The Innocent (36 page)

Desperately she prayed, Oh, Lord, let this journey last forever. Let him not be there. Let him not see me…But a moment later they rounded the last bend in the forest track and there in front of them was a pleasure ground with tented pavilions and fires burning, all laid out around a good-sized lake that had frozen solid overnight.

It was a bright, happy scene, all the brilliantly dressed young courtiers milling around the queen as she was helped down from her horse, laughing, joking, bantering, no thought of anything but pleasure in their heads. Of the king there was no sign.

Jehanne, Anne on her heels, hurried over to tend to her mistress; nothing, no stray hair or speck of mud, would be permitted to spoil the lovely picture the queen made in her shimmering white. Anne smiled ruefully. The white dress was an inspired choice, for Elizabeth seemed angelic, hardly made of human flesh, surrounded by the ruddy faces and myriad colors of the court—and she knew it. Knowledge of her beauty added an extra glitter to her smile as she settled herself in a gilded Italian folding chair outside her pavilion to await the king. And yet, when Anne looked at her triumphant mistress, a shiver ran through her, for suddenly she saw the skull beneath the skin of Elizabeth’s beautiful face, just as she had with Piers. Then the image slipped and blurred and she saw the queen again, much older, dressed as a nun, all beauty lost and despair her dark companion. And that overwhelmed Anne with misery and fear. Why did she see these things? She turned away, desperately unhappy, only to find Doctor Moss blocking her path.

“Why so sad, maid?”

Before she could control her reaction she grimaced at the word “maid.” “Nothing, sir. I’m tired. It’s hard to sleep well in a strange place.”

Moss’s eyes narrowed. So, events had moved on; this was useful knowledge. “Yes. The king’s court makes rest…difficult, for Edward needs no sleep, it seems.”

It was said lightly but Anne, hypersensitive to every nuance of speech, heard something in his tone that made her look up at him defiantly. “Not all are suited to this life, sir.”

She curtsied and walked back toward the court party, proud and contained but aching, desperate to cry.

Moss looked after her thoughtfully and felt a surprising flash of pain. Then he dismissed the thought impatiently. She’d been brought to court to please the queen, and the king. Well, let that be so in each case. For both their sakes—and for his.

Yet as he turned away he saw that men’s eyes followed Anne as she made her way to Jehanne once more. He saw the way they nudged each other as she passed, saw the hot gleam of lust in each face. For one moment he allowed himself to feel what they felt, then anger washed through him. And envy.

Then, resolutely, because he was a man who could control himself if others could not, he closed his eyes and locked all feeling away. To covet a woman’s body was one thing, to act, quite another. He could not afford to see Anne as anything but a useful device, a tool. He would meditate on that until he found strength to resist the temptations she offered.

Later, Jehanne sent Anne to find the queen’s cosmetic box, and just as she was rummaging among the welter of objects that must accompany her mistress on even the smallest trip outside the castle, a man’s gloved hand descended on her shoulder. She spun around and found herself looking up into William Hastings’s cool eyes.

“I have been asked to bring you to a certain person. He wishes to speak to you.”

The shock of what he said nearly buckled her knees, but some part of her wits remained. “Sir, the queen, my mistress has asked that I—”

“You are a subject of the king first, girl,” he said, taking the small wooden casket out of her hands and passing it to a man-atarms who was standing impassively beside him. “For Dame Jehanne, who is with the queen. Immediately,” he told the man and then returned his gaze to Anne. “Come, girl.”

Anne had no choice but to follow after the chamberlain, heart beating clamorously.

Only Jehanne watched them go, and that by accident. She’d happened to look up from readjusting the netted silver cauls covering the queen’s hair, when she saw Hastings swing the girl up behind him on his destrier and canter gently back toward the castle, where the bend in the dirt road soon hid them from view. Startled and fearful, she closed her eyes in prayer for a moment, asking the Blessed Virgin to protect Anne, as the queen laughingly exchanged compliments with a grizzled, smitten baron from the lands around York, her husband’s stronghold.

