Chapter 19

Sturry, 1322

As muster for King Edward's Scottish campaign neared, Maria silently watched her husband readying his armor, his lance of ashwood, his mace, and a new shield made of hide and wood and painted with a blue wolf's head. Botulph the smithy meticulously sharpened the edges of St. Michael, Phillip's sword. The very idea of another campaign, another leave-taking terrified Maria, but when she sought reassurance Phillip merely shrugged off her feelings or made light of her fears.

And I am a mass of fears, Maria thought, while following her husband to the stable area. She felt so distanced from him—from everyone—so lost and alone. Michael Hallam spent more time with Eleanora than Phillip did with her. Even little Tom preferred riding with his father and Lord Sussex or talking with the knights in Fordwich's barracks to spending a quiet moment with her.

"I am naught but a glorified nurse," she griped to Eleanora. "Tom only comes to me when he falls down or is out of sorts or hungry."

Eleanora merely laughed. "What boy prefers the company of women? And what mother would truly want him to?"

Maria was annoyed that her sister treated the matter so lightly and annoyed at her perpetually sunny mood.

Mayhap you think Michael Hallam will marry you, she thought sourly. But he is too devoted to his lord to make anyone a proper husband.

Not that Maria was any longer certain exactly what a proper husband should be, or a proper wife for that matter. She knew her relationship with Phillip was deteriorating, and since she couldn't pinpoint the exact cause she blamed him.

She watched Phillip lead out Merlin, his destrier, for inspection. Watching him run his hands along Merlin's broad crupper as expertly as he ran his hands along Maria's curves during lovemaking, she thought, You care more for your destrier than me.

Conventional wisdom held that a good warhorse should possess three qualities in common with a woman—to be fair breasted, fair of hair and easy to lie upon.

Am I the only woman in all of England who finds such comparisons troubling?

"Hello, husband." When he looked up Maria thought she detected a measure of annoyance in his eyes. "Are you so busy that you cannot spare me a moment?"

"What is wrong? Has something happened to Tom?"

"No, nothing is wrong with Tom. I would just spend time with you, since you are always off with Lord Sussex or someone, doing things that involve everyone but your wife."

Phillip turned his back on her and addressed the groom. "See to the fit of Merlin's chamfron. It seems a bit loose." He then turned back to her. "I am busy, Maria. We can talk later."

'"Tis obvious you take more pleasure in your horse's company than in mine."

After glancing at the groom, who quickly bent to inspect the stirrups on Merlin's gilded saddle, Phillip said, "My life might soon depend on my horse." His voice possessed the same patient edge as when little Tom pestered him overlong. "And I am not readying for battle because it pleases me, but because it is my duty, as you well know. A peasant's duty is to tend the fields, the clergy's to tend men's souls, and a knight's to protect them all."

"I need not a lecture on duties, though often you do. You are eager enough to neglect a husband's duties when it suits you."

The groom moved away and pretended great interest in several bridles hanging upon the stable wall.

"I would say I know well enough my duties, wife. You seem to have forgotten yours, however. Your conduct is unseemly."

"I am weary unto death of you men and the wars you so eagerly anticipate. Why canna you do like Papa? He paid a scutage so he wouldn't have to serve and risk his brains being mashed to gruel."

"Your father is old and crippled. He's not able to fight even if he would."

"I hate you," Maria cried, losing control. "Soon you'll go off and leave me without a thought to how I'll fare. You can prattle on forever about obligations, but you've always hidden behind them to do exactly as you please."

"Enough!" Phillip clenched his fist. Though he had never struck her, a husband had a perfect right to hit his wife. "You are turning into a shrew, Maria. I would rather spend my time fighting a battalion of Scots than to be cut to ribbons by your tongue."

* * *

Following their quarrel, Maria rode to the Leopard's Head. As her relationship with her husband had worsened, she spent an increasing amount of time there. She found the quiet house with its childhood memories more pleasant than current reality.

