Sharon Penman - The Queen Man

"Why not? You could pretend this is a church and I am your confessor," she suggested impishly. "Anything you told me would not go beyond this bed, for I'd never betray the sanctity of the confessional!"

Justin was laughing again. "Listen, my beautiful blasphemer, I'd tell you if I could. But these are not my secrets, so I have not the right to reveal them, even to you."

"Yes, I am prying," she conceded. "And I'll not deny that I am curious, for who would not be? They are a most unlikely couple, after all: the Queen of England and a Winchester cutthroat! Of course I wonder about such an odd pairing. But it is more than curiosity."

Her eyes lingered for a moment on the bruise under his eye. "Justin, I am worried about you. You were ambushed once already, and the next time you might not be so lucky. I do not know what information you hoped to gain from that outlaw, but I do know you did not get it. You admitted as much when you said it was 'not over.' What are you going to do now? I need to know if your life will be at risk. Surely you can tell me that much?"

Justin's feelings for Claudine had been veering between passion and protection, between wanting to take care of her and take her to bed. His emotions were complicated now by a great surge of tenderness, a sentiment he'd had little experience with. Reaching over, he caressed her cheek, and she closed her eyes, her lips parting temptingly.

He did not kiss her, though, for in that moment the significance of her words sank in. She'd called Gilbert a "Winchester cutthroat." He'd never told her that, had never even mentioned the Fleming's name. So how had she known?

His fingers slid from her cheek, came to rest upon her throat. She smiled without opening her eyes, a dimple flashing. Fumbling for the wine cup, he drank deeply, but the cold continued to seep into his body, through marrow to the very bone. Only a handful of people had known of Gilbert's Winchester roots. Eleanor. Will Longsword. Luke and Jonas. Nell. And John. John would know, for Durand would have told him all that he'd gleaned from those spying missions to Winchester.

I'll have to look elsewhere . John's words seemed to echo in the stillness. He'd harbored suspicions about Luke. Ought he to have looked closer at hand? Could Claudine be John's spy?

Until that moment, he'd not known that the worst sort of pain need not be physical, utterly unrelated to broken bones or bleeding. Had she bedded him at John's bidding? All those questions about his past, so gently insistent, questions that a woman would naturally want to know about her lover. Jesus God. Had she been playing him for a fool from the first?

"Are you retreating into that clamlike silence again?" Claudine chided. "I do not expect you to betray the queen's confidence, no more than I would. But I can see how troubled you are. Keep back what you must, but do not shut me out entirely. Let me help, Justin."

She sounded very sincere. Those lovely dark eyes did not waver, her gaze as trusting and innocent as a fawn's. Could he be sure that he'd not let something slip about the Fleming? Was he doing her a terrible wrong? But it explained so much, too much. He had to know the truth. He had to know.

"You are right, Claudine," he said, and wondered if his voice sounded as strained to her ears as it did to his own. "Mayhap it might help to talk about it, and… and whom can I trust if not you? But I must have your word that you'll keep secret whatever I tell you. There is more at stake than I think you realize."

"I promise," she said readily. "Of course I do."

"I'll tell you, then, about the contents of that letter. It concerned the queen's son. It is very likely, Claudine, that King Richard is dead."

Her gasp was audible. "Oh, no! What happened to him?"

"He was shipwrecked on the way home from the Holy Land. The letter was from one of his shipmates. He claims there were but few survivors and the king was not amongst them."

"Dear God!" She seemed genuinely shaken. "Nothing could give the queen greater grief. Richard has always been the dearest of all her children. How could she keep pain like that bottled up within? She's acted as if nothing was wrong…"

"She is not willing to believe it, not yet. That is one reason why she is keeping it quiet. She is waiting for confirmation, whilst hoping that it will be disproved. But I read that letter and I have no doubts that the man was telling the truth."

He drained the cup, the wine tasting like vinegar. "Do you see now why I was so loath to speak of this, Claudine, and why I had to swear you to secrecy?"

"By the Rood, yes! Justin, this will… will change everything!"

"Yes… it will." He knew his story would not bear close scrutiny, but it was so sensational that no one would think to question it, at least not on first hearing. Setting the cup down in the floor rushes, he lay back wearily against the pillow. Claudine curled up beside him, continuing to express her astonishment, to sympathize with Eleanor, to speculate how Richard's death would affect the succession. Finally becoming aware of his silence, she poked him in the ribs. "You're not falling asleep, are you?"

"Sorry," he mumbled. "But I was up all night…"

"I'd forgotten about that." Leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek. "Get some sleep, then, love. Mayhap I will, too…"

Turning his head on the pillow, Justin found himself breathing in the rain-sweet scent of her hair. He was exhausted, but sleep would not come. What if he was wrong about Claudine? How could he ever expect her forgiveness? But if he was not wrong? What, then?

He was never to know how long he lay there. He was lost in time, trapped behind enemy lines in a foreign country, with no familiar landmarks in sight. "Justin?" Claudine was shaking his arm. "Love, wake up."

"What is wrong?"

"I am feeling poorly," she said, mustering up a wan smile. "Sometimes I get these severe headaches. They come upon me without warning, like a storm out of a cloudless sky…"

Justin sat up. "There is an apothecary shop across the street. I'll see if it is still open."

She shook her head, then winced. "It is sweet of you to offer. But that will not help." Rubbing her temples, she winced again, and gave him another apologetic smile. "The only remedy that does is a tisane made up for me in Aquitaine. I'm not even sure what is in it, feverfew and betony and other herbs I could not name. When one of these bad headaches hits, all I can do is take the tisane and keep to bed until the storm passes. Would you mind taking me back to the Tower?"

"No, I'd not mind."

"No wonder I am so smitten with you," she said, groping for his hand. "I am truly sorry, love, to spoil our night together."

Justin stared down at the delicate fingers entwined in his. "It is all right, Claudine," he said softly. "I understand."

~~

They parted on the steps leading up into the Tower's great keep, for Claudine insisted that he need not accompany her any farther. She did not kiss him, for it was too public a place for that. Instead she squeezed his hand, her fingers stroking his palm in a clandestine caress. "I am so sorry, Justin."

"I'll take your mare over to the stables," he said. But he did not move away at once, stood watching until she'd disappeared into the forebuilding of the keep.

"That is a fine horse." A youth had come whistling by, pausing long enough to cast a covetous glance toward Copper. He looked vaguely familiar to Justin, was most likely a squire to one of Eleanor's household knights.

"Wait," Justin said. "I'd like a word with you, lad. Do you know the Lady Claudine?"

"I do. Why."

"I just escorted her back to the Tower. She was taken ill this afternoon and I am worried about her. It will ease my mind if I know she's gone right up to the queen's chambers and to bed. It would be worth a half-penny to me if you could find out for sure?"