Chapter Eighteen

 

Merry laid the cool cloth on the earl’s forehead, soaking up the sweat that glistened on his pale brow. She’d already removed his blankets and cooled the room by dousing the fire in the brazier. Still, the earl continued to perspire profusely and to thrash in discomfort. She knew better than to trust the peacefulness into which he’d lapsed. At any moment, he might start violently from the pillow, crying out against unseen demons as he had been doing for half the day and all through the night.

She allowed herself a sigh of weariness. It was early morning. Out of pity for the manservant who had remained with her to tend Lord William, she’d ordered Egbert back to his pallet in the corner of the chamber and kept vigil over the earl herself since midnight.

That was hours ago. Her limbs were now leaden with exhaustion. More than once, she’d had to pin the earl to the mattress to keep him from bolting out of bed. He’d fought her, his attempts feeble yet powerful enough to sap her strength.

He seemed calmer now, rambling in such a way that finally brought him comfort. Merry caught herself listening to his words.

“Ah, Bea, sweet Bea! Your smile is as the sun; it warms my heart. Why did you leave me, Bea? I never thought you would die before me.” His face crumpled into grief as he broke into sobbing.

Merry’s heart wept along with him. Must love be so painful? she asked herself. Why does it bring despair, both in life and after death?

As the earl drifted off to sleep, exhausted by his own misery, she shed a tear for his loss and for her own. When would Luke return with the king’s decision? The waiting was an agony of uncertainty. If he’d reached the king’s domicile by late afternoon the day before and if the king had had time to see him directly, then sometime by the end of that very day, if he’d started his journey early, he might return. On the other hand, she might not see him before the morrow if he’d stayed to chat with Henry or if Amalie was there and had demanded—

The sound of the door swaying open snatched her attention. The sight of Luke stepping through the opening made her doubt her eyes. He would have had to ride all night to get there at that hour! Yet there was no mistaking the energy that flowed into her abruptly at the unexpected sight of him.

His eyes burned with zeal. With his cheeks still ruddy from his ride and his hair ruffled, he had never looked more handsome to her than he did then.

Her heart beat a tattoo of expectancy as he marched up to her, his face relaxed, an air of satisfaction about him.

“How do you, wife?”

How indeed? She nearly laughed, but stifled it, knowing she would sound half mad, so tense with expectation of his return, her nerves so badly frayed as if she were held together by a single thread.

Perhaps catching sight of the wayward tears still clinging to her lashes, or maybe it was her exhausted disarray, Luke’s eyebrows immediately sank into a frown. He swung a worried look at his grandfather. Yet seeing him peacefully asleep, he turned back to Merry.

“Have you been here all night?” he asked.

“Aye,” she said. “Your grandfather suffers the oddest fits and fevers I have ever seen.”

To keep from reaching for Luke and shaking him for information regarding her fate, she bent over his grandsire and withdrew the cloth from his forehead. “I think the worst is over now. He rests, at last.”

She stepped toward the basin by the bed, rinsed the cloth in lavender-scented water and wrung it again, all without taking her eye off Luke’s face. The earl gave a whiffling snore but did not awaken.

“Have you found nothing to soothe him?

“The chamomile helps a bit,” she exaggerated for nothing she did seemed to improve Lord William’s overall health.

“Then you know not what ails him?”

Helplessness put a stranglehold on her vocal cords. Luke valued her chiefly as a healer, and she’d failed him. Laying the newly dampened cloth on the earl’s forehead, she swallowed hard.

“I will soon,” she promised. Would she even have the chance to make good on her word? “He had a racking cough,” she continued, “which Amalie treated with a poppy syrup. His current symptoms started soon after—”

“Poppy!” Luke’s gaze jumped to hers, and the dark center of his eyes seemed to flare.

“’Tis a common remedy,” Merry assured him. “While Amalie neglected the earl in matters of cleanliness and comfort, I would have treated him with syrup of poppy, the same as she.”

