Chapter Eighteen

If she must be seen in the golden girdle, then she must wear her rose-colored gown with it. The garment was made of a silk so fine that she almost could not bear to touch it for fear she would soil it in some way and ruin it beyond repair. Her father had made a gift of this inherited dress, to be worn at her wedding feast. She had rarely worn it since.

Though she let her husband and anyone else believe it was asceticism that caused her to avoid the indulgence, the truth was far more complicated: the sight of the dress filled her with a melancholic guilt. She could not look at it without thinking of her father's family, all their wealth lost save for a few baubles, a handful of rich garments, and a small square of land in England. She gazed at the shimmering folds and wondered if her grandmother had worn it, or some aunt or cousin she would never know – if they too had skimmed fingertips across the cool surface and admired the row of little pearls at the neck. She wondered if that unknown woman had put it on and felt as though she too were made of delicate petals. And she wondered, each time, how that woman might have died.

"Fasten it near the hip," she instructed Constance, who was measuring out how much of the girdle's length to fit around the waist, and how much to leave hanging free. "That way the join is hidden by my sleeve."

The gown had been chosen because the fabric distracted the eye from the slight difference in color between the true and fake links of the girdle. It was all she could do to disguise her theft. In time, the layer of new gold paint would age and more closely match the original links. Until then, she must brazen it out.

It was unnerving in the extreme, but as she entered the hall she was served very well by her years of practice in pretending that naught was amiss. Not that the guests were like to notice anything at all of her demeanor, so long as she was prettily dressed and kept the wine flowing.

"How well you look, lady." Hugh de Vere was a menacing little pustule, but no worse than most courtiers. Now his eye fell predictably to the swell of her breasts as he said, "A form and face as fair as the first light of dawn."

She pressed a hand high on her chest, the garnet cross on her ring resting briefly next to a silver brooch that depicted the Annunciation. A reminder of her piety, and a little glitter to distract him from looking lower towards her waist.

"My thanks for your flattery, Sir Hugh, though I am unworthy of it. We welcome you here."

It took only her raised hand to summon a servant who filled his cup with ale. While he was kept busy with that, she turned in hopes of finding Father Benedict or Henry – anyone nearby who might speak with the guest and allow her to slip away – but found her husband at her elbow instead. The sight of him caught her breath.

He was all dark magnificence. His tunic was a deep pewter color, offset by a belt of woven silver that matched the silver-and-black embroidery at collar and hem. With his black hair and grey eyes, he was like an impossibly tall shadow come to life. It made her mouth go dry. She had not yet recovered from yesterday, from the weight of him between her legs, the pillar at her back, the heat of his knowing look.

Now he bent his head close to hers for an instant. "It is not base flattery – you are more fair than the dawn in truth," he murmured. He pulled back and smiled a little, entirely too charming. "But beware other lies Hugh may tell you. They fall too easily from his lips."

Caught between the pleasure at his compliment and consternation at the warning, she only pressed her lips together and nodded, her cheeks burning. All eyes seemed to be on them, a reminder to play her part, and play it well.

When they took their place at the high board, she looked out over the hall. It seemed a lifetime since the bishop had visited and she had seen the vision of light. She had put it so far from her mind that most days she did not even remember it had happened. Now there seemed nothing more ordinary and earthly than the scene before her: servants filling trenchers, diners leaning across tables to talk, the bursts of raucous laughter.

At her side, William spoke to Sir Hugh of the game to be hunted in the park and the many excellent falcons and hounds that were at his guests' disposal. She could not fathom why this handful of visitors – minor courtiers, all of them – merited her best jewels. But then she listened as their talk turned to courts and kings, of power in France and in Rome, and she understood.

This was his refusal to hide, his show of power and wealth to remind them that he was yet one of them. One of the greatest of them. That which her impetuous act of heresy had damaged, Lord William would now begin to repair. She had thought he would wait, retreat for an interval while tongues wagged. But of course he did not. It was not in his nature to relent.

"And did he meet with success in France?" he was asking Sir Hugh.

"Do not pretend that I would know more of Molay's success than would you," came the amused reply.

The Templar knight. They were speaking of his travels, his attempt to gather support – and she sat right beside them, lost in her own thoughts, useless. She held her breath and listened.

