The next day, as Lynx began to load the wagons with the mountain of baggage that Jane and Jory were taking to England, Robert Bruce, with two of his men on his heels, rode hell-for-leather into Dumfries’s bailey. Lynx saw his grey pallor and agitation and knew there was trouble. “What has happened?”
“Comyn and I made a pact. The swine betrayed me—he dispatched our signed bond to Edward. We caught his messenger with the incriminating documents on him.”
“The fool must have a death wish, to betray you!”
“Then he got his wish. I just stabbed him by the high altar at the Franciscan monastery where we held our secret meetings. I am riding to Scone immediately to be crowned. I have no alternative—they will arrest me for treason.”
“You killed him on holy ground—you will need absolution!”
“I have the clergy on my side. Don’t worry about me. Look to your own safety, my friend. Get out of Scotland today!”
Chapter 18
Before the ship was out of the Solway Firth, Jory was clinging to the rail, retching up everything she had eaten that day. With a gentle arm, Jane led her down to her cabin and put her in her berth. Jory groaned. “I’m supposed to be looking after you.”
“This bistort will make you feel right as rain.”
“Jane, I’m amazed you have no nausea. Are you certain you are having another baby?”
“I’m certain. My monthly courses have stopped, my breasts are extremely tender, and I have to pee every few minutes.” Jane saw a strangely rapt look come over Jory’s face as she listened to the telltale symptoms. “You don’t think you could be…?”
“I have reason to hope,” Jory whispered.
“Oh my dear, Lynx was right, you are head-strong!”
“Don’t you dare to tell him. I want to keep my secret as long as I can before his terrifying ranting and raving starts.”
“Lie down and try to get some sleep,” Jane urged. “I’ll be back in a little while to check on you.”
As Jory lay in the ship’s bunk, fighting nausea, conflicting thoughts tumbled about in her mind. Two weeks ago when she had missed her monthly course, she had dismissed the notion that she could be with child. For years she had wished for a baby to fill the void of loneliness, but it had never come to be. After hearing Jane describe her symptoms, however, Jory realized she had conceived. For one moment the thought of having Robert Bruce’s child seemed like a dream come true. For one moment only! Then the reality began to dawn and she realized it was a nightmare! Lynx’s words after the christening of his son came rushing back to her: Don’t wish for his child. It would be disastrous. The scandal would ruin you and bring shame on the de Warennes. The thought of Lynx’s reaction filled her with dread as the dire consequences of her predicament fully sank in.
Her nausea passed off and was replaced by fear and anxiety. Jory sat up in a panic. “I should never have let Jane know. She’s far too unworldly to keep a secret from Lynx!”
Jory washed her face and brushed her hair and as she did so, she wrapped herself in a facade of serene confidence. She had no immediate solution to her problem, but until she decided what she would do, she was determined to mask her emotions and show a calm face to the world.
Jane opened the door and peeped in. “Oh, you look so much better, Jory. Did the bistort take away your nausea?”
“Yes, thank you. It also took away my wishful thinking about having a child. You having another baby made me long for one of my own, but ’twas no more than a bout of seasickness.” Jane looked so relieved that Jory laughed and quickly changed the subject.
A few days after they arrived at Chester Castle, Lynx and his men clattered into the bailey and he told them of his plans to take Jane to the magnificent cathedral.
“I want us to be married in England and more than anything I want to be able to pledge my own vows to you.”
As Marjory sat in the front pew of Chester Cathedral, sudden panic threatened to choke her. As she stared at the flames of the long, tapered candles ablaze on the altar, she became dizzy thinking of the disastrous mess she had made of her life. Until now she had managed to hide behind a mask of serenity, her emotions buried deep, concealed from the unforgiving light of day that would expose her to a shameful scandal of her own making.
As much as I would like to blame Robert Bruce for my predicament, I cannot. I can blame only myself. I am a grown woman, a widow for God’s sake, and know the risks involved in taking a lover. Almost from the beginning I knew he would never wed me. He demonstrated over and over that he was selfish to the core, but I willfully blinded myself to his faults. He never lied to me—he admitted the Crown of Scotland was his obsession. I knew the Bruce would sacrifice anything and anyone to become king.
For the hundredth time she went over the limited options available to a woman in her condition. An unwed mother could rid herself of the baby, or give birth in secret and pay another to bring up the child. Jory knew she could never do either, so she moved on to a third possible solution. She could brazen it out and flaunt the rules of society.
If I had a home of my own, that is exactly what I would do! But her father had left her no property—and her marriage had brought her no castle. She would be forced to live on the charity of her brother, and how could she do that if she brought shame to the de Warenne name? On top of everything, her child would be a bastard. Dear God, I cannot do that to my baby. I love it too much! Her hand brushed across her belly, and her face softened with tenderness. Her child was a miracle; she would do anything to give it a happy life.
