Wolf Bride (37 page)

She leapt again in the dance, suddenly uneasy. ‘Let us go home,’ she begged Wolf as he caught her, the words meant only for him. ‘Back to the north.’

‘Have a care, Eloise,’ he murmured warningly. His hands encircled her waist, drawing her close, and even that fleeting warmth lit a fire inside her. She could not stop staring at him these days, so hungry for his body she could happily have spent a week in bed with him. ‘You never know who is listening.’

‘All the more reason to go home. Besides, I miss Yorkshire.’ Aware of the other dancers moving around them, their sly sidelong glances, she made an excuse which sounded feeble even to her ears. ‘The court is grown so hot and close these past few weeks, the air itself stifles me.’

‘Soon,’ he promised her, but his face was aloof. ‘When His Majesty consents to release me.’

She glanced round and saw the king watching from his throne on the dais, thick fingers tapping out the rhythm, heavy with jewelled rings. Beside him sat Jane, her figure neat but rounded, her eyes excited, seemingly unalarmed by the fate of his previous two wives.

Perhaps three is the charm, Eloise considered. And Queen Jane might be right. All it would take was one legitimate son, after all, and Henry would adore her forever.

‘You are safe enough from that quarter,’ Wolf whispered in her ear, seeing in which direction she was looking. He meant the king, of course, she realised.

He took her hand to walk her through the next few steps, and a hot turmoil stirred inside her as their fingers met and linked together.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘His Majesty has his hands full with a new bride. I remember that time only too well. A new wife takes time to bed in. She needs to be handled . . .’ He paused, drawing her close as the music swelled to a close. His eyes were a very dark blue as he tweaked one of her nipples through the thin material of her bodice. ‘Delicately.’

Over his shoulder, Eloise caught a glimpse of a woman staring at them from across the Great Hall. She had copper-red hair, curling out indiscreetly from below a French hood, and her wide eyes were fixed on Wolf as though she were drowning and he was the only man there who could save her.

‘Who is that lady?’ she asked, frowning, then fell silent when Wolf turned to look, suddenly realising her mistake. She could not help but see his instinctive recoil, nor did she miss his sharp intake of breath.

‘That’s Margerie,’ he muttered, then looked sharply back at her as she tried to pull her hand away from his. ‘Don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Eloise . . .’

‘Forgive me, my lord,’ she bit out, flushed and breathing hard as though the dance had been too energetic for her. She dropped a hurried curtsey, just out of his reach. Jealousy boiled inside her, lending urgency to her clipped words. ‘I must find my sister. Susannah is still very new to court life. If I leave her alone too long, I fear some predator may attempt to seduce her.’

Ignoring the angry hiss of her name as she turned her back, Eloise hurried through the crowd of courtiers towards the spot where she had left Susannah. Let him seek out his former lady. Yes, and dance with her too. She did not care.

She found her sister speaking to Hugh Beaufort, a distracted expression on her face.

‘We are going,’ she muttered, grabbing her sister’s arm. ‘Now, if you please.’

‘What?’

‘I can’t stay.’

Eloise heard footsteps behind her and stiffened, turning on her heel, fully expecting to see Wolf there.

But it was Sir Thomas Cromwell.

She stared, her angry flush fading as she saw the look in his eyes. ‘Sir,’ she addressed him, sinking into a wary curtsey.

Her heart jerked in fear, warning her to be very careful with the king’s most influential advisor. This man had almost single-handedly sent Anne Boleyn to the scaffold. If he could destroy a queen so effortlessly, he could crush her without a second thought.

‘How may I help you, Sir Thomas?’

‘Lady Wolf.’ Cromwell inclined his head, never taking his eyes off her face. ‘I trust you are well. Where, pray, is your husband?’

She hesitated, then stilled, seeing Wolf approaching, his face dark with confused anger. ‘He is behind you, sir.’

