Rose Bride (35 page)

The man was panting hard, staring up at him as though he were a madman. He was young, perhaps five and twenty, close to Christina’s age. His black hair was cut straight across his forehead, and his eyes were dark too, rather like Virgil’s own. But his build was short and muscular. He did not look afraid. Nor angry, surprisingly.

‘Get off me, you bastard,’ he grunted, and Virgil obliged, though kept his dagger in his hand in case the man decided to avenge the insult.

He looked at Christina, feeling indeed as if he were going mad. ‘Your lover?’

‘And soon to be my husband,’ she said proudly, showing him a small silver ring on her finger. ‘He is Humphrey Delacour, a distant cousin of mine. He came on a visit a few weeks ago, to pay his respects, for he knew my uncle had lately died. He found me alone here with only your mother for company, and thought it wrong for two women to live unprotected.’ Her eyes flashed intimately to the man’s face, and a lewd smile passed between them. ‘So he stayed.’

And fucked his way into your fortune, Virgil thought, his lip curling.

‘You must forgive my haste in assuming the worst,’ he said grudgingly to the man.

The fellow was after her money, of course. Humphrey Delacour did not look as though he had a pot to piss in, yet here the villain was, after a few bare weeks of acquaintance, treating her like a whore.

In the stables, for God’s sake! Where any servant might have seen them. Or even his own mother. Had she no shame?

He glanced at her face, and guessed not. She was enjoying her transgressions too much, and would not yield easily to any argument against this interloper. He would have to tread carefully if he was to dislodge him.

‘I have known Christina for many years,’ he explained to the newcomer, ‘and have only her well-being in mind. So you are her cousin, sir?’

‘Distant,’ she insisted, watching them with sharp eyes and an over-bright smile. ‘Humphrey, this is my friend, Master Elton. The one I told you about.’

Humphrey did not speak, but gave him a wary nod. He had dusted himself down, and was now fumbling with his codpiece, trying to make himself look respectable. But there was no shame in his face either.

A distant cousin. At least their coupling could not be seen as incest then, he thought grimly. But he was not happy. She would have been a virgin when Humphrey first took her. How long ago? A week? Two, at the most? Or had he moved even more swiftly than that?

It would not have been difficult for a personable young stranger like Humphrey to make her fall in love with him, he realised, eyeing the lusty glow in her face. Christina might be only a few years younger than he was, but she was so much more childlike in her mind than other women her age. She had spent most of her life in bed, a confirmed invalid, and had only recently left her house to visit court for the first time.

She was an innocent, by God.

And this rough fellow had taken advantage of her, treating Christina little better than a whore. Now he would wed her for her estate and the wealth in her family coffers, and probably kill her in the process.

It made him sick.

‘Perhaps we should talk privately,’ he said, turning to Christina.

‘And perhaps you should leave,’ she countered, her look defiant. ‘For I have nothing to say.’

‘Christina, please. Five minutes.’

‘Now, Christina,’ Humphrey intervened sharply, his clothes restored to rights, ‘you have no father, nor even uncle now, to guide you. And no brother either. You told me yourself, Master Elton is as close to an older brother as you ever had. So let the man say his piece, he has the right.’

‘But, Humphrey—’

‘When he finds it is a love match, I am sure Master Elton will give us his blessing. Now do as I bid you, girl, and don’t argue.’

She swallowed, then lowered her gaze to the floor. ‘Very well, Humphrey. Since you wish it.’

For a second, Virgil was tempted to punch Humphrey Delacour in the mouth for speaking to her so roughly. But then guilt spurred him, and he remembered his own cruel commands to Margerie on their wedding night, eschewing tenderness and forcing her into submission instead.

Was he no better than this coarse ruffian, then? It was a cold and sobering thought.

Humphrey had a dagger on his own belt, Virgil noticed with interest, but had not reached for it once, not even when torn away from his lover and wrestled to the ground.