The Leopard's Head was located at the outskirts of Sturry Court above the River Stour. The court, owned by St. Augustine's Abbey, was a placid place. Chickens and geese scratched about the farmyard; milk cows peeked from the stables; a white-robed monk passed from the brew house to the lavatories while a handful of others clustered near the hall and abbot's chamber. Pleasant smells emanated from the bake house and kitchen. Beyond the stake-and-brushwood fence surrounding the court, bare-chested tenant farmers were harvesting fields of grain. Soon they would turn the grain over to King Edward's officials who, by the right of purveyance, were securing foodstuffs for the pending campaign.

Dismounting, Maria handed Facebelle's reins to a waiting groom. The Leopard's Head, at least, was old and familiar. As a child Maria had skipped through its narrow halls and played tag with Eleanora among the great boxes, tuns and casks stored on ground level. During summer evenings they had tossed rocks into the River Stour from their third-story garret room.

It was here, in her childhood bedroom, where Maria now spent most of her visits. Sinking down upon a bench positioned neath a narrow window, she looked out upon Sturry Court's buildings of flint and stone, the golden fields of the tenant farmers, and the yellow and white lilies glutting the water ditches.

"So much is wrong," she whispered.

Maria's unhappiness revolved around Phillip, of course. How could anything be right when her husband was indifferent to her? Why couldn't their relationship be the way it was in romances, where she would ever remain the object of his obsession? When he would sigh and tremble, become pale and sleepless just contemplating an erotic glance from her; when he might even die should she not grant him her favor? In her darkest moments, Maria wondered if they had ever been close, or whether her own passion had blinded her to his apathy.

The only time she felt connected was when they made love, but the lovemaking itself was a problem. If their union was blessed why hadn't they conceived a second child? Tom was four years old now. Perhaps she was barren because they had consummated during some improper lunar and planetary conjunction but Maria secretly wondered whether their problems were not rooted in an ancient tragedy. Had Edmund Leybourne's death cursed their marriage?

If I had obeyed Mother, if I had not run away, would I now be blessed with more children?

"But I would not have Phillip," she whispered. "And without him life would hold no meaning at all."

* * *

"Whore!" A Dominican blocked Maria's path to the stables where she had planned to retrieve Facebelle and return to Fordwich.

"Father, I beg your pardon," she stammered, stunned by the sudden assault. "Why are you—"

"What are you doing here, so near to sacred ground and dressed as a respectable woman?" The Dominican thrust his narrow face close to hers, his dark features twisted with hatred. "Where are your stripes, creature, your hood of scarlet rey?"

"I do not understand. Why are you saying such things? I... this is my property and I was just—"

"You will burn in hell for your corruption, you and the Bastard both." Grabbing a bewildered Maria's arm, the Dominican dug his broken nails into her flesh. "Do not think that you have fooled me or Him." He pointed a grimy finger heavenward. "We have seen you, pressing putrid flesh to putrid flesh, and our wrathful Father will sentence you both to an eternity of torment for your sins."

"I do not know of what you speak. Please, just leave me in peace." Maria tried unsuccessfully to twist away from the priest, who smelled so strongly of sweat, garlic and stale food that her stomach turned. "If you do not let go of me, Father, I swear I will call for help."

Late afternoon shadows crawled across the road along which three riders were approaching. The bells from Sturry's Church began booming out vespers. The priest raised his voice to an oratorical pitch. "You think I haven't seen the Bastard leaving your brothel at all hours? Jesu, no wonder England is cursed with such as he—"

"Leave go of her, Father Pieter, or I will slit your gullet." Richard of Sussex, who had been out riding with his squire and Ivetta Smythe, reined in his horse and quickly dismounted.

The Mad Dominican, as he was often called, had the unpleasant habit of appearing at the most inopportune times. Which was one of the reasons Michael Hallam guarded Ivetta Smythe's door during his lord's trysts.

"Fornicator! Blasphemer! Murderer!" Thrusting his corded neck out until he looked for all the world like an angry rooster, the Dominican screamed a confusing mess of accusations ending with the charge that Richard Plantagenet had been the killer of the sainted Thomas Lancaster "and the rapist of his widow afterward!"

Richard advanced upon him. "'Tis one thing to berate me for your fantasies concerning my political actions but quite another to accost a respectable woman."

Michael Hallam was right behind, sword in hand. "Which gives me good cause to do what I have long dreamed of doing." He smacked the priest's bony buttocks with the flat of his sword.

