Chapter Seven

Margaret should have taken longer to prepare herself for this. So many hours spent in work and exhaustion, in giving little care to how bold she might appear – it had relaxed her guard for too long. The note of humble apology that she had always been careful to inject into her voice had dissolved, and she struggled to regain it when facing Lord William to tell him of her plan.

"It wants only a few hours, my lord," she murmured. "I can be returned to Ruardean before nightfall."

His look was cool. "I think me no other Lady of Ruardean has ever found the chapel so unworthy of her that again and again she must perform her devotions elsewhere."

"My lord –"

"It is hardly a fortnight since you prayed at Aconbury, and before that at Kilpeck. Is there any shrine in this corner of England that you have failed to visit?"

"It is not the holy shrine that draws me, my lord," she objected. An absurd heat was suffusing her face. Her glance skittered over him. "Nearby to it, there is a spring where women… It is said that to bathe in the water brings God's blessing on the womb."

She dared to look up at him. He had always been imposing – exceedingly tall with great broad shoulders, and a self-possession that was absolute – but now she was more aware than ever of his physical presence. She felt the thrill of danger, her mouth a sudden desert as he watched her.

She willed herself not to give any sign of her thoughts. She was simple Lady Margaret, with no thoughts in her head except how best to please God. And how very large her husband was.

His gaze pinned her, piercing, as it so often was. But though he might sometimes glimpse more of her true self than she wished, he was not as good at reading her as she had become at reading him. She could see the idea rise up in him – to taunt her by asking which saint watched over the waters, to goad her into admitting it was not Christian but an ancient and pagan practice she proposed to take part in. Then she watched him accept that it did not serve his purposes to mock her. All that in just the slightest narrowing of his eyes, the minuscule flex of his mouth.

"Very well. There is business that will keep me here yet another day," he finally said. "Else I would accompany you."

He would spend today in Aderinyth, visiting one of their famed falconers to procure a prized bird as a gift for the Mongol king. This was why she proposed her own journey, because she knew he would be distracted by the task. She muttered some nonsense about his lordly duty being pleasing to God. And then she watched as his eyes swept down over her body, pausing the barest instant on her chest, and then her midriff.

He was thinking, right now, of putting a child in her. Of pleasuring her.

She tried to observe him dispassionately, tried to assess the advantage in knowing, for instance, that he liked her breasts. But the tiny flare of his nostril that betrayed his excitement ruined her detachment. She could think of nothing but the warm accommodation of flesh, the push of his body into hers, the fleeting moment of connection that now would become so much more than fleeting.

There were mere hours before she must share his bed again. It aroused him. She could not decide how to feel about that, so she resolved not to think of it. There were other things, more important things, to occupy her mind.

She took her leave of him and rode east with the small guard until they reached the village near Hereford. It would have been safer to send Constance, but this task could not wait. Not if Lord William was sending gifts to a Mongol king.

In the village, she left all but one of the guardsmen at the tavern and slipped a penny to the girl who walked down the lane with her. When they were not far, the girl pointed at a path that led off the lane, and Margaret whispered, "No more than an hour and I will be in the chapel."

The girl nodded and ran off. Margaret followed the path to the spring, annoyed at having to go through the motions for the sake of the guardsman. But in the end she did not mind so much. It was a quiet place with flowers all around, and the little stone building that enclosed the spring was lovely. She sat down inside and put her bared feet into the water and thought of all the women who must have come here, generation after generation, praying to pagan and Christian gods, full of hope or desperation.

Perhaps the water really would help to give her a child. Perhaps the pleasure would, too, and the prayers. How could she know? The longer life went on, the more everything seemed to her to be ruled by mystery, or by nothing at all.

After she dried her feet and put a suitably beatific expression on her face, she went alone into the chapel. To her surprise, it was Stephan himself who waited for her there. He sat behind a screen, the bright colors from the stained-glass window falling on his face. He only gave her a sidelong glance before leading her to the empty sacristy, closing the door behind them.

