“Aye, your grace. It will be our pleasure.”
Richard glanced again at Margaret. “And mine, too. Well, be off with you now.
Best sate your wedding appetites while you have a mind to.”
And with that he turned and walked away, taking his gloves from his belt and idly swinging them to and fro as he went.
“Tom,” Hal said quietly in his ear. “Ignore him. He has not the manners of the lowest serf.”
“And to think that he shall be our king,” Thomas said. “And of the—”
“Tom!” Hal’s hand dug into his arm. “Do not say that here!”
THOMAS LAY awake late into the night, his hands behind his head on the pillow, staring at the low ceiling of their chamber. Margaret was asleep on her side beside him, her back a graceful pale blur in the darkness. They were wedded and bedded, and yet when he had finally bedded her, Thomas’ mind could not let go of the image
of Richard with his hands on Margaret’s shoulders, and his mouth on hers. From that image his mind would sidle forward to a point where he could see Richard casually offering him money, or a preferment perhaps, so he could sate his lust on Thomas’ wife.
After all, Richard would say with just the hint of glee in his gray eyes, I know you would understand the need to bed another man’s wife.
He must get Margaret away as soon as possible. She and Rosalind would be safe at Hal-stow Hall.
He rolled his head slightly, and reached out a hand, running his fingers with gossamer gentleness over her unbound hair, and from there down over her shoulders.
He knew why Richard was taunting him. He was displaying his power— you think to stop me, thrust me back into hell, and yet here am I with the power to call your wife to my bed with a click of my fingers— and reveling in that display.
He did not want Richard, not Richard, of all creatures, bedding his wife. But then, he did not want Raby to bed Margaret, either.
Did his uncle think to resume his affair with her, now that any resulting child could be safely accredited to his nephew?
Thomas was jealous, and that rankled with him. He tried to reason that he merely did not want anyone to cuckold him with Margaret—a man had his honor, after all.
But was that enough to explain his jealousy?
How did Margaret feel? She had looked at him with fear in her eyes this past evening, and yet had been wanton enough in their bed. Had she pretended it was Raby hunching over her in the dim light?
Did she love Raby?
Frustrated and angered by his confused feelings, Thomas rolled out of the bed and walked softly over to Rosalind’s cradle. Margaret had wanted her in their chamber, and he certainly had no objection to it.
Thomas’ face softened as he gazed down at his child. She was asleep on her back, wrapped tight in a blanket.
“Tom?”
He looked over to the bed. Margaret had risen on an elbow.
“Is she well?”
“Aye, she is well. I had only thought to see that she slept,”
He walked back to the bed and sat down beside Margaret. “You still fear me, I can see it in your face.”
She lay back against the pillows, and pulled a sheet over her nakedness. “You are my husband, and yet I know you not. Who are you, Tom?”
Thomas sighed. “That is partly what marriage is for, to enable husband and wife to come to know each other over the years.”
“Will you promise to know me, Tom? You do not respect me, and you doubt me, and yet what I want most of all is to be respected and trusted … is that not what marriage is about?”
He hesitated. “I thought you would want me to love you.”
She smiled, sadly. “Love is of no matter when it comes to you and I.”
“Meg, this marriage can only be but a very small part of my life.”
“Oh, aye, I know that.”
“There is something else I must do.”
“And aye again. I know something of that matter, too.”
Thomas reached down and pulled the sheet away from her body. “And how do you know of that matter, Meg?”
“You were the one to tell me. You fight against evil, for all mankind, and yet evil will win if you allow yourself to hand your soul over to a woman.”
“Then you understand the stakes, Meg. You are my wife, but you will never be my lover.”
And as he bent down to her, Margaret began to weep—softly, so he would not know. She was his wife, she was his property; she would never share his soul.
But she could still manipulate it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Before Matins on the Saturday before the Feast of
the Blessed SS Philip and James
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(after midnight 30th April 1379)
SHE LAY QUIET, her eyes closed, and listened to his breathing. It was an age, almost a lifetime, before she heard him slip into deep sleep.
Margaret sighed, careful to keep it silent, and opened her eyes. She had not thought he would sleep at all this night, and that would have been a disaster, because this was the only night—their wedding night—when she would have this much power.
If she could not accomplish what she must this night, then all could yet fail. Lori feus forgive me, she prayed, for this I must do.
Very carefully, and yet not furtively (for that would wake him), she rolled close, snuggling her body against his so that they lay touching their entire lengths.
Her body was still sticky and damp from the fluids of their recent bedding, and that was good, for it would prove the vital link between his soul and hers.
She lay waiting again, to make sure he had not wakened. Her eyes traveled slowly the length of his body, a small smile on her face as she recalled how they had made love earlier. He had been surprisingly tender and gentle, as he had been that night she went to him within the Savoy. He was a good lover, so far as Margaret had experience in loving. All she knew was that she enjoyed Thomas’ love-making far, far
more than she had Raby’s. Somehow, in bed, some of Thomas’ true nature showed itself.
That made Margaret think of Alice, and the promise she had made to her. She checked Thomas’ breathing once more … she would need wait a few more minutes yet until he was in the deepest sleep possible.
In the meantime… Margaret’s hand strayed to her belly, wondering. She hoped she hadn’t caught with child again tonight—if possible, she meant to delay her next pregnancy. Neither of them was yet ready for the horror the next birth would bring, and yet neither could avoid it entirely.
Margaret sighed. She mourned the loss of her milk not only because she missed having Rosalind suckle at her breast, but because the suckling of one child often delayed the onset of the next. Well, there was nothing for it now but to roam the fields of Halstow Hall and find those herbs—stinking gladwin, pennyroyal and hercules woundwort—each of which could stimulate a woman’s courses, and expel any child which had taken root.
Thomas’ breathing had now slowed and deepened even further, and Margaret raised herself on one elbow so she could see his face.
“Tom?” she whispered.
There was no response.
“Sweet Tom,” she whispered, and lifted an arm, resting it along his shoulder.
He stirred, very slightly, but fell back into unknowing sleep within a moment.
She laid her hand in his hair, sliding her fingers deep into his black curls.
He stirred again, and rested his weight back against her body.
“Dear Tom,” she whispered, and kissed his forehead. “Dream sweetly.”
He stood before tie Cleft again, but it was very different from his previous visitation.
It was awake now. Open.
Flames leaped from amid the boulders in great hissing spouts. Sulfuric clouds boiled forth, stinking the entire air. Screams and wails and pleas for mercy filled the night.
The Gates of Hell were unbarred.
Thomas threw his arm over his face, almost overcome by the heat and stench.
He stumbled back, felt a boulder against his legs, and almost jell in his haste to find some protection behind it.
More wails filed the air, but they came from down the valley rather than from within Hell. Thomas edged about the boulder, and peered down the track.
A group of children, about Jive or six, and utterly naked, were being herded toward the Gates of Hell by a semi-circle of shadowy, dancing demons. The demons carried pitchforks and sharpened stumps of wood with which they prodded and slashed, pushing the screaming children further and further toward Hell.