Outrageous (32 page)

“I will step aside, my liege, as soon you step back.”

“This is none of your concern, Lord Griffith. Step aside.”

Henry’s voice was a whiplash, but Griffith didn’t flinch. “You made it my concern, Your Grace, when you wed me to the lady Marian. The child is hers, and therefore mine, and I will not allow you to take Lionel from us.”

Surprise made Henry react sluggishly, and he faced Griffith with a deliberateness that in itself was frightening. Jealousy, fury, and desperation combined in his eyes—a dangerous brew, especially in a king.

“Let us speak frankly,
Sir
Griffith.” Henry’s demotion was rapid and succinct. “The child is not Lady Marian’s, nor is it yours. It is the fruit of incest and rape. It is the son of Richard, that blot on the face of mankind. It should be confined for fear of the horrors its heritage will bring.”

“Lionel’s heritage is the same as your queen’s,” Griffith answered steadily, and with more truth than Henry would admit aloud. “Richard was her uncle, yet Elizabeth is a gracious woman, kind and charitable to all, and one of the bulwarks of your kingship.”

Petulantly Henry answered, “She’s not my queen. I haven’t had her crowned, yet.”

“Is that your way of having her confined, too?” Marian cried. “Is that her reward for sacrificing herself for the good of England?”

Griffith almost groaned at her interference, although it was no more than he expected. His lady had proved her courage many times over, just as she had proved her indiscretion many times over. God grant her diplomacy now.

“I’ll be king on my own merit, not on her merit or the merit of her family. Her family.” Henry spat on the ground. “Look at them. Her father was a drunk and a lecher. Her mother has already betrayed me. Her uncle…”

“A fine marriage,” Marian said. “You judge her on her patrimony.”

God had ignored Griffith’s plea, but Marian was
saying something Henry deserved to hear, something that might sway him from his course of vengeance. Griffith held himself still. He watched Marian, impassioned and angry, and Henry, cruel and contemptuous.

“It is a fine marriage,” Henry said. “Elizabeth doesn’t know—”

Marian laughed in contempt. “Doesn’t she? Oh, doesn’t she, Your Grace? I grew up with Elizabeth, and I assure you, although Elizabeth was never the highest scholar, she comprehends the minds and emotions of those around her more clearly than they understand themselves. She has had to. Her survival has depended upon it.”

Henry drew himself up, sweeping his cape around him. “I’m the king. I’ve kept my feelings hidden.”

“You’re a man, and her husband. She knows what you think, and she understands why you’ve failed to have her crowned, and every day you postpone that coronation you cut her to the core. She gave you an heir, she loves him to the exclusion of…of all others.” Marian’s voice broke, and she cradled Lionel proudly. “She forgets all her former loyalty. She forgets the oath she made me swear. She forgets her own flesh and firstborn.”

“Woman!” Griffith boomed. “Be silent.”

She turned on him, but he wrapped his free hand around her chin and spaced the words of his command so she could read his lips, if not hear his speech. “Be…silent.”

She quivered with indignation, defiance in every line, but his threat had penetrated the armor of her fury. Reason began to reassert itself and she subsided in tiny increments. When he released her, she bowed her head like some lesser creature and said, “I beg your pardon, my lord husband. I will do as you say, of course.”

“Congratulations,” Henry said spitefully. “You have succeeded in breaking the finest of Wenthaven’s spaniels.”

Griffith hoped that he, too, would retain control.

“Your Grace,” he said, “I once found Lady Marian defending herself against a man—against Harbottle. He wanted to strip her virtue from her, and she rejected him with a kick to the throat. Yet I, rude, impetuous ass that I am, blamed Lady Marian for Harbottle’s unruliness. Lady Marian said men always blame a woman when the woman is the victim.”

“Did you avenge that insult?” Henry asked.

“Aye, so I did.”

“But not thoroughly enough, it seems, for Harbottle reappeared to trouble us. If a weed flourishes, we should dig it out by the root. By the root, Sir Griffith.”