"Of late, you are more like to know what is said of Molay on these shores," William replied. "It is good he will soon arrive. Edward has been most eager to meet him. There is a message I will trust you to carry to the king."

Only silence followed this intriguing declaration. She was listening so closely, waiting to hear what this message might be, that she only gradually became conscious that he was looking at her. He had turned to see her profile, her hand suspended in the act of lifting the wine cup as she listened. It was too late to pretend she was silently praying, and far too obvious that she was eavesdropping.

She froze in place, appalled at her carelessness. His hand covered hers, drawing the cup to his own lips. His eyes never left her as he took a swallow. Her heart hammered wildly.

"You do not drink," he observed. "What ails you, sweet lady?"

"Nay, I am well." She made herself look up at him, made her hand stay loose on the cup. "I have only now remembered I must speak to the steward, to see that the merriment continues without pause even when I must leave for my hour of prayer."

She knew he was not fooled, but could not think what to do about it. So she called the steward to her with a wave of her hand and instructed him. Somehow she finished the meal and excused herself for an hour of false prayer. Eventually she returned to the hall and watched as the music played and tales were told to entertain the guests.

When they were done with merriment and settled for the night, she took herself to her chamber. Finally she could whisper to Constance that the emissary of the Templars would any minute be in England, that the king eagerly awaited him. She watched her friend's face turn pale, and nodded as though she agreed when Constance said they could do naught but pray that God's will be done.

It was a relief to have the day done at last. Tomorrow she would be better. More attentive, more careful, more mindful of her purpose. Tonight she need only rest, and enjoy the reprieve from his ceaseless attention.

But as she was preparing for bed, wearing only a shift as she took down her hair, he entered her bedchamber. He still wore the dark tunic, shades of black and grey, like the night appearing at her door.

He never came this early. He had not come at all for weeks. It was so unexpected that it startled a gasp from Constance, who was carefully folding fragrant herbs into the rose silk gown. Margaret's eyes flew immediately, instinctively, to the golden girdle where it lay beside the waiting chest – an irreversible error.

"My lord." She cleared her throat. "My… William." To her dismay, her agitation was not at all feigned. All her skin came alive when his eyes flicked over the thin shift she wore. "Nor did I expect you at this hour. Will you have refreshment?"

She began to gesture to Constance, prepared to send her for wine, but he interrupted.

"Nay, all that I require is here," he said, and moved his eyes over her, from her bare calves to the disarray of her hair.

She stood blushing in her linen, and murmured a dismissal to Constance. When they were alone, Margaret made herself resume the task of taking down her hair, searching for the last of the pins in her curls. She must be natural. Unconcerned.

To prevent herself looking toward the girdle again, she fixed her eyes on the tapestry that covered the wall. The archangel and the dragon, locked in perpetual battle – the straining sinew of the beast, the heavenly rays of silver and gold. It seemed suddenly quite fitting to have this eternal grappling of good and evil here in a corner of her bedchamber.

"You spoke to Sir Hugh of the king's court. Think you to return there soon?" She asked it without looking at him. It felt strange to speak of mundane things with him, to have him in this room but not in her bed.

"Mmm," was his vague rejoinder. "And if I did, would you come with me?"

Her fingers stilled. She had in fact been thinking of how to invite herself. She had no hope of understanding why he might wish her to come, or how her presence at court might benefit him. All she cared was that she might be there when the Templar knight came to plead for his cause.

Lady Margaret, though, would not be eager for such a thing. Pious, repentant Lady Margaret would think first of her shameful heresy. So she dipped her chin and spoke with soft regret.

"I am conscious of the contempt you suffer for my sins, husband. Though I would be at your side in all things, I would not ask you to endure that contempt before all the court."

She startled to hear him let out a soft laugh, as though she had made a jest.

"How masterful you are," he mused with a smile. "You protest prettily so that I will insist you come – and thus with a skillful word do you get what you want, and I am to think it my own design."

She looked at him, wary. In truth, that was precisely the tactic she had thought to employ.

Before she could think of how best to respond, he walked with a leisurely pace to the table where the jeweled girdle lay. She forced herself to return to her hair, pulling curls apart in an effort to hide her unease, desperately trying to think of something to say that might distract him as his fingers moved over the golden links.

