Chapter Twelve

In the Welshry of Ruardean, he learned, she was a saint. Outside of it, she was a ghost.

Will searched diligently for signs of her in every village they visited, looking for anything that was not a tale of her religious devotion. But he had learned an imperative lesson in his youth, proven time and again, that the true nature of any person was seen in their actions and not their words. Piety was an exceptional subterfuge, because few ever thought to watch what busy hands were doing while lips performed prayer.

Long before she had seen the almshouse built in the Welshry, she had concerned herself with feeding its poor and caring for its sick. He had known that, of course, but had not understood the extent of it until now. The Welsh here were well provisioned – not as well as the more prosperous English villages, but far better than could ever be managed without the investment of time and close attention. There were improvements that might be made to the shabby little buildings, but no one here went hungry, that was plain. He must remember to inquire where she had found such abundant funds for it.

"There are many girls born in recent years named Mared," said the priest in the Welshry, who swore on his life he had not seen or heard of any heretical writings. "Not to gain favor, but in thanks to your lady wife. Mared is the Welsh for Margaret, you see."

Will smiled pleasantly to hide his embarrassment at how they all knew he did not speak more than a few words of their language. They did not expect him to speak it. Many were glad to see young Henry not only for his understanding of Welsh but because he was Gwenllian's boy. They remembered and loved Gwenllian, because she had been raised among them.

Farther from Ruardean, though, the affection fell away and was replaced with suspicion. Will had expected this, and had come to ensure the bishop's men were not fed lies. He may not be well-known or loved here, but his name commanded a respect that the bishop's did not. The Church had long sought more control of the Welsh clerics, who quietly disregarded many of the rules imposed on them by the English archbishop. Their defiance had outlasted the death of their prince Llewellyn, outlasted the war that the Welsh had lost, and would likely outlast the men who questioned them now.

But Ruardean was much closer than Rome, and more feared. So Will showed his face, that they would consider their words most carefully.

On the second day, in a village so small and poor that it was hardly worthy of the name, he heard, "And are you your mother's son?"

He thought it was meant for Henry, because it was spoken in Welsh. But it came from an old and battle-scarred man who was looking directly at Will.

His relief at understanding the question almost caused him to answer with a simple yes, until he caught the look in the man's eyes. The speculation, the bold assessment, the strange wording. Not Eluned's boy , but instead: your mother's son . This was more than an inquiry into his parentage, more than just a reminder of the Welsh blood that ran in his veins.

It caused a familiar prickling at his nape, an old doubt that breathed its cold breath all along his spine. It whispered rumors of his mother. Her affinity for the lost cause of Welsh independence, her rumored intention many years ago to take up arms against the English crown. Only suspicions, rumors born of spite. There was not a scrap of evidence for it that he had ever found. But there were looks like these from hard-eyed Welshmen.

In the man's face was the real question, plain to see. Are you one of us, or one of them? Welsh or English. One heritage or the other. Never both. Neither side would allow him to be both.

"I am Ruardean," he answered. The only answer.

He held the stare until the Welsh man nodded and turned away. Then Will put the encounter firmly out of his mind. He always did.

Four days, more than a dozen villages, and they found no indication that the heretical pages she had so rashly sent out into the world had landed anywhere but Stowell's hands. Everywhere they went outside of Ruardean, there was no sign of a lady so beloved that children were named for her. There was only the distant and devout Lady Margaret who had been glimpsed by some when she visited their sacred well or other local shrine, who prayed and kept to herself.

Of course they might be lying. They were very practiced at hiding things from the English.

As each priest denied any knowledge of heretical teachings in their parish, Will clung to the memory of her secret little smile. He held it tight as the smug bishop's men said they would pray for him, that he must live with such an affliction of a wife. He summoned her sly little smile to mind when he met with two beguines who insisted that Margaret was nothing more than a kind lady who sometimes took pity and gave them pennies so that they might not starve. He grasped at it like a drowning man when he returned to Ruardean and took his place beside her at the midday meal, where she sat with downcast eyes. She ate her meager portion of bread and water, and never for an instant betrayed that there was anything more inside her than this obedient virtue.

But there was more. He had seen it in the night, had felt her hot and eager beneath him.

She retreated to the solar when the meal was done. He followed and watched her, ignoring how her ladies fluttered and tensed at his presence, sparing the slightest glance at the man left behind by the bishop, assigned to watch over her in her penance.