“Henry,” Griffith whispered, but the sound echoed throughout the chamber. “Don’t you yet understand? Lionel is the son of royalty. The
legitimate
son of royalty. If I should kill you here—and I can kill you here, as you well know.” He placed his fists on his hips and made himself a menacing presence. “If I killed you, I would be the lord protector of the king. I would be regent. I would fulfill my dream of an independent Wales without having to wait on your mercy. I would have at my side the woman Lionel considers his mother, and I would vanquish your seed from the earth. This place which you have chosen to be the resting place of Lionel could easily become the resting place of King Henry Tudor, and I would be as one with the Crown.”

Henry watched him without blinking, with both terror and amazement in his gaze.

Softly Griffith said, “We have the proof of marriage.”

Henry jumped. “What?”

“The proof. Lady Marian has it.”

“Impossible. I searched—”

“But couldn’t find it. Aye, because Lady Marian’s always had it. At any time we could have turned the
country upside down, had we chosen. Shall we do it now, Marian?” Griffith didn’t look at her, but he sensed that she moved to his side. “You wanted to live at court. You longed for a life of wealth and influence. This is your chance. Shall we do it now?”

She pretended to consider, her head tilted to one side as she watched Henry. “Shall we let Lionel decide?”

“What?” Henry’s shout rebounded across the walls, bringing a thump on the door as his men called to him. “Leave off!” he roared.

“Ask Lionel if he would be king?” Griffith nodded. “As good a method as any. Lionel, do you wish to be king?”

Still struggling to get down, Lionel said, “Nay!”

“You’ll get to live in a palace,” Marian coaxed, as if he could care.

“Nay!”

“And have men kneel to you and women kiss you,” Griffith continued.

“Nay! Nay. Lionel down
now
.”

A sheen of sweat covered Henry’s thin face. “You mock me.”

“Just a little, Your Grace.” Griffith took Lionel from Marian, although her embrace lingered a little too long, and swung him to his feet. “Don’t climb on the chairs,” he instructed the lad.

“You wouldn’t really try to replace me as king.” Henry wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

“Nor would you really try to have Lionel confined to the Tower.” Griffith waved his naked blade in emphasis.

“Of course not.”

“Of course not,” Marian repeated. “Our liege lord is ever wise.”

“As are Lord Griffith and Lady Marian.”

“Anyone can make a mistake,” Griffith said. “Only a fool insists on repeating it.”

Lionel cooed with concern when he found Honey, curled up by Wenthaven’s chair and licking her injured paw. With a child’s sure instincts, he let the dog sniff his hand, then cautiously began to pet her head.

Did he have the scent of Wenthaven on him? Perhaps, for Honey tolerated the attention until, with a sigh, she dropped her head on Lionel’s lap.

Henry watched without expression. “This proof of marriage…”

“Is in a safe place.” Marian dared say no more.

Henry sagged with relief. “Good. I would that it remain unseen, for my queen’s sake, if not my own.”

“That is a vow I believe I may make, Your Grace,” Marian said.

Henry backed toward the door, his gaze cold and his expression deadly. “As long as that proof is in a safe place, I believe you’ll find your safety guaranteed.”

Marian couldn’t stand to see it end this way—Henry defeated, Griffith rejected. She was, after all, a woman. Perhaps not a conventional woman, perhaps not the woman Griffith would have chosen if fate had given him a choice, but a woman nevertheless. With the whisper of Wenthaven’s countess in her ears, she cried, “Wait!”

Stopped by the plea, Henry lifted a brow. “Lady Marian? Have you more demands for me?”

“Only one, Your Grace.” She went to him and dropped to her knees. “I wish to pledge my fealty to you.”

She watched him as he stared down at her and realized how well Henry wore the inscrutability necessary for a monarch. In no way did he show he comprehended the depth of her submission. By not a flicker of an eyelash did he indicate any impropriety in her choice of place and time. Instead he readily took her two hands between his. “Do you wish, without reserve, to become my vassal?”