"It is a marvel," he said, holding it aloft, turning it in the light as her heart began to beat out of her chest. "Even now I am not certain which pieces are true and which are false. In faith, I wonder do you know it yourself?"

Her ears seemed to ring with the silence that fell. The meaning of his words came to her gradually, a dread that formed itself slowly into understanding.

He knew. He knew .

She concentrated all her effort on not freezing in place. There was nothing for it but to fix a quizzical look on her face, turn to him in confusion, and ask, "I – do you tell me it is counterfeit?"

But she could see immediately that it would not work. Not this time. Until this moment, she had not understood how fully her performance depended upon his participation. Without his willingness to believe her a meek and pious fool, it was an absurd exercise. Impossible, like trying to convince him that the sun shone at midnight.

She was caught. Well and truly caught, and he knew it too.

In desperation, she lowered her lashes in a display of contrition and opened her mouth to let out one of the many ready explanations she had prepared – an abbess in need of funds, perhaps, or that shrine to the Virgin in Clermont. But even as she drew breath to speak, he cut her off.

"Nay, tell me no lies of secret patronage," he said, as though he truly could see inside her mind. "Tell me instead who Johanna is."

Her head snapped up. All the air seemed to leave the room. She could only blink at him, her mind devastatingly blank. His tone was one of mild curiosity, but some still-functioning instinct whispered to her that he was not as calm as he seemed. He controlled a great anger, she was sure. Just as she was sure he knew even more that he did not say. Far, far more.

But it was enough that he knew Johanna. It unstuck her tongue. It stiffened her back. It changed everything.

She looked squarely at him. "How do you know that name?"

The words were spoken in her true voice, hard and serious, with no scrap of naivete. Thus did the pretense of six years fall away. She could feel it dissolve into the air around her, and watched him feel it too. It seemed to please him, though she did not bother to wonder why.

"A boy in Hereford gave the name." He set the girdle down, but never took his eyes off hers. "It is Stephan who deals with the messengers, he said, not Johanna. When next I see the boy I will ask who she is, do you not tell me now."

He came toward her, a slow and deliberate move that was meant to intimidate her into speech. Now he was the Lord William she had known for so many years, menacing and controlling, wielding his power with a terrible ease. He stood so close that she must tilt her head back to hold his gaze. But she kept her tongue still.

"Will you pretend ignorance when I tell you this Stephan sends a messenger to Venache?" he wondered. His finger drew a line down her throat, tracing the pulse that pounded at his words. "Come now, Margaret. You are uncovered. I know of your friends, and your schemes, and your stolen gold. All these years of deception. Yet silence and lies will not serve you now. It was your lips that gave the message, and your coin that paid its passage."

He was so sure of himself, so sure of her fear. It sparked a satisfying anger in her. Let him see what she was truly made of. Did he think she would quail and tell him all at the slightest threat?

"Me?" She lifted her brows in exaggerated bewilderment, blinking feigned innocence at him even as her voice grew hard. "Certes I can claim some distant family in that place, but there are many others who do business with Venache. As you well know, my lord husband."

He considered her, fingers barely brushing her windpipe. "I know it is a dangerous game you play, to use the language of the Cathars to conceal the meaning of your message."

She thrust his hand away from her throat and stepped back, far enough that she need not bend her neck to meet his eye.

"It is no game," she hissed at him.

A warning was ringing in her head, urging caution. But it was too late. If he knew the message then likely he could discern its meaning and purpose, and God alone knew what else he had learned.

But more than that, more than what he knew or suspected, more than whatever truth he had uncovered, was the way they looked at each other now. This was the end of her pretending at last; this was all the consequences of discovery. Now he saw her for the first time, the unvarnished truth of her.

It felt almost like relief, even as the dread coursed through her. And the anger. God save her, so much anger she felt on fire with it, because still he thought her so trivial.

"No game, but yet you gamble." His lip curled in a scornful little smile. "And it is my gold you use to lay your wagers."

"If it aids me in my purpose, I will sell every jewel. I will plunder all the riches of Ruardean," she promised, and now a thrill was singing through her veins. She had never spoken like this to him. She had never spoken like this at all. "I will journey to Venache myself and beg my uncle on my knees to deny you."

If she surprised him, he showed no sign of it. He looked her up and down, a brief and cold flick of his gaze that told her in no uncertain terms that he too was furious, but that he controlled it with a mastery she could not begin to match.