"You come alone," he observed. "And unannounced. There is some danger?"

"Nay, only opportunity and need. But how is it you are here? I had thought to send a message through the girl."

He sat at a small table in the corner of the room, waving her to a stool beside it. "I attend the good Father tonight. These many months now, he prefers the quiet of the village to the stews in town." He reached to a shelf behind a pile of vestments and pulled out two cups. "Will you turn up your nose at sacramental wine? Nor has it yet been blessed, I wager."

She accepted the cup with thanks. "My men are at the tavern and will leave me to pray, but I must return to Ruardean by nightfall."

"An hour, then," said Stephan agreeably, arranging his little pots and jars on the table before him. "I will paint myself, and you will say me what task is so urgent that it brings you here in the flesh."

His manner was somehow both brisk and soothing, equally ready to attend to business as to share unseemly gossip. Four years ago he had demanded to meet the lady who had paid his debt to the physician – the same lady who had sent food to a starving wretch who worked the same street as Stephan, and gave money to see that all the other whores' children had shoes in winter. He had taken one look at Constance and known it was not her.

To meet with him that first time was the greatest risk Margaret had ever taken. It had proven itself over and over again to be more than worth it. Now she would take an even greater risk, one that needed his aid to have a hope of succeeding.

"I must send a message in secret, with all haste;" she explained. "It cannot be written. Know you a messenger who can travel as far as the mountain pass of Venache?"

He had propped a small mirror on the table, and now paused in rubbing oil across his face to raise his brows at her. "None I would trust with your life."

She looked into her cup and considered that. "They will not carry my life. Only my words, and those will be well guarded."

Stephan looked steadily at her for a moment, no doubt judging the danger. "What words, then?"

In the years she had waited for this moment, she had thought long to arrive at a coded message that her uncle would understand yet might still protect her. It had required her to remember everything her father had ever whispered to her of his childhood, of his family. "Say to the Lord of Venache that it is a message from Clémence, bastard daughter of Raimund. She begs him say nay to her husband."

"It will be done." He dipped a scrap of linen into a pot of ground chalk and began to pat it onto his oiled face. "Nor will I tell the messenger that your name is not Clémence, and that your father was named John. Nay," he said quickly as she opened her mouth to explain. "Drink your wine and say no more of it to me. It is better I know little."

He finished coating his face in a light dusting of chalk, pale skin made paler. She watched as he held a metal spoon over the lamp's flame. It grew dark, and he turned it, slowly coating it all over with lamp black. There was more to discuss with him, but she waited. She had seen this transformation only once before, and she took great pleasure in watching it. She even felt a little pang of childish envy. Good Lady Margaret wore modest and drab clothes, and would never dream of being so vain as to add color to her face.

When Stephan picked up a tiny brush, she almost asked him where he had found such a delicate little thing. But he spoke first.

"Your man from Livonia," he said, gently brushing the lamp black through his brows to darken them. "He comes to London. What would you have me do with him?"

She nearly choked on her wine at this unexpected news. She had urged Quinten to come here to spread his teachings, to be free of the criticism he suffered in his native Livonia. There the churchmen were made nervous by his words, and more than once had hinted his philosophy could be called heretical. Rome and all its many representatives hated him. A thorn in their side, with his talk of reconciling reason and faith, Quinten sowed doubt and dissent among Church scholars. That was why it gave Margaret a deep satisfaction to champion his philosophy.

And now he would come to England. She did not bother to inquire as to how Stephan knew these things. He was aware of the matters that concerned her, and kept his ears open. He had said to her long ago that whores traveled the same routes as soldiers and spices, an entire network of trade and information that he put at her disposal. Messengers could easily and secretly be sent to far-off places; troublesome clerics could slip across the sea and find a place prepared for them in a new land.

"He will arrive soon?" she asked.

"Not before Midsummer. Many weeks yet to decide." Stephan gave her a sly look before returning to brush a thick black line around his lashes. "Time enough to make an honest woman of you, do you choose to be open on the matter."