“I do so wish,” she answered. “I become your vassal, to bear to you faith of life and member and earthly worship against all who live and can die. I swear this by the memory of the holy Mary, who, like me, was the mother of a son.”

Henry nodded as if well satisfied, then raised her to her feet. The kiss of peace must seal their pact, but never had Marian had to kiss a man more unresponsive than Henry. He waited, silent and stony-faced, clearly expecting her to offer it freely.

To her shame she faltered. This final step proved too difficult, and she found herself unable to touch the man who had so threatened her son’s life.

At last Henry said, “Think of it as my token of homage. You have no other.”

She looked down at her empty hands in surprise. “So I don’t.” But his words broke her paralysis, and she put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth.

He kissed her back—not a pleasant kiss, but one that reminded her of his mastery—then pushed her toward Griffith. With a grimness at odds with his attempt at humor, he said, “A saucy wench you have here, Lord Griffith. Take care, or she’ll lead you a merry dance.”

“I do so pray, Your Grace.” Griffith received her into his arms. “I do so pray.”

“You’ll live on your new property on the Welsh border, of course?”

“As my liege commands, of course.” Griffith gripped Marian even tighter. “But we had first hoped to go to my parents’ home in Wales, where our marriage can be properly celebrated.”

“That’s an excellent idea. In sooth, if you stay far, far away from London, from the court, and from me, it would be even more excellent.”

At the door, Henry laid his hand on the handle and paused. He seemed to be deep in thought, and
Griffith tensed. Then, without turning, Henry said, “You have my thanks, Lady Marian, for reminding me of the pleasure my queen will experience with her coronation. As soon as Westminster Abbey can be prepared and the proper celebration can be organized, the archbishop will place the crown on her noble brow, and make her queen in her own right.” He stood in silence, still facing away. Slowly, as if decency were dragged from him, he added, “I will have her write you, Lady Marian, as often as she wishes. Your friendship means a great deal to her, and I look forward to hearing about your accomplishments throughout the long years ahead.”

He stepped out and shut the door before Marian could reply.

For that she was grateful. Putting her face in her hands, she sobbed with relief. As soon as she could, she struggled to speak. “I was afraid…I’d ruined it for her. I was afraid…he’d blame her for my outspokenness and use it as one more excuse to plot against us. But he does love her. He truly does. And do you think”—Griffith’s face shimmered before her gaze—“that he means to leave us to raise Lionel in peace?”

“Aye, that’s what I think.” Griffith’s voice sounded deep and rough-edged, as if he, too, fought some great emotion. “Else he’d have called his guards to cut us down and we even now would be dying on the floor.”

“Dying on the floor?” She blinked and focused more clearly on his face, trying to understand what caused that savage tone. The expression she saw made her leap back in horror. “Griffith?”

He followed her, towering over her like a monolith about to topple. “What I want to know is—how do you get yourself into such predicaments?”

Stupefied, Marian could only
gape at him. “What predicaments?”

“What predicaments?” he roared. “I walk in to find you defying the king of England, and you ask ‘What predicaments?’”

“I didn’t—”

“Every man on the isle of Britain wants you enough to kill for you, and you ask ‘What predicaments?’”

“That’s not—”

“You wear a skirt torn up to your knees, a burn on your hand, and blood splattered on your skirt, and you ask—”

Losing her temper, she stepped up to him and glared. “You pompous, overgrown, arrogant man! You dare talk to me about danger, when I saw you fighting Harbottle with nothing more than a war hammer? When I watched as Cledwyn shot arrows at you? When I saw you ride into Wenthaven’s stronghold alone?”

She realized someone was shouting, and she realized it was she. Glancing guiltily at Lionel, she braced
herself for the fear on his little face. Instead she saw a boy petting a dog and watching the proceedings with great interest. Like a spectator at a game of ball, he glanced from Griffith to her, awaiting the next volley.

She didn’t disappoint him. Pressing her finger into Griffith’s leather breastplate, she declared, “I should have put my knife in your heart when I had the chance.”