Luke seized both her arms, and the fear in his grip went straight into her. “’Tisn’t red poppy that grows within these walls,” he said urgently. “’Tis opium poppy! Remember, I told you that I’d brought the seed vessels from the East years ago and had them planted in the garden.”

Dread pooled in Merry’s stomach as the words of that conversation returned to her. “Poison,” she whispered in dismay. “I should have realized earlier.”

Luke’s mouth became a grim line. “Aye, the juice of the plant is poisonous.”

In one accord, they both turned to regard the earl.

“It causes madness and copious sweating, the very symptoms my grandfather suffers. I should have noted it before!” He swore fluently in his foreign tongue.

“Why in heaven did you plant it if it’s poisonous?” Merry wondered out loud.

“Because the seeds eliminate pain and induce sleep. I’ve seen it bring relief to the dying. Under its influence, I’ve seen arrows removed from men and even seen soldiers who’ve had their limbs sawed off to save their lives without them screaming in torture or made unconscious by the pain. ’Tis a marvel when it’s used correctly.”

“If it isn’t?” she asked, her gaze fixed on Lord Williams pallid face.

“It becomes addictive.” Luke’s voice became gravelly. “It will kill, as one wants more and more of it. I wrote the details in my journal . . .” He gave Merry a searching look then glanced at his grandfather. “Can we leave him alone now?” he asked.

“I think so. Egbert will hear him if he wakes.” She glanced at the manservant who had lifted himself from his pallet to watch them solemnly.

“Come with me,” Luke said, reaching for her hand.

Suddenly, Henry’s blessing or his curse faded into triviality. Only the next few moments mattered, and for the time being, she and Luke were allies on a common mission. There was nothing beyond his sure, warm grasp. As she rushed to keep pace with his long strides, she was reminded of the time they visited the herb garden at Iversly with the common goal of preventing Philippe’s wound from getting more infected.

With her love for Luke overflowing her heart, she kept her hand in his, rejoicing inwardly at the gentle familiarity of his touch, astounded by how much she had missed him, even though they were estranged.

Arriving at his chamber door, Luke thrust it open, revealing a room lit only by the pale light of the sunrise. Releasing Merry’s hand, he lit two candles while Merry crossed straight to his great chest and released the buckles. With candlelight shining into the contents of the box, Merry located Luke’s journal precisely where she’d left it and pulled it out. Sitting together on the edge of the bed, with the book balanced between them on their laps, Luke began flipping quickly through the pages.

“Where is it?” he murmured, narrowing his search but without success.

Merry glanced at him sidelong. His midnight hair blended with the shadows behind him. His eyes reflected the flames that now lit his handsome face. Having been apart from him for three days, she had missed the quiet energy that radiated from him. She couldn’t tear her gaze from him—the symmetry of his brow, his nose, the determined angle of his jaw. All kept her spellbound.

“’Tisn’t here,” he said, meeting her gaze with a puzzled frown.

They stared at each other, her train of thought briefly forgotten.

“What do you mean?” Merry asked.

“A page is missing,” he said, sliding a finger along the tome’s binding. “It’s been removed.”

Merry took a closer look. Indeed, it appeared as though someone had severed a page with a blade, cutting it close to the binding so that its absence wasn’t immediately obvious. Sensing Luke’s sidelong stare, she drew back with a gasp, a hand clapped to her heart.

“Nay, you don’t think I did it?” she asked, horrified.

Disbelief transformed his features.

“Of course not,” he retorted. “The one thing I am certain of is that you would sooner harm yourself than an innocent soul.”

The warmth in both his voice and gaze immediately reassured her. Then his eyes narrowed. “Who would have done this?” he asked. “And why?”

Merry licked her dry lips and realized the pounding in her head was due to tiredness. The answer seemed obvious to her.

“Perhaps ’twas Amalie,” she ventured, aware that to accuse Luke’s former betrothed might lead to more trouble for herself. “She seemed to think Lord William was not long for this world. Indeed, she said to me that the kindest thing I could do for the earl was to . . . to poison him.”

