Tabatha shook her head impatiently, and to his surprise, tears threatened her eyes. “Nay, I have already learned. Ludingdon and his wife have gone to Canterbury on a journey for the king. They will not return for two days or more.”
“Whatever you are in need of Ludingdon for, I am certain Warwick will help. Come with me,” Nevril said, then hesitated. Normally, he would not have a concern whether Lord Malcolm would have the patience and care to speak with a lowly maid. But his mood as of late….
“Come,” Nevril said again, making the decision. At the very least, it would allow him an excuse to walk with Tabatha. And mayhap he would take his time finding the lord. He looked at the maid as she fell into step with him.
Nay. He would not dally. From the looks of her, the matter was urgent.
Malcolm dumped a bucketful of water over his head, snorting to blow it out of his nose and mouth. The deluge was icy cold and refreshing after an intense bout of training beneath the warm sun. He’d taken on Rike for a time, and then Castendown, d’Allemande, and de Rigonier in turn. Now his muscles sang and his mind was clear. And he was hungry.
He dunked the bucket in the water trough once more and upended it again, mostly over shoulders and torso to cool and cleanse his sweaty skin. When he emerged from the torrent, he opened his eyes to find Nevril standing in front of him.
Mal recognized the woman with his master-at-arms as Lady Judith’s maid. He whipped his head, flinging the sopping hair from his face, and reached for the sherte he’d left hanging on the gate during the training.
“My lord, Tabatha begs a moment of your time,” Nevril said. There was an unusual tone in his voice—one almost of warning, and he looked at his master warily.
“What is it?” Mal asked, attempting to keep his voice neutral. But the sight of the maid, of course, reminded him of her mistress. And that was a consideration he’d found best left alone as of late.
“My lord,” said Tabatha, curtsying in the dust of the training yard. “I come to you at your man’s suggestion” —with this, she gave a quick, almost accusing glance at Nevril— “and because I have no other to whom I can speak. I wished to find Lady Maris of Ludingdon, for mayhap she would know what to do, but…is it true she is gone? With Lord Dirick? And they shall not return for some days?”
Mal felt a niggling in the pit of his belly, but he subdued it. “What is the problem?”
“My lady…she….” Tabatha’s voice trailed off and she stepped back.
“Speak up, wench,” Mal commanded, then saw Nevril glaring at him as he moved nearer, as if to protect the maid from his terrible master. This in turn told Mal that his own expression had become dark and forbidding, possibly terrifying the maid.
“Is aught wrong with your lady? Is she ill?” With effort, he kept his tones even. Yet already he knew he did not wish to hear the rest of the maid’s story.
Let the king see to his woman’s needs.
“My lady Judith…she is in the chapel. She has been there for hours, and she will not leave. The queen has sent for her, but my lady will not answer the summons. I fear…I fear for her mind and body, I fear what the queen will do if she does not come…and I bethought Lady Maris would help. I do not know what else to do.”
“The queen has sent for her?” Mal repeated, pulling on the dry sherte over his wet torso. Something unpleasant prickled in the back of his mind. But surely Judith was not that much of a coward. A cuckold, aye. But a coward, to disobey the queen and refuse to face the woman she betrayed?
Tabatha shifted from one foot to the other. “Aye. The queen….” He waited, but the maid would say no more. She merely shook her head miserably, looking up at him and then at Nevril.
“Where is your lady now?”
“In the small chapel. ’Tis abovestairs in the square east tower. But she will not come away. And on the last I went to beg her to leave, she slapped me and ordered me to go. She has not slept for days, and hardly eaten. I am fair worried for her, and I bethought Lady Maris would speak to her. At the least, my lady won’t hit her,” she added tartly, but genuine fear and desperation lingered in her voice.
“I will see to your mistress,” he said, a sense of inevitability settling over him. At the least, she will not slap me. And if she does,’twill be naught more than I deserve, involving myself in this black stew.
Mal took a moment to put on a clean tunic and get out of his chausses; they were dirty and he did not want to be clinking and rattling about in mail in the chapel. And, at the last minute—remembering what Tabatha had said—he procured a skin of watered-down wine and a packet of bread and cheese and tucked them into his belt. Then, with a foreboding he could neither explain nor dismiss, he set about finding the small holy place.
When he reached the chamber—which was out of the way and not easy to locate—he didn’t see Judith at first. The space was small and dim, lit only by offering candles on a small altar that was hardly large enough for the paten and chalice. Four benches lined the windowless chamber, and to the side was a crude alcove containing a painting of the Blessed Mother.
