The King's Mistress. Terri Brisbin

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СКАЧАТЬ know him better than anyone, Marguerite,” Johanna replied in a bland tone of voice. “If you say he will claim you before the marriage can happen, I believe you.”

      Her temper flared and she flung the dress from the bed onto the floor. Grasping the edges of it, she tore it open and pearls and gems went flying all over the room. Before she could rip it into the pieces she wanted to, another voice called out to her from the doorway.

      “Is this how you treat the gifts of the king?”

      Marguerite turned as Lord Bardrick, Henry’s steward and henchman here at Woodstock, entered her chambers. Johanna made a quick curtsy and escaped, though Marguerite was not sure if her own temper or the steward’s lecherous gazes at the woman’s ample bosom made her run from the room. The door slammed and she was alone with one of very few men who had Henry’s confidence and knew the king’s secrets.

      “My lord,” Marguerite said, dipping gracefully as she knew she could to the floor in a curtsy, one that shared a glimpse of her own now well-endowed bosom with him. “I fear I am overwrought with excitement over my impending marriage to Lord…Lord…” She pretended not to remember the name of her prospective husband for a moment until Bardrick said it.

      “Lord Orrick of Silloth.”

      “Just so. Lord Orrick of Silloth. I mean no disrespect to the king. Indeed I am always pleased by his attentions and his gifts.”

      They both knew the gift most recently given to her by Henry. The babe had been a girl unfortunately, and of no use to Marguerite in her plans to make a claim for Henry’s further attentions and affections. At least a boy would have been accepted and graced with a title and a position of power and wealth as Henry’s other bastard son, Geoffrey, had been. Through a boy she could have some hold. But the girl born a few months ago was worthless to her and remained behind at the convent where she had given birth to her, a nameless noble, nay a royal bastard, to be raised by the nuns there. Her own sister stayed behind to oversee the baby and to answer her own call to a life of service to God.

      Bardrick walked to the door of the room, opened it and spoke to one of the servants waiting outside. “Take this to one of the seamstresses and have her see to it. And quickly, girl,” he yelled, pushing the servant to move more rapidly. “The wedding is on the morrow and it must be ready.”

      Marguerite watched with a sense of amusement as the girl gathered the pieces of the dress together and stumbled from the room. She had not moved from the spot in which she stood.

      “The king plans on carrying out this farce then, Bardrick?” she asked.

      “’Tis no farce, lady. You will marry Lord Orrick and Henry will brook no refusal on your part.”

      “And if I do not?” Marguerite could not believe this was the end. Henry would reclaim her. He would object, mayhap even at the last moment, and save her from this unspeakable match.

      “The last three people who refused the king’s generosity are not alive to tell you the stupidity of doing so. Think on that tonight as you prepare yourself for your marriage in the morn.”

      A shiver shook her and, even though she tried to hide it from this weasel, his smarmy grin told her of her failure.

      “Aye, lady. The prudent thing to do would be to acquiesce to Henry’s wishes. His loyal subjects who do usually live longer and better than those foolish enough to stand against him.”

      Fight it though she did, she nodded slightly in his direction, never meeting his eyes since she knew the satisfaction she would see there at her surrender. Bardrick bowed to her and backed to the doorway, the way he did when she was the king’s favorite. The insult of it was clear—she was one of the many who had sought the king’s bed and now were to be used as rewards for services rendered to his faithful.

      “Sleep well, Marguerite.”

      The sound of his laughter and scorn as he made his way down the corridor away from her was the worst of it. It broke her resolve and she fell onto the now-empty bed and let the tears flow.

      This could not happen to her. She had been groomed throughout her life to be the consort of a great man. Her blood was of royal stock and she deserved a husband of the same. She did not expect to be given instead to some barbarian of mixed blood in the north of England. This Lord Orrick lived as far from the court and the king as anyone could get. His lands were in some godforsaken place where there was never sunshine as in her own homeland. He was simply some minor lord over a few keeps and a mongrel group of villeins. She deserved more than this, more than him.

      She deserved the king.

      Marguerite waited for her grief to pass. There was still time. Henry could still, would still intervene before the words proclaiming her Orrick’s wife were pronounced. He could step in at anytime and call off this farce and gift this “lord of the north,” as he was called, with some mealy-mouthed chit more of his class. Someone content to suffer his touch and his life in the rough place he called his own.

      She remained in her chambers for the rest of the evening, waving off her servants and her meal, preferring not to suffer the pitying looks of everyone around her over this match. As sleep was finally overtaking her, she prayed that Henry was simply making a point to her about overstepping her place and that he would keep her as his own.

      Surely that was his plan?

      “If you tug that once more, I will have your head!” Orrick said through clenched jaws. “I am not some maid who needs these kinds of clothes.”

      “But, my lord, the king will be present at your wedding this morn, along with the most important of his court. You must look your best.”

      Orrick began to mumble, but realized the futility of it. His own servants’ efforts were being complemented by some of the king’s men in order to make certain that every order and direction of the king was being followed to the smallest of detail. The king’s steward here at Woodstock had visited him several times over the past two days in order to convey Henry’s pleasure over his quick arrival and his agreement to the marriage.

      The woman must have made herself into some kind of problem if Henry was this anxious to rid himself of her. And in but a few hours, she would be his—his wife and his problem to deal with.

      “Finish it, Gerard. Finish it now,” he growled under his breath.

      His man must have recognized the end of his limits of putting up with so much frivolity for he urged the others to complete their assigned tasks and leave the room. Gerard gave him one more look before also leaving.

      Orrick shook his head and found himself alone.

      He looked down at the elaborate tunic and the thick chains of gold that lay on his chest, and worried. He hated this much attention. He hated being at court. He hated all of this. But as a loyal subject of the king, he had no choice but to persevere until he could return to his own lands and sink back into the anonymity that the distant, wild north of England offered him.

      And take his wife with him.

      They would meet for the first time in less than an hour—a courtesy granted by the king at the request of the lady. She knew nothing of him; most at court could probably not describe him or even know they spoke to him as they did. But no one here hesitated from speaking of her. He had listened to the tales since his arrival; indeed СКАЧАТЬ