Luke stared at her with puzzlement that hardened into horror. “You should have told me that immediately.” He slammed the journal closed, making her jump, before he set it aside and leaped to his feet to pace the rug before her. “You said she treated him with a poppy syrup,” he recalled. “You are certain?”

“Aye, but she may not have known it was the eastern poppy that grew here.”

He paused, clearly searching his memory. “Amalie would have known it,” he declared. “She took special interest in this chest when it first arrived, especially in the cosmetics, the kohl and the henna that I’d brought with me. I told her about the power of the poppy seed then, and she’d seemed fascinated to hear of its effects. God have mercy,” he added, raising a hand to wipe it over his eyes.

Merry realized that, like her, Luke hadn’t slept much if any the night before. The shock of discovering Amalie’s nefarious actions had put an unaccustomed tremor in his fingers.

“If she knew,” Merry said, seeking to comfort him, “why would she have done such a thing? She was already going to marry you, so what benefit to her to poison Lord William?”

Luke shook his head, unable to answer, shock still fresh upon his face.

“Perhaps she truly thought it would heal him faster,” Merry ventured, “or take away his pain.” She didn’t believe either to be true, but her opinion was likely colored by her dislike of the woman.

Luke shook his head and looked at the book. “The page that is missing from my journal describes in detail the dosages that could cause poisoning and death. If not Amalie, then who? There are not many who have access to this chamber, save our servants . . . and I trust my servants,” he finished, clearly implying that he didn’t trust the king’s cousin.

“But why?” Merry asked again, unable to fathom the woman’s motives.

Luke briefly closed his eyes. “Henry told me that part of Amalie’s disappointment—indeed, most likely the bulk of it though he said this not—was that she desires to live at Arundel.” He opened his eyes again to look at her.

Merry held his gaze, for the opposite was true of herself. ’Twas Luke’s heart she longed for, caring not a fig for Arundel, except in that Luke was so attached to it. If he came with only a hut and a sack of potatoes, she knew she would want only him.

“As long as my grandfather remains alive, he rules it,” Luke continued, unknowing of her warm thoughts. “In truth, he was never fond of Amalie though he was not unkind to her.”

Merry blinked. “How could he find fault with such a powerful woman, so close to the throne, beautiful and intelligent, wanting to marry his grandson?” she asked. God’s truth, if Amalie, with all her beauty and connections could not win the earl’s heart, what chance had she?

Luke shrugged. “He said she was nothing like his Bea; she was his second wife and much beloved.”

“He mentioned her while suffering fever,” Merry admitted.

“Ah, did he?” Luke gave a wry smile. “Even when not fevered, he talks of her—her smile, her eyes, her hair, her wit, her warmth. There is no woman he does not hold up to her, who does not fall short.”

“I see,” Merry said, remembering that the earl had told her she reminded him of Bea.

“Amalie was the opposite of Lady Beatrice,” Luke continued, “frosty, colorless, humorless, silent unless giving orders or complaining, pale, and, frankly, . . . terrible company.”

Surprised by Luke’s acerbity, Merry nearly giggled, only to recall that she had yet to hear of Henry’s decision regarding her and Luke’s marriage.

“Do you think ’tis possible that Amalie . . . weakened your grandfather?” She could not even directly make the accusation of poisoning. The cold-bloodedness required to enact such a thing, let alone effect it, shocked her to the core.

“Aye, I think it possible,” he answered grimly.

She regarded his stony expression with a growing sense of dread. “What will you do?” she finally asked.

His eyes narrowed, then softened as his gaze lingered on her upturned face.

“Nothing,” he said, unexpectedly.

“Nothing!” Merry’s jaw dropped. Was he forgiving Amalie because he still harbored feelings for her?

“Merry, listen.”

He returned to the bed and sat beside her, reaching for her hands and turning her to face him. Suddenly, she knew that the decision she’d been dreading was about to be shared.

“Henry was distressed to learn of our marriage, having heard it first from Amalie, you know that, yes?”