There he found Judith, kneeling on the bare floor in front of the shrine, swathed in shadow.
He hadn’t seen more than a glimpse of her since dinner the night he returned from the brigand hunt, for he’d made certain not to be in the hall when she might be about. But even now, in the dim light, the sight of her made his heart thump unpleasantly. Warmth, and at the same time, something sharp settled in his belly.
Mal nearly turned to go, silent as he’d come—all at once certain he did not have the strength to become ingrained in whatever this was and yet escape intact. Yet his feet once more refused to listen to logic and he found himself approaching her.
Though he knew how to move silently, he must have made some sound to give himself away, for Judith whirled sharply when he came near. “Tab—” she began, clearly expecting her maid. Her expression when she first turned was furious, then it changed into one of shock. And…guilt? “Malcolm.”
He could hardly contain his horror at the sight of her. This was not the Judith he knew. She was…gaunt. Her face was thin and ravaged, her features sharp as blades in the shadows. Dark circles curved beneath eyes that seemed too deeply set to be healthy, and they were laced with weariness. Her lips were pale, her face even more so, and the cut on her cheek was still an ugly red line. He saw that she clutched a string of prayer beads, that her body trembled as she fought to keep herself upright on her knees.
Whatever kept her here, ’twas no mere cowardice.
“I mean, Lord Warwick,” she corrected herself quietly. She held herself stiffly. “My pardon.”
He moved closer, crouching next to where she knelt. The overwhelming urge to gather her to him—this frail woman who hardly resembled the lady who’d nearly beaten him at chess—had him curling his fingers deeply into his palms. Where was the strong, uncomplaining, vivacious woman he knew?
“What do you here, Judith? What has happened? Do you know the queen has been in search of you?”
She looked at him, her face only inches away. Devastation and pain dulled her eyes. Her lush lips were dry and cracked. She swayed suddenly, and he did what he did not wish to do…but yet desired among all things…and caught her in his arms.
“Judith,” he said, ignoring his better judgment and pulling her onto his lap. He eased them both to a seat on the floor. “What is it? You are like to faint.”
“Then faint I shall, and mayhap then they will leave me be.” Now she huddled against him as if she belonged there, delicate and trembling in his lap. Mal curved his arms around her, his chin brushing the top of her head just before she sagged against his chest. He breathed in the scent of her.
Her fingers were ice-cold and stained. At first he thought the dark spots were blood and he tensed…had she cut herself? Did she meant to slice her wrists open and perish in the chapel? But he rejected that immediately as foolish, and then realized it appeared to be ink stains all over her fingers and wrists.
Malcolm was conscious of how quickly he’d lost his need to be angry with her, but for now, he ignored this realization. There would be time for self-recrimination later.
“They?” he prompted when she stopped speaking. But she remained silent, close against him, still and unmoving but for a hardly discernible trembling. Despite the warm day, she was chilled. “Come now, Judith. Usually ’tis no hardship to set your tongue to wagging.”
This seemed to be the right thing to say, as odd as it was, for she drew in an unsteady breath and spoke in a low, rapid voice. “The queen calls me to her early in the morrow each day. She is a bitter taskmaster, particularly when motivated by righteous fury. I am not permitted to leave her chamber or to eat or rest until I have finished the many, long, tedious tasks she has laid out for me on that day. And when I am dismissed, I return to my own chamber and I find….” Here her breath hitched, and palpable misery flooded from her. “I find my summons to the king awaiting me. I am…with him….” She vibrated in Mal’s arms, yet continued on: “…until the early hours of dawn. And so it goes. I do not even know what day it is any longer, or what hour. But at the least,” she added dryly and with a spark of the Judith he knew, “Eleanor has not lifted a hand to me again.”
Mal could not move. He forced himself to go rigid, to become paralyzed, for if he did not, God knew what he would do. ’Twas a wonder she was not fainted on the floor. Or worse.
“And,” Judith said, her voice rough and low, “I am fair certain I carry the king’s child.” And that was when he felt her release and begin to sob, jolting softly against him. “Now I will never be free of him,” she whispered. “Never.”
She did not want the king’s child, that much was abundantly clear. But was it because she did not want to further anger the vindictive queen, or because she did not, after all, wish to be tied to the king? A royal bastard would ensure Judith of wealth and comfort all the days of her life—mayhap even a permanent place in the royal household. What woman would not want that? She would be a fool not to desire such stability.