Cromwell turned, bowing to Wolf. ‘The very man I need. My lord, His Majesty has sent me to order you north. Word has reached the king tonight that an uprising has taken place along the north-east coast. His Majesty requires you to gather your men and put down this revolt before it spreads further south.’

‘At once?’ Wolf demanded.

The king’s advisor raised his brows at the sharp tone. ‘Naturally.’

Wolf bowed. ‘I am at His Majesty’s command.’

‘I am glad to hear it, my lord. His Majesty will speak with you in one hour.’ Cromwell turned away, drawing his fur-lined robes closer about him, his expression already dismissive. ‘In his privy chamber.’

‘I will be there.’

In the silence that followed Cromwell’s departure, Eloise met Wolf’s angry blue eyes, and did not know what to say. She had not expected this. She had felt almost happy dancing with Wolf, and even the court had seemed to be settling again after the horror and upheaval of Anne Boleyn’s execution. Now her husband was being ordered to ride north to put down a rebellion, and everything was topsy-turvy again.

‘Madam,’ he said sharply, and she could see that Wolf had not forgiven her for walking away from him.

‘My lord.’

‘She means nothing to me now,’ he muttered, staring down at her as he lifted her hand to his lips. ‘I swear it on my life.’

Do not lie to me, her heart jeered.

Jealousy ate at her insides. She wanted to grab her hand away, scream at him, slap his face, demand that he admit his sins with Margerie so she could stop feverishly imagining them in bed together and hear the horrible truth from his own lips.

But what she said, calmly enough, was, ‘Pray do not disturb yourself on my account, my lord. You would do better preparing to leave.’

His gaze searched her face, and she saw something in his eyes that she could not explain. For a second, Wolf had looked almost vulnerable.

Then something shifted in his expression. His mouth tightened and his eyes hardened to sharp blue points of light, almost lupine under his short black hair. He straightened, looking at Hugh Beaufort. ‘My friend, yet again I must put you in danger by asking a favour of you.’

‘Name it.’

‘Would you escort my wife and her sister home to Yorkshire? I am to see the king tonight and take my orders from His Majesty. When I accept them, I also intend to ask his permission for Eloise to leave court. If the king grants it, she can leave immediately. But I cannot allow her to travel unprotected.’

Hugh nodded, ignoring Susannah’s angry intake of breath at this arrangement, and the two men shook hands. ‘I am happy to do this for you, Wolf.’

‘You have my thanks. And as many of the men under my command as you wish to accompany you.’

‘Half a dozen did the trick last time.’

‘Six it is then. I will speak with my men tonight, settle who is to ride north with you.’ Wolf seemed almost relieved now that their travel arrangements had been agreed, a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth. ‘So it seems I am going to fight, and you must take the long road north again. You will soon know that road more intimately than you know London, my friend.’

‘I don’t wish to interrupt, but the king will never let me go,’ Eloise muttered, hurt and frustrated that he had shut her out of their conversation.

Did she have no say in any of this?

Wolf’s head swung towards her. His blue gaze grew darker and more intense, dropping slowly from her hair to her eyes to her mouth as though memorising every detail of her face.

‘I am sure His Majesty will agree to your release if I tell him you are with child.’

She stared, her colour rising. ‘Tell him what?’ she stammered. ‘But Wolf . . .’

‘No more talk,’ he said abruptly, and laid a calloused finger across her lips. A soldier’s touch, rough and unmannerly, but determined and somehow desirable. The promise of that contact was enough to send her pulse wild, her eyes locked with his, her body straining towards his for one last kiss.

Only he did not kiss her.

Wolf did not love her, she reminded herself in desperation as he stared down into her face. He would never love her. She was his wife, his possession, his chattel. Not his beloved. Like many noblemen, he kept his other women closer than his wife; his attachment to Margerie was burningly apparent, whatever lies he might have told to protect his own heart.

If only she could hate him for it. That was surely what Wolf deserved. Yet all she had inside her was love.

‘Come home safe,’ she said hoarsely as he turned away, and his grim look nearly broke her heart.

‘Farewell, Eloise.’