Father Pieter yelped.

"Now be along with you," Richard said, "before my squire really becomes angry."

"You'll not be rid of me so easily," Pieter yelled. "Do you think I have no eyes to see? This creature is no proper woman, no matter what you say."

He was interrupted by a loud laugh. For the first time Maria noticed Ivetta Smythe, still astride her mare and surveying the scene with high amusement. Father Pieter's diatribe suddenly made sense...

The priest gaped from Ivetta to Maria and back again. "I beg pardon, m'lady," he finally managed, addressing Maria. "I see clearly now that you could not be—"

"'Twill be the last error you make for a time, priest," Michael Hallam interrupted. "At least around my lord." He raised his sword. Gathering his cassock, Father Pieter scooted toward the gate with Richard's squire at his heels.

"God's Balls!" said Ivetta Smythe. "What a fool!"

"Did he hurt you, m'lady?" Gazing into Maria's stricken face, Richard forgot all about Ivetta. "'Twas all a silly misunderstanding, as you can see. I promise you the Dominican will be dealt with harshly, if you would so desire."

Maria's gaze shifted from him to the smirking prostitute.

"It does not matter."

She found herself shaking and stiffened her arms at her sides in an unsuccessful effort to stop the trembling. She was certain she was going to start crying and, like a wounded animal, craved privacy.

Hurriedly retreating to the Leopard's Head, she ran up the stairs to her bedroom. Clasping a carved bedpost, she clenched her teeth and closed her eyes.

Stop this! It does not matter, none of it. Not the priest, or Lord Sussex and Ivetta Smythe. Nothing here today has anything to do with me.

She did not realize that Richard had followed her until she felt his hands upon her shoulders.

"'Twas a mistake," he whispered. "All of it." The rose fragrance of Maria's perfume tantalized his nostrils. "I hope you will forgive the priest, and myself. I trust you know I would not hurt thee."

Almost imperceptibly Maria nodded. She felt the warmth of Richard's fingers through her tunic and experienced an overwhelming urge to whirl around, burrow against his chest and pour out her unhappiness.

'"Twas just a... surprise," she managed. "I would not have thought a man such as you would have to consort with prostitutes."

Richard turned her to face him, and lifted her chin with his fingertips. Maria's nearness was so intoxicating he found his good judgment, his carefully constructed resolutions crumbling.

"And what sort of man do you believe me to be?"

His touch caused confusion and a trembling that had naught to do with nerves. Maria was aware of the intimate darkness and the canopied bed beside them.

"Do you think on me sometimes," Richard whispered, "As I think on you?"

Maria opened her mouth to chastise him for his boldness. But she did think on him, far too often, and in a manner more intimate than was proper. She felt overwhelmed by so many conflicting emotions. She loved Phillip with every fiber of her being, and yet she was so drawn to Richard. How long had she felt this way? Since last Christmas, possibly. Since May Day certainly. She realized it now that Richard stood before her.

"Did you know, my lady, that for the past year I have thought of little beyond you?" The inner resolve Richard had so carefully nurtured evaporated like mist borne on the wind. "I tell myself I'll ignore my feelings but I cannot. Even now when I should be making amends with my brother I am mooning about Kent. I say 'tis because of Phillip, because of Edward and his favorites, but 'tis because of you. Each day I hope for a glimpse, a chance meeting, even when I force myself to stay away. I know 'tis wrong, but I canna help myself. 'Twould seem you've bewitched me."

Richard's breath blew hot on Maria's cheek. His hands, cradling her face, caused her head to swim.

"Would it surprise you if I told you your obsession for your husband is nothing compared to my obsession for you?"

His repeated mention of Phillip brought back a measure of sanity. '"Tis not meet for us to speak of such things, my lord."

"I am past the point of caring." Richard slipped his arms around her waist. He bent over her, his eyes holding her hypnotically. "Let me carry thee to the bed, Maria. Let me make love to thee, just once. There is no dishonor in giving yourself to a man who worships you, and your husband need never know. I am not considered so abhorrent by others, but 'tis you my heart desires."