“You would have, but you knew I was right.”

“I would have, but you don’t have a heart.”

“Don’t I?” He tore off his armor. “Don’t I?” He snatched her hand and placed it on his chest. “My heart beats for you, my lady, in triple time. If it’s not beating for the horrors that truly menace you, it beats for the horrors I imagine menace you. I used to be a stable, reliable, solid man of good reputation. Now I’m always half-mad with worry, anger, and desire.” His palm pressed hers deeper into the warmth of his chest. His eyes narrowed on her face, swept her figure up and down. “Mostly desire.”

“Ha!” She jerked her hand away and stumbled backward. “Mostly silly—”

He didn’t move but observed her with an intensity that reminded her of a stalking beast.

“Mostly silly conceit and stupid male—”

He breathed audibly through lips slightly apart. His eyelids drooped. He looked hungry and sleepy and, as he claimed, half-mad with desire.

“Mostly, um…” She forgot what she wanted to say. She only knew what she wanted to do.

Reach for him. Touch him. Taste him. Mate with him.

He wanted it, too. She could almost smell his arousal, feel his heat.

She held up her hand. It trembled, and she snatched it back to her side. “Now, Griffith. Now, Griffith, we haven’t found a solution for—”

“For what?”

She didn’t know for what.

Backing toward the door, Griffith kept his seductive gaze fixed on her. “Art!”

Art fell into the room, with Dolan atop of him.

“Listening at the keyhole?” Griffith snapped. “Learn anything interesting?”

Abashed, Art scrambled to his feet, but Dolan lolled on the floor and smirked. “Nothin’ we didn’t know.”

“Where’s Henry?” Griffith demanded.

“The king is gone. Run out of here like the devil chased him. Took his whole bodyguard.” Art shook his head. “Didn’t even stop to eat, and that caused some grumbling, I’ll tell ye.”

Griffith smiled grimly. “As I thought.”

“Took ol’ Cledwyn, too,” Dolan said with relish. “His neck’ll be stretched before this fortnight is through.”

“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving dickweed,” Art pronounced.

Griffith marched over and encircled Marian’s wrist with his fingers. Like a manacle, only stronger, warmer, and much, much more sensuous. “Take care of the child. Lady Marian and I are going for a ride.”

“A ride?” Incredulous and obviously aware of their desires, Art waved an encompassing arm. “But there’s plenty of bedrooms in—”

Griffith glared at him. “A ride.”

Dolan elbowed Art. “He means he doesn’t want Lady Marian haunted by any memories.”

“That’s stupid,” Art said. “Where will they go?”

Laughing out loud, Dolan said, “Just about anywhere. How long’s it been since ye were in a desperate hurry?”

Griffith and Marian didn’t wait to hear the reply—Griffith, because he
was
in a desperate hurry; Marian because he towed her behind him like a plow behind an ox. They went out the main door, and in a blur
Marian saw mercenaries trussed together like pigs going to market, smiling servants, exhausted dogs, and a few bandaged men-at-arms.

“Griffith, shouldn’t we—”

“Nay.”

“But some of my folk—”

“They’re fine.”

“You’re heartless.”

Stopping so fast she bumped into him, Griffith took her in his arms and kissed her. Kissed her until she forgot her people and all her responsibility. She forgot war and grief and shame. When he peeled her off him, she dimly heard calls of encouragement, but it made no sense to her. Only his words made sense to her.

“I am not heartless,” Griffith claimed. “Come with me, lady, and I’ll show you.”

“We can take my horse.”

He smiled, the smile that had first lured her. His golden eyes glowed, approving of her, warming her, and soon she found herself before him on her own barebacked horse before she recovered half her good sense. The other half she kept at bay, asking only, “Where are we going?”

“Down by the Severn, where I heard the fairies call.” His arm tightened around her waist. “I’ve wed you in Holy Church—now I’ll call on the magic of the wee folk to bind you to me forever.”

“You don’t need magic.”