She nodded, bracing herself for a crushing blow. What Luke said next had the power to catapult her into misery or to free her from despair.

“He was sore displeased at what he saw as my betrayal, but I managed to talk him into reason.”

She swallowed against her dry mouth. Reason? “What did you say?” she asked, her hope nudging upward.

“It matters not. What matters,” he added, “is that the king is willing to accept our marriage.”

Blood roared in her ears. “Then you . . . ” She wanted to ask what Luke intended for his future and for hers, but her throat closed up with the sudden urge to weep.

Until that moment she hadn’t realized the depth of her anxiety. The unexpected reprieve broke over her like surf crashing onto the shore. Without thinking, she put her arms around his neck, leaned into him, and promptly burst into tears.

“Ah, Christ’s blood! Don’t cry,” he gently begged. “Hush now, sprite. Did you think I would let Henry tell me what to do?” He slid his palms up and down her back. “I told you, no one could force an annulment on us. I would never let that happen. Never.”

His words were a balm to her soul. She wished he had told her so earlier.

Mastering her emotions with great difficulty—for she’d noticed that carrying a child caused her a tendency toward weepiness—Merry pulled away, panged with sudden misgivings.

“Might the king yet refuse to grant you Arundel, though? Might he, out of spite?” she asked, wiping her wet cheeks with her sleeve.

Thoughts shifted behind Luke’s amber eyes, but he quickly concealed them by lowering his lashes. Taking her hands in his, he brought them to his lips, kissing her knuckles with a tenderness that made her heart melt.

“I don’t believe it will come to that,” he promised gruffly. “He gave me his word.”

Relief turned her lightheaded. Luke clearly believed in King Henry’s promise. Then self-pity grounded her giddiness. For Luke hadn’t told her that he’d rather have her for a wife than Arundel for a home. ’Twas only when he’d secured both did he seem satisfied.

Perhaps she expected too much from a man bound to her by gratitude, by a babe, and by suitability in the bedchamber. After all, passing on his grandfather’s title was his life’s ambition. She could not compete with such dedication, nor should she want to.

With that thought, she buried her selfish notions once and for all. She’d been given a reprieve and a blessing. She was beyond grateful.

Luke’s palms skimming up her arms to her shoulders wrested her attention to his earnest expression. With his fingertips, he lightly traced her skin at the edge of her neckline, giving rise to a shiver of pleasure.

“Come back to my bed,” he pleaded in a rough whisper. “We are husband and wife. No one can take that from us.” His fingers glided up the column of her neck and sank into her hair. Cradling the back of her head, he gave her a moment to deny him if she wished.

Not a word came from her lips, which she parted for him.

With a brief smile, he lowered his head and kissed her.

Memorizing the feel of his gentle lips fitting warmly over hers, Merry pushed aside any lingering regret at the absence of loving words. After all, he kissed her so tenderly, with such single-mindedness, that there was no question he desired her. He pulled her closer, gathering her gently, molding her to him with hands that cherished her. This was the Luke she’d known at Iversly and on their wedding night.

A fresh wave of tears stung her eyes. His kiss deepened, as if to claim her very soul. She kissed him back with all the love she’d held in store for days, for weeks, for months. Feeling him shudder, she basked in the glorious thrill of her effect on him.

“Sweet Merry,” he breathed, breaking away to rain hot kisses on her neck.

His hands went behind her, fumbling with the laces that held her gown in place. A moment later, it slid from her shoulders, along with her linen shift, draping around her waist.

With an appreciative murmur, Luke admired his wife in the sunlight that suffused the chamber. Because of her pregnancy, her breasts had grown fuller and rounder, which he clearly appreciated, cupping them reverently, his touch making her nipples flush and grow firm.

“My wife,” he murmured, with a desire-roughened voice, “I think you the most beautiful woman in the world.”

He looked into her eyes and she saw only sincerity.

“And I know you, my Lord Phoenix,” she told him with truthfulness, “to be the world’s most handsome man.”

