She caught Thomas’ eye instantly, and if the previous events had shocked him, nothing horrified him more than the sight of her.
She had bronze-colored hair, strangely accentuated with strands of gold, tumbling loose and heavy over one shoulder. Her face was beautiful, as if it was that of a saint. Bright black eyes stared at him with as much horror—so it seemed to him then—as he regarded her.
“Sweet Meg,” he whispered.
She took a step back, one hand instinctively resting protectively over her belly, and lifted the other to her face, stifling a soft cry.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Twentieth Sunday after Trinity
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(31st October 1378)
— III —
RABY LOOKED AT THOMAS, surprised at his words, then at the woman.
“You know the Lady Rivers?” Raby said to Thomas.
“No, no, I mistook her for another.”
Despite his smooth answer, Thomas could hardly believe his eyes. Here she was!
The woman the demons had said would steal his soul… no, no, they had not said that, but it was dear enough that this was the woman, this the bait, this the body he had seeded when he’d lain with Odile.
This was his failure … this Christendom’s failure. But only if he allowed her to steal his soul.
“The Lady Margaret Rivers,” Raby was saying, and Thomas concentrated on his voice only with the greatest effort, “has had some difficulties—”
Thomas managed to look back at this “Lady Rivers,” and suppressed a sarcastic laugh at the mixture of seeming innocence and consternation on her face.
“She lost her husband to the wasting sickness when they were in Bordeaux—”
Wasting due to sorcery, no doubt, Thomas thought, and hoped the witch could hear his thoughts.
“—with no means to return to her home, nor even to eat. I happened upon her by chance—”
There was no “chance” in this meeting, uncle.
” —I took pity on her, and since that day the Lady Margaret has been traveling with my retinue. Soon, I hope to enable her the means to return to England.”
“She has been ‘traveling with your retinue’?” Thomas said, looking back at his uncle.
Raby regarded him with eyes as coldly steady as Thomas’ own. “She has been a comforting companion,” he said softly.
Thomas turned back to Lady Rivers, still standing as if mortified by this exchange.
“Then I am sorry, Lady Rivers. I did not mistake you when first I entered. You are a whore, after all.”
There was a momentary, shocked stillness, then Raby hit him.
Raby was a great deal older than Thomas, but he was a lifelong warrior, lean and strong, and as tall as his nephew. His blow sent Thomas sprawling across the timber floor.
Margaret Rivers gave another low cry—still she had not said a word—and reeled back as if she had been the one hit.
“Get up,” Raby said.
Thomas raised himself on one elbow, stunned by the blow, and stopped, slowly shaking his head back and forth. Both his nose and mouth were bloody.
“Get up!” Raby shouted and, leaning down, grabbed hold of Thomas’ robe and hauled him to his feet.
Thomas wrenched himself out of Raby’s hands, and wiped the blood away from his mouth. “Am I to be punished for speaking truth?” he said.
“Am I then a whore also?” Raby seethed. “Margaret and I are way beyond the age of consent, and we are both widowed. Where is the sin in that?”
“Saint Paul said that lust is to be confined to the marriage bed, and that—”
“I give not a damn what Saint Paul said! The cursed man probably lusted after every woman who walked past him!”
“Please, I beg you …”
Both men turned and glared furiously at Margaret, and she backed even further away, wishing she could snatch back her words.
Raby whipped back to face Thomas. “You spent your youth disobeying your parents, you spent your young manhood disobeying me, and now you disobey your Prior General. You have ruined our family name! I care not for whatever visions your impetuousness has created for you! Ah! I am too angry to speak with you now.
You will spend the night in my squire’s quarters … and you vail spend the night there, Tom, be sure of that. I will not have you escaping off into the night. Will!”
A tall young man with short curly brown hair and a ruddy complexion walked from an inner door. “My lord?”
“I told you we were expecting my nephew. Well, here he is. He will spend the night in your chamber—I am sure you can find him a pallet—and you will bring him to me in the morning to break his fast at my table. Will, ensure he is at my table in the morning. I am under an obligation to the Black Prince to hold him securely.”
Will shot Thomas a look of utter disrespect, then bowed his head courteously to his master. “He will be at your table in the morning, my lord. Brother Thomas? You will come with me.”
Thomas hesitated, furious, but not knowing how to express it. Finally he contented himself with directing a look of utter malice toward Margaret, then he stalked over to the corridor doorway and walked through.
Will followed him, pausing at the entrance to look back to Raby. “My lord, should I ask your valet to attend you?”
“Nay, Will. The Lady Margaret shall attend me well enough.”
Will nodded, then was gone.
RABY STARED at the closed door, then turned to Margaret. She had by now backed up against the far wall of the chamber, and was almost hidden in the shadows cast by the bed hangings.
“Meggie,” he said, and held out his hand.
She stared at him. How could a man of war, so frighteningly angry one moment, display such tenderness the next?
“Meggie,” he said again.
“How can a man be full of such anger?” she said so softly that Raby almost did not catch her words.
“Tom has ever been full of anger. Meggie, Meggie, do not stand there in the shadows. Come.”
Hesitantly she walked toward him and took his hand.
“Good girl.” Raby bent down and kissed her on the mouth. “Now, will you attend me? I will crush my fingers if I attempt these buckles on my own!”
She half smiled at his attempt at humor, and lifted her small hands to the sleeveless stiffened leather coat he wore over his tunic. It was buckled tightly down each side, and Raby sighed with relief when it finally lifted off; grabbing it out of Margaret’s hands as she almost dropped it, surprised by its weight.
“I would give half my estates if I had the chance to recline all day in your dainty linens, my dear,” he said, running the fingers of one hand over the soft gray material stretched tight over her breasts.
He frowned slightly at this reminder of her pregnancy.
“My lord would look quite the fool if he were to don my gowns,” Margaret said, then froze, staring into his face, certain she had offended him. “My lord, I did not mean—”
“No matter, girl. Here, ah, take my boots—such pinchers!”
Margaret took his boots, as well his leggings and underclothes, and averted her head as he wandered naked about the warm chamber, sipping a goblet of wine.
She had been married ten years to her Roger, and had never in that time seen a man naked. Well, Raby certainly seemed intent of divesting her of whatever girlish modesty she still retained.
She bent over a chest, folding away Raby’s clothes, when she heard him walk up behind her, and felt his fingers at the fastenings of her own gown.
“I have thought of you all day,” he whispered, now sliding a hand inside her gown, rubbing her waist and belly. “Hungered for you all day.”
She trembled, and he turned her about, pulling her against him for a kiss that did, indeed, demonstrate his hunger.
“To bed,” he said.
THEY LAY a long time, naked, not speaking. Raby was content to lie thus, running a gentle hand over her body, marveling at its whiteness and slenderness.
As yet her pregnancy had not marred the smooth planes of her belly.
He sighed, holding his lust for her in check: it would be the sweeter when finally sated if he lingered a while yet.
“Have I displeased you?” she whispered.
“No.” He laid a finger on her mouth to prevent further speech, then continued to caress her body. He could still hardly believe her husband had not once thought to lie with her during ten years of marriage. Who would want to deny himself this? And Margaret had said he had not even glanced at her body, let alone caressed it. The man had been an unnatural!
His face went expressionless as he cupped a breast. She tensed slightly; her breasts were tender now, and she was always afraid he would hurt her. Raby trailed a finger over a blue vein winding away from her nipple, and then traced it down over her waist to her belly.