Sharon Penman: Dragon's lair

Justin considered this for a few moments and then smiled ruefully.

"People kept telling me that nothing in Wales is as it first seems. I ought to have guessed that even the mandragora would be false."

~*~

Molly and Bennet walked with Justin to the stable where he'd kept his stallion. Copper was now saddled and ready to go. It was Justin who seemed loath to leave. "Remember," he reminded them again, "that if you need to reach me, I rent a cottage on Gracechurch Street. If I am away, Gunter the smith or Nell at the alehouse is likely to know when I'll be back. And they are friends of mine, so they can be trusted."

"Might not the bishop know your whereabouts, too?" Molly teased, and Justin gave her a warning look before silencing her with a very thorough kiss. A quick embrace with Bennet, and he swung up into the saddle, looking down at them both for a word less moment before urging Copper out into the street.

They waved and Molly called out a cheeky "Godspeed, lover!" When she glanced at her brother, though, she caught his unguarded expression, and she gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.

"He'll be back, Bennet. You wait and see. He'll be back."

~*~

Just was surprised by the austere, subdued surroundings. The cottage would have been perfectly adequate for his needs, but he was accustomed to seeing Claudine in more luxurious settings. "Are you comfortable here?"

It seemed ridiculous to be making polite conversation like this, but there was no denying the awkwardness between them. Was it because they were meeting in a nunnery? That they'd been apart since the summer? Or that there was so much still unspoken between them?

"Comfortable? As well as could be expected."

Had Claudine's response been drenched in sarcasm, he would not have blamed her, for he was acutely aware how foolish he must have sounded. How could she possibly be comfortable under the circumstances, exiled from family and friends, knowing that a baby's birth was too often followed by the mother's death. But there had been no edge to her voice. She was not acting like the Claudine he knew. The high-spirited, carefree flirt had been re placed by a stranger, a wan, forlorn stranger with downcast brown eyes and rounded face, swallowed up within the folds of a voluminous, drab gown that obscured all evidence of her pregnancy.

"How are you faring, Claudine? Have you been getting enough rest, the food you need?"

"Why? Do I look as sickly as that?"

"No, of course — "

"I do," she said mournfully, "I know I do. My face is as swollen as a melon, my hair is as dry as straw, and look at my ankles…" She lifted her skirt for him to see. "You could encircle them with your fingers, and now they are huge! Little wonder I heard from you only once in all these months…"

Justin was astonished, "Claudine, I was in Wales, you know that! I'd gladly have written every week if I could have found a courier to take my letters to Godstow."

When she glanced up, he saw tears glistening on her lashes. "I am sorry. I know how petty I must sound. Your life was at risk in Wales, and here I am bemoaning my swollen ankles and sleepless nights. It is just that I've been so lonely. You are the first visitor I've had, the only one…"

"Only because no one knows that you are here, love." Joining her on the bench, he took her into his arms. "If the queen had not sent me to recover that stolen ransom, I'd have been camping outside your door, scandalizing the nuns and making you yearn for a royal crisis to get rid of me for a few days…"

As he'd hoped, that earned him a smile. She let him draw her into a closer embrace, cushioning her head against his shoulder. "You always know what I need to hear, Justin," she murmured. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too," he said and tried to ignore the twinge of guilt her words stirred up, for they'd never even discussed fidelity. Theirs had been a day-to-day liaison, with no talk of tomorrows they both knew they'd never have. Their love affair had not survived his discovery that she'd been spying for John, but to his dismay, he'd found that he could still want a woman he could not trust. Her pregnancy had changed everything and changed nothing. The bond between them, flesh unto flesh, had become much more. He was shackled to her by honor more tightly than ever he'd been by desire. But the gulf between them was still there, and marriage was an option she'd not even considered.

"There were times when I was not sure of that, she admitted, with a raw candor he'd never gotten from her before, "times when I wondered if you welcomed the chance to stay away."

Justin was utterly taken aback. "Claudine, that is not so. Your welfare and that of our baby matters greatly to me. How can I convince you of that?"

"I know that we are neither plight-trothed nor wed, nor can we be. I cannot expect you to take a monk's vows. But I need you to make me a promise, Justin. A man is not permitted in the birthing chamber, I know that. Can you be close at hand, though, just in case all does not go… well with me and the baby?"

Justin had not fully realized until now how very frightened she was. Thankful that he'd never told her his own mother had died in childbirth, he tilted her chin up, kissed her gently on the mouth. "I will always be there when you and the baby need me, Claudine. That I promise you upon the surety of my soul."

October 1193

London, England

Most people lived in tempo with the sun, awakening at dawn and retiring soon after losing the light, for candles and lamp oil were costly and were not to be squandered. The highborn could afford to extend their days by artificial means, and none spent more lavishly than the Queen of England. Eleanor had always followed her own inner rhythms, and her chambers in the Tower were still defying the night long after the rest of London had gone dark and quiet. Knowing her habits, Justin had headed there as soon as he reached the city and, as he expected, the queen was awake, alert, and impatient to hear his report.

She had switched her residence from Westminster to the Tower in order to supervise the collection of Richard's ransom, which was flowing into London from all corners of the kingdom to be stored under guard in St Paul's Cathedral. When Justin was ushered into her presence, she instructed him to await her in the chapel, for nowhere else could she find the privacy their conversation would require.

Justin loved the chapel of St John the Evangelist, a resplendent gem chiseled from Caen limestone. When viewed in a blaze of sunlight, it was dazzling, its walls and pillars gilded in glowing colors, the impression of soaring, celestial space enhanced by the elegant overhead gallery, arched windows, and vaulted nave. Tonight the air was fragrant with the sweet, earthy aroma of frankincense and myrrh, the shadows were silvered by moonlight, and he felt very close to God. Kneeling before the altar, he prayed for Claudine and the baby soon to be born of their sin.

Eleanor entered during his prayer, but she did not interrupt, waiting until he was done. When he rose, he saw her standing behind him and offered an apology for keeping her waiting, but she said, "Even queens defer to the Almighty, Justin," and allowed him to escort her toward a wooden bench.

In her presence he was always surprised by her physical frailty, for his memories of her were molded in the heat of her will and that still burned as fiercely as ever. Her body was not as indomitable as her spirit, though, for even Eleanor of Aquitaine could defy mortality only so long. She battled the indignities of age with silk and emeralds, her face flatteringly framed by the wimple that hid wrinkles and greying hair, her fingers adorned with jeweled rings. But the bones of her hand seemed so fragile and brittle that he barely grazed the skin with his lips, fearing it might be bruised by his breath, and she sank down upon the bench with a betraying sigh of exhaustion.