Chapter
XV

The bridal chamber smelled of candle wax, roses, and honeysuckle. The last flame guttered and vanished, throwing the room into complete darkness. Garments lay strewn about, over stool and chest and vacant bed. In the corner farthest from the canopied scene of her destruction, Nora crouched. Her wild hair drawn up in a knot, her body wrapped in a sheet, she pressed herself against the paneling of the wall.

The agony had ebbed with her strength, and now it only lapped at the edges of her perception while the rest of her mind fell into blessed vacancy. When she began to hear noises, the ordinary creaks and moans that beset a house at night, she cringed, thinking he had returned. Once roused, her thoughts stirred, and she plunged into despair.

She was afraid. More afraid than when Jack Midnight and his band had attacked. More afraid than when her father had tried to make her marry Percivale Flegge. Lord Montfort hated her. What lunacy had possessed her to make her think he might want her?

He had confirmed all her doubts, all her secret fears that she didn’t deserve what she most craved. And when she faced her own unworthiness, saw it reflected in his eyes, she gave up hope.

Relief was to be found in death, and Nora dearly wanted that relief. Sometime during the night, after her tears stopped, she had gone so far as to search the chamber for the means to kill herself. She found a dagger in one of the chests and pointed it at her heart, but the act was beyond her. Of all the causes of her pain, this was perhaps the most costly, for she found she was too much of a coward to kill herself.

Nora shifted her weight, for her hip was going numb. Her back ached, and her eyes and mouth were dry. Wondrous strange it was, that small discomforts seemed so important when she faced the death of love.

She gave in to the discomfort and uncurled her body from the corner. She felt as stiff as a farthingale as she propped herself upright. Holding the sheet around her with one hand and lifting its trailing end from the floor with the other, she took slow, hesitant steps, unsure of her direction. As she hovered in the middle of the room, she heard sounds from the next chamber. Lord Montfort’s body servant was greeting his master. The night was over—for everyone except her.

What was she going to do? He hated her, but his hatred was based on misunderstanding. If only she could convince him that she hadn’t betrayed him. He might not love her, or even like her, but at least he wouldn’t try to kill her with humiliation and ridicule. But she couldn’t betray Cecil and, thereby, Princess Elizabeth. She must try to convince Lord Montfort of her innocence, yet in order to do that, she had to face him. She didn’t think she could do that.

During her deliberations, Nora washed and dressed in a gown she found laid out in the dressing room next to her chamber. Hurt and blood-smeared, she feared being caught naked by the man who called himself her husband. She tugged at her heavy overgown until it draped smoothly over her petticoat. The brocade opened in a V below the waist in front to reveal the silk and lace of the undergarment. She was fastening a girdle and pomander at her waist when three whispering maids burst into the chamber, carrying water and towels. The girls stopped and gaped at her.

“My lady,” one blurted out, “you’re clothed.”

Nora had no opportunity to answer, for her father appeared, barging past the maids. Casting a brief glance at her, William stalked into the bedchamber and stared at the wrecked bed.

“Gave you a rough tumble, did he?”

Nausea snaked through her vitals at his comment, and she pressed her fingers to her lips. William dug among the clothing and sheets, ripping them aside to reveal bloodstains.

“Good.” Snatching the soiled sheet, he dragged it off the bed. “Now I can go home.”

Nora watched her father leave without glancing her way a second time. The maids whispered among themselves, but Nora paid them no heed. His aims accomplished, her father was leaving—in the manner of a merchant abandoning the scene of an auction.

A well of emptiness opened deep inside Nora. The room vanished, and she felt herself sinking into a pool of nothingness. Into that murky void someone shouted her name. She started, waking to see the maids retreat.

“Nora.”

It was Lord Montfort. She lifted her skirts, preparing to run, but he was in the room before she could move. Shadowed, violet eyes impaled her, and she backed away as her husband advanced. The ravaging Kit was gone, and in his place stood the imperious and furious Lord Montfort.

“Get downstairs,” he ordered.

Nora kept backing up until she came up against a wall. Terror robbed her of speech. Lord Montfort stopped less than a hand’s width from her, and she could feel the heat of his body and his wrath. That wrath seemed to feed on the sight of her. When she failed to move or answer, his hands fell to the lacings of his codpiece. Staring into her eyes, he smiled.

“I told you to get downstairs.” Strong fingers jerked at the silk lacings.

Nora’s gorge rose as she perceived his intentions, and she bolted. Running through the connecting chambers, she didn’t see Inigo until she stepped on his feet.

