A Lily on the Heath (Medieval Herb Garden #4)

A Lily on the Heath (Medieval Herb Garden #4) Page 24

“As must we all.” Maris reached into the wooden box from which she’d produced her medicinal herbs. She hesitated, then withdrew a small leather pouch. “I do not know if you have want or need of this,” she said, watching Judith carefully, “but ’tis an herbal powder. If added to warm water and allowed to steep and you drink its tea every day, it will prevent a babe from growing in your belly.”

Judith nearly snatched the bag from her, but caught herself in time. “Truly? Oh, aye, I would…I would be very grateful.” She took the pouch. “But it may be too late,” she added quietly, her hand settling over her belly.

“When came your last flux?”

“At the last full moon.”

The other woman’s face tightened and her eyes grew sober—for they both knew the moon was full this night, and for the next two. “Does your flux come at the appointed time, with the same moon phase each month?”

Judith glanced at Tabby, who’d been watching in open-mouthed interest even as she bounced the gurgling baby on her hip. “Aye.” And she prayed for it to come—not only to prove the king had not planted his seed, but also for rest from his attentions.

Maris’s lips tightened. “Then we shall ere know of that, at the least. Use the tea in the meanwhile, Lady Judith. Each day, drink one cup.”

“I will,” Judith told her fervently. “Thank you for your kindness, Lady Maris. I hope you do not find it to your detriment.”

“I would I could do more,” replied the other woman. Her sharp gaze searched Judith’s eyes as if to read her thoughts. “Sit with me at the evening meal this night, if you will. Your cousin is close friends with my husband. You will find no judgment here.”

“And so you could not resist the chance to chase brigands and play with your sword,” Maris told her husband tartly, surveying the damage on his blood-stained sherte.

“Play is indeed the word,” he replied mildly, plucking at the strings that laced her gown. “And I have other ideas for play in mind as well.”

She danced out of his reach. “Not until I have seen to every inch of you—”

“Every inch?” he asked. “I have some inches for you to see to.” He patted the growing bulge behind his hose, grinning lasciviously.

Maris laughed and cast him a hot, purposeful look that had him lunging for her. She whirled out of reach once more. “But of course, those inches must need special treatment. Very special treatment. But only after I’ve peeled the last bit of cloth from your skin. Why do men allow their wounds to bleed into the sherte, and then dry thus?” she asked, moving back within range of his randy hands in order to soak the cloth in warm water and pull it carefully away.

“Because we do not care, for we know we have sharp-tongued wives to do it for us. Inflicting torture is one of the things they do best,” he said, sliding his hand around to cup her breast. “By God, you are still so full and round,” he murmured, burying his face in her neck.

Maris shivered and sagged against him for a moment, her hand settling over his flat belly, her fingers brushing the top of his hose-covered cock. It had been overlong since they lay together, for the king had called Dirick to him only a month after Rogan’s birth. Now the babe was a half-year old. She had sorely missed her husband, which was why she had made the journey to court.

But there was aught to be seen to before any special treatment so there was no blood over the bedcoverings. And Maris must assure herself there were no serious wounds on the man she loved, for after the injuries she’d tended to in his squire Claude, she feared what Dirick might be hiding beneath his bravado and clothing.

She slipped from his embrace, taking a piece of the sherte with her. He winced and glowered as she ripped it from his skin. “Not only do you put me off, but you torture me in the process,” he grumbled.

“Then let us talk of aught else while I see to you—no more distractions. Sally will be back with Rogan soon, and I know he will want to see his papa.”

“Only as long as you promise to give special attention to all of my inches.”

“But of course, my lord,” Maris replied primly. “Every inch shall get its due. Now, what do you know of Judith of Kentworth and her liaison with the king?”

“What say you?” Dirick stared at her, his lustful interest shifting to befuddlement. “Where do you hear this rumor?”

She shook her head. “’Tis no rumor. The queen confronted her in the solar this day. ’Twas an ugly scene.”

“Judith of Kentworth. Hair the color of fire? Mal Verne’s cousin?” Dirick repeated. “I would not have believed it.”

“Nor would anyone else. The other ladies were stunned by the revelation. Even Ursula of Tenavaux, who is quite close to Judith, did not know.”

“Not that the king isn’t known for his…appetite,” he mused as she pulled off another cloth-scab. “And she is a comely woman. Ouch!”

Maris grinned. “So sorry, my lord.”

He grumbled again and reached around, firmly grasping her arse with both hands as he pulled her up against him. “You are not sorry in the least.”

