“Does the sickness still trouble you?”
“It has passed in recent days, my lord.”
“Ah. Good.” He hesitated, now running his hand more firmly over her thighs and buttocks: he would not contain himself much longer. “Margaret…”
“My lord, I know that you will not wed me—”
“I cannot wed you, Margaret. Our stations are too far apart.”
She began to weep, knowing the truth of what he said. He needed a new wife—his
first had died a year previously birthing their eleventh child—but he would marry estates and nobleness, not some landless widow of an unimportant country knight.
Raby shifted irritably. How many times had they had this conversation? He had an image of her when her belly was as round and bulky as a kettle drum, waddling into court, and weeping and wailing and begging him to make an honest women of her.
Damn it! She had agreed to spread her legs for him; what did she expect would come of it? Virgin or not, she was a grown woman!
“Margaret! Stop your tears! I will ensure you and your,” and Margaret drew back at the emphasis on the “your,” “child will be well cared for. But I will not, ever, claim this child as mine.”
Margaret blinked away her tears. No, she thought, for you did indeed not father this child, although its father was in this chamber this night. But how can I say that to you? How can I tell you that this is a Neville child, although not yours?
How can I say that it was truly your nephew who took my virginity, not you? And how could I ever explain to you the magic that wove about all of us that night, magic that will take all of us to the heights of power and passion or, if it fails, to the depths of hell? How can I explain to you that it is your nephew whom I shall lave with all my heart, and not you, not ever you …
“I will not be a trouble to you,” she said, and Raby relaxed.
“Good.” He rolled her flat on her back, moving closer himself. She ate of his food, and basked in the warmth and shelter he provided. Now she must pay her dues.
She quivered slightly as he entered her. In the past few months she had become used to the sensations of loving, and no longer feared her time in Raby’s bed. “Your nephew is a very strange man,” she whispered, and received no reply save for a grunt.
Margaret ran her hands softly down his back, smiling into the darkened chamber.
Poor Thomas. He had thought he had only the demons to battle. Now he has his Church as well.
Raby cried out and clutched at her, relieving his lust at last, and Margaret whispered soothing and loving words into his ear. Margaret truly cared for Raby, and she prayed that the tenderness and concern that he exhibited (try as he may to hide it) might also present itself in his nephew.
If Thomas was beyond caring, if he was beyond loving, then she and hers could have no hope at all.
Raby rolled off her, heaved a great sigh, kissed her cheek, and gathered her into his arms. Margaret snuggled close to him, resting her cheek against his warm chest, letting the beat of his heart soothe her.
Her time with Raby would not last long, and Margaret wanted to savor the warmth and comfort of the man while she still could.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Prime on the Feast of All Saints
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(daybreak Monday 1st November)
— ALL HALLOWS DAY —
— I —
THOMAS SAT AWAKE through the night, wondering, fretting, fuming, and frustrated beyond measure.
After he’d spoken to a guard in the corridor, Will had led Thomas to a small chamber some thirty paces distant from Raby’s accommodation. Will sat Thomas on the pallet a guard brought with the clear warning that if Thomas were to leave, he would get a blade through his gut for his presumption.
To make his point, Will had opened the door to reveal three guards outside: battle-scarred, hard-eyed men, who stood with their hands close by their swords, to prove the truth of Will’s words.
A prisoner … of his own countrymen!
And of the Prior General.
And here he was, confined by common soldiers.
Him! A Neville. A Dominican friar. An intimate of St. Michael!
And so Thomas sat awake on his pallet and fumed until well into the early hours of the morning when he finally managed to laugh at himself. Lord forgive my pride, he prayed. It was no wonder both the Black Prince (and King Edward, for all he knew) and his uncle were furious at him. It was no wonder that the Prior General wanted him hauled back to England in chains.
He had, after all, left the friary in Rome without permission. He had wandered through half of Europe without permission. And he had talked of strange visitations by St. Michael and even stranger missions.
Who could possibly believe him?
And especially, Thomas thought further, sobering completely, after the misadventures and misdalliances of his youth and early manhood.
It was no wonder, either, that his uncle and the Black Prince were so angry with him. The English throne and high nobles depended on the goodwill of the Church, and to offend the leader of one of the most powerful orders within the Church—and one that could call the Inquisition down upon their heads!—was a sin almost without parallel.
He took a deep breath. God had sent this predicament to test his mettle and strength of purpose.
He would not fail. Circumstances seemed against him, true, but he could turn them to his favor. The Prior General wanted him back in England? That was good, because that was where Thomas needed to go to find Wynkyn’s casket, and if the
Prior General was angry enough, it would mean that he would be sent all the faster.
Once he was in England Thomas would decide how best to deal with the Prior General’s anger.
For the moment he needed to regain the confidence of his uncle, as of the Black Prince.
And then … there was her. The witch’s appearance in his uncle’s bed had been a stunning shock, and yet not a surprise. It only confirmed in his mind the lengths to which the demons would go in order to achieve their ends.
He had thought he could just walk away from her, turn his back, but the woman’s place in his uncle’s bed meant that he could not so easily avoid her. Besides, if he walked away from her, then the demons would merely put something else in his path, some other “test” that he might not so easily recognize. No, as that damned imp had said back at the Cleft, better the devil you know that the one you don’t. The demons thought they would tempt Thomas through Margaret. Thomas was damn sure they couldn’t. She was beautiful, and vulnerable, but all that was surely demon magic meant to tempt him. No, this Margaret could surely never tempt him, Thomas Neville, away from his love of and loyalty to God.
Thomas determined that he would keep her under close watch… perhaps even learn from her more details of the demonic conspiracy to wrest control of this world from God and the Church. Every warrior, whether dressed in armor or holy robes, knew that the enemy understood was the enemy defeated.
If he was to keep her under close watch, if he was to study her, then, again, he would need his uncle’s goodwill.
Thomas sighed, and shifted. He had not made a good start.
Thomas noticed that Will was still awake, regarding him from beneath the blankets of his bed. Doubtless he had witnessed a fine display of emotions roiling across Thomas’ face in the past hours.
“I have been a fool, Will,” Thomas said softly.
“Oh, aye, that you have.”
“Will you talk with me awhile? It has been a long night and there yet remains much of it to be endured. Come, Will, I have been away from my home many years, and have much news to catch up on. Tell me, when did my Lady Raby die?”
“A year ago now,” Will said, a little reluctantly, and even more reluctantly sat up, pulling his blanket about his shoulders.
“No doubt from exhaustion,” Thomas said, smiling, then crossed himself and sobered. “God take her soul, but… sweet Jesu! Raby kept her permanently breeding.”
Disarmed by the charm Thomas could exhibit when needed, Will’s mouth twitched, and he relaxed slightly. “Raby’s castle rattles with the footsteps of his brood. He has uncommon luck. How many other men can boast eleven children?”
“Aye.” In this world, most children died before the age of five, succumbing to either disease or the frightful rigors of childbirth. Raby had been blessed indeed.