“Christ, you witch. Have a care for my toes.” Inigo steadied her with a hand on her arm, but she shied away from the anger that suffused his tone. This man hated her, too.

“What is it?” Lord Montfort asked.

Nora jumped and whirled to face him. He was walking toward them, his hands busy with his lacings.

Inigo jerked his head at her. “The master is asking to see both of you. Wants to visit with his son’s beloved.”

“No.”

“Kit, he knows you’re up and about. You know how he is—won’t rest proper, too busy seeing to everyone’s contentment. The steward is coming to fetch you and the little traitor.”

“God’s blood.” The words were squeezed out between clenched teeth and stiff lips. Montfort turned on Nora, grabbing her arm.

She cried out at the pain of his grip, but he hauled her close and ground out his commands.

“You will dissemble in front of my father. We’re in love. Joyous, silly with it, beset with fair madness. And you, my wondrous bitch, you are my willing, doting slave. Give my father cause to fret, and I’ll make you wish it was Flegge who took you to wife.”

Dazed, Nora could only nod. The gesture was sufficient, and she found herself dragged by the wrist out of the deserted wing and through the house to the Earl’s chambers. Halting in the antechamber, Montfort pulled her to stand beside him. He snaked an arm around her waist and bent over her suddenly. Fastening his mouth over her own, he sucked at her lips until they stung.

Nora wriggled and made strangling noises as she fought him and her own fear. Just when she thought she would collapse with terror, he released her. She could hear his labored breathing, but her vision refused to clear. She could only stay where he held her, fighting for her own breath.

“Now you look like a maid newly initiated instead of a frightened duck,” she heard him say.

The arm at her waist tightened, drawing her close, and Montfort guided her into his father’s presence. Confusion reigned over Nora’s thoughts, and she missed the Earl’s greeting. She came to herself when Lord Montfort left her to kneel at his father’s bedside. From a distance she watched him kiss his father’s hand and bestow upon the older man a smile of jewel-like brilliance. Before she could gather enough of her wits to be surprised at Montfort’s sudden change, he was back and leading her forward.

“Nora,” Lord Montfort said, “Father is speaking to you.”

“Don’t chide, my headstrong,” Sebastian said. “I can see for myself she’s bewildered. Give me your hand, Nora.”

Nora stuck out her hand, and the Earl took it.

“Are you well?” he asked.

Her lips ached and stung, and she cast her eyes down. “Yes, my lord.”

The Earl patted her hand. “The blushes and discomfort will pass, my dear. But mind you, don’t let Christian pleasure you into submission. He wants taming.”

“Sire …” his son began.

“No protests,” said the Earl. “I’ve spent too many years battling that will myself not to know what’s best for you. Now sit. I’ve ordered our meal brought up, and then you both must retire to that bridal nest of yours. I’ve sent everyone away on the excuse of my health so that you’ll have no interference.”

Lord Montfort gently shoved Nora into a chair and stood behind it while he conversed with his father. Nora tried to follow their speech, but all her wits scattered when Montfort’s hand dropped over the back of the chair and came to rest on her bare neck. She cringed, half-thinking to rise, but his hand was there to stop her. It stroked up and down her flesh, and she knew it would appear the gesture of an obsessed lover. Judging by Sebastian’s smile, even his own father was convinced. Only she knew that her husband wanted to strangle rather than caress.

A meal was set before them, and Nora tried to eat. The idea of food was repellent, but the savagery in Montfort’s gaze when she played with her knife spurred her to stuff bits of bread into her mouth. It seemed hours before the Earl told them to be gone, but she gained the outer chamber at last. Montfort’s hand left her waist to fasten around her upper arm, and he dragged her back through the house to the bridal wing again.

Once in her bedchamber, he thrust her from him. She stumbled and rounded a chair, placing its bulk between them, but he wasn’t paying attention. He strode up and down the length of the room, muttering to himself.

“He knows me too well. Soon or late, he’ll begin to suspect.” Montfort stopped, his fingers tapping the hilt of his dagger. “He’s stronger and has more color of late.”

Nora watched her husband warily, but he appeared to have forgotten her. Easing from behind the chair, she began to creep away.

“Come back here.”

Nora’s feet sped faster.

“I said come back here. If I have to chase you. It will be with a whip.”

Sliding to a standstill, she clasped her shaking hands, then turned, taking a step in Montfort’s direction. He was eyeing her with that special loathing he reserved for her, and it took all her meager courage to walk to him and stand before him. To her relief, he didn’t touch her.

