Rose Bride (39 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Virgil held his breath. He looked from the folded bundle to the nobleman’s face. ‘What secret business is this? What is in those sealed papers?’

‘You will keep it hidden if I tell you? You will uphold the Hippocratic Oath?’

Virgil stared back at him, sick with jealousy. His hands clenched into fists as he imagined Margerie lying in bed beneath this wealthy young lord, pleasuring him as his mistress.

‘As a physician, I am sworn to silence on such matters for the duration of my life, and here reconfirm it to you,’ he said flatly. ‘Now what is this debt you owe my wife?’

‘I do not like your tone, Master Elton.’

‘And I do not like that you have been intimate with my wife.’ His voice thickened in rage. ‘Is it your child Margerie carries? Is this some provision you make for his upkeep and education? For I tell you now—’

‘It is not my child she carries,’ Munro interrupted him sharply. ‘Would to God it were that simple. I would acknowledge the child as my bastard and be happy to do so. But I cannot, not in good conscience, and knowing I may yet beget a true heir on my wife.’

‘How can you be sure it is not your child, any more than I can be sure it is not mine?’

‘Because I never lay with your wife!’

‘
What?
’

‘I have never lain with any woman in my life. Not even now I am married to Alice Holsworthy.’ He was breathing hard, staring at Virgil across the steady lantern flame. His voice broke. ‘Not even now.’

Virgil felt as though he were going mad. ‘But . . . But my wife told me herself she
had
lain with you. There were stories about the court . . .’

‘Lies, all lies. Most of the worst stories I put about myself, to ensure it was widely known I was bedding her. I knew the gossip would reach my mother, and please her. Which it did.’ He sounded bitter. ‘God knows I never pleased her before in my life.’

‘I do not understand, my lord.’

‘I have no taste for women,’ Lord Munro bit out, a sudden terrible anguish in his face.

For a moment there was silence, both men staring at each other as the dangerous admission sank in.

Then Munro turned away, pacing the room with his head down, muttering to himself, ‘I have tried, I swear it. But I cannot. I lack the . . . Oh Christ, must I explain it? Surely it is enough to know Margerie was never wanton with me, that the child she carries must be yours. For it is not mine. That is why I came here tonight, when I might merely have sent those papers with a letter,’ he said, jerking his head at the documents on the table, ‘because I knew you might harbour doubts of the child’s parentage, and I could not have that on my conscience. You may think badly of me, Master Elton, and you are right to do so. I have been wary of speaking before now, for I could not be sure you would keep my secret. But I have heard whispers that disturbed me. And you are still here at court, rather than with your wife in her time of confinement.’

The young man turned and came back to the table, his face earnest. ‘Master Elton, what if it is a boy? I would not see you leave your firstborn son unacknowledged when you could be assured of his parentage. It is not my way.’

Virgil ran a hand over his face. His chest was tight as he thought through the implications of Munro’s confession.

‘Let me be sure I have this right. You besmirched Margerie Croft’s reputation, made her a whore in the eyes of the court . . . all so you could hide your true nature?’

‘For payment, yes,’ Munro said weakly, tapping the sealed papers on the table. ‘But only for payment. And I did not
make
your wife a whore, sir. Forgive me if this angers you, but Mistress Croft’s reputation was already that of a wanton long before I entered into this agreement with her. She was Lord Wolf’s mistress years ago, or some such, I forget which nobleman had the taking of her virginity. But she was no innocent.’

Virgil picked up the papers, not deigning to answer that, but did not break the sealing wax. ‘What are these papers?’

‘The deeds on a handsome estate of mine in Sussex. Thirty acres of land, orchards, grazing. A fine house. It is what was promised to your wife should she pretend to lie with me and conceal . . . Conceal what she knew for all eternity.’ Munro was pale. He wrenched at his collar, turning away, his face in shadow. ‘You will tell no one of it either. You must never speak of this business to any man. If any ask how you obtained the property, say you . . . you won it from me at dice.’

