Rose Bride (18 page)

Afterwards, they lay tangled and sweating together as the sun rose and she could hear the muffled sounds of servants moving about the palace.

She would have to borrow a hooded cloak, Margerie thought sleepily, arranging herself more comfortably against his body, and hurry back to the women’s quarters before she was missed. Though if she discreetly let it be known that she had been in Lord Munro’s company last night, no further questions would be asked.

That was the way of the court. A nobleman might take a mistress from amongst the lower ranks without exciting much interest. But the same woman, unmarried, could not disport herself with just any man. Or not without risking censure and punishment.

‘What are you thinking, Margerie Croft?’ he asked, stroking her hair as his heartbeat slowly subsided beneath her cheek.

‘Of you in a toga and laurel wreath crown,’ she said at once, without considering how it might sound, ‘and me on my knees before you.’

To her surprise, Virgil threw back his head with a short bark of laughter. ‘Well, getting hold of a Roman toga might be difficult. But I’ll see what I can do.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Alone in his chamber, Virgil opened the small vellum-bound journal in which he kept a record of his various herbal mixtures and their effects. He studied the last few entries by candlelight, then dipped his sharpened quill in the inkwell and began to write out his most recent findings.

Third dosage: two drops in strong wine following first ejaculation. A second ejaculation achieved within thirty minutes of imbibement, followed by a third and fourth that night, and a fifth on waking at dawn.

Physical symptoms during intercourse: a raging pulse, coupled with strong physical stamina and desire. Recovery time between ejaculations ranged from thirty to sixty minutes.

Symptoms following cessation of intercourse: a dry mouth, general fatigue and aching limbs, but no abatement of desire. A dangerously elevated pulse at intervals, coupled with moments of extreme priapism, beginning to tail off circa twelve hours post-imbibement.

Virgil read carefully over his notes. He dipped his quill again, then underlined the words
strong physical stamina
, and
dangerously elevated pulse
, finally adding a postscript:

Conclusion: this mixture too stimulating for any man of middling years or ailing health. Adjust strength accordingly and repeat experiment
.

Once the ink was dry, Virgil closed the journal and walked to the window. He had heard distant shouts and the sound of hooves clattering on cobblestones, but looking out could see nothing, only the palace gardens stretching out into the dusk.

Closing the shutters, he shifted uncomfortably, for he had become aroused again, recalling with what heat and frequency he and Margerie had coupled over the past few weeks. It was hard not to smile with satisfaction. Margerie Croft was magnificently passionate in her lust, and as eager and ready for each of their couplings as he was. He could not deny how perfect she was for his experiment: a beautiful, sensual woman, and sexually available without the need for a wedding ring. Plus she was intelligent enough to please him with her conversation and wit as well as her body. Quite a beguiling companion, indeed.

Yet he felt guilt.

Margerie had no knowledge of his experiment, nor the potential dangers of the new medicament he had invented, nor why it was necessary for him to test the mixture on himself. She would find the whole business distasteful, he had no doubt, and perhaps even feel herself betrayed if she discovered his true purpose in coupling with her so frequently.

But he could not administer such a powerful aphrodisiac to the king without being sure it would not kill him. He had a duty to the throne as well as to his trade as a physician. Besides which, his own death – and a violently bloody one at that – would swiftly follow
that
error.

A knock at the door made him turn, frowning. ‘Come.’

It was his servant, Ned. ‘Master Elton, there is a message for you.’

Virgil took the proffered letter and unrolled it. He disliked showing emotion in company, and especially before his servants. But he was so shaken by the message as he glanced through it, he could barely conceal his surprise.

‘How and when did this arrive, Ned?’

‘A page brought it in haste but two minutes ago. I carried it straight to you, sir.’

‘Thank you, Ned,’ he murmured, trying to look unconcerned. ‘That will be all.’

His servant bowed and withdrew.

Virgil waited until the door was shut, then read the message again by the light of his candle, cursing softly when he reached the end.

Virgilio Christina salutem

Do not be shocked by this letter. I have just arrived at court and cannot wait to see you, my dearest friend. I have been given quarters near the privy gardens.

Dare I beg you to visit me tonight?

I know the hour is late but I complained of aches and fatigue throughout our long journey, so no one will question a visit from a court physician. Not with my precarious health.

I have missed you sorely this year, Virgil. Do not desert me now that I have finally left my prison.

Bene vale, C.

He was anxious, and a little angry too, that Christina had attempted such a difficult journey against his advice. But he had to admit that he was pleased that she had come to court. For Christina was indeed his ‘dearest friend’, and much as he occasionally resented the imposition of their long engagement, he could not conceal that he would be glad to see her again.

He reached for his cloak and cap, for the palace corridors were chill now that autumn was approaching, and made his way to Christina’s quarters.

He had intended to spend some hours with Margerie tonight. But a note had arrived earlier, briefly advising him that she would be otherwise occupied, in Munro’s bed.

Damn his eyes.

Virgil had intended to smile at his own jealousy, but the thin stretch of his lips felt like more of a grimace. He had tried to be philosophical about her affair with Lord Munro, even now it was an open secret at court. After all, he had known from the outset that he must share her body with other men. But knowing it and hearing it from the lips of amused courtiers were two separate things.

The current rumour went that the inexperienced youth was so besotted with Mistress Croft, he had kept her a prisoner in his rooms while she taught him every sexual act known to such a skilled courtesan. Virgil had laughed with everyone else when he first heard this tale, but inwardly he had been bleeding.

It was said some servant had stumbled in upon Margerie kneeling upon the bed, half-naked, while the embarrassed nobleman hid himself beneath the covers . . .

