But the rest of her…the greatest part of her…wasn’t thinking of him in that way.
“Judith, will you have some wine?” he asked. Still holding the hand he’d taken when he raised her from the curtsy, he drew her across the room with him.
She must follow, though her knees shook and surely he could feel how icy her fingers were. “My lord,” she managed to say. “To what do I owe this…h-honor?”
The king poured wine for both of them, then handed her a goblet. “A toast, my lady,” he said, lifting his own drink. “To the fair Judith, Lady of Kentworth, Lady of Lilyfare, Lady Falconer…a most elegant, graceful lily in her own right.”
He brought the wine to his lips and sipped, and Judith followed suit. She didn’t know if she’d be able to swallow for her throat was so dry and constricted. The wine was rich and heavy, filled with the essence of berries, and it flushed warmth through her. She set the goblet on the table.
“You have the most beautiful hair I have e’er seen,” said Henry, reaching to touch it. He filtered one of her finger-thick braids between the pad of thumb and forefinger, then at the end, removed the metal case that confined the plait. “’Tis like fire. I’ve naught seen any like it on any other head—man or woman—in all my travels.”
Judith could do nothing but stand there as he pulled his fingers through the braid, loosening it into fiery waves over her shoulder and down over her breasts.
“My lord,” she spoke again. “What do you do? Your wife—”
“We shall not speak of my queen this night,” he interrupted sharply. His eyes flashed for a moment.
Judith swallowed hard and nodded miserably. “My lord…please…I am honored that you should…find my hair so beautiful. But I….” She swallowed, desperate for the words to let him know her feelings, yet not to insult. For he was her lord, her king. He held infinite power over her. He could order her banished, imprisoned—even her death. She was at his mercy in all things. “I am weary. I beg of you, allow me to return to my chamber and seek my bed.”
Henry gave a short, low chuckle. “But there is a bed anon. Here in this very chamber. And, I promise it, ’tis more comfortable than any other in the whole of Clarendon.”
“My lord,” she tried again. “I do not believe I would…sleep overmuch in this chamber.”
His eyes cooled a trifle. “Lady Judith, methinks you are thirsty. Drink you more of this very fine wine.” He thrust the goblet back into her hand. She accepted it with trembling fingers and took another drink. When she would have taken the cup away, he reached up and tipped it toward her mouth once again. “There now, my lady. Mayhap you are warmer…and more pliable now?”
She set the empty goblet on the table and tried to keep her quivering knees from buckling.
“Now tell me, Lady Judith,” said the king as he took her hand once more. He drew her across the chamber, over the fine, smooth rug, toward the bed. “Are you still in possession of your maidenhead?”
Her heart nearly choking her, Judith scrambled for a response. If he believed she was still a virgin, mayhap he would allow her to leave. A lady’s maidenhead was very valuable, and not to be given lightly. But if Henry had no intention of allowing her to leave and he learned she was not a virgin, would he punish her for lying to him?
“Judith?” he pressed, unfastening a second braid. “I wish to know if you are a virgin.”
“Nay,” she whispered at last as he tugged his fingers through her hair. “I am no virgin.”
Henry smiled, a warm, genuine smile that, under any other circumstance might have eased her. “I am very glad to hear that. For that will make this much more pleasurable…for both of us.”
With that, he reached up and began to unlace her gown.
SEVEN
A hand on his shoulder brought Malcolm immediately out of the depths of sleep and into wakefulness. He simultaneously opened his eyes and sat up, fully awake and aware in the instant. Such was the necessary skill of a leader, of a man trained to be a warrior, of one who slept oft on the ground and was responsible for the safety and well-being of an entire village and keep.
But Mal didn’t immediately recognize the man who’d waked him. “Aye?” he said in a low growl, aware of the rows of other snoring, grunting, farting men who joined him in the chamber wherein he was relegated to sleeping. If he meant to stay at court much longer, he must needs find his own chamber.
“Lord Warwick, I am loathe to disturb you, but there is a problem in the stable. With your horse.”
Now Mal recognized the young man as one of the night marshals for the public stable, where he housed Alpha and the other horses from Warwick. But recognition of the messenger was much less important than the message itself, and he rolled from his pallet, launching to his feet in a flash. He yanked on a tunic and hose—for like most of his chambermates, in the summer he slept nude—then shoved his feet in a pair of soft boots.
Less than two minutes after he’d been awakened, Mal was following the groom out of the chamber. The first thought he had on hearing the news was a terrible fear that Alpha had been injured by the rabid dogs after all, and that his trusty horse was showing signs of madness. The worry had him striding at such speed that the groom fairly ran in order to keep pace with him.