CHAPTER TWENTY

Wolf could not focus on the swaying torchlight for long. Whenever he tried, his vision blurred and he felt sick.

He closed his eyes instead and listened. He was lying down, and he could hear hooves on dry earth. Several horses, one in front, one to each side. Possibly more following. He needed to grasp where he was, what calamity had occurred. But it was too hard. His head throbbed and he kept losing consciousness; when he came round again, nothing seemed to have changed. The night was still dark beyond the flaming torches, and Wolf was being carried in a litter, his whole body rocking as though in a cradle.

The cart must have gone over a large stone in the road. The violent jolt shook him, and he groaned, feeling pain shoot through his groin.

‘My lord?’

A man bent over him. It was Fletcher.

‘God’s blood, where am I?’ He heard himself mumbling, and paused, frowning, aware that he must make himself understood. ‘What happened?’

‘Try not to speak, my lord.’ Fletcher looked concerned. His voice seemed indistinct, though he was leaning close. ‘You are wounded. We are taking you home to Wolf Hall.’

‘The rebels . . .’

‘They are all put down, my lord, or waiting to be hanged. Word has been sent to the king.’

‘I remember now, we were riding full tilt after the bastards,’ he said hoarsely, a dreamlike memory coming back to him of endless green flats and marshlands. ‘I . . . I fell from my horse and took some hurt.’

One of the rebels must have hidden in a ditch behind a low hedge, crouched there, waiting for their approach. As their horses flew over the hedge, the cold glint of a pike had come thrusting up from beneath, slicing his horse’s belly open and catching Wolf in the groin.

‘My horse . . . Is he dead?’

‘Aye, my lord. Like the cowardly ruffian who did this to you. We cut him down before he had run three paces, and stuck his head on his own pike as a warning to his fellows.’

He sucked in an agonising breath, fighting to stay awake as the darkness threatened to swallow him again.

‘Is the wound bad? Will I live?’

He grabbed at the man but his fingers were useless, too weak even to open and close. The sickness returned abruptly, and he fell back, gasping up at the cool night air.

‘Here, this will help you sleep.’ Fletcher tipped some flask to his mouth, and he swallowed reluctantly, then shuddered. The taste was loathesome. ‘My lord, you must rest. Calm yourself, and let the physick do its work. The surgeon who operated on you knew his trade, I made sure of that.’

‘How bad, Fletcher? The truth.’

His servant’s face was impassive. ‘Wolf Hall is another two days’ ride. If you do not bleed further, or suffer an infection of the wound, you should reach there alive.’

He lay still, his head burning. A fever?

‘Have you sent word to Lady Wolf?’

Fletcher nodded, laying a hand on his forehead. ‘One of the boys rode ahead with a missive. You are expected, my lord.’

Wolf tried to mumble another question, but his mouth would not work. He was simply too tired.

The question slid away, and when he opened his eyes again, the torches had burnt low and it was almost dawn. The sky was flushed along the eastern horizon, the weather thankfully dry. He thought of Eloise, how she would be free if he died, free to marry a man who could love her as she ought to be loved, and berated himself for a fool and a coward.

‘I should have told her,’ he muttered.

He looked about, meaning to write her a letter, but Fletcher was gone. He was alone on the litter, and so hot he had to kick off his blankets so he could breathe. He fumbled with his shirt, but his hands were too weak. Sweat was pumping off him. The cart jolted again over some crater in the road, and Wolf roared as a searing white agony pierced his groin.

He felt hands steadying him, and fought to escape them. The rebels had come back to finish the job, but they would not take him so easily. He thrashed wildly, hunting by his side for his dagger, his sword, any kind of weapon to stave them off.

‘My lord!’

Something burned his throat. Poison, he thought, furious at their treachery.

He fell like a stone into darkness, and did not awake again until the litter had stopped moving and he could see a thousand pinpricks of stars above him in the black velvet sky. In a sudden moment of lucidity, he realised they had camped for the night, his men sleeping around the fire.