She was speaking with her ladies, planning an altarpiece, discussing which martyrdom or miracle it should depict. "Well may ye choose it, whatever is most pleasing," she murmured to them – and Will was suddenly sure.

He could not believe he had not seen it before. She was too perfect. Too humble. Too accommodating. Too ready to sacrifice. Too good at avoiding any conflict by deflecting with pious platitudes. And all the while there was that quiet self-satisfaction beneath it.

To her credit, she did not seek to avoid him now. She knew there must be a reckoning.

Without raising her eyes to him, she said to the ladies, "I would hear of my lord husband's journey in private." To the bishop's watchdog, she murmured, "My prayers I will say here, Brother Matthew, or do you command me leave my husband and come to the chapel?"

The man she spoke to was young, no doubt the son of a wealthy house to have gained this placement so early in life. William considered which family it might be – which would be more advantageous to him, what debts might be called in – as the clergyman very genially assured Lady Margaret that he was certain she could complete her afternoon prayer of contrition without him watching over her.

Then they were left alone. Man and wife, lord and lady, the first they had been alone since walking in to face the bishop together.

He said nothing, and watched the silence work on her: folded hands growing restless, lowered eyes shifting nervously left and right, breath turning shallow. Finally she inhaled deeply, preparing, and spoke barely above a whisper.

"My offense against God will be forgiven through His grace, with repentance and in the fullness of time. But most earnestly have I also prayed… Full well do I know I am undeserving, but I pray you too will forgive me, husband."

Already this was different. Not fervent and entreating, but subdued and chastened. Hesitant. Sweet. She was adjusting, refining her performance to better appeal to him.

Or she was entirely sincere and he was a fool.

"Look at me, Margaret."

She raised her eyes no higher than his chest. "My lord?"

"My name is William," he corrected. "Look at me."

She lifted her eyes to his, and he saw no true remorse there. There was caution and a barely disguised obstinacy and a marvelous, incalculable wealth of secrets – but no remorse. Only the perfect imitation of it. She had all the right words and manners, enough to fool any man. Enough to fool him, until now.

"All is forgiven, if you will tell me why." He could not stop the amused admiration from creeping into his face, though he saw it sparked a wariness in her. Good. Let them be equal in their uncertainty. "Is it that you are so devoted to this Brother Quinten's teachings? Or do you truly have the heart of a heretic?"

Her eyes grew wide, her brow creased with worry. She shook her head to deny it. "Nay, my lord–"

"William," he insisted.

"Lord William–"

"Just William. Or Will, if you like."

She seemed incapable of speaking for a moment – not his name, or anything else. Just her open mouth, her suspended objection, her rapid blinking. She was floundering.

"William," she said finally, half-peeved, half-confused. Husky. True.

"Margaret." He stepped close and turned her face up to him, fingers beneath her chin. Her eyes stayed down, leaving him with a view of her lashes. "Look at me." He felt her gather herself before lifting her gaze to his. There was no fear or disgust. There was only keen wit in her eyes and soft skin beneath his hand. It aroused him more than he thought was possible.

He could not resist the urge, and put his lips on hers. Her response was immediate. Her mouth opened as though she had been waiting, starving. There was such searing heat to her, an eagerness that made his body flush with a violent lust. He felt lightheaded with it, with how her face pressed up to his and her breath rushed over his cheek.

This was where she could not hide herself, this place where their bodies met. Yet all her will was contained within the boundaries of her kiss, her lips and tongue moving boldly while the rest of her stayed passive.

His hands curved around her waist, pressing her soft and yielding body to the hard length of him. Her curves seemed to flow into him, a perfect symmetry of desire.

"It is day," she whispered when his mouth moved to her throat, a weak objection. Her hands moved to his shoulders and for a brief and heady moment he thought she would pull him to her. But she only pushed herself away, stumbling backward to put space between them.

Her hands smoothed down her surcoat. She took ragged breaths, avoiding his eyes, recovering herself. "It is the hour for prayer. I must pray now."

Prayer. Always prayer. The unassailable shield.

"Nay," he said, putting aside both his exasperation and his lust. They would do this now. He would have answers. "There is naught you must do but to tell me what intentions you hide from me."

At this, she was taken aback. "Hide? There is naught I seek to hide, I wish only to do the penance that has been given me, and beseech mercy of–"

"Full well did you know the Church would abhor those writings. Yet you did willfully spread them. Tell me why. And do not hesitate in your answer or I will know it for a lie."

He watched her lips press flat and catch briefly between her teeth. Her hands twisted together in what looked like true distress.

