Chapter Seventeen

Just over a month remained to her. Five weeks until Michaelmas, and Margaret could feel her fear growing a little more every day.

"He must be found." She despaired of achieving her usual calm cadence as she whispered with Constance in the chapel. Fear now threatened to grow into panic, because Quinten had left the little house in Gravesend to roam the countryside. "By Mary, if he preaches in every village that will have him then it cannot be an impossible task."

"Surely it is better that he is not so easily found, by us or anyone." Constance was enviably calm. "Stephan does not dare draw attention to the search lest the bishop take note."

For the hundredth time, Margaret debated whether she should tell Constance about Lady Eluned's threat. Keeping such a thing from her friend seemed wrong, but she could see no advantage in sharing it. Already Constance was acting with as much urgency as was possible. To tell her that Lady Eluned had discovered so many of their secrets would not hasten her, but only cause her sleepless nights.

"Quinten must leave," Margaret repeated. "England is not safe for him."

"There is no safe harbor for him in any land where the Church holds power. They have declared him an enemy of the faith, and he knows well the danger he courts. He does not fear it, but endures in the face of it."

There was a touch less gentleness in Constance's voice, a firmness that spoke volumes.

"Do you reprimand me, Constance?" Margaret asked through gritted teeth. How wonderful it must feel, to be so very certain of everything. "Is it a sin to fear? Must I face each danger with the courage of a martyr?"

She only became more irritated when Constance fixed an intent gaze upon her. Every instant of every day, it seemed, Margaret felt eyes on her. Her husband watched her like a suspicious hawk, and Brother Matthew was forever watching over her. Even now when he had gone to visit the bishop, Margaret must suffer young Henry's scrutiny – as though it was his duty to ensure she attended her prayers in Brother Matthew's absence.

"Not sin, Meg, nor is it a reprimand." Constance spoke more gently, putting a hand atop Margaret's and leaning closer. It shattered the illusion that they were two women quietly praying side by side. "I only urge you to take solace in faith. Your worries are so many that I fear you will grow sick with them."

Margaret saw such a tender concern in Constance's face that it shamed her. Her friend, her accomplice, whose faith had sustained her so many times yet whose goodness made Margaret feel…less, somehow. Even now when she faltered, when she slipped and showed her petty annoyance, still Constance was patient and kind.

"I cannot forget the risk to us all," she said. "Nor can I bear to think of the consequences if I fail in this. He must be found. He must."

"If God wills it, he will be found," Constance replied, perfectly serene and sure. She squeezed Margaret's hand. "Cast thy burdens upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee."

This gentle counsel only irritated her all over again. Give her cares over to God – as though it were as simple as handing off a bundle of laundry that would return to her clean and neatly folded.

She heard herself say, "Aye, we must trust in God," and to her distant horror it was the meek, practiced tone that escaped her mouth. Because it was easier to hide. Easier to be what was expected, though it was nothing like her true thoughts.

Yet Constance believed it utterly. Of course she did; why wouldn't she?

Margaret bowed her head so that she might pray most earnestly, but found she could not. She only stared at her folded hands and wondered if this was what she had become, that she could so easily give a false face to a true friend. When had deception become so very natural? It was troubling, too, that what she hid was an unspeakable truth, something too big to even think about: she did not trust in God. Not really. Not in this.

But this was no time for such idle musings. After Quinten was found and taken safely out of England, she would turn her mind to it. After she was assured there would be no new crusade. After all the most pressing matters were cared for, she might be able to stop and look directly at the doubts that seemed to have taken root and multiplied like choking weeds. For now, though, she would much rather try to think of ways to dissuade a distant Mongol king from an alliance with Rome. Just how she might manage such a feat without her husband's notice utterly escaped her. If only he would not watch her so very closely.

In the same minute she thought it, she glanced up and saw him. He was standing in the shadow of a pillar near the door, his gaze trained on her.

He saw her instant flare of alarm – her widened eyes, her panicked heart. There was no way to know how long he had been watching them, but it was some comfort to know he could not have heard their conversation, not from where he stood. Thank God and all the saints.

She must greet him. Natural and easy, grateful prayers for his safe return, that sort of thing – and she must do it quickly, so that it might make him forget her little panic at seeing him.

"Constance, will you not see that the kitchen has prepared for my lord husband's return?" She nodded toward where he stood, and felt Constance stiffen in surprise. "The hour for our prayer is ended."

Constance rose from the bench and, murmuring a greeting to Lord William as she passed, quickly made her exit.

He came toward Margaret, moving slowly, all patience and grace. When he reached a spot along the wall opposite her bench, he stopped and leaned a shoulder against a pillar there, watching and waiting. Gone was the weary man who laid his head against her breast and fell sweetly into slumber. Now he was the fearsome lord of Ruardean, who saw so much and tolerated so little, who only a fool would dare to defy.

She made herself rise and go to him, reminding herself to breathe normally. He could not have heard anything. Nor could he see inside her head, even if it felt that way.

"Even now was I praying for your safe return, husband."

She said it with her eyes cast down, her tone mild. In daylight, it was not as difficult to hold tight to the threads of meek Lady Margaret.

"Two days is hardly a journey to put me at peril." He said it almost teasingly, and she resisted the urge to smile in response. "Nor did I travel far from your side."