Even the king and queen knew of her shame. But to his surprise, Henry had merely laughed upon hearing the tale and said he wished the young nobleman well. It seemed odd when Margerie had refused to lie with King Henry himself.

Master Greene had taken him aside soon after, and explained that the king was once again taking the mild aphrodisiac he had prescribed for their wedding night, and had managed to enjoy intercourse with Her Majesty several times since their wedding.

So King Henry was in a generous mood.

‘But he would still mount his queen more than once every few weeks,’ the king’s physician had whispered lewdly in his ear. ‘He will not get an heir unless he can bed her more frequently, and His Majesty knows it. So tell me, is that new potion of yours finished yet? I told him you were working on a stronger aphrodisiac, and he is adamant that he will try it.’

‘The mixture is not ready, no.’ Virgil had refused to part with its secret ingredients. ‘It is far too dangerous for a man of his years.’

‘Then he can take a smaller dose.’

‘No, for once His Majesty has experienced the power of its effects, he will be tempted to take more and more. And to do so might kill him.’

Master Greene had stared at him in horror. ‘But you have tested it on yourself, and still live.’

‘Thus far it works as intended, as I have documented in my journal. But even at small doses it makes the pulse race and the heart begin to falter. Which could be lethal for a man whose health is already ailing. Sir, I need more time to refine it.’

To his relief, Master Greene had reluctantly agreed to wait until he had refined the concoction. ‘Do not take too long about it, Master Elton,’ the king’s physician had warned. ‘I will give you until the approach of Christmastide, no longer. Then you must either give me the refined aphrodisiac for the king, or resign your position at court.’

Virgil stopped before a large wooden door studded with iron. A guard in country livery half-slumbered there on his pike, his stubbled face pale, his helmet askew.

‘Sirrah,’ he said, waking the man with a sharp tap on his helmet. ‘I am Master Elton, court physician. Your mistress is in need of my attention. Take me to her.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the guard said hurriedly, fumbling with the door. It was clear that he was accustomed to his young mistress requiring a physician at odd hours, for he showed no surprise whatsoever. ‘At once, sir.’

He found Christina sitting up in bed, flanked and supported by pillows, and with fragrant oils burning at her bedside to keep her disease at bay. Her nurse was brushing her beautiful golden hair, long enough to fall to her waist, which framed a white face with high cheekbones. Christina’s face and arms were thinner than he remembered, and she looked quite haggard from her journey. But when her eyes flew open at the sound of his approach, he saw the excitement in them and knew her will to be as indomitable as ever.

Christina struggled to sit up straight. ‘My dearest friend,’ she said breathlessly, then waved her nurse away with an impatient gesture as she fussed about her. ‘It has been so long since I last saw you, I thought you must have forgotten me.’

Smiling at this naïve speech, the nurse curtseyed to Virgil, then drew discreetly away into a side chamber.

‘Thank you for visiting me at such a late hour, Virgil.’ Christina held out her hands to him. ‘You cannot know what this means to me. Ethel swore you would not come, that it was not fitting for a gentleman to visit me at night. But I
knew
you would not fail me.’

He took her hand and bowed over it, kissing the cool skin. ‘Christina,’ he murmured. ‘I would never fail you, you know that. But, my dear girl, you should be resting. I cannot believe your uncle permitted you to undertake such a foolhardy journey.’ He straightened, frowning as he glanced about the plainly furnished chamber. ‘Where is Sir Edmund? I must speak with him at once.’

‘Oh, Virgil, you must forgive me for not being more honest with you in my letter.’ Her vast blue eyes glowed luminously in her white face, a purity about her wasted form that tugged at his heart. ‘But my uncle is dead.’

He stared. ‘
What?
’

‘Ten days ago,’ she explained briefly. ‘A sudden fever. It took several of the villagers too. I stayed only to bury Sir Edmund and hear the terms of his will, then I set out for court.’

There was a sharpness to her voice that surprised him. Had Christina been angry with her late uncle? She had every reason to be, of course. Sir Edmund had controlled her every movement since her father’s death at an early age, and only allowed Virgil’s visits because he was training to be a physician and often brought her healing draughts. But Virgil had never known Christina to speak angrily of anyone.

‘My uncle kept me from you and the world long enough,’ Christina continued. Her thin mouth curved into a triumphant smile. ‘Now I am free to do whatever I wish. I have received a handsome allowance from my uncle’s coffers, and the whole estate will be mine so long as I marry,’ she said, pausing significantly, ‘within a twelvemonth.’

‘Marry?’ he repeated numbly.

Lightly, Christina touched the back of his hand. ‘This can be no surprise, my dear friend. Unless you have changed your mind?’

He could not reply, staring down at her.

‘We must have joked about it a thousand times, I know, planning our wedding and how many children we would have, all the time aware that my uncle would never permit me to wed. But now I am a grown woman and free to marry whomever I choose.’

Her smile was disturbingly seductive when compared to the innocent child he remembered from his youth, a girl who would rather discuss philosophy or Roman poetry than think of love and marriage.

‘You and I have been betrothed forever, Virgil. The time has come for you to claim my hand.’

‘But your illness . . .’

‘What better husband for a sick woman than a physician?’ She released his hand, suddenly looking exhausted. ‘Oh, Virgil, I know I should be in mourning for my uncle. But he was so cruel, keeping me a prisoner in the country, never letting me come to court . . . He knew the estate would pass to my husband if ever I married, under the terms of my father’s will, and so disinherit him.
That
is why he prevented us from marrying for so many years, not because I was too sick to be your wife.’