Not a fighter, then. But certainly a lover. And a cunning strategist.

‘I will go for an hour’s ride about the place, as I purposed before Christina distracted me,’ Humphrey said calmly, and they followed him out to the yard to watch him swing up onto the broad back of his cob. ‘I shall see you anon, Christina.’

‘Ride safely,’ she whispered after him, and watched her lover clatter out of the yard, her blue eyes smiling and a silly fluttering look on her face that made her look about twelve.

She turned to him and the smile on her face faded. ‘Don’t judge me, Virgil,’ she said tartly. ‘Humphrey may say you have the right, but you do not. You and I could have been married by now, and doing what you . . .’ At last she blushed, though her eyes did not leave his. ‘Enjoying such sport as you must have seen there in the stables.’

‘I would not have hurt you in the same vile way he did.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘I enjoy that
vile way
, as you put it.’

‘God’s death, woman.
That?
’

‘Yes,
that!
’

‘It looked little better than a forced debauch to me.’

She raised her chin. ‘Yes, and at my request. Do my tastes shock you, my dear Virgil?’

His jaw clenched hard. Yes, she was trying to shock him, to send him on his way. But he had not yet made her see sense, so he refused to budge.

‘Humphrey may call himself your “cousin”,’ he ground out, ignoring her question, ‘but I swear to you, that man is after your money, not your body. He is little better than a peasant. And he ruts like one too.’

‘I like the way he ruts!’ she flung back at him. ‘And yes, his family is poor. But what care I for that?’

She pulled away from him when he would have caught her arm. ‘No, I shall not listen to your doubts. I am sick of being stuck here alone in the country, sewing my samplers and waiting to die. If I had known you would break our betrothal, I would have stayed at court and taken a gentleman as my lover. Or a lord. But instead all I have is Humphrey.’

Her face turned scarlet and she began to raise her voice. ‘Do you still not understand, Virgil? I wanted a man. Not only to warm my bed at nights, but so I may inherit all my property according to the original terms of my father’s will. And you were gone.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘Then Humphrey arrived. And it was not friendship. He
wanted
me. There was no courtship, he merely took me to his bed one night. Oh yes, he wants my money too. But he has a good thick cock, and knows how to use it for my pleasure.’

‘
Enough!
’

‘What, have I shamed you with my lewdness, Virgil? Do good women not use words like “cock”? Well, forgive me if my scholarship is at fault, but I seem to recall your favourite Roman poets using such obscenities in every other line of their filthy Latin verses! Verses I studied to please you, Virgil. To make you love me. But you never did.’

This last plaintive cry almost broke his heart.

‘Oh, Christina,’ he groaned, and took her in his arms, his own eyes damp, embracing her tightly. ‘My poor girl. My dearest friend. I thought . . . God’s blood, I am a fool. Please forgive me. But, Christina, you cannot marry that oaf. He is beneath you.’

‘Not . . . not every time,’ she managed damply, then smiled up at him in a mischievous way, drying her tears. ‘Most times I am beneath him.’

‘You rogue,’ he exclaimed, amused despite himself, and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then he frowned. ‘You are so hot, Christina.’ He laid a hand across her forehead. ‘You have a fever.’

‘I am merely hot from my . . . my exertions with Humphrey,’ she said unsteadily, and gazed up into his eyes. ‘I cannot let him go, Virgil. He may be rough and poor, and not fit to be a lady’s husband, but he gives me what I want. He is a steady young man and looks after both me and your mother, and he makes me happy.’

‘And how does my lady mother like him?’

‘She likes him very well. He compliments her and takes care of us both.’

Virgil’s hands curled into fists. So even his mother preferred that ruffian’s company to his own? But then, Mistress Tulkey was no doubt impressed by his raw virility. He himself had always been too soft-spoken as a young man. He had heard her complain of it to his stepfather once, and had afterwards striven to sound more curt and ‘manly’ when speaking to women.