“We’re leaving,” he said. “Pack at once, but don’t bring a maid.”

“But—”

“Obedience,” he snapped. “I’ll have your obedience, or would you rather I had you stuffed in a chest and trundled out of London in a wagon?”

“B-but—”

“Answer me. Do I have your obedience?”

“Yes.” At his lifted brow, she corrected herself. “Yes, my lord.”

He stalked away.

“But what of Arthur, my lord?” she called after him. Please God he wouldn’t make her entirely alone.

“The whelp will stay here and serve my father.”

“Oh, please—”

“Or I could throw him out on the streets.”

“No!” She stretched out her hand in supplication.

“Then we understand each other. You submit to my will, and I allow the boy to remain in my father’s household.”

He was waiting for her answer. Nora fought the urge to run, to hide. Hugging her waist with both arms, she said, “Yes, my lord, we understand each other too well.”

Christian trudged down the path, dragging his pack behind him in the dust and trying not to think about the past two days. He’d believed himself well settled in his hate, enough to do things he hadn’t done in years. Not so.

The pack thumped along behind him, bumping at his heels, somewhat like his anger at Nora, which nagged at him, following him, nipping at his sanity. Like the peddler’s pack, his wife contained desirables, false treasures. It was his torment that he craved those treasures even when he most wanted to toss them in the nearest chamber pot.

And touching her had been Hell. He’d lost himself in her sweet nature, forgetting her duplicity as he touched Heaven. In loving her body, he’d found unlooked-for solace, a harbor that sheltered and delighted, teased and pleasured. By all God’s mercy, he had yet to succeed in wiping from his mind and senses the taste and feel of Nora Becket—all roses and honeysuckle, pink lips and white-rose skin. His only cure lay in remembering his father’s near death. This memory, this spur and goad, haunted him. It gnawed at his entrails even as his groin swelled at the mere thought of her body.

Christian stopped. The pack thumped his leg, and he kicked it.

“Christ!” He pressed his fists against his forehead as the twin serpents of his dilemma writhed and battled within him. His hands opened and slipped down to cover his mouth. Blindly he stared down the forest path.

I hate, I love … I’m in agony.

The trees before him blurred, and Christian closed his eyes. He opened himself to the feel of the wind on his skin, the creak of tree branch rubbing against tree branch, sounds that reminded him of years spent sleeping in the forest, hiding, fighting for survival and freedom from slavery. When he opened his eyes again, they were free of moisture.

He rounded a bend in the path and stopped once more. He could see the gate in the wall. It led to the kitchen yard at the house of Elizabeth’s jailer-host.

Hauling his pack over one shoulder, he adjusted the hood of his patched and torn cloak and ambled toward the sentries who stood at the gate. One of them yawned while the other swatted flies away from his face. At his appearance, the two perked up.

Christian grinned. Country life was country life, from village to village all over England. If there wasn’t a festival or fair, the days took on an unrelieved sameness that put the wits to sleep. A visit from a peddler toting city trinkets and the latest ballads and gossip set even the greatest household atwitter. He lifted a hand in greeting and began his cheap-jack’s cant.

“What is’t ye lack? What is’t ye lack, my lads? I’ve come from the city with fine wrought shirts and smocks, sweet gloves and silk garters, fine combs and glasses to charm the lasses.”

Both sentries grinned, and one threw open the gate for Christian. He ducked inside, calling to serving men, turnspits, maids, and cooks. At once he was surrounded by chattering, laughing folk. Christian swept his pack to the ground with a flourish and a bow.

“What will ye have, fair maids? Come buy, come buy, else I’ll take my wares and fly.”

The kitchen yard continued to fill with excited servants. Christian paraded masks for wearing abroad, perfume, pins and threads, lace, stomachers, and gold bracelets. He was dangling a scarlet ribbon in front of a milkmaid when one of the windows three floors above the yard was thrown back with a crash. A vase hurtled at him, and Christian jumped aside as it shattered on the cobblestones at his feet. A woman’s deep voice shouted at the group below.

“By Great Harry’s beard, what discord and noise is this?”

A pale face framed by red-gold hair poked out of the window, and Christian’s customers scampered away, all except the sentries. Those two tried to hide behind their pikes.

“Peddler,” the woman called, “begone with you.”

Christian swept an arm out and bowed low. “Fine lace and gold pomanders for my lady,” he said in his wheedling voice. “Rainbow ribbons and mysterious spices I have.”