He had spent these weeks since his mother left in mysterious travels – never more than a few days, always announced to her at the very last moment. And when she asked, he only said he had affairs to attend. Last week he had asked the name of the village where she had visited the holy well, the same village where Stephan so often sojourned. She knew without a doubt that he had asked not because he needed the name, but because he wanted see her reaction to the question.

Idle queries and conversational asides, designed to glean as much information as possible: this was her own tactic, and now he used it on her.

"I have prayed too that you would be greeted in your travels with only happy news," she said, "and all your endeavors fruitful."

She had learned not to make it a direct question. An implied interest, covered over with humility and slight awe, often flattered him just enough that he might let slip some hint of his exploits.

This time, though, he did not rise to the bait. He reached one arm toward her and skimmed a hand over her waist. His palm rested there on the plain leather belt she wore over her bland dress, and she tried to think of anything other than the warmth spreading through her. It proved difficult. He had not come to her bed since his lady mother's visit.

"Tomorrow I would have you wear your jeweled girdle to the hall, when we dine." His thumb rubbed slowly against her plain belt, as though he could envision it turning to gold beneath his touch.

"There will be guests?" she asked, willing her heart to slow. This was not an uncommon request, when there were visitors to be impressed. There was no reason to fear. She had placed the fake link days ago; it was ready to be shown. "If there are preparations to make–"

"No more than the girdle."

She nodded, and tried but failed to think of a way to ask him why. His nearness seemed to eclipse all other thought.

"You will remain here at Ruardean for a time?" she asked instead.

"For a time."

He had leaned backwards into the shadows again, his face half in darkness, looming above her. There seemed to be nothing more he wanted to do, or say, than to stand here in expectant silence with his hand on her hip. It scattered her wits even further. She could not seem to think beyond the broad expanse of his shoulders, the smell of him so near.

He knew how it affected her. She could see it in the curve of his mouth. She could feel it in the way his fingers moved so leisurely against her waist, slipping just barely beneath her belt.

"It is…many days since you have come to my bedchamber." That was a thing that should concern good Lady Margaret. Surely it was. "Have I displeased you, husband?"

The faint amusement faded from his lips. Reflexively, she reached for the beads that usually hung from her belt, forgetting entirely that she had left them on the bench. Her fumbling fingers came to rest against his hand, and she concentrated very, very hard on not pressing his palm tight to her, not guiding his touch up her body.

"Have you missed me, wife?"

If only he would not look at her like that. It put a thousand lascivious thoughts in her head. She could think of no better way to calm herself than to repel him with prayer.

"Each day have I prayed not only that my sins will be forgiven," she began, "but that by God's grace you are rewarded with a son. Hourly do I beseech the Our Lady to hasten to my aid and counsel, to intercede for the well-being of my body and soul."

They tumbled off her tongue, this recital of inanities – all in the thin voice and tractable manner she had perfected long ago. The only flaw in her performance now was that she could not seem to tear her gaze from his mouth. She waited for him to grow angry, or curl his lip in contempt, or mock her. But he was not listening. He was only drifting closer.

"By the… the purifying fire of the Holy Spirit will I be made worthy," she tried, her voice failing, "and… and all my heavy sins–"

His mouth was on hers suddenly, without ceremony, swallowing her words and assaulting her senses. It was insistent, hot. Delicious. Oh, she liked this. She liked it too much. The heat of him, the smell, the taste was like a feast after a long, long fast. She could not contain the hunger, her mouth opening wide to drink him in, greedy for more. His hand cupped her throat and jaw at once, so large that it caused a weakness in her knees and a throb between her legs.

He lifted her against him. Hands at the back of her thighs, her breasts sliding roughly up his torso. Her feet had left the ground, her body held up by the pillar at her back and his hips tight against hers. She felt the sweet press of his cock against the ache beneath her skirt and thought she might weep with wanting him.

It was like a storm, a sudden tempest that roared through her veins and swept her far out to sea. Then he took his mouth off hers, pulled his face back into the shadow while she stayed there in the light, panting for him. She was exposed – utterly exposed, incapable of hiding her desire, unable to think.

His hips still pushed against her. The muscles of his shoulders shifted beneath her palms when he dropped his head to her neck – just for a moment, just a soft scrape of his teeth and the delicious slide of his tongue, moving up her throat until his mouth was at her ear.

"I would take you right here, right now," he said, a soft growl that shivered along her spine. "If you want it." His breath was so hot, his body so hard and solid and real. "Only say you want it."

She stared into the darkness beyond his shoulders, breathing hard, trying to make sense of his words through the hot lust that coursed through her. She could feel every inch of him waiting for her to answer.

But Lady Margaret would never say yes. Never lift her skirt and wind herself around him. In a chapel. In the daylight.

Her eyes found his shadowed face, her mind groping to find a way to say yes without using the word. Some way to continue the pretense while yielding to the desire. Her mouth was throbbing with want.

But he had waited long enough. He released her. He stepped back, letting her slide abruptly to the ground.

His look said he knew her. Every burning inch of her, no matter what she pretended to be. But he said nothing. He only turned and left her alone with the echo of his heels ringing on the stone floor.