He could have asked the messenger, but that would have entailed slowing and conversing and mayhap the man didn’t even know the answer to the question “What the hell is wrong with my horse?” His destrier was worth more than a small estate, aside from being his constant, trusted companion who’d carried him safely from countless dangerous situations. Losing Alpha would be a devastating blow, both financially and personally.
And so Mal hurried out through the great hall and into a dark summer night that was lit only by a sliver of moon and a distant swath of stars. Torches studding the ramparts above, manned by men-at-arms, added to the illumination of the bailey. But shadows fell long and wide, casting much of the area into darkness.
The stable was lit and Mal rushed in, expecting to find the worst. At his abrupt arrival, the other marshal jolted in surprise, looking over from where he waited at the entrance to Alpha’s stall.
“What is it?” Mal demanded.“What ails my horse?”
“’Tis his leg, my lord,” said the groom, gesturing to the stall. “’Tis raw and red, and the mad beast willna let me touch it.”
Mal was aware of a tightening in his chest when he heard the term “mad,” and he pushed past the groom—whose name, he remembered belatedly, was Bruin—and approached Alpha.
The destrier snorted in recognition when his master appeared and eased what had been a shaking, shimmying sort of dance in his stall. Mal opened the half-door of the enclosure and knelt in front of his horse. Most men would have been fools to do such a thing—placing oneself in front of those massive hooves—but Mal knew Alpha, and he was angled slightly aside, half inside the stall. The powerful beast could crush him against the wall, true, but Mal had a comforting hand on the horse’s ribs as he spoke softly to him. He also knew how to move quickly if need be.
In the lantern light, he saw at once whereof the groom spoke. To his great relief, the injury was clearly not from a mad dog. “’Tis a boil on his joint,” he murmured. “Surely you’ve seen aught before, Bruin?” This last was directed to the groom, who, along with the messenger, stood safely in the aisle.
“Aye, my lord. I wished to put a poultice on him, but he near as kicked me through the wall,” replied the young marshal.
“’Tis no wonder, for the beast is in rare pain.” Mal sighed. Better that he attend to it and lose some bit of sleep—and on the morrow, Gambert or Nevril could assist—than to chance his valuable warhorse to be injured.
But the ailment, though not serious was no small inconvenience, for he meant to join Ludingdon, Fleurwelling, and several others on an excursion on the morrow. Earlier, the king received news of a band of raiders or brigands wreaking havoc in the area, and several of his barons—likely as bored as Mal—offered to go in search and put a stop to them. For his part, Mal was delighted with an excuse to leave Clarendon for a time. As well, it would give him the chance to speak with Castendown about taking on Rike’s fostering when he returned to Warwick.
“Bring me the poultice,” Mal said to Bruin, already considering which of the other mounts from Warwick would suffice for the trip.
“’Tis here,” was the reply, and shortly thereafter, Mal found himself playing both groom and physician to Alpha.
Once the boil was carefully wrapped, the thick, aromatic salve oozing from the edges of the bandage, Mal shifted back and rose to his feet. Alpha seemed calmer—which was no surprise, for the bandage likely provided some cool relief to the fiery, pulsing boil—and he butted his head against his master’s shoulder.
Mal spoke softly to him once more, feeding him an apple demanded from Bruin, and then took his leave. “Send to me immediately if there is any other problem,” he directed as he walked out into the night.
The bailey was near as quiet as his own back at Warwick, and Mal took his time wandering back into the close, crowded, privacy-lacking keep. A pang of homesickness caught him by surprise, followed by a clutch of sadness when he thought of Violet. He must return soon to his little one.
There is little reason for me to remain here. I can leave as soon as Alpha is able to travel, and we will stop at Delbring on the return trip. Then all would, as he’d hoped, be arranged well before Christ’s Mass and the winter.
But then a pair of laughing blue eyes, devilish and sparkling, popped into his mind. Beatrice of Delbring? Truly?
Mal allowed himself the luxury of reliving that moment, the memory of the day, riding beside Lady Judith in the sun and about the meadow. He’d enjoyed her company—even the teasing. And somehow, he’d become comfortable in her presence, no longer unsettled by her intense beauty and energetic tongue. Throughout the hunt, he’d admired her face and figure, laughed inwardly at her jests, been entertained by the hunt and the skill with which she managed her falcon, and felt himself growing more and more desirous of being with her.