Anne, clinging to William Hastings’s lean waist, tried to suppress shamed excitement as she mentally rehearsed what she would tell the king about Warwick and Duke George, using the imaginary dialogue as a tool to banish all thought of what she would really like to say to Edward. It was a short ride, however, and soon William had turned aside from the main road onto a bridle path. He reined in his horse at the entrance to a small clearing where a wattle-and-daub cottage had been built, its back against the dark trunks of the oak and beech trees. There was a destrier tethered there, cropping the withered winter grasses. Hastings slid down from his horse and held up his arms; the horse was enormous and Anne was a long way from the ground. “Here, girl. Jump.”

She was suddenly afraid and he smiled. “Come now, nothing’s as bad as it seems.” That raised the smallest of smiles and, suddenly decisive, she allowed herself to drop down into his waiting grasp. He felt a small, unexpectedly voluptuous body; she, the hard arms and broad chest of a fighter.

“Thank you, sir. For your assistance.” It was said with dignity, and not for the first time, William Hastings appreciated the unusual qualities of this girl.

“Well, then,” he said and gestured to the cottage, then he swung back up into the saddle, wheeling the horse to leave.

As the sound of the hoofbeats drumming on the frozen ground receded, Anne stood in the clearing hesitating and then, breathing deeply, walked toward the plank door that stood ajar in the dilapi-dated little building. It was a reflex action to knock as she stood outside but pride made her pause, and before she could change her mind, she pushed the warped door inward, unannounced.

He was standing by the desultory fire burning directly on the earth floor, the smoke finding its way out through a hole in the roof. He turned and smiled at her tenderly, holding out his arms. “Little beloved.”

She wanted to go to him, so much. Tears in her eyes, she shook her head.

“Then I shall come to you.” The king’s voice was tender and he laughed a little as he said it. Even at twenty-four he’d had much experience with women. He was dangerous because he understood what she was feeling. That was a weapon he could use.

He was standing in front of her, very close now. His pupils were huge in the gloom of that little hut.

“This is very disloyal, you know. I am your king, after all.” He was being whimsical, that was the tone in his voice—but it’s dangerous to play with a king, that was the message.

“No, sire. I’m being loyal. You are married and I was wicked. Foolish. And there is something else. I must tell you—”

His laughter cut her off. “Ah. Such principles. So earnest. But…if I should stretch out my hand now…”

And, taking off one glove, he gently touched her face; she felt that fingertip through her entire body.

“Where is that strength?” He pulled her to him, not so gently, mouth descending on hers. For one sweet moment she let the kiss happen, floating down, down into bright darkness, and then broke away.

“No, sire. This is wrong. I am wrong to let you do this.”

He could hear the agony in her voice but she was not pleading with him, it was a statement of fact. And while this made him impatient—she wasn’t the first, after all, to protest—he heard something he’d never heard before. Certainty. And purpose. And she had not put her arms around him.

Perplexed, he stood back still holding her and looked into her face—he saw a will the mirror of his own, and he was astonished. This girl had nothing to bargain with except her body, but he might have been looking into the face of an opponent before the joust. This made things very interesting. He enjoyed many things in women, but courage was not the first of the things he sought. Nor intelligence.

He released her and turned away, holding his one naked hand over the little fire again, buying time to think. “I am not a cruel man, I believe. I would not force you, but…I’ll make you a wager.” He turned back, looked at her again, warmly, one comrade in the battle of love to another.

She didn’t know whether to laugh, from relief—or cry, from loss.

“I believe you love me, Anne.” She said nothing, which he approved of—strategy always interested him. “And I also believe you will come to me soon, of your own accord, and make me the gift of your body. Let us both agree on a time. The first day of the tourney, the feast of Saint Valentine?”

Anne shivered with her private knowledge of Warwick. The tourney would be canceled if open warfare broke out between the two factions at court.

“But if you do not come to me and give me what I seek—and I promise you there will be no pressure—

then on the day after our agreed day you may ask me for one thing that exists within the bounds of my kingdom and I shall grant it. Whatever it may be.”

He smiled at her, and as Anne opened her mouth to respond, with one quick pace he was beside her, so close she was frozen, all thought of warning him about the future she had seen driven away by the power between them. Breath for breath they gazed at each other, closer and closer his mouth came to hers, but as she raised one hand, one finger, to stop him—in a dream of sweet pain—he caught her wrist and kissed the inside of her palm. Softly and very gently.

Then he was gone. Anne felt her entire body shaking as she considered what he had said, and against her will, felt gratitude. By the granting of that one wish it was as if he and she had become characters in a troubadour’s poem and, strangely, she was intrigued. And flattered. She’d never had leisure to play the elaborate court games of flirtation, but he’d invited her in to play with him. It was a casual, magnificent gesture he need not have made. She laughed aloud, but then the anguish and the shock welled up, and she stumbled out into the brilliant light of the winter’s day blinded by tears. And into the arms of Doctor Moss.

Unthinking, because he was familiar and because she thought he was her friend, she buried her head against his shoulder as he allowed her to cry herself out. He said nothing as he held the small shaking body with a certain reluctant tenderness, rocking her gently.

“I have come to fetch you back. Dame Jehanne sent me,” he said finally.

She looked at him in horror, eyes red from crying, pale face ribboned with tears in the silver light. “No.

The king will be there…and the queen.”

“Nonetheless. You will be missed.”

“But Doctor Moss, you do not understand. It is all the most terrible mess.”

Moss smiled slightly, he could not help himself. “I have been at court a long time, Anne. Assuredly, I do understand—”

“You do not.”

It was said with real power and he’d never heard that before from Anne. It was arresting, transformative. This was a woman’s strength, not a girl’s. “Therefore, tell me. I am your friend, Anne.

You can trust me.”

Anne sighed deeply; there was a choice here. Perhaps to speak of what she knew would make it less of a burden. Yes, Doctor Moss was her friend, she was sure of that. It was to him she owed her place at court. And yet…it was the king who needed her knowledge, not a courtier.

“Sir, I need a little time to think, for there are things that are sensitive. Frightening things…May I ask your advice a little later?”

Moss had to be content with that answer, though he burned to know more. Knowledge was always power at court.

“How did you know where to find me?” Anne had composed herself now, regrets and confusion put firmly to one side. She had to face them all again, face the queen…and the king. She could only do it if she were staunch.

“Dame Jehanne saw you leave with the chamberlain. She asked me to follow and so I did, discreetly.

The king did not see me.”

Anne was puzzled. Jehanne made no secret of loathing Doctor Moss; why would she have asked for his help?

Moss saw Anne’s confusion and cursed himself for an idiot. All very well to acknowledge a growing obsession with this girl to himself, but how had he allowed himself to indulge in such risky behavior?

What if the king had seen Anne and he together? He could have destroyed the patient work of months, all on a whim.

He gestured toward the edge of the glade where his horse was tethered behind a dense thicket of leafless hawthorn. “Are you ready to return?”

He sounded nervous, and Anne was about to question Moss further when they heard a distant clamor from the lake.

“The king has arrived at the picnic I think; we should go.”

Anne nodded. Moss was right. Each moment of delay made it more likely she would be missed by the queen.

She was grateful that he asked no questions as they cantered back toward the pleasure ground. When they rounded the bend in the road they saw a glorious sight: the king was gliding gracefully over the ice of the frozen lake, velvet cloak flaring from his shoulders, long particolored sleeves flying. And as they looked on he stopped with a flourish and bowed deeply to the queen, who proudly applauded, surrounded by her ladies.

Anne slipped into the press of women around Elizabeth, bearing a dish of sweetmeats that Doctor Moss had given her: marchpane rolled in violet-colored sugar crystals and preserved rose petals, favorites of the queen. Jehanne seized the dish and presented it, curtsying. “Here, Your Majesty, the girl has returned and, just as I instructed her, has brought the marchpane comfits freshly made at the castle. It is entirely my fault they were overlooked this morning.”

The queen waved acknowledgment, her attention elsewhere as she absently selected one of the sweets, her attention on the king as he removed the strapping that held beef shinbones to the soles of his long-toed shoes. Her face transformed into the most lovely smile as he strode toward them laughing and slightly breathless, cheeks ruddy from exercise in the cold air. “Hungry, my lord?”