She could not help her own voice growing husky; at the same time, she was determined to hold back the tears that pricked her eyes. “I have . . . admired you,” she added, with a nod, “since the day you rescued me from the fire.”

A look of pleasure bloomed on Luke’s face, in turn making her feel giddy.

“Is that why you nearly skewered me,” he asked, teasingly, “the day I rescued you?”

A laugh that was part sob escaped her, but she mastered her emotion drawing a deep breath. “I was afraid,” she explained, “that you would force me.”

“Why would I ever force you,” he asked, palming the heavy globes of her breasts, “when I get so much joy in coaxing your desire.”

Sliding his hands to her shoulders, he pushed her gently backward onto the counterpane while sprawling alongside her, one leg over hers.

In the next instant, he dragged her skirts up with his broad warm hand, watching her, no doubt noticing her eyelids growing heavy with passion.

“Are you afraid now?’ he whispered, his lips scant inches from her own.

Yes, whispered her heart though for reasons she could not tell him.

“Nay,” said her tongue.

He stroked the hair from her forehead and asked, “Then would you let me love you, Merry?”

She knew her quick breathing betrayed her arousal, and yet she hesitated, not answering right away. The small pang of sorrow over his choice of words was like an arrow to her heart, but she was determined to keep her pain from showing in her eyes.

“Aye,” she whispered at last.

Why should she be even the slightest bit sorry, she scolded herself, when he’d just then reassured her that their wedded future was secure?

He claimed her then, branding her with a kiss that seared her to her toes. Merry clung to his broad shoulders, delirious with the hunger that coursed her veins. She prayed it was only a matter of time before he felt in his heart what his body was telling her so plainly.

 

“God bless you, Your Grace, for granting me an audience.”

The woman throwing herself upon the flagstones in an attitude of abject servitude had the gruff voice of a man. Out of curiosity more than interest, Henry lifted his gaze from his cluttered writing table and frowned down at her.

She had been introduced as Agnes, Prioress of Mount Grace, North Yorkshire. Henry had heard the name so often in the weeks since his return from Normandy that he’d finally agreed to see the woman, if only to spare himself from hearing her name again. He could not imagine what a nun from the north of England would want of him. Yet she had sought him out and found him at Wallingford.

Her hands, splayed across the floor were large and powerful with short, clean nails.

“Rise,” said Henry, curious to see her face. She did so, and he found himself looking at a long, narrow face with a beak for a nose and flat, brown eyes. She called to mind a blackbird, a most annoying creature, in Henry’s estimation. Blackbirds were wont to gather after the hunt, waiting for the fat to be trimmed from the kill.

“What is your complaint?” he snapped, eager to return to the piles of ledgers awaiting him.

“Your Grace, I have something that belongs to one of your commanders,” said the woman, rousing his curiosity again. “To Luke d’Aubigny.”

He glanced up. “You have something that belongs to the Phoenix?” It irritated him to think of Luke just then. He’d suffered Amalie’s tirades for a dozen days straight.

Have you done nothing yet to reprimand him? she’d demanded that very morning.

What can I do that will not offend the barons? He’d given his cousin his standard reply. I tell you, cease fretting over the Phoenix and set your sights on another.

The Phoenix, she’d scoffed. I care not a fig for that Saracen bastard! ’Twas Arundel that I wanted. Am I not the cousin of a king? What good does it do to be your kin if you cannot even give me a castle of my own?

I will, he’d promised her. Have patience.

It irritated him beyond measure that Luke had laid him over a barrel—he, a king! Yet he depended on Luke more than he cared to admit. The Phoenix was a soldier at heart. His leadership stirred loyalty in the hearts of commoners and barons alike. Christ’s toes, he’d saved Henry’s very own life! How would it look to deny Luke’s right to Arundel, to refuse the title to his heirs? It would cost him not only his finest vassal but would set the barons against him for years to come.