"Father Benedict," she said, all in a rush. "I thought of him. Of his wife and the many others like her, the cruelty it would be to cast them off. It was an impulse. Born of compassion but poorly judged, and I do sore regret it for the sorrow and shame it has brought upon you."

A sliver of the truth at last, but not all of it. Even the most empty-headed fool would not commit heresy upon a whim. And he was increasingly certain she was far from empty-headed.

He moved his eyes over her. Her lips were swollen with kisses, her eyes cast down to hide the workings of her mind. Not a plaster statue of a saint, but a woman. A real woman, full of complex reason and fleshly desires.

"Nay," he said steadily. "It was no impulse. You did it a-purpose, and with all due forethought. There is no regret in you."

Her eyes closed as though it pained her to hear such an accusation. "I want only that my every work is directed by God, that my actions begin with Him, and through Him come to completion." She was adamant. Almost angry. "In this I have failed, by putting my own desires first. I deplore and detest what I have done."

"You would do it again, could you be assured that your actions go unnoticed."

"I would not ," she shot back. She drew a deep breath and immediately made herself meek again. "My lord. William. I must pray for forgiveness now. I must."

So insistent. So practiced. So desperate to hold on to her shield. But he had glimpsed beneath it and found her there, sweet fruit inside a sour rind. He could be fooled no more.

She retreated through the door to her bed chamber, and he followed. In a corner beside the bed there was a place set for prayer, no doubt because she would be compelled to pray the nightly offices for her penance. Her book of hours was set upon a table low to the floor. It held a golden crucifix, icons of saints, a little carved figure of the Holy Mother. A small, padded platform was on the floor before it, that she might kneel upon it for the long hours of devotion.

The tapestry on the far wall caught his eye, the gold thread reflecting the light from the small window, brilliant rays of heaven sewn into the cloth. The dragon twisted beneath the archangel's sword, trapped in an eternal battle.

"Will you join me?" she murmured from the corner.

She knelt before the table with her head bowed, winding the string of beads around her hands and beginning the whispered chant of her prayers. She was such an exact image of a supplicant that it might be a page from a prayer book come to life.

"I will," he answered, and saw her stiffen slightly in surprise. He knelt not beside her, but behind her. Her breath caught when he put his lips to her neck, a delicious burst of air.

She did not stop her prayer.

"I dread the loss of Heaven," she recited. But her body was going soft beneath his hands, her pulse beating hard and fast against his mouth. "And the pains of Hell."

Her surcoat was loose, cut low beneath her arms. His hands slipped inside, over the linen that covered her breasts, seeking the heat that greeted him in their bed at night. Her flesh went taut beneath his touch, yet she did not pause her devotions, holy words falling from her lips as her body responded to his touch.

He tugged at her full skirt to loosen it, free it from the press of her knees, just enough to allow his hand to smooth over her leg, bare beneath the linen.

"It is day," she whispered, breaking from her prayer.

"Command me to stop," he suggested, a murmur in her ear as his fingers skimmed over the hidden flesh of her thighs. "You are sworn to say me nay if I displease you."

She only gripped her beads more tightly and continued praying, committed to her pious charade. She switched to Latin, her lips breathing rhythmic words that trembled in the air before them, a mindless recitation.

He tasted her throat and felt the heat of her body rising, a fever growing beneath his hands. He had used to fantasize when he came to her bed, images to keep him aroused as he performed his marital duty. But from the beginning, they were always fantasies of her. Of this. That beneath the righteous fa?ade there was a wanton filled with fire, secretly wanting him. Wanting this.

It might still be no more than fantasy. She did not reach for him, or lean against him, or let her attention stray from her prayer. The uncertainty might drive him mad in truth, not knowing who she truly was, what she truly wanted. He stayed his hands and waited. Let her object, and he would stand up, walk away, and leave her to her precious prayer.

But she did not object. His hand rested at the join of her legs, the hair soft against his palm, and he felt her knees part, the scorching center of her suddenly open to him. Her body sank down, her damp flesh pressing against his hand, pushing his fingers into her slick heat. "O duo luminaria divinitus." She whispered the prayer with ragged breath, her legs parting further. "Ante Deum lucentia."

He raised her skirt, pulled it up over her hips when she bent over the table and stopped her words. The book of hours was knocked to the floor as he shoved himself inside her. The string broke between her tight fists, filling the room with the sweet music of the beads rolling free across the floor as she gasped beneath him, all pretense burned away.