“What will it take?”

Laying her head back on his shoulder, she said, “Only love me.”

Exasperation shone from his eyes, and he sighed. “By the saints, woman, what do you think this has all been about?”

What had it all been about? she wondered with a chill. It had been about her insane ambition, and no sweet talk or mad passion could change that. She
didn’t want the warmth, the closeness, to slip away, but she couldn’t hold on to it. Slowly she lifted herself away from him. He tried to tug her back, but she resisted. “If you knew the truth about me, you wouldn’t wish to touch me.”

She felt the tension in him, then he loosened his grip and said, “I doubt that.”

“You were right. I did wish the throne for myself as well as Lionel.”

“I know.”

“I’m not his true mother, for his true mother would have never—”

He interrupted. “You’re too hard on yourself.”

“Not hard enough,” she mumbled, and wiped her eyes.

“My mother says the only mother who always does the right thing is the woman without a child.”

He wanted her to smile, and so she did, but it was a wretched thing. The corners of her mouth trembled, and she had to wet her lips before she could say, “My father almost never did the right thing.”

“Maybe he did the best he could according to his knowledge,” Griffith suggested. “Maybe that’s all he knew how to do.”

Remembering her own designs for Lionel, Marian agreed. “Maybe that’s all anybody ever does.”

“Those people who lived with your father…I was coming in as they were leaving.”

Marian laughed harshly, wondering what he’d thought of the exodus of Wenthaven’s furnishings.

“They said Wenthaven fell from the tower.”

“Aye.” She plucked at the horse’s mane. “He was trying to kill me, and found he couldn’t.” Clutching the coarse hair in a fist, she added, “But Cecily could.”

Speechless for a long moment, he stammered, “Cecily? You—you mean Cecily—”

“Is as big a fool as I am.” She smoothed the horse’s
mane with her fingers and remembered Cecily’s honest grief over Wenthaven’s body. “But she’s bearing my half brother, and she’s big and miserable.”

“And after the child is born?”

Marian shrugged. “I suppose she’ll live to plot again.”

Stopping on the slope above the river, Griffith stared out at the winding ribbon of water. There he seemed to find a solution to some dilemma, for when he slid from the horse, he raised a mischievous face to her. “Would you like to give her to Dolan?’

Bracing herself on his shoulders, she stared at him. “Dolan?” she repeated slowly.

“Aye”—he grinned—“Dolan.”

The vision of the wicked old mariner and dainty, pretentious Cecily rose before her eyes, and, irresistibly, she laughed. “Whom are we castigating?”

Chuckling, he drew her down into his arms. “They deserve each other.”

As she watched, his smile faded. Embarrassment and distress swallowed his amusement, and he swallowed before he spoke. “You weren’t the only fool.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were right. Henry did wish to harm Lionel.” He wanted her so badly he could taste it, but he couldn’t let her blame herself when he was equally at fault. He suffered when he put her from him, suffered from the desire to take her and love her forever. Distress bred frustration, and he said, “Yet, damn it! How could Henry have duped me so thoroughly?”

“You’re a man.” She shrugged, quite as if that explained it. “Men like you think only of honor and justice, and never wonder about the emotions. Henry could be kind and just about Lionel—when he hadn’t seen him. But then he looked on that young face and saw Richard the Third.”

Griffith agreed. “It is the truth.”

“Not the King Richard the Third whom Henry
defeated, who fought and died for his crown. That Richard Henry might be able to understand, and even forgive. Nay, when Henry looked on Lionel, he saw the Richard who had defiled his wife, and that Henry could not stomach.”

Ugly possessiveness had warped Henry—and worse, Griffith understood Henry’s emotions. He’d experienced those same emotions once—when he had thought Lionel was Marian’s son and Richard had forced the child on her. Hoarse and low, he said, “Tell me now. It is safe. Where do you hide the proof of marriage?”

“I burned it.”

He released her and staggered backward. “But you told the king—”

“That it was in a safe place. So it is.”