“Guard, beat this man for his impertinence and cast him out.” The red-gold head retreated.

“Sweetmeats!”

The head reappeared.

“Delicacies from the East, my lady. Figs dipped in honey and Persian wine, sweet marchpane, cherries preserved in spices obtained from Greece and Turkey, tart of almonds.”

“Bring the fellow up at once.”

Christian was bundled into the manor house, his arms still laden with trinkets. Several older men in velvet gowns clustered at the entrance to the lady’s suite, and one of them lifted a hand, halting the sentries.

“Search him.”

Rough hands pawed at his body, and Christian set up a yowling protest until one of the guards cuffed him. His wares were inspected and tossed back into his pack. A guard shoved him into an antechamber and slammed the door, shutting Christian inside. A maid beckoned to him, her manner that of a harried cat.

“Quickly, man. The Lady Elizabeth’s grace has been discomfited by your noise. She threw a book at my head.”

Christian hurried after the woman and into the princess’s closet. As he stepped into the chamber, Elizabeth turned from the window. He bowed to her and set his pack down. The princess said nothing. Walking around him in a circle, she inspected his dusty jerkin and the worn hose that clung to his thighs.

“A ragamuffin peddler. A cheap-jack with the tongue of Judas and the wiles of a doxy, I trow. Your sweetmeats must needs be finer than your sweet self, my man, or I’ll have you clapped in the stocks.”

Christian pulled an ivory box from his pack.

“Alas, my lady, the poor comfits in this box can never rival your sweetness.”

“A pox on you. Give them to me.”

Christian held out the box with both hands. The princess took it and settled into a panel-back chair. Lifting the lid, she smiled and plucked a comfit from its nest. It disappeared into her mouth, and she chewed while surveying him. Between chews she demanded to see his wares, but when her lady-in-waiting squealed at the sight of a gold pomander, the princess hurled a chair cushion at her.

“Out with you, silly woman. Your shrieking will stop my heart or make me puke.”

The maid squeaked and trotted from the chamber. A silence fell as the Princess stuffed a fig in her mouth and fingered a bottle of scent. With her mouth full, she addressed Christian.

“One of the jewels in my shoe is loose. Have you silk thread the color of a bluebird’s wing?”

“Aye, gracious lady.”

Elizabeth rose, jerked her skirts up, and rammed a velvet-clad foot down on a stool. “Amend it at once.”

Kneeling at the Princess’s feet, Christian grasped the shoe lightly. Elizabeth pulled her foot out of the slipper and stepped on his hand. Holding him trapped, she whispered while glancing around the room.

“The hose fit you better than the habit, my Lord of Misrule.”

Christian spread his fingers out on the stool beneath Elizabeth’s foot and kept his eyes down. “Your acquaintance remains in France and none has heard from him.”

“Have you taken to wearing jester’s paint, or are you trying to match the color of your eyes with those smudges under them?”

“King Philip takes the Queen to task for refusing to settle the succession. The council rant at her night and day to name your heir, though there are some who have sent missives to the Queen of Scots.”

“She calls me bastard, does my cousin Mary of Scotland.” Elizabeth removed her foot and sat back down in her chair. “She’d bring war to England and put the people to the French yoke.”

Christian sank back on his haunches and took up needle and thread.

“I have counted your supporters, Your Grace. That is, I have stopped counting them, for they are too many.”

Elizabeth pounded the chair arm with her fist. “They do me no good if my sister kills me before she dies.”

“But that is what I’ve come to tell you, Your Grace. I’ve word that the Spanish have decided they hate you less than they hate the French, and that a weak young woman on England’s throne is preferable to a young woman on England’s throne who also has a French King for a husband.”

“Who told you this?”

Jabbing his needle into the velvet shoe, Christian said, “De Ateca.”

“And how did you persuade the conde to bare anything but his body to you?”

“I threw younger bait at him, and he tried to devour it. While he was stalking it, his tongue came loose from his brain.”

There was a pause while Elizabeth drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. Christian plied his needle and kept his senses alert for the faintest sound that might herald an intrusion.

“The more ill she becomes,” Elizabeth said at last, “the more nobles skulk away from court to throw themselves at my feet. If she hears of it, she might lose what is left of her mind and kill me.”

“But Philip won’t allow it.”

“Mayhap.”

“And your jailers seem more afraid of you than you of them.”

Elizabeth grinned, then threw back her head and laughed. “God’s arse, Christian, I thought to have you swearing to protect me and mouthing all sorts of comfort.”