"Such great effort you put into stopping me, when it wanted only your refusal of marriage to prevent your uncle aiding me," he observed. "Wherefore did you make the bargain, when you so loathed the terms?"

Her jaw clenched tight. "My father wished it," she said simply. "I could not deny him."

But he saw. Damn him, he saw so much, when he cared to look.

"Nay, not that. You would deny your father as easily as you have defied your husband." Now the spark of discovery was in his eye. He was working it out. "You saw a great prize, and could not resist it. Lady of Ruardean, and all the influence and wealth that comes with it. You chose power."

It took her a moment to recognize the look he gave her, and longer than that to believe it was, incredibly, admiration. Unvarnished and plain in his face, a respect that seemed to startle him as much as her.

It flustered her, confounded her utterly. She could only blink at him. Her anger was swallowed by the confusion, and she tried to think of Johanna – of the message, the ruined plans, what his look might mean. But all her thoughts felt twisted beyond comprehension.

"It matters not why," she finally said. And because it was the only thing in her mind and she could not prevent it, she asked, "What will you do?"

He leaned a shoulder against the wall and considered her. "My lady mother has said I should put you aside. But I think me it is less trouble to rid myself of Constance."

The air was cold across her skin. "Constance?" she echoed, forcing her voice to steadiness.

"There is no other you trust so well to carry your messages and conduct your affairs." The smile touched his lips again, as though he was warming to the idea. "By Mary, it is a fine solution to lay the blame for your heresy at her feet. Her own family's heresy will paint her with guilt, do I make it known."

"Do not." She met his eyes. "Do not dare." It was remarkable, the calm and deadly warning in her voice. She had had no idea it was in her. "If you bring her to harm, I will visit the same and worse upon you. Unto your very ruin. I swear it."

His brows lifted. "And how will you ruin me, sweet lady?"

"Think you it is some great skill to spread rumors and lies?" she asked. "It took only a well-placed whisper to cast doubt on your Templar knight, so that he finds few friends in his travels among popes and kings."

It was unwise, perhaps, to reveal she had done that. But she must make plain what she could do – would do – to spare her friend from being so used. He did not seem surprised at all, only keenly interested. He studied her closely.

"Tell me true," he said finally. "Your heresy, was it only to spite me?"

Such arrogance. She almost laughed at it. "How little you know me."

"How little of you I have been shown," he countered. "You claim it is no game, and yet you play it as well as any who are bred to it. Tell me, if I say instead it is this Stephan who will pay the price for your lies, what then would you do?"

Even before he finished asking it she was moving toward him, her last ounce of restraint washed away at this threat. Her chin thrust upward, as near as she could come to shouting in his face. "Whatever I must do to stop you, I will do it! You will not toy with their lives only for your own gain. If it takes my last breath then by God I will give it gladly to prevent your schemes."

His eyes took in her flushed cheeks, her clenched jaw, the fury that was writ clear on her face.

"And here is Margaret at last," he declared softly, a little amused. "Do you set yourself against me, lady? Think well before you declare it. Many are the foes who have failed to best me."

"Aye, here is Margaret at last," she agreed. She stepped back from him, clasped her hands and turned her eyes down. "Oh my lord," she breathed in her meekest tone. "For my life I would not displease you! I pray to the unspotted and forever blessed Virgin to adorn me with sacred virtues, that I am a worthy wife to a husband so good, a lord so great." She dropped her hands and abandoned the act with a blink, a soft huff of laughter escaping her. "Fail to best you? For six years have I bested you, my clever lord of Ruardean."

The amusement had left his face entirely.

"You have." He inclined his head, eyes never leaving hers, a ready acknowledgement that unsettled her thoroughly. "But you may be assured I will not misjudge you again."

She saw his intention in the moment before he reached for her. She did not move away, but thrust her chin up, ready. Let him learn at last that she was no soft and compliant thing, easily controlled.

When his mouth came down on hers, hard and hungry, an answering fire leapt up in her. It was all fury and arousal, contempt and desire, a raging refusal to simply submit to his will. His touch began to gentle, his hands coming up to cup her face, but she slapped them away and kissed him harder.