This had always been a possibility, a recognized reality of where her life might lead. Lady Margaret of Ruardean could call the philosopher an honored guest, and openly declare herself his patroness. In some ways, it would be simpler to use the power of her position in this way. And perhaps it was time to allow Lady Margaret to proclaim a true belief. Just one. If only it did not threaten everything else she had built through her falsehoods.

She nodded to let him know she would consider it, and privately tucked the terrifying thought away.

"I will send Constance to you soon," she said. "She will bring coin for the messenger, and for you."

"Sweetest Meg," he murmured, as he sat back to admire his handiwork in the mirror. "Let us not speak of payment again. Full well do you know I want none."

"In this there is only risk, Stephan. Great risk, and no benefit to you and yours. This is not a work of charity or mercy–"

"It is for me to choose what I do for gold, and what for the sake of my eternal soul. Not you." He set down the brush with emphasis, then softened his painted face into a smile as he looked at her. "And now I am Johanna, if it please you."

Margaret considered protesting further, but knew it was no use. They had argued this matter of money and risk many times, and she had no hope of winning against someone so stubborn. Instead, she swallowed her fear and tried to return the smile. It was easy to do – she liked Johanna just as well as she liked Stephan, and was glad to see both faces of her friend in one visit.

"Attend you to your lips then, Johanna, and tell me do you know aught of a bawd near Lincoln called Bargate Bettie."

Margaret watched in silence as Johanna delicately tapped the red paste on mouth and cheeks, and explained that the brothel in Lincoln would be watched, with a special attention to any children there. Should anyone wish to leave, Johanna would help to arrange it. None would be told the Lady of Aderinyth provided the funds. Only Johanna and Stephan would ever know that detail, and only because Margaret knew they could be trusted with such secrets.

Johanna said, "Tell your holy women to send any poor souls to my girl in Coventry. I will tell her to keep them safe." With that concern neatly managed, she slid a thoughtful glance towards Margaret. "Is there aught else to attend to? There is yet half of your hour before you must go, yet I think there is more you would say."

To this, Margaret had no reply. There were always a hundred things, a thousand, that she would like to say, and could not. In moments when her spirit rebelled against a docile manner, when she found it difficult to appear meek and mild, she would contemplate all the things she could never talk about, all the lives at stake, and the weight of them would work to stifle her. She seemed to live in pieces, never more than a sliver of herself shown at any time, to anyone. And so she could not answer. There was more to say, yes. There was always more to say.

A playfulness crept into Johanna's face. She held out the little pot of rouge and said, "Come, then. Be a little wicked."

Margaret's eyes widened. She shook her head. "Nay, you know I cannot."

"For a moment only, Meg. Water will wash it away."

She leaned forward and set the pot on Margaret's lap with a look that said I know you want to . Margaret looked down at the red paste. It was not a very dark color. Just a hint of scarlet.

And she did want to. She had always wanted to.

"Go on, then," she said, all in a rush. "But you must not put too much."

Johanna smiled, delighted. "Oh no, you must do it yourself. There is a pleasure in it. You will see." She turned the little mirror toward Margaret, then busied herself with finding a veil.

It was not a strong pigment, and it would not look as bright on her own darker complexion, especially since she would not dust her face with chalk as Johanna did. The style was a subtle one that even some noble ladies dared to discreetly indulge in: skin made a little more fair, cheeks a little more rosy, a mouth that looked to have just tasted berries.

Her finger slicked the oily paste across her lips, hesitantly at first and then more confidently as she understood what Johanna had said. There was something in the simple act. It was a tiny thrill of power in choosing to be someone different, something unexpected – to make herself into what she wanted to be, instead of what others expected to see.

"Such a comely mouth. I could wish my lips were as ripe as yours." Johanna had finished placing her veil and picked up the tiny paintbrush again. She tilted Margaret's chin up to look at her face, an impish gleam in her eye. "Just a touch around the eyes. Not much, I swear it. So you may see."

