Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

The muffled voices from the great hall faded, soothed, and for a time he dozed. He dreamed of forests and the moon sailing in a dark sky and evil things abroad. And blood. Warm, warm blood. It was the sensation of more hot water being poured carefully into the side of the bath that brought him to his senses. Henry blinked and looked up. Reynard was pouring the water, concentrating upon his task, wearing his bland servant’s face.

“Is it late?” Henry asked, stifling a yawn. “I fell asleep.”

Someone stirred near the door, the whisper of skirts. “So late that I came to see what you were up to, my lord. Reynard led me to you.”

It was Jenova. She came forward, looking angelic in pale yellow, her hands clasped before her. But her green eyes held an expression that was anything but saintly. Henry slid further into the water, hoping to hide what she did to him.

“Bathing again, Henry?” she teased gently. “You must allow me to help you wash.”

“I have already refused Agetha.”

“But you will not refuse me, my lord. It is customary in noble households for the lady to assist her guests at their bath, as you well know. I would not wish you to think me impolite.”

Henry glanced at Reynard. Jenova had never done this before, and even though she was perfectly correct, his manservant was not a fool. He must know there was something else afoot here—he had probably known from the first. Henry hoped he would know what was required of him now.

Reynard didn’t disappoint. “I will wait in the hall, my lord,” he said without inflection. “If someone comes looking for you, I will be sure to let you know…in plenty of time.” The door closed behind him.

“Henry?” Jenova rested her cool hand upon his shoulder.

He lifted her fingers to his lips, enjoying the feel and scent of her. “Of course I will not refuse to let you help me wash. I will revel in it.”

She smiled and stooped to kiss his cheek. “Mmm. You smell of violets.”

“Agetha provided the soap.”

Jenova’s eyes sparkled with laughter. “Ah. Forgive her. She is very fond of Alfric.”

“Then she is a woman of little intelligence. Alfric does not want you for yourself, Jenova, only for what you can bring to his father.”

He had spoken the truth without thinking, and although Jenova gave another smile, the sparkle had gone from her eyes.

“You think not? Well, I suppose he is like all men. If a woman has property or fortune and she has breasts and the ability to make children, then she will do. What does it matter what she thinks or feels, if she is happy or sad?”

Henry sat up straighter. Suddenly the water felt a little chill, although Reynard had just heated it. He had sensed this strangeness in her before, when Mortred had been mentioned in the great hall, after the Baldessares had left in anger. Then, he had thought her unease had been because of his questions about Alfric, but now…

“This is about Mortred, is it not, Jenova?”

She stared back at Henry as if she could not look away.

“Jenova, did you know—” He shook his head, thinking that it was wrong to hurt her after all this time if she was unaware. Mortred, the king’s cousin, a man who drank to excess and frequented the brothels, and cared little for his wife and son, far away at Gunlinghorn. Henry had despised him even as he’d kept Mortred’s secrets, believing that his silence was protecting Jenova from the hurtful truth. He was still protecting her.

“Did I know?” Jenova laughed softly, but there was a terrible bitterness in her. Frowning, he searched her face, noting the little crease between her brows, the straight line of her mouth, the flush of heat in her cheeks. “Aye, I did know, Henry. I discovered quite recently that my husband was a liar and a cheat.”

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; Jesu! She knew about Mortred after all. He had believed he had saved her from that pain. Henry had even hoped that because Mortred had strayed only when he’d been away from home, Jenova would not have guessed.

Her eyes narrowed and her gaze grew hard and accusing. “You knew, didn’t you, Henry? About Mortred? All along, you knew, and said nothing to me!”

“What would I have said? I could not hurt you—”

Jenova gave another bitter, humorless laugh. “Hurt me? Nay, Mortred did enough of that. I did not even know until he was dead, after I had wept for him and mourned him and wished myself at his side in the tomb. So then I felt doubly ridiculous, as if I had been cheated of his memory as well as his love. I had mourned a man who had made a fool of me. Who swived every woman he saw or met or knew. He had one of my own ladies, here in my keep, you know.”

She wiped a tear furiously from her eye, as if she did not want to waste them on her dead husband.

“He betrayed me with one of my own ladies! I found out from her very mouth, before she left Gunlinghorn last year. She took pleasure in telling me, lingering on the detail.”

“Jenova.” But he had no answer.