Кэндис Робб - The Lady Chapel

“You’re not sorry?”

“Sorry? What a fool you are!” Lucie hugged him.

Owen reached his arms round her, but stopped, uncertain.

Lucie laughed. “You don’t mean to deprive me of hugs till high summer?”

“High summer?”

Lucie pulled Owen’s arms around her. “For pity’s sake, Owen, don’t make me regret what our love has wrought.”

“The babe might grow up to be a soldier.”

“Better that than an archbishop.”

Now Owen hugged her, but more tenderly than usual.

The King greeted his Chancellor warmly. “So you have returned, John. Does this mean you found your murderer and have him safely locked up in your dungeons? Or perhaps you’ve executed him already.”

“The major accomplices are dead, my King, but not the one who conceived of the murders.”

“And he is locked up?”

“On the contrary. She is living the life of royalty.”

Edward raised an eyebrow. “She? Your villain is a woman?”

“A most cunning woman.”

“Living the life of royalty? What do you mean by that, John?”

“She is here at court, my Lord.”

“At my court?” Edward stood up abruptly, walked over to the fire, held out his hands to warm them. “I hope you are not going to accuse Mistress Alice.”

Thoresby felt a chill run down his back. How had the King guessed? He had told no one here at court. “Why do you say that, Your Grace? Why Alice?”

Edward turned a stern look on Thoresby. “She told me that she imprudently let you know she was privy to information about you that you would prefer no one knew. She has worried that you would try to discredit her before she could convince you of her discretion. You had made her fear you distrusted her and disapproved of her presence at court.”

All cleverly true – except the fear part. Alice Perrers feared nothing. What could Thoresby say? “I was thinking of Queen Phillippa – how ill she is, how much love she needs. It seemed cruel to let her see you with the Perrers woman.”

“You would judge your King?”

“Forgive me. I saw it as a spiritual matter.”

“And so you were about to accuse Alice?”

“I did not say that. I confess that she is right in fearing that I distrust her and disapprove of her presence at court. You have a wife, Your Grace. A most loving, beautiful, gracious–”

“Enough! You do not have to recite my Queen’s virtues for me.” The blue eyes had turned cold. “But I wonder what has changed in ten years, John. When I loved Marguerite you did not preach at me.”

Thoresby felt the courage draining from him. He gulped some wine while he thought what to say. Marguerite. Obviously the Perrers bitch had told Edward. Sweet Jesu. “The circumstances were different ten years ago. Marguerite was at court, but not acknowledged as your mistress. It was all done discreetly so that no one would guess your relationship, particularly the Queen.”

There was a nasty glow in the King’s eyes. “Discreetly. Yes. As I recall, you pretended to be smitten. You escorted her here and there. And into my chamber. But perhaps you did not pretend, eh, John? Or did you act the part so well that you grew to believe it yourself?”

“Your Grace?”

“I have here a copy of a letter in which you swore your fealty to the fair Marguerite, described her body in intimate detail, and claimed the babe that she died trying to bear was yours.” With his ever-present jewel-handled dagger, Edward poked through some papers on the table, squinted, selected one. He held it out to Thoresby.

“Your Grace.” Thoresby took the paper, but did not look at it at once. He remembered the letter. Why had Marguerite not burned it as she had all the rest? What could he do? He held it up to the light, skimmed it. Dear God, it was worse than he’d remembered. The moles between Marguerite’s buttocks and beneath her left nipple, the seallike bark she made as she rode him to ecstasy.

How ridiculously in love had Thoresby been to write such things? Completely, totally, overwhelmingly. And Marguerite had died so soon after he’d written the letter.

Thoresby knelt to his King, his head down, his right hand to his breast, his left hand crushing the letter.

“Useless to destroy the letter, John. ’Tis but a copy.”

“Forgive me, my Lord. I was put in the way of temptation and could not resist.”

Edward touched Thoresby’s head with the dagger, then lifted Thoresby’s chin. The King smiled on his Chancellor. “You are forgiven, John. And for that you must thank Alice. She has made me see that I never really loved Marguerite. She was a pretty thing, a toy. I lusted for her body. But I did not love her. Not as I love Alice. Or my Queen. Rise, John. Let us embrace and let the past rest.”

Thoresby stood and let himself be pulled into the King’s crushing embrace. “Your Grace has the noblest of hearts.”

Edward beamed down on Thoresby. “So.” He slapped Thoresby on the back. “Now. Do you still accuse Alice?”

Thoresby took a deep breath. “Her cousin, Paul Scorby, had his men murder two members of York’s Mercers’ Guild. He would have murdered another man if I had not intervened. Scorby claimed that he had gotten his instructions from his cousin Alice.”

“Did he? And in what form? Letters?”

“Yes.”

The King held out his hand. “Then give them to me.”

“I cannot.”

“Do you have them?”

“No, Your Grace. But his widow is searching the manor.”

The King threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Oh, John. Your holiness of late has addled your wits. I hope that you did not let this man go on the strength of this claim, for I assure you that is why he told you such a thing – to be set free so he might escape the country.”

“He is dead, Your Grace.”

“Good. For you never will find any letters, I am certain. Alice was an innocent when she came to court. And while here she has been treated so gently that she could have neither cause nor opportunity to get caught up in such a plot. And let that be an end to it.”

“Her uncles put her up to it, Your Grace. Scorby was to kill the people who knew how the Perrers family bought their way to you.”

Edward reared up, threw his dagger at the table, where it stuck, vibrating. “You say that people buy their way to me, John? Is that what you think of your King?”

“I – it is what he said, Your Grace.” Thoresby hated himself for sniveling.

“Get out of here before I change my mind, John.” The King’s voice was quiet. Menacing.

This time it was Alice Perrers who discovered Thoresby waiting for her. He lifted his own jeweled goblet to her. “I believe your cellar is even better than mine, Mistress Perrers. Or shall I call you Alice, since we know such intimate details about each other?”

Alice hesitated, then dismissed her maid. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, John?”

“I wanted to thank you.”

The cat eyes darted nervously around the room. The daringly low-cut bodice could not hide the frightened breathing.

“Do not worry, I’ve brought no one with me. Not on such an intimate errand.”

“Intimate?”

Thoresby stood and walked over to Alice. Insolently, he placed a hand on her chest.

“You are drunk, John.”

He shook his head, squeezed a breast.

Alice gasped, but did not move away from him. “You wanted to thank me?”

“Yes, indeed. You have reminded me that I am but a man, Alice. A man with passions. Heat. I lie awake at night, dreaming of the pleasure of ravishing you. Isn’t that a healthy sign?”

“I am not Marguerite.”

“No. No, you most assuredly are not Marguerite. My love for her was gentle. Not like the angry passion I feel for you.”