“Your Grace had a lion for a sire, as I well know. You’ll devour this nest of rabbits they’ve set about you.”

Biting off the knotted thread in Elizabeth’s shoe, Christian moved to kneel before her. He slipped the shoe on her foot, then kissed her hand. As he made to rise, she put a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. She searched his features.

“You look to play the ghost, my Lord of Misrule? I see pain in those violet eyes where once I saw mischief and wickedness.”

“A trifling matter, Your Grace, Unworthy of your notice.”

She lifted his chin with her fingers and forced him to look at her. “What few men I can trust, I can’t afford to squander. You’re in trouble.”

“Bonner tried to get his hands on me.”

“But he hasn’t, and Bonner wouldn’t rob you of your appetite. God’s blood, you can’t afford to waste that spare flesh of yours. What’s wrong? Tell me quick, for my maid will return soon.”

Christian sighed, and his shoulders sagged. “I’ve taken a wife, Your Grace.”

“Beshrew you, what possessed you to do that?”

“She spies for someone, an enemy. And she nearly killed my father.”

“Who is she?”

“Nora Becket.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “You lie. You and little Nora the mouse? Nora and Kit? Impossible. And she couldn’t hurt anyone. You’re addled, my boy.”

Shoving his sleeve up to his elbow, Christian bared a long scar and held it up for the princess to inspect. “This is a token of her love for me. I have several, but she marked my father as well—a dagger in the back that just missed his heart.”

Long fingers traced the scar, and Christian shivered.

“There is no suffering at another’s betrayal where there is no love,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve spent a lifetime on the edge of a chasm, balancing, spinning, teetering. I’ve learned to judge people. Nora brims with innocence and kindness, two qualities I’ve learned to prize since I don’t possess them myself.”

“I hate her.”

“I know.” Elizabeth paused to listen to the sound of women’s voices in the next room. “They’re coming back. Listen to me, my wild one. Take no action before you consult our acquaintance. He’ll know the truth of it.”

“As Your Grace wishes.”

Christian kissed Elizabeth’s hands, then turned to his pack. He was stuffing baubles in it when the Princess’s ladies entered with the guards behind them. He was shoved out of the house and into the kitchen yard, where he was surrounded by household servants again. It was several hours before he could leave the manor and pretend to saunter along to the nearby village.

Anthony Now-Now waited for him in the forest with horses and fresh clothing. Christian threw his pack at the giant and stripped off the patched cloak.

“We got her to Falaise,” Anthony said before Christian could ask, “but she weren’t happy about it.”

“And my guests?”

“Aye, Kit. Simon Spry, Inigo and his band, and Mag and her doxies. Most of them’s there already.”

Christian settled a black cloak on his shoulders and fastened its silver clasp. He cinched his belt tight and adjusted the scabbard that held his sword.

“And my father?”

“Walked about his chamber today. Sends his love.”

Taking the reins of his horse from Anthony, Christian mounted. He removed a sealed letter from the pouch in his belt and handed it to his servant.

“Take this to the Earl and return to me at Falaise. And remember, not a word about our sweet traitor. And quit shying away from me, you dolt. It’s not you I’m going to punish.”

“We ail jump and shrink in your presence these days, every whip-jack and bawd.”

“Marry, sirrah, you’ve not the courage of a nursing babe.”

“Nay, Kit. Every one of us owes you a life. Glad to pay back a little of your care, we are. It’s just that we all seen you take vengeance before and feel sorry for the lady.”

Anthony barely dodged a blow from Christian’s whip.

“Sorry?” Christian hissed. “Sorry, is it? By God’s mercy, it’s my father you should feel sorry for. She put him in Hell, and me, too. I tell you I watched his life drain from him, slowly, knowing he suffered because of me.” Christian’s horse danced sideways at the sound of the whip and his raised voice. Christian subdued the animal without taking his eyes from Anthony. “Know you this, I’ll hear no more mewling about my bitch of a wife and her misfortune. The next man to give her so much as a comforting look will find his eyes carved from his head.”

Hauling his horse about, Christian kicked him into motion, leaving Anthony Now-Now to choke on dust and his master’s fury.

No one was going to stop him, Christian told himself. He would listen to no persuasions from weak fools. His soul craved vengeance, and he would have it in spite of the voice in his head that whined and howled in protest. He wouldn’t listen, for to listen was to weaken, and he’d promised himself long ago never to be weak again.