To avoid the stigma of bastardy, I need a husband. Once again her options were pitifully few in number. She pictured Henry de Bohun and her mind recoiled. I gave my sacred vow to Humphrey that I would never wed his brother. Fleetingly, she thought of Guy de Beauchamp. Do not wish for the impossible, Jory. That road leads only to heartbreak.
She saw Lynx kiss Jane and knew that the wedding ceremony was drawing to a close. She had time for only one quick prayer. Please, Lord, I ask only that my baby be healthy.
At the wedding feast in Chester Castle’s vaulted Great Hall, Lynx laid out the travel plans he thought would be best for Jane. “When we get to Kenilworth Castle, we will stay and rest for a few days. It is the halfway point on our journey home and the place where we will meet up with John and his men-at-arms. You will like Kenilworth, Jane. It is a royal castle with every amenity, belonging to Henry Plantagenet, a son of the king’s late brother. It lies on the banks of the lovely River Avon in Warwickshire.”
The name of the county caught Jory’s attention. Kenilworth lies close to Warwick Castle. I have always been curious to see what Beauchamp’s castle looks like. “I hope John’s health has improved. A week at Kenilworth will be good for all of us.”
Three days later, the de Warenne cavalcade crossed over into Warwickshire and the square, sandstone towers of Kenilworth came into view. When they rode closer, Jory saw the water.
“How beautiful! The castle sits in the middle of a lake.”
“It is a man-made mere, dammed from the River Avon to make the castle impregnable. The only entrance is over that earthen causeway and through the portcullis,” Lynx explained.
Jory smiled at the surprised pleasure she saw on Jane’s face. “If we are staying for a week, we’ll need at least part of our luggage.” When they reached the bailey, two de Warenne knights rushed forward to help Jory dismount while Lynx lifted Jane from her saddle. “Come, I’ll help you find the wagon with Lincoln Robert’s cradle and his toys.” Jory smiled at the knights. “I’m sure these gallant gentlemen will carry whatever we need up to our chambers.” She raised her eyes to the top of a square crenellated tower and saw two figures gazing down at them. The sun came from behind a cloud and momentarily blinded her. “Lynx, I believe John is here before us.” She pointed to the tower; then she and Jane, with the knights in tow, walked over to the baggage wagons.
When John de Warenne and his men had arrived at Kenilworth the previous day, he was we
ary from the long days in the saddle since they had left Scotland. He was infinitely thankful for the tower chamber the steward had plenished for him, and after he’d been fortified by a good meal, he sat down to write a note to the Earl of Warwick, asking if it would be convenient to come and give him his heartfelt thanks for saving the day at Falkirk.
Guy de Beauchamp was aware that the head general of the royal army, as well as the king himself, had been unable to fight due to a bout of bad health. That was the reason he’d been ordered to Falkirk to defeat Wallace’s army. Since Kenilworth was less than five miles from his own castle, Warwick had replied to John de Warenne’s note, telling him he would ride over to see the earl.
Guy remembered the last private meeting he’d had with Surrey, when he had offered for Marjory de Warenne and been turned down. Though the encounter was almost five years ago, Warwick still recalled the angry words he had exchanged with her guardian. He shrugged—since then they had fought together in Wales without animosity. Yet it still rankled that the exquisite beauty had passed him over in favor of a young noble her own age.
The following day when Warwick saw Surrey, he was shocked to see how much de Warenne had aged in the years he had been governor of Scotland.
John de Warenne poured ale for his guest. “Warwick, I am deeply grateful that you pulled victory from defeat at Falkirk.”
“There is no need to thank me for fighting. That we won the battle was satisfaction enough. Last week Edward Plantagenet offered me a place on the board of commissioners to govern Scotland. I suppose that was his way of thanking me.” Ever blunt, Warwick said, “I declined the offer. Trying to govern Scotland is a thankless task, as you have learned to your sorrow.”
“My fighting days are over. Administering my own estates will occupy me full-time from now on. I am turning my army over to my cousin by marriage, Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke.”
“What of Edward Plantagenet’s fighting days?”
“At the risk of uttering treason, I tell you that if he tries to fight another campaign, it will be his last.”
Warwick nodded. As I thought, the king’s days are numbered. “I’m frankly relieved I had no hand in capturing Wallace. He was a brave knight and did not deserve the brutal treatment he received at the hands of Plantagenet. It was beneath contempt.”
“Lynx and I agree it was unspeakable butchery, especially when Edward has pardoned the Scots nobles again and again for their treachery. My nephew also is returning to England and bringing his wife and son. Our plan is to meet here at Kenilworth. I’m expecting them today.”
