A Lily on the Heath (Medieval Herb Garden 4)

“I have little cause to smile,” she replied with fearful honesty.

“I have given you baubles and jewels. I have fed you delicacies, told you of private matters. I have even done as you begged, against my better judgment—allowing you to come and go from me in great secrecy. You are a leman to the King of England, the most powerful man in Christendom. How can you have no cause to smile?” He sounded wounded, and yet genuinely astonished.

“I do not wish to be with you in this manner,” she said. Despite the fact that she’d told him thus in many words and in many ways, he did not—or would not—comprehend.

Nay, ’twas not a lack of comprehension. It was a lack of conscience.

“I am your king,” he reminded her. “Your liege lord. You are my vassal. You are beholden to me, you have sworn fealty to me. Do you not forget that. ” His voice had cooled and now when he reached for her, his touch was not quite so gentle.

Now, in the chapel, in her sanctuary, Judith closed her eyes and pushed away the memory. She must accept her fate. Such was her life, her lot as a woman—for women had little or no choice in whom they wed. In truth, she reminded herself over and over, lying with the king was no worse than being wed to a man for whom she had no affection or care. She must do as her lord or husband commanded, must copulate with him as he wished, must bear his heirs as necessary…must even accept a slap or blow as her due, if he so chose.

Many women suffered such a fate—or worse. And being with the king was mayhap a better fate than being wed to a man she misliked—for surely Henry would soon tire of her, as he had each of his other mistresses.

And at the least, the king wasn’t rough or cruel. There were times when she could nearly forget he wasn’t someone with whom she wished to be, when she even felt a niggling of pleasure. But those times were rare, and only after Henry urged her to drink more wine than she needed.

She’d had no maidenhead when coming to the king’s bed. For that Judith must thank Gregory. Though they lay together only two times before he went off to join the traitor Fantin de Belgrume’s cause—and was eventually killed—she was no shy virgin at Henry’s hands.

Thus far, he’d been willing to keep their liaison a secret. That alone was, mayhap, testament to his attraction to her. For in the past, his lemans were never a mystery; everyone at court knew who they were. The women oft couldn’t conceal their pride and self-importance at being chosen to warm the king’s bed. It was an honor.

But Judith felt no honor in her predicament.

Pray the queen didn’t find out.

Pray the king didn’t get Judith with child.

Those were the petitions she asked, over and over. I can bear it…I will bear it willingly, Father, if You will allow those cups to pass me by.

Nearly a fortnight after leaving Clarendon, Malcolm and his companions rode over the drawbridge into the bailey. With them were the four brigands who’d survived after a violent clash near the town of Vartington. The other three thieves had perished in the skirmish.

None from the royal party died, though Claude, one of Dirick of Ludingdon’s squires, and a man-at-arms from Castendown were seriously injured. Mal, for his part, had no more than a cut on his thigh and an ugly scrape along the right side of his torso from the edge of his shield when he was nearly knocked off Alpha’s substitute.

A fortnight spent beneath the stars and sun, chasing down outlaws, tracking them for miles across the open land, fighting victoriously in a battle that could hardly be called thus—and all the while, jesting and conversing with peers of a like mind—had put him in a fine mood.

But now, as he d

ismounted from the stalwart horse named Theseus—who, though sturdy and strong was no Alpha—Malcolm’s fine mood ebbed.

He delayed going into the keep, taking the time to visit his warhorse and assure himself the leg was healed. Ludingdon and Castendown would report to the king, bringing the prisoners to him for their sentencing. Mal was relieved he wouldn’t have to face King Henry quite yet. He wasn’t certain he could hide his festering dislike for the man.

But that was naught compared to what he’d come to feel toward Judith. Sunny-faced, flirtatious, flamboyant Judith. A trusted confidante of the queen, cuckolding her mistress with the king. A two-faced, treacherous viper. He would never have guessed it of the girl he’d known at Kentworth or the teasing woman who connived to help an awkward young squire learn to fight with his sword.

’Twas no wonder Judith was all smiles when she spoke of the queen’s refusal to allow her to marry. If she should wed, Judith would be forced to leave her position as the king’s leman.

Once assured of Alpha’s good health, Mal had no further excuse to remain in the stable. Yet he took his time walking to the keep. Without realizing it, the roundabout path he took brought him past the rear of the mews.

As luck would have it, just as he walked by, Judith appeared. She slipped out of the building, closing the side door quickly behind her in an effort to keep the raptors from escaping.

Mal could have kept walking; in fact, he should have increased his speed and passed her by before she caught sight of him. But his traitorous feet did not obey the logic of this internal command, and when Judith turned, she saw him immediately.

“Warwick,” she said, clearly surprised. “You’ve returned. ”

“Lady Judith,” he replied in steady tones. In spite of his feelings and what he knew and had come to understand, Mal couldn’t help but drink in the sight of her. It was at that moment he realized how fully gone he was when it came to this woman.

And because he looked at her so closely—his eyes tracing rapidly over the simple loops of blazing braid over her ears, the delicate, curvaceous figure in its dark blue bliaut—he saw that her face was thinner, her cheekbones and jaw seemed sharper. Her eyes had no sparkle and in the stead of a warm smile, her lips barely curved.

“Did you catch the brigands?” she asked after an awkward moment of silence.

“Aye. The survivors are brought to the—to the king. ” Mal cursed himself for the stumble. Fool. “His majesty will pass judgment and sentence them,” he forced himself to continue.