“You said…you said you would never destroy it. You kept it for Lionel. You said it was his birthright.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she looked at the ground.

He took her hands gently in his and turned the palms up. Blisters had swollen and burst on the mound beneath the thumb, leaving flesh marked forever with fire. Her index finger and the one beside it were shiny and purple, and redness crept across the skin like algae across a rock.

She had done this to herself to do right, because he’d showed her her ambitions and she’d been ashamed. Now he was ashamed, both about his inept judgment of Henry and about his uncharitable judgment of her. “I know my mother’s burn recipe.” He touched the injured hand, and she winced. “I can gather the herbs right now and…”

But that wasn’t what he needed to say. Words were difficult, slippery beings, but he had to try to make amends. “I wanted you to give up your quest and your dream, assuming they were too immense for you to bear. I had believed my honor to be
immutable, and your honor to be a lesser thing. You proved me wrong, about both your strength and your honor. I understand.” He gave her back her hand. “I really do. You wanted Lionel to be king of England. You wanted to stand at his side and share his pride. Well, I…um…feel the same way about you.”

“About me?”

His face flamed, and he strolled toward the river. “I’ve captured a gyrfalcon. Not many men can make that claim.”

“A gyrfalcon?” She followed him, fascinated. “You mean me?”

“Wild and free, soaring high and taking me with you. Do you want to walk? We have the time now. We don’t have to rescue anybody or fight any armies.”

Her unmarked hand crept under his elbow. “I’d love to walk.”

Griffith pointed toward a stand of trees. “Let’s go there. That looks like a fine place to hunt fairies.”

She looked at him, and he saw excitement in her eyes. “I would love to go there,” Marian said, “if you’ll tell me about the gyrfalcon.”

What had started as an embarrassment had become a lure to his bird, and she didn’t even realize it. Leading her down toward the grove, he said, “Of course, most men don’t even try to capture such a bird. They fear the beak and claws, but they envy the man who possesses one.”

“You think other men will envy you for having me as your wife?” She snorted. “The other men have women who sew and cook and take care of their families. Other women never fight with swords or travel alone or challenge the king. When your friends go home, they’ll say, ‘Poor Griffith. He’ll never have a moment’s peace with that outrageous Lady Marian.’”

“Aye, so they will. And at night, they’ll pretend they swive the outrageous Lady Marian, and their
dull wives will wonder at their burst of passion.” He put his arm around her. “But only I will have the real Lady Marian—queen of my home, my hearth, my bed.”

“I thought you were sorry Henry made you marry me.”

“Who do you think put the idea in Henry’s head?”

She pushed him so hard and so suddenly, he stumbled backward over a fallen log. “You did that?” He nodded, and she demanded, “Why did you do that?”

“Because I…ah…lost control.” She stared, incredulous, and he said, “It has been ever so where you’re concerned. I’ve been rash and foolish, sweeping you into my bed, taking you to my home against your will”—he scrambled up and glared into her eyes—“and I’m glad. By all that’s holy, glad!”

“But you don’t like to lose control. You resent me when I make you lose control.”

This was the time he should tell her. “I wanted you to trust me without returning the gift of trust.” Tell her about the previous siege of Castle Powel. “You recognized my cowardice, and gave me equal measure.” Tell her how his youthful rage had cost his father the castle and Art his eye. “You gave me nothing.”

He wanted to tell her, he really did. But it required more courage than capturing the castle alone, and he wondered if he could bare his naked and unadorned soul to Marian without shriveling in shame or crying out in agony. The mighty warrior inside, the one who had disciplined him for so many years, feared he might sound silly, or offend inadvertently, or—worst of all—get a tear in his eye.

In fact, he must have one, for she stepped close against him and brushed at his cheeks. “Griffith, Art told me about the loss of the castle, and how you’ve feared you would one day err again. But ’tis not your control I love you for—’tis the man who roars when
he’s angry and laughs when he’s happy and loves a gyrfalcon with such passion that he tames her, all unwilling.”