known my fate when I began to sicken in the mornings.
The knowledge of my disgrace was in his eyes, but he also honored me for who my father had been, and for who my brother was. As I looked at him, I saw that he also honored me for myself. He knew the nature of my relationship with my husband.
He brought me a cushion and I leaned back against it, for my back often ached. I drank the warm posset he brought as well and wondered where my husband had found such a kind man to serve him. I was about to ask when William came in, and his man left my side to go to his.
“Thank you, Georges.”
His man withdrew without a word, and my husband and I were left alone.
I set my posset down and stood, for as always, I knew my duty.
I knelt to William, my head bowed. “Husband, I have done you wrong. I have slept with another man, and now I carry his child.”
“A child?”
The warmth in his voice made me raise my head, and I saw the same joy mirrored in his face. I smiled to see it, but I stayed on my knees. When I did not rise, he came to help me stand. Only when I continued to kneel did his face darken.
“You kneel to no one in this house. You are a princess of France.” He offered me his hand, and this time, I took it.
I was surprised as I always was by the strength in his grip and the steadiness in his eyes, a centered certainty that I had rarely seen even in kings. When I was on my feet, he helped me back to my chair, handling me carefully, as if I were made of spun glass.
Once I was seated, he drew another chair up beside me and took my hand again. “You are also my wife. I would see you kneel only in prayer.”
His words touched me, and I felt the easy tears of early pregnancy rise in my eyes. I tried to blink them away, but they fell too quickly. William reached over and dried them gently. I knew then that whatever his proclivities, whatever had made him turn from me, he would not turn away from my child. He would not leave us in disgrace.
When my tears were dried, he pressed my hand, then offered me the posset I had left on the table between us. I sipped it and found it still warm in the good pewter mug his man had served it in.
We sat a little longer in silence, then William decided that it was time to make me smile. “Wife, I would not have you down on your knees even in prayer very often. But when you do, pray for my soul, as I have need of it.”
I laughed when he said that, and he leaned back in his chair, well rewarded. I thought that he would leave me then, but we were in his rooms, not in mine. It would be for me to leave when I could gather the strength. I had been more frightened than I had realized when I knelt to ask his forgiveness.
“Your brother will be angry,” he said.
I did not answer right away but thought of what he said. I knew that my marriage had more than one purpose my brother had hoped to satisfy with my union.
In case I was in any doubt, my husband explained it to me as gently as he had wiped the tears from my cheeks. “He hoped to take the land of my fathers for the crown. Now your son will have it.”
“God willing,” I said.
He touched my hair, where it curled loose beneath my veil. For a moment, I almost thought that he believed in God.
“God willing,” he answered me.
12
My Second Daughter
Once I told William of my disgrace, my pregnancy seemed to smooth out like a sea after a storm. The waves of nausea ran their course. I was able to eat again in the mornings and felt almost like myself.
I saw little of William after our talk in his rooms. But whenever I did see him, whether in the corridor leading to the main hall or at the large trestle table where we ate our evening meal, he always smiled on me, and asked after my health and that of the baby.
When we spoke together it seemed that all the world listened, waiting to hear some breath of further scandal, some indication that he would cast me off as the harlot they knew me to be.
But though William was never warm to me during the first pregnancy of our marriage, he was never cold either. He walked a line somewhere in between, so that I wondered, as did everyone around us, what his true thoughts and intentions were.
After a month of this, I decided that I did not care. I had my own life and child to think of. As with my first pregnancy, I found myself serene even in the face of disapproval, but I did not feel the close connection with my child that I had once felt with Rose. My daughter swam in me, surfacing against my flesh, and then swimming away from me again. I touched her hand with my own and was grateful that she thrived, though her mother was a sinner and undeserving of such a gift.
As punishment, my heart did not warm to this baby as it had to Rose. I regretted this, and I prayed on it, but there was nothing I could do to change it. God was silent, as He always was, and the Holy Mother did nothing to warm my heart, either. I was alone, separate from my child.
Even as I sat on the birthing chair in my chambers, I did not feel joy at the thought of this baby. The midwife stood by, coaxing me to do my duty, and my aging body obeyed her.
Marie Helene was at my side, silent, remembering, as I did, that other birth that had ended so badly. As this baby was pressed down the birth canal toward the light of her new life, I felt certain that, though she was not the child of my heart as Rose had been, she would live.
Her birth was quick, though bloody, as all births are. When the women had washed the blood from her and the midwife handed her to me, I was shocked as I had been the first time by how heavy she was, like a lead weight in my arms, more substantial than my idea of her had ever been.
My daughter looked up at me, blinking in the first light of her new world. I smiled down at her, tears on my face. Marie Helene gri
pped my hand beneath the blanket, careful as always never to be too familiar when others were nearby.
This care was forgotten in a moment as the other women bustled around my room, opening the shutters to the light and air outside, clearing out the musky scent of birth as they took away the afterbirth to be burned and buried.
Marie Helene gazed down into my daughter’s face, openly weeping. “My lady, she has the look of her.”
I blinked tears away and tried to see what Marie Helene saw. I looked for my lost daughter in the face of this one. All I saw was a child, her eyes closing now in much needed sleep, her face red from her ordeal, her hair the dark brown of her father’s.
I could not say such things to Marie Helene, who seemed to find her own lost children in this one. I kissed my daughter’s forehead and gave her to Marie Helene, who held her as if she were as precious as spun gold. As I gave the baby over into my friend’s care, William came in and stood at my bedside.
I could feel the heaviness of sleep gripping me, leading me down into the dark. For I was old and tired. No matter how much of my youthful looks I had kept, I could feel the difference keenly between this birth and my first.
The remembered loss of Rose was like a raw wound in my side, which pained me every time I drew breath. It was as if some warrior had pierced me with his sword, leaving me to bleed to death on the field. As my husband looked down on me, I wished nothing more than to collapse into oblivion, to wake to a better world. A world where my daughter Rose was still living, and where Richard, not Henry, was her father.
Young as he was, my husband was also wise. He seemed to see something of my sorrow in my face. He could not have known of Rose, except what he may have heard at my brother’s court. Scraps of whispered rumors, rumors of a long dead scandal flogged to life only when my brother had need of them.
Princess Of France (The Queen's Pawn Book 2) Page 11