‘I have already sworn to keep your secret. You have my word on it. None but my wife will ever know what has passed between us tonight.’

The young nobleman turned back to stare at him. ‘I had heard you were a formidable man, Master Elton. I did not believe it until now. I wish you and Margerie well. So then our business is concluded. The original agreement was for a twelvemonth, but since I released her early, I cannot fault her on that. The deeds to Blackthorn Hall are yours now, as her husband, to keep or sell as you prefer.’ He nodded his head. ‘I bid you goodnight.’

‘Wait.’

His lordship halted at the door, his voice angry, clearly impatient at being recalled. ‘What is it?’

‘Do you
want
to lie with your wife, my lord?’

His eyes flashed. ‘What manner of question is that?’

‘Yes or no?’

‘I have told you, I wish to get her with child, but cannot bring myself to the point,’ Munro replied sharply, watching with a frown as Virgil turned away to search among his high shelves. ‘God knows I have tried more than a dozen times to bed her since we wed. And she is willing enough, though I feared at first she would not be. I cannot fault Alice as a wife. But there is no . . .’ He hesitated. ‘There is no lust in me to achieve the act.’

Virgil put a small flask down on the table. ‘Take three drops of this in strong wine before bed, and there should be lust for a short while at least. Enough to accomplish the deed.’

Lord Munro picked up the flask and examined it. ‘Three drops, you say?’ His eyes narrowed on Virgil’s face. ‘How can I be sure it is safe?’

‘I have taken it myself. There may be a headache the next day, but otherwise a man of your youth and vigour should suffer no ill effects. Indeed, you would not be the first nobleman at court to have had recourse to this potent cordial.’ Virgil smiled drily at the young man’s startled expression. ‘Though I cannot tell you who, of course, for that would break my oath. Now take it, and tell no one how you came by it.’

When the door had closed behind Lord Munro, Virgil picked up the deeds again.

The child is mine, he thought, and felt almost numb with relief at this confirmation. For if Margerie had not lain with Lord Munro, then she had not lain with any other man but himself, he was sure of it.

‘
It is my child
,’ he whispered, closing his eyes.

Then guilt hit him, and he recoiled from himself in a wave of remorse, sickened by his arrogance and lack of trust.

He had wronged her. How Margerie must have suffered, knowing herself innocent and yet unable to prove it, so keeping quiet and allowing him to think her a wanton.

And all the while, he had been taunting her with cruel names, calling her ‘whore’ and ‘wanton’ even after their marriage, taking her to bed in the most callous manner imaginable. He had drunk his own potion and coupled with her several times in a night, forcing her to perform acts on him that made his gorge rise to remember them.

And he had allowed a strange and bitter anger to take hold of him, and had beaten her over his knee, unable to help himself, then used her afterwards for his pleasure.

He deserved to be horsewhipped. He had treated Margerie Croft as shoddily as though he had paid four shillings for her services in an alleyway. And she was his wife.

He broke the seal on the deeds and read swiftly through the document. It was all as Lord Munro had described, and there at the end was his lordship’s thick black signature, sprawling across the page.

Blackthorn Hall, Sussex.

And he could do whatever he wished with it.

He was saddling his horse in the courtyard at Hampton Court Palace three days later when Ned came running, out of breath, waving a paper in the air. ‘Master Elton! Master Elton! Stay a moment, sir!’

His heart sank. It had taken him three days to persuade Master Greene to allow him a visit home. Surely the queen’s pains had not begun early?

He raised his brows, turning to the boy. ‘What is it, Ned? Never say Master Greene has changed his mind and bid me stay at court?’

‘A letter for you, master. Just arrived.’

He took the paper and turned it over, seeing his name written across it in his mother’s hand.

For a moment he could not bring himself to open it. Had Margerie been brought to bed with their child? But if so, why would she not have written herself to let him know if it was a boy or a girl?