“I hear riders thundering along the causeway. Perhaps they are here.” Warwick opened the door that led out to the tower’s parapet walk. “We can watch them ride in.”
“Yes, it’s Lynx. They are flying the checkered azure and gold pennants of de Warenne.”
Warwick narrowed his eyes. It was not the pennants that had caught his attention, but the female riding in the vanguard. She was small, erect, and her scarlet hood had fallen back so that her silver-gilt hair streamed in the sunlight like a shining banner.
The physical impact of his first glimpse felt like a heavy blow to his heart. Her visual impact mesmerized him to such a degree, he found it impossible to take his eyes from her. Her mental impact set his brain to plotting ways to make her his woman.
With difficulty he looked away and broke the spell. “I’ll be off so you may greet your family and spend time together.”
Back at his castle, Warwick unsaddled his horse and led it to its stall. Then he went to the armory where his knights were busy repairing their weapons and reshoeing their mounts. They had been home from Scotland for only a month and there was much to do.
As he often did when Warwick Castle had no guests, Guy invited his steward, Mr. Burke, to join him for supper. “I have it on good authority that the king is likely living out his final months.”
“Edward Plantagenet has had a long reign and England has prospered under his kingship mainly because of the strong support he received from powerful barons like yourself, my lord.”
“Though we have disagreed many times, mainly about taxes, and I have always spoken my mind, he has ever held me in high esteem.” Warwick shook his head with regret. “When young Edward succeeds to the throne, he will need much guidance, I warrant.”
“You were wisely thinking of the future when you placed your son Rickard in the prince’s household at King’s Langley, my lord.”
“It never hurts to have a Warwick in high places, Mr. Burke.”
When Guy de Beauchamp retired to his chamber that night, he was unusually restless. He paced to the window of his high tower a dozen times, seeing nothing but the blackness of the night without, yet seeing a multitude of vivid pictures that lit up his mind within. He relived asking for Marjory de Warenne’s hand in marriage, and for the hundredth time he cursed himself. He addressed Brutus, who sat quietly watching him. “The minute Surrey refused my offer, I should have abducted her and carried her off!”
The black wolfhound nodded his agreement.
Warwick’s mind flew back to Chester. He had been in Wales when Humphrey de Bohun was killed. He was aware that Jory had come to visit her husband at Chester Castle. “She arrived an eager wife and left a widow.” He thanked God that a dose of cold common sense had come to his rescue at the last minute and stopped him from rushing to her side and making a bloody fool of himself. What noble lady would entertain a proposal of marriage when she had just lost a young husband she loved?
“My timing was always wrong!” He smote the stone windowsill with his fist. A year after she was widowed, his friend Gilbert de Clare had died. He traveled to Gloucester to pay his respects, intending to seek out Jory at Goodrich Castle, but he learned from Joanna that the beautiful young widow had no desire to remarry. She was enjoying her freedom and had ridden north to Newcastle.
Slowly, Warwick raised his eyes and looked in the direction of Kenilworth. “Finally, we are both in the same place at the same time.” He flung from the window and tried to dismiss the reckless plot that had jumped full-blown into his mind. Yet his imagination would not let the idea die. It stole back to him again and again as he paced across his chamber. It was a simple enough plan. If he wanted her, all he had to do was go and get her, then hold her captive until she agreed to wed him. He looked at Brutus. “Am I willing to risk all on one throw of the dice?” The answer came back a resounding, “Woof!”
Warwick threw open his chamber door. “Mr. Burke!”
His steward answered the summons without delay. “My lord?”
“I want the empty chamber above mine to be fitted out with every amenity. I want it plenished with the finest furnishings that Warwick Castle has to offer.”
“Do you want rugs on the floor and wall hangings?”
“I want silken carpets and the tapestries that are woven with mystical beasts. I want gold plates, jeweled goblets, and Venetian crystal bowls. Make sure the bed curtains and window drapes are plush velvet to keep out the drafts. It will need at least two mirrors, a bathing tub, and a modesty screen. I also want the chamber filled with flowers. There are early roses blooming against the garden walls, but that can wait until tomorrow so they will be fresh.”
Mr. Burke’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You want the high chamber plenished tonight, my lord?”
“Yes. Now. I want to create a lady’s bower, and your help is imperative. I’ll rouse the servants and, if necessary, some of my knights to assist you. Lead on, Mr. Burke.”
The Warwick staff worked throughout the night, transforming the sparsely furnished master tower room into a luxurious chamber that would appeal to a noble lady with delicate sensibilities. By early morning the bed was freshly made with woodruff-scented linen and sable fur covers. A small games table inlaid with mother-of-pearl held a set of carved ivory chessmen. Bowls of fragrant early roses and lillies enhanced the delicate atmosphere, adding to the chamