A Lily on the Heath 4 (22 page)

“Very well. So we must reassess the situation. First,” Maris said, digging in a small pouch hanging from her belt, “I have brought you something to assist with the king. And now that I have learned the whole story, ’twill help you with the queen…at the least for a time. I meant for you to have a rest from the king’s attentions, but now that you are bleeding, you can send word to him of that. Surely he will give you a reprieve of some days.”

“Aye,” Judith said, hoping Maris was correct. As the queen had pointed out, however, there were other ways to pleasure a man aside of copulation. And Henry never seemed to tire of her.

“But this,” Maris said, giving her a small vial, “will ensure you have at the least three days of peace. Mayhap longer.” Judith took it and looked at the dark brown liquid, then back up as her friend explained, “’Twas my great luck to come upon an herbary during our journey. ’Tis a rare plant, and I paid a grand sum for it—aye, you shall find a way to compensate me betimes, for Dirick bellowed quite loudly when he learned of the cost—but when you drink it with some small bit of water—take care, for ’tis foul-tasting and bitter—you will soon show red patches all over your body. They will itch, but they are harmless and will disappear after some days. But I promise you, the king—and likely the queen—will not wish to be in the presence of aught so ugly and contagious. And I will assure them that ’tis not a deadly disease, but they do not wish to be exposed.” Maris’s eyes danced and she looked as if she would love such a jest.

Judith took the vial, herself smiling at the thought. “Thank you, my lady. ’Tis very thoughtful of you. I shall use it as needed and I will most definitely repay you.”

“Now. To your other, larger issue.” Maris clicked her tongue and pulled her knees up to her chest, easing back further onto the bed as her bliaut and kirtle bunched up around her. “Ah,” she said with a smile, “’tis long since I’ve been able to this—for having a babe in the belly made it impossible to even see my feet, much less pull them up like this.”

Judith nodded, but her thoughts went immediately from large bellies carrying babes to the niggling knowledge of what she must tell Malcolm.

As if reading her mind, Maris said, “You are considering not telling Warwick.”

Though her friend’s tone was neutral, Judith flushed. “Nay. Not truly. Though ’tis a fantasy, I confess.”

“You could wait to tell him. What harm would there be—another day or two. Mayhap he will make the arrangements and you will be wed…and then your flux will come. And then he will know any babe planted in your belly is his.”

Judith felt a sharp stab at the thought of Malcolm planting a child in her belly—a pleasant, yet disappointed thought. “I cannot do that,” she said, shaking her head. “He does not deserve to be trapped along with me. ’Twas wrong of me to say such a thing in the first place, to capture him so.”

Maris
tsk
ed and sat up. “But it would solve your problem quite handily. And if your flux comes later…well then, you will already be wed. And he will have obtained a beautiful, wealthy wife for his troubles. ’Tis no bad bargain.”

“Along with the king’s wrath and the queen’s spleen,” Judith replied. “I could not bear that that burden be thrust on him, Maris. I truly could not.”

“I’ve found,” her friend said, “that betimes, the workings of a man’s mind is not the same as that of ours. They yearn for violence and bloodshed, for battle and war…and sometimes, their perception of honor is much different than that of ours. Methinks they oft prefer the chance to be honorable in a difficult situation than to have a quiet, simple life. He would do it for you.”

“’Tis true,” Judith replied. But her mind was made up; speaking with Maris had removed any last bit of doubt. As painful as it would be, as dark as her future might seem, she would release Warwick from their agreement.

~*~

“I do not know what it is
has taken the stick from up his arse,” Nevril said to Gambert, “but I am near ready to praise it as a miracle.”

They stood in the bailey, just on the other side of the training yard’s gate. Both sweating, out of breath, and bare of torso, they’d just cleaned and put their swords away for the day. But they were smiling and in good humor, for their lord had not only
not
cursed them roundly—whilst pointing out each one’s failings on the field for all to hear—but neither had been landed on the field with his face plowed into the dirt, thanks to their ill-tempered but skillful master. Which had been happening with great regularity for nearly a se’ennight, and always accompanied by more bellowing and cursing from Lord Malcolm.

Gambert glanced to where his master was speaking to Lord Dirick, who’d returned to Clarendon with his wife only hours ago. “Praise God indeed,” the squire said. “Lord Mal is in such fine spirits these last days, I fair expect him to break into song.”

They both laughed heartily at the image of the staid, sober Malcolm of Warwick bellowing a bawdy tune in the training yard. Though with his change in mood, ’twas possible even the inconceivable could happen.
 

“Mayhap I shall find the man a lute,” jested Nevril.

Gambert chortled. “Methinks we’ll soon be on our way back to Warwick. Another cause for celebration, for I am sore weary of sleeping on a pallet in a hot chamber of farting, snoring men. At the least at Warwick, I have only to share with you and a half dozen others.”

“And we have our own pallets,” allowed Nevril.

“With the number of missives my lord has been sending as of late—to Mal Verne, Rittenbridge and Salisbury and, most importantly, Delbring—I suspect we shall make a detour there for a wedding. ’Tis apparent he has at last settled on a bride, and soon we shall have a new lady at Warwick. And my lord shall remain in his good humor whence he has a woman in his bed every night.”

“Aye,” Nevril said, but he sounded much less enthusiastic. He couldn’t help but glance at the stable where the irritating Bruin continued to have the temerity to exist.

Tabatha the maid had hardly given Nevril anymore than a nod and a glance since he brought her to Lord Malcolm two days ago—the ungrateful wench. But since he would soon be bound for Warwick, Nevril concluded, ’twas just as well. For some unknown reason—likely stemming from his bad choice of rabbit stew jests and skill with the bow—she continued to show only loathing toward him.

Still…when he left the training yard, Nevril slowed his pace as he passed the stable. It would make for an even finer day if he found reason to pique the hard-hearted maid once more. For when she glowered and her eyes flashed, he found it more entertaining than the thought of Warwick playing the lute.

As luck would have it, this dallying brought his very desire to pass, for as he walked toward the keep, he spied Tabatha walking toward him. In the light, her bright golden hair gleamed as if drawing the sunbeams toward it. To his surprise, when she saw him, instead of changing direction or even turning her face to a glower, she increased her speed…coming straight to him.

“Sir Nevril,” she said. “Good morrow.”

He blinked. That was nearly the most civil thing she’d ever said to him. “Mistress Tabatha. Are you in search of another critter in need of your tending?”

She looked at him oddly, but replied, “Nay. I have a missive for your master.” She handed him a piece of parchment, folded until it fit neatly into the palm of her hand.
 

“I will see that he receives it. And how fares Sir Rabbit?” Nevril asked, loathe to allow her to be on her way.

“He is freely roaming the meadows again, for all I know,” she replied. “I released him back to the wild only four days past, for he was hopping about the chamber.” She glanced at the message he held. “Do you know where Lord Malcolm might be? The missive should be delivered at once.”
 

“Walk with me, if you will, so you may see for yourself that I deliver it posthaste,” he suggested. “Warwick is at the training yard.”

She made a moue of distaste, but nodded. “Very well.”

Nevril was so surprised at her easy acquiescence that he nearly didn’t know how to respond, but he recovered quickly. “This way.”

The walk back to the training yard was much too brief in his estimation, and all the while, Nevril struggled with something on which to converse that had naught to do with rabbit stew…but his mind was curiously blank. Tabatha had nothing to say either except for a mundane comment about the weather.
 

“Lord Malcolm,” Nevril called when he saw his master, still in the yard. He hadn’t yet sheathed his sword or donned his
sherte
or tunic, and was still in conversation with Ludingdon. His master turned at the hail and when Nevril held up the parchment, he walked over to meet him at the gate. “’Tis a message for you. Delivered by Mistress Tabatha.”