‘I am not your keeper nor even close to it, whatever Master Delacour may say. I cannot forbid this union. Only you must beware of over-exerting yourself, Christina. You are still not well. Does he understand how fragile you are, this rough lover of yours?’

‘He knows I have a condition which does not allow me to leave the house very often.’

He looked at her assessingly. ‘And have you explained to him about children?’

‘I have told him it may be . . . difficult.’

‘For pity’s sake, Christina,’ he exploded, concern for her making him angry. ‘Difficult? You would not survive childbirth. Be sensible as to your weaknesses. This marriage could kill you. Why do you think I hesitated so long myself? Because I knew you were too frail to bear a child and live.’

She pulled away from him. ‘Then my death will be God’s will,’ she said harshly. ‘But at least I will have
tried
to live, instead of hiding away and fearing even to dance in case my weak heart gives out. Besides, that is not the only reason you hesitated to marry me, is it? I read the note you sent your mother.’

‘Oh,’ he muttered, staring at her, and waited for the inevitable.

In the shock of seeing Christina bent over for Humphrey Delacour in the straw, he had forgotten his errand.

Her look was scathing. ‘At least now I know the truth behind your decision to break off our betrothal. You preferred to marry your mistress rather than me. Oh yes, I knew of her existence. A red-haired wanton who has lain with half the men at court. Now I suppose she is with child.’

‘Yes,’ he admitted.

‘And so you rescued her.’ Her brows rose insultingly. ‘Can you even be sure the child is yours?’

He looked away, but he was furious. Furious with her and with himself. And furious with Margerie yet again, for making him feel like a cuckold. Even now, here at home, safe away from court, where he had foolishly thought her reputation could not follow.

‘That is one advantage Humphrey has over you then,’ she said softly, seeming to enjoy his discomfort. ‘For I was a virgin the first time with him, and he saw the proof with his own eyes. That is not true of your wife, is it? Though I imagine she must know a trick or two to keep you interested beyond the normal way.’

He was almost glad when his mother threw open a casement overlooking the stable yard and called down coldly, ‘Oh, so you have come calling at last, Virgil. A
note
to inform me of your marriage to that infamous wanton . . . Sent with a servant, as though it were a request for eggs and butter.’ She stared down at him. ‘For shame, sir. I am your mother. Have you no better manners?’

‘Clearly not, madam,’ he bit out, and bowed to her in an exaggerated way. ‘I learnt mine from your example.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Applegate, Kent, Spring 1537

The fire was dying in his study late one night in April when the door creaked open and Virgil looked up to see his wife on the threshold, a ghost in her white shift, just as when she had come to his chamber at court.

Was she walking in her sleep again? He had thought those episodes at an end now that Margerie was no longer at court, her mind tormented by the fear and despair that place had inflicted on her soul.

She shut the door, then trod silently towards him on bare feet. Her night shift floated about her, simply cut, falling from an embroidered bodice to her ankles. A vision of purity, he thought, and gripped his wine cup so hard his knuckles whitened.

He was no poet. And he was not in love. It would not do to wax lyrical, and dream himself another Catullus or Ovid.

For a moment Margerie said nothing, but stood looking down at him, sitting in his high-backed chair by the fire. Her head was on one side, her red hair gloriously free, and her eyes met his with a sharp intelligence.

Not asleep, then.

He looked back at her steadily. Her breasts swelled against the thin fabric, and he could see her nipples stiff with cold beneath. The shift hid the rest, but in his mind’s eye he saw it all again, that cloud of red hair tumbling down her back, the snow-white nudity as she disrobed in his room at court, presenting herself to him.

A wanton beyond compare. Narrow-waisted, high-breasted, and with long lithe legs between which any red-blooded man would gladly bury himself . . .

He felt himself harden, and raised his cup to his lips in instinctive response. Better to drink than make love, he thought grimly.