Richard was saying things Phillip never had and a part of her bloomed like a freshly watered flower. Maria needed the words so desperately.

She returned Richard's gaze. What would it be like to be loved by you? To rest in your arms, bask in the sweetness of your words?

She longed to abandon herself to the excitement of the moment but convention held her back. Convention, fear of eternal damnation—and Phillip.

"We must remember my husband. I cannot want another man when I'm married to Phillip. And you, you love him also."

Richard's eyes narrowed. Now was not the time to be reminded of loyalty and obligation. Easier to repent of a deed once executed and block out thought long enough to enjoy the moment without common sense intruding—and guilt. Both of which he was beginning to feel. He removed his hands from her waist and stepped back.

"Someday Phillip will leave you, m'lady. And not to go to war. Who will you turn to then for solace?"

"He'll not leave!" Even as she uttered the words, Maria realized their falseness. All her married life she'd been steeling herself for that very reality.

"Aye, he will. And when he does—"

"Stop it!" Maria bolted past him, out the hallway and down the stairs. In the courtyard she raced past Michael Hallam and Ivetta Smythe.

Richard followed on her heels, but Michael blocked his path. "Nay, sire. Do not start what cannot be stopped."

* * *

In Ivetta Smythe's tiny cottage, Richard stood before the window, unshuttered to allow in the crisp evening air. The room smelled of wood smoke and fish. A hearth fire burned in its center, warming a huge cauldron of water that hung suspended from a chain. Ivetta's companion, a half-wit who also plied the trade, was pouring steaming water into a large wooden tub.

"My lord." Richard turned. Ivetta stood naked beside the tub. Flames caressed her body, strong calves, generous hips, the chestnut hair tumbling to a tapering waist. Looking at him neath half lowered lashes Ivetta tossed her head provocatively. "Would you join me, sire?"

"Nay. Tonight I'll watch."

She pointed to the tub where the water's surface was heavy with rose petals. "I am using the rose soap, my lord, just like you said."

"Fine, Ivetta."

"I like to please you, sire." She eased herself into the tub. "Do I please you?"

Richard nodded, then returned to his post at the window. His thoughts returned to Maria Rendell. Alternately he berated himself for being so weak and relived her every expression, word and act. She felt something for him, that he knew. He'd read her desire clearly enough on her face, in her touch.

Richard closed his eyes. This must cease. I must end it.

He heard Ivetta splashing in the tub, humming a bawdy tavern song.

Why cannot she be enough of a diversion?

Behind Ivetta Smythe loomed no complex friendships or obligations. Or if not her, Lady Beatrice or Constance Warenne or someone else? Why must it be Maria Rendell?

Ivetta's wet body pressed against him; her arms encircled his chest. He turned. Her lush mouth parted, her eyes narrowed to slits. Her hands slid downward, around his tunic, unlacing his chausses. Abruptly Richard pushed her away.

"What is wrong, my lord? Have I displeased thee?"

Shaking his head, Richard turned back to the window, to the cold chips of stars scattered across a cloudless, moonless sky. Wind buffeted through his tunic, raising goosebumps.

"'Tis Lady Rendell, is it not?"

When he did not respond, Ivetta said, "You have never turned me aside before." She retrieved a towel from the half-wit, dried herself and reached for her chemise. "Nor have you ever looked at me the way you look at her."

His voice lowered in warning. "Do not speak of her."

Ivetta had hoped that Richard would set her up in a fine house, perhaps even take her to court. Such things sometimes happened. She saw all her ambitions evaporating like dew in the morning sun, and because she knew their relationship was ending, could afford to speak truthfully.

"'Tis no doubt you are besotted with her, my lord. So why not just bed her and be done with it?" She went to a small dressing table, picked up a comb and began pulling it through her wet hair."It happens all the time. More than one lord would be pleased to trade his wife's favor for a higher position at court."

"Phillip Rendell would not."

"No man is without ambition. All can be bought, I'll wager. Even your friend." Ivetta inspected her face in a hand mirror. Mirrors were rare and costly things; this one was a gift from Lord Sussex. She would miss him, and not just for his generosity. "Life is too short, my lord, not to take what you want."

"I cannot. No woman is worth the price of a friendship. Not even Maria."