Margaret almost pulled away out of reflex, but let herself stay still. She did want to see how it looked, but it was more than that. She liked this feeling, this moment of closeness that was inconsequential, and yet meant so much. Friends. Doing frivolous things.

"Johanna," she said when she felt the brush finish the stroke beneath her lower lashes. "Will you tell me what you know of Lord William's women?"

She had not meant to ask it. Or maybe she had. It only came out of her because Johanna had said her mouth was comely. It made her think of how, the first time they had shared a bed, Lord William had kissed her lips, his tongue gently tasting her, his breath warm on her face. She had turned away from him, alarmed by the intimacy of it, rejecting any hint of his desire. He had not kissed her again.

Johanna did not seem surprised by the question. She only took more lamp black onto the brush and answered. "Angharad was the latest. A pretty name, but not a very pretty girl. Full of spice, though, like the one before her – Eva, I think she was. Nor does he ever use common women, for your honor, but keeps only one, and discreetly." She furrowed her brow a little, thinking. "Though there may be another at court, so often is he there. Shall I find the truth of it for you?"

"Nay, I care naught for that," she said quickly, but struggled to find words for what she did want to know. It was a comfort to know for certain that he did not frequent the brothels.

Johanna only calmly moved on to paint the other eye, a feather-light touch over the delicate skin. "He broke with Angharad many weeks ago, though she fought hard to keep him. I think me she will marry soon, so well did your lord husband provide for her at their parting."

Margaret digested this information. She knew Lord William enough to know that he had likely broken with the girl because he intended to be more often in his wife's bed. It would not have been done out of any great respect or care for Margaret. Very likely it had been physician orders again. And too, it might have something to do with his concern for how his actions were perceived, his care for what others saw and believed of him. But matters more private than his reputation concerned her now. She twisted her hands together without thinking, unsure of what to say.

Johanna leaned back. She put the brush down and turned Margaret's face from side to side, a smile appearing on her painted lips. She nodded towards the mirror.

Margaret turned to see. This little pigment had made such a dramatic change that it amazed her. The line of black around her eyes was thin and soft, just a dark shadow all around the base of her lashes that brought out the amber in her brown eyes. The color on her lips was a light sheen that made them look plump and inviting. It made her feel like meek Lady Margaret was a thousand miles away – like she had never existed at all. It was mesmerizing.

It was another mask, and yet it did not feel like a mask at all. Or perhaps it was only a mask she preferred, because it was so flattering.

"This Angharad," Margaret finally said, staring at the reflection of her artificially flushed lips. "She was…pleased by him?"

"Aye, very pleased."

It might have been the money that had pleased the girl. Or that she could claim one of the greatest lords of the land as her lover. Perhaps she liked him very well for himself, and it had naught to do with carnal pleasure. Now that Margaret considered it, it seemed a very complicated question.

Johanna was closing up the little pots and jars. She paused in her task to give Margaret a long, shrewd look.

"Is well known among us that Lord William is careful to sire no bastards. And so it was with Angharad – though she did try to tempt him to it, in hopes of binding him to her. That is how well he pleased her, without even the need to spill his seed in her." She patted Margaret's hand in a motherly gesture. "You need not fear, Meg. No bastards or pox or heartbroken lovers are like to darken your door."

It was more reassurance than she had even thought to hope for. That his conduct would be guided by an excess of caution, an aversion to messy consequence – she had never doubted it. Lord William of Ruardean was neat and tidy in all his affairs. That was why she wondered what he knew of physical pleasure for himself, much less what he knew of giving it to another.

Well, she would know soon enough. She would next meet him in bed, and soon. There could be no avoiding it.

Johanna pulled a jug of water close and dipped a square of linen in it.

"You must leave now, and be Lady Margaret," she said, holding out the wet cloth. "Come, sweet Meg. Wash away this little sin."

It came off so easily, and left a blessedly unremarkable face behind – one that was perfectly suited to her purpose. Just a few passes of the cloth, and all the color was gone, as though it had never been.