Alison Weir - Captive Queen

He was thirty-two, a man in his prime, even if he was putting on a bit of weight, and naturally there had been women, plenty of them, conquered, used, then as quickly forgotten. But now that he had seen this exquisite young girl, it came to him in a blinding instant that something precious had long been absent from his life, and that he needed far more than a quick roll in the hay with any easy trollop.

But this was no hoyden to be pursued for his gratification: this, he guessed, must be one of the daughters of his host, who had a large brood that included five strapping sons. He wondered why he hadn’t seen her the night before, when Lady Clifford presented her family to her king.

The girl had heard his horse approaching. She turned around suddenly, and the flowers spilled from her lap, scattering in a riot of delicate colors over her gown and the grass. She was utterly enchanting. Her skin was like cream, her lips full and round like dark cherries, her cheeks flushed with surprise, her eyes the blue of cornflowers. As she rose, her gown settled becomingly; the jeweled girdle wound around her waist and hips revealed a slim figure, the low, scooped neckline and tight bodice accentuated small, high breasts. Henry felt his erection harden. He must have her, God, he must have her!

Of course, she would have no idea who he was. She had not met him the night before. As he slowed his horse to a standstill, she was already backing away, the flowers forgotten.

“Fair maiden, have no fear!” he called gently. “I am your king, and your father’s guest. I wish you no harm.” I wish you in my bed. That was what he really wanted to say to her.

The girl looked flustered. Her creamy cheeks blushed strawberry red, and she sank into a curtsey. “Sire, I beg your pardon!” Her voice was low and melodious, with a delightful Welsh accent. Henry heard it and was utterly lost.

“Up!” he instructed, with a winning smile, dismounting beside her. “No need to stand on ceremony, fair maiden. What is your name?”

“I am Rosamund,” she told him. “Rosamund de Clifford.”

“Rosamund,” he repeated. “Rosa mundi . The rose of the world. A beautiful name, in English or Latin.”

She said nothing, but just kept on blushing. Henry held out his arm to her and, leading his horse by the reins, proceeded to walk with her toward the castle drawbridge, where the sentries could be seen dozing at their posts in the heat. The touch of her small hand on his skin was heaven.

“Tell me, Rosamund, why were you not here to greet me last night?” Henry probed.

“Lord King, I returned only this day from the good nuns of Godstow, with whom I have lived these past three years.”

Henry was intrigued. “Am I to understand that your parents intended to make a nun of you?”

“No, Lord King, they wished me to receive a virtuous education that would serve me well when God sees fit to send me a husband.”

“Very wise, very wise. You are far too pretty to spend your life in a cloister!” Rosamund blushed becomingly again.

“How old are you, my little nun?” Henry teased.

“I am fourteen, Lord King.”

“And have you come home to be married?”

“I know not, sire.”

Henry was captivated—and dismayed. He had lusted before after virgins from good families, and it always ended badly, with irate fathers summarily shoving their daughters into convents or hastily marrying them off. Most of the women he had bedded over the years were either married women, or whores—or his wife. He knew very well that Rosamund was virtually beyond his reach—unless he proved himself the monster he always claimed jokingly not to be. He knew very well that no decent man worthy of his knighthood—or his kingship—would so dishonor a maiden of noble birth, for that would irrevocably ruin her chances in the marriage market and sully her reputation forever. Men who were not as decent might not scruple to do so, but Henry now had daughters of his own, and would have cheerfully run through any bastard who ventured to compromise their honor. He told himself he could not do such a thing to sweet Rosamund, or to her father, his loyal and likable host.

But just then he glimpsed Rosamund peeping coyly at him from under her lashes. Her artless look betrayed her. She found him attractive, he would swear to it! She might well be amenable … In which case he would not, could not, feel so guilty about robbing her of her maidenhead. He realized—for he was, as he liked to boast, a plain man, always brutally honest with himself—that, dismally soon, all his chivalrous scruples were falling by the wayside. It could only be Rosamund’s fault: with that shy glance, she had disarmed him. By the eyes of God, he wanted her!

Of course, he had to relinquish her arm when he brought her to her father’s castle, and let her lady mother—gushingly grateful to her king for escorting the girl home safely—cart Rosamund off to her chamber so she could wash and change her clothes for the feast that was planned for the evening. It was painful for him to let her go, but he murmured a few gracious words, then retired to submit to the attentions of his valet.

Later, seated at the place of honor at the high table, he selected a chicken leg from a proffered platter, gnawed upon it absentmindedly, then turned to Sir Walter.

“I met your daughter Rosamund today,” he said, striving to make himself heard above the chatter and laughter. “I thought her a most virtuous young lady.”

Sir Walter looked along the board, beyond his great, strapping sons, to where Rosamund sat with her sisters. Henry’s eyes followed; they had been straying in that direction all evening. The girl’s eyes were modestly downcast as she ate her food daintily, but her golden tresses fanned over her shoulders and breast like a burnished cape, and her lips were ripe for kissing. She looked a picture of beauty, and Henry found himself aching with desire—yet again.

“Aye, sire,” Sir Walter said complacently. “She’s a good girl. The nuns have done well with her. I’ll have to find her a husband soon.”

“She is not yet spoken for?” Not that it made much difference. She soon would be. Any man worthy of the name would snap her up in a trice.

“No, sire. I have many children to settle in matrimony.”

“I know all about that!” Henry smiled. “I have many of my own.” But the recall of them did not act as a deterrent, and he paused for a moment, plotting frantically. “How would it be if Rosamund came to court to wait upon the Queen? She would be well looked after, and I myself would take an interest in finding a suitable match for her.” Never a truer word had been spoken, he mused.

“Lord King, I would be honored!” effused a surprised Sir Walter. “And my daughter too, depend on it.”

“Queen Eleanor is in Anjou just now,” Henry said, “but some of her English ladies are at Woodstock, awaiting her return. I myself am bound for there when my Welsh rebels have been taught some respect.” It was a lie, but Sir Walter was not to know that. “I and my men would happily escort your daughter to Woodstock, or you could arrange for her to travel in the company of your own men-at-arms later on.”

As Henry had anticipated, the proud, ambitious father jumped at his offer, and so it was decided that Rosamund should go to Woodstock.

It had been that easy.

That night, Henry lay awake, aware that what he was about to do was a great sin and an even greater wrong. Yet he was unable to help himself: he could not resist the allure of Rosamund. He had to have her—he was mad to have her. His penis throbbed insistently at the very thought of her. He could think of nothing else.

A little voice at the back of his mind warned him there would be a reckoning. He did not doubt it, but he did not care. The devil in him, that diabolical legacy of his heritage, was driving him on, urging him to take what he wanted. He would defy the world, if need be, to have this girl. It was as bad as that.