Malcolm nearly snatched it from his hand, then, walking away, unfolded the parchment. He began to read it, then came to a dead stop in the middle of the mucky, empty training yard. He hissed audibly, staring at the paper. He read it again. “
There is no longer a need?
”

For a moment he didn’t move. Then all at once, a change came over him—like a fast-moving cloud covering the sun. His expression darkened, his body tightened visibly. His face thunderous, he tucked the missive into the collar of his tunic.
 

Warwick looked over and saw Nevril standing there. “Why are you there? Where is your sword? Who gave you leave to remove your hauberk? To me! At once! There is much work to be done on your skill with a broad-blade, you lazy dog!”

~*~

“I spoke with Judith today,”
Maris said as her husband came into their chamber shortly before the evening meal.
 

She rose to put the fed and sleeping Rogan in his crib, feeling the weight of Dirick’s interest on her backside as she bent over. Smiling to herself, she took her time arranging the blankets over the chubby babe. It had, after all, been nearly a se’ennight since they’d had a moment of privacy.

When Maris finally turned, she found him sitting on a stool, unwinding his crossgarters. Still watching her. A thick curl of dark hair fell over his forehead and there was a hot gleam in his eyes. She knew what that portended. His boots were in a heap next to the hearth and,
tsk
ing, she picked them up so no one tripped on them and landed in the fire.

“Warwick told me of their intent to wed,” Dirick said. “Then moments after he told me of this, he received a message from Lady Judith, telling him there was no longer a reason.”

Now she made a sound of satisfaction. “Excellent. I did not think she would do it so quickly, but I hoped in the end she would. I gave her every opportunity to talk herself out of it, and she did not. I am very pleased.”

“What have you been plotting?” her husband asked, kicking off his hose and leaving
that
in a pile as well. He was still looking at her with that gleam. “’Tis glad I am to be back to Clarendon, for sleeping on the ground and in a shared men’s chamber did not suit me.”

“I found Canterbury quite comfortable,” Maris told him with a teasing look. “And I don’t plot.” She snatched up hose and crossgarters as he gave a bark of laughter at her pronouncement. “Mayhap you could find another place to put these in the stead of the floor?”

“Is that not what you have a maid for?”

“Oh, aye. I’d forgotten. I shall call her now, then,” Maris said with great innocence as she slipped away from his greedy grasp. “Sally can pick up your clothing, sweep, and tend to the fire.” She started toward the door.

Dirick laughed ruefully, knowing he’d been trapped, and moved to block her way. “Oh, no you don’t, my love. We have some time before the meal, and I do not wish to be disturbed.” He leered at her and began to undo the lacings on her gown. They were already loose because she’d just finished feeding Rogan. “I rather like this style of dress,” he said, opening the front of her bliaut. “’Tis ready access.”

“As I was saying,” Maris continued, giving him a saucy smile as he slid his hands through the widening opening, “I do not plot. I was merely…measuring Judith.”

“Measuring?” He hefted her breasts as if doing so to her.

She rolled her eyes at the poor jest. “Judith may have goaded Warwick into offering to wed her, but ’tis clearly because she loves him, not because she wishes to…quit…the king….” Her words trailed off into a sigh as Dirick found her sensitive nipples with his thumbs.
 

“Indeed.” His voice had gone very deep and low. “Warwick was not pleased with the reversal,” he said, his mouth moist and hot against her throat. “He was nearly beside himself, though he tried to hide it.”

“So he cares for her? That is why he agreed?”
 

 
“Oh, aye. Warwick is besotted—and ’tis not for only her lands. He is adept at hiding it, but as a man who is besotted himself…I can see the truth.”

“Very good,” Maris sighed.

He smiled against her lips. “I know.”

She smiled back and arched a little as he shifted to take a nipple into his mouth. “That is not what I meant.”

“Is that so?” His words were muffled, but she felt the heat of them against her sensitive skin.

“Oh…aye….” she murmured, choosing the double meaning apurpose. But then she refocused her mind and shifted away a little. “And now how will they finalize this match if she has declined him? We must help them.”