Amalie’s seething bitterness was like a millstone grinding him down. He would gladly ship her back to Normandy or foist her off on the next unsuspecting courtier. Yet she would have none of them. Her sights were set on a lovely castle and spread of land in West Sussex. Where would he find another castle so beautifully situated to please his cousin?

The prioress shifted, reclaiming Henry’s attention.

“Permission to stand, Your Grace,” the woman begged.

“Yes, yes,” he said feeling irritated. “Get on with it.”

She did so, and then approached him a step closer, causing two of his guards to move in, swords pointed at the homely nun. Paying them no heed, she reached under her voluminous robes and produced a single mail legging of blackened chain, finely linked.

Henry’s curiosity rose. “What have you there? Show it to us.” He beckoned with his hand, and she laid the legging carefully in front of him.

Henry looked down at the mail with growing interest. How had a nun come by such a fine piece of mail? “What is it you want in exchange for this?” he demanded.

Her dark eyes watched his expression closely. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but it belongs to your commander Luke d’Aubigny and should be returned to him. Having taken a vow of poverty, I do not seek to sell the item.”

Her tone chided him, oh, so subtly. “How came you by it then?” he snapped.

“I offer it to you as proof that I know of whom I speak. For I have a complaint against your commander.”

His interest rose all the more. “A complaint?”

“Aye, Your Grace. Your commander vaulted the wall of my priory and abducted a heretic who was condemned to burn at the stake for attending to the devil and practicing black magic, who was even then being cleansed by the flames.”

Henry stifled a gasp of astonishment. Luke had done something wrong? The man who followed protocol and obeyed every order precisely—at least, he had always done so, before he’d married without his king’s consent.

With a tremor of excitement, Henry commanded the nun to tell him everything. She sent him an appeasing nod, rubbed her hands almost gleefully together, and launched into her tale.

Given the details he was hearing, certainty pulsed through the king. The woman could not be lying—she was a prioress, after all. Aye, and Henry knew only too well Luke’s habit of rescuing the downtrodden. ’Twas, an eccentricity that Henry thought curious but one he tolerated. Yet if the Phoenix had entered a sanctuary by force, then his crime was a grave one, indeed.

By heaven, it was the answer to his prayers!

“Describe this heretic,” he commanded, struck by a sudden suspicion. “What did she look like?”

“Her hair, Your Grace, is red like the flames of hell for which she is destined,” the nun said, warming to her tale now that she had the king’s interest. “I have heard a rumor that he brought her south with him.”

“Her name?” Henry prodded, careful not to jump to any conclusions.

“We called her Mary Grace, but her given name was Merry du Boise.”

Spinning up out of his chair, Henry strode to the window to hide his glee. Surveying his vast estate he thought, Ah, God is good to me! Luke had married a heretic, a woman condemned to burn! He forced himself to see the heroism involved. How noble. How completely foolish.

Sadly, there was little Henry could do to protect his vassal now. The matter fell squarely into the domain of the Church. He shook his head. ’Twas a lamentable shame the marriage would have to be annulled and the woman put to death for if the Church had condemned her, then no doubt she deserved her punishment. Henry could hardly be expected to stand in the way.

The glory of it was that Luke, no matter how outraged, would have no reason to blame the crown for her demise. ’Twas strictly a matter of ecclesiastical concern. Henry’s hands would remain unblemished, pristine! Luke would remain his faithful vassal, at his beck and call to do all those tedious jobs that the barons eschewed.

Locking a chuckle in his chest he gazed toward the Thames, glinting coldly under a December sky. He could follow the mighty waterway east all the way to London, to the Tower itself where ’twould be sad indeed should he need to imprison the Phoenix or his wife. Sad but mayhap necessary.

Indeed, it was good to be a sovereign ruler, for even God Himself seemed subservient to his will.

“Where are you staying?” he asked the prioress over his shoulder.

“At the rectory at St. Mary’s.”

“We will be in touch with you” he promised, his mind already plotting busily.

With a rustle of robes and a surprisingly light step, the prioress withdrew.