“For such a warrior, you are a quite a chicken-heart,” she told him, poking his shoulder. “That would not have even hurt Rogan.” Then, once again disengaging herself from his busy fingers—though ’twas getting more difficult to do—she turned her attention back to the matter at hand. “So Lady Judith did not flaunt her relationship with the king. She kept it secret. I wonder how long she has been warming his bed.”

“I do not know, Maris. But what I do know is…someone must needs warm my bed. Right now.”

And before she could make even a token protest, he scooped her up and tossed her onto the bed.

NINE

By the time of the evening meal, the gossip had spread like a blaze among tinder.

But Mal, who’d kept himself busy away from the doings of the court by working with Rike, first heard of the events in the queen’s solar when he joined Dirick of Ludingdon and the man’s wife at one of the trestle tables in the great hall.

“She’ll likely have a bruise, and mayhap a scar,” Lady Maris was saying to Lady Ursula as Mal stepped over the bench and settled into a place across from them. “I tended to her as well as I could, but only time will tell.”

Dirick handed Mal a bottle of wine to fill his goblet as he asked his wife, “Will she show her face for dinner? Or will she remain abovestairs, for fear of meeting the wrath of the queen?”

“I do not—ah, well, there is the answer to your question.” Maris nodded toward the front of the hall.

Mal, ignorant of the topic of conversation, didn’t deign to turn behind him to look until Lady Maris added, “See you there? That does not look like a woman infatuated with her lover. The king fawns, and Judith looks miserable. And the queen is nowhere to be seen.”

Mal had stiffened at the mention of Judith. But instead of looking, he busied himself by sawing through a loaf of bread with a dull knife. In the end, he resorted to tearing off a hunk of it and leaving the blade to rest. Then he reached for a platter of stewed rabbit and carrots, training his attention on the wealthy blond lady across from him. Lady Ursula was easy on the eyes, he told himself. He must set his mind to better acquainting himself with her. Or mayhap he could turn his eye to Lady Alynne, who had a sweet countenance and did not chatter quite as much.

“Her face! Why, look at her face,” Lady Ursula gasped, her blue gaze widening. “It’s green and purple! And the cut,” she whispered. “Her majesty’s ring was cruel. Poor Judith.”

He didn’t turn, yet there was a prickling at the back of his neck. Knowing she was there, and with the king. That does not look like a woman infatuated with her lover. The words hung in his mind, but he dismissed them.

’Tis more like she is ashamed of her conduct. Mortified that all at court know.

“But she is still a most beautiful woman,” Dirick murmured. “’Tis no wonder the king is enamored.”

“Indeed,” Lady Maris replied archly.

“If one is drawn to a lady with flaming red hair,” Dirick added, grinning idiotically at his wife. “And I cannot imagine who would be. Imagine the temper that would accompany hair of that color. Most particularly not I—for I seem to have an affinity for women with hair the color of pine bark and an imperious tongue.”

“She is acting bashful and shy,” said Lady Amice. “And she is not sitting with the king—only at the end of the high table.” The new arrival gathered up her gown to climb over the bench, taking a spot next to Mal. “Better the whore of the king should flaunt her favor and power. What has his majesty’s favorite to hide? With the king’s protection, she is untouchable, even by the queen.” Her voice was wistful and laced with unmitigated envy.

“I do believe Lady Judith would argue with that. Do you not see her face?” Lady Maris said coldly. “Lady Judith is no fool. And she is not one to flaunt anything. Most especially the cuckolding of her friend, her majesty the queen.”

Whore of the king.

Suddenly Mal was no longer hungry, though he’d eaten naught since the morn. The nape of his neck itched, encouraging him to turn and survey the scene himself. But he resisted, taking a gulp from his goblet instead. He was aware of Dirick’s regard, and an exchange of glances with Lady Maris, but Mal cared little for their private flirtations.

He rose abruptly and excused himself. There would be time later to woo Lady Ursula.

Somehow Judith managed to survive the meal in the great hall. Fully aware everyone had heard of the queen’s rage—and the reason for it—she wasn’t certain whether she’d become a pariah or merely a curiosity. By inviting her to sit at the high table—though not next to him, praise God—the king had shown his support for her and yet some deference to the queen.

After all, Henry had had many mistresses over the years. And more oft than not, they were openly acknowledged—at least by the king and those close to him. Rumors flew, and understanding glances and knowing murmurs were exchanged among those of the court. And the leman herself most usually had naught to hide. To be chosen by the king was, to most women, an honor.