There was an unholy pleasure in the bruising pain of it. His body was all muscle and heat, a solid reality that she could grip and feel and touch exactly as she wanted, at last. Her teeth raked across his lower lip, and the sound that came from deep in his throat filled her with a frenzied lust.

Then her mind caught up to the moment, a crashing return to her wits. Her palms pushed against him, propelling herself away. She stared at him across the little distance, her breath ragged, the words so lately flung between them returning to her slowly.

This was madness. All her years of caution and hiding, her clever plans discovered at last – all was lost, and she kissed him. She kissed him. Her whole body burned for him, in this very moment. She controlled nothing of the situation, not even herself.

And he knew it. By Mary, he knew it and he wanted her. Like this. She could see it in his face.

"I am not…this," she said aloud, as though saying it might make it true. "I am not a wanton."

"You are a revelation."

She stepped back, turned away from the wonder in his voice and the light in his eye. It was not enough distance, even when she paced across the room. She might leave this chamber, leave Ruardean, leave all of England and still she would feel the heat of him. Still his voice would find her wherever she hid, and uncover her with ease.

"All these many months have you pretended. Counterfeit prayers for the preservation of my soul, while you moan beneath me," he murmured, and she thought of serpents in gardens, hissing temptation that slithered up from her ankle and wound around her body. "You may take what you want now, Margaret, with no hindrance."

"I do not want you." She stared at the rushes beneath her feet. "I do not. I cannot."

"Do you lie even to yourself? But I know the truth of you."

He was so certain, so damnably assured. Her anger surged again, and she clung to it with a fervor. She turned back to him. "You confuse lust with truth, my lord."

"And you confuse deception with courage." His words were colored with a well-practiced hint of contempt now, full of scathing judgment, goading her. "You shrink yourself to the confines of a drab and witless nun, and call it clever disguise – when it is naught but base cowardice."

"I have done what I must!" She fairly shouted it. "You can know naught of the choices I have made, nor why."

"You steal scraps of power because you are too afraid to take it without apology." Now he stood over her, the same looming presence she had felt for years, the inescapable shadow that fell on her every thought and deed. "Coward," he taunted.

It incensed her. "Coward?" she shouted back, outraged at the word. Months spent in terror, acting despite the fear; years spent in defying him and the bishop and the Church itself – and he dared call her coward .

Her outrage was as nothing to him. He only leaned closer, his face an inch from hers.

"Coward." His voice was a dare. "Take what you want."

What she wanted was to shove him. So she did.

She looked him squarely in his eyes when she did it, so he would know it was anger and not fear that moved her. It was hard enough that he stumbled a little, and sucked in his breath as his legs hit the broad bench set against the wall.

It was so satisfying – the surprise in his face, the tiny bit of power she had over him for that instant, the relief in doing what she felt without thinking, no matter how childish or ill-advised.

"Take what you want," he said again.

Her eyes moved to the tapestry behind him. Angel and dragon, good and evil wrestling just over his shoulder. Her breath came in heavy, hard gusts that heaved her chest. And still her body burned and ached and hungered.

He was right. She knew what she wanted. She did.

She shoved him again, anger giving her a strength she did not know she had, until he sat on the bench. When he made to get up she pushed him back down, hard, until his shoulders were against the wall. There was an excitement in his eyes – so much excitement that it made her giddy. It caused a throb between her legs, familiar and ravenous.

She climbed onto the bench, one foot on either side of him, until she stood above him. Her fingers wound into his hair to hold him in place while her other hand lifted her shift. His eyes fixed on hers, riveted as she pulled the linen above her knees to her waist.

His breath fell on her bare thighs, hot against the flood of moisture between her legs. She gripped his hair and held him steady while she lowered herself onto his open mouth.

A groan escaped him, a greedy sound that vibrated throughout her body as she thrust herself into the stroke of his tongue. She pulled the linen shift over her head and let it fall away, let herself be naked and panting and demanding. His hands gripped her, pressing her closer, urging her on. She thrust against his face, again and again, riding his stiffened tongue. She took and took, with no thought of apology or shame.

She leaned forward, bracing herself against the wall as she pleasured herself with his mouth. The fabric of the tapestry grazed the tips of her breasts, muffled the guttural sounds that rose from her throat. She spread her arms wide and gathered the cloth in her fists, one hand grasping at the flesh of the beast, the other tangled in the light of heaven.