Virgil was suddenly cold.

He broke the seal and opened it, his hands shaking. A few short lines. He read the note through twice, but only four words stood out to him.

She is near death
.

‘What is it, master?’ Ned asked inquisitively, his head on one side. Then the boy seemed to notice Virgil’s stillness, and the way the blood had drained from his face. ‘Are you unwell, master? Should I fetch someone?’

‘Forgive me,’ Virgil muttered, more to himself than to the boy. ‘Forgive me.’

He fumbled for the reins, led his grey gelding over to the mounting block, and swung himself up into the saddle. His mother’s letter he had crumpled in his fist, and thrust now inside his doublet, next to his heart. He had to hurry, he could not risk coming too late . . .

She is near death.

‘Master?’ Ned was still looking up at him, concern on his young, dirt-smudged face. ‘What is it? Bad news?’

Virgil turned the horse’s head south and towards home. ‘Yes, boy,’ he managed hoarsely, his throat tight with emotion. ‘It is bad news. I thought to go home to a birth. Instead I may be going home to a funeral.’

‘Not . . . Not your wife’s, Master Elton?’ Ned whispered fearfully, crossing himself.

‘No, not my wife.’ He closed his eyes. ‘The woman I once thought to marry.’

A thin shaft of daylight was touching his face when Virgil finally stirred. His body felt heavy and aching, and he opened his eyes, not sure at first where he was. The room swam a moment before steadying. Wearily, he gazed at the tapestry-hung wall and the tester bed, hung with red and gold drapes, gradually realising that he had fallen asleep again in the chair beside Christina’s bed.

‘Christina?’

He straightened, stumbling to his feet and leaning over the bed. Christina lay against her pillows, so still and pale, she did not look alive.

His heart squeezed in pain. ‘Oh God, Christina,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Please . . .’

He had sat at her bedside for a day and a night, nursing his friend through her sickness. A simple chill on the chest had turned to a feverish ague, and with Christina’s heart so weak, they had all feared her body would not be strong enough to beat off the fever. Last night it had peaked and for several hours Christina had lain steeped in sweat, flushed and twisting on the pillows, while her pulse raced and her heart, never strong but now tried beyond endurance, stuttered as though at any moment it would break. He had ordered the maid to strip her mistress down to her shift, then thrown all the windows open despite the cold wind, for the fever would kill her sooner than the sickness itself.

Yet by midnight Christina was breathless, her lips pale blue, her hands clawing weakly at the bedsheets as she struggled for air. In desperation, Virgil had taken from his bag a small handful of dried foxglove leaves, and steeped these in a pan of hot water over the fire. When the infusion was ready, he had Humphrey Delacour steady his wife’s head, then gave her a little of the potent drug. Humphrey had frowned, asking what it was, and Virgil had told him, explaining the dangers before allowing the cooled liquid to touch her lips. To his relief, her husband had merely nodded, seemingly aware this might be her only chance of survival.

Nonetheless, his own heart had been racing as she swallowed those few drops, for he knew himself to be administering poison that could kill not only Christina but her unborn child.

Now he looked at her closed eyes and the white stillness of her face, and felt like weeping. Had he killed his dearest friend in his arrogance and determination to be right?

Humphrey had been sleeping next to her on the bed, and stirred at his voice. ‘What is it?’ he croaked, then sat up, his hair dishevelled, his clothes creased. He turned and looked down at his wife, and his mouth trembled. ‘Is she . . . Is she gone?’

Virgil forced himself to place two fingers against the side of her pale slender neck, feeling for her pulse. Her skin was cool and a little clammy, but not cold as he had feared. To his amazement, he felt the quiet thud of her heartbeat. Not weak as it had been last night, nor strong either, but pleasingly steady . . .

‘The fever is gone. She lives.’ He raised his eyes to her husband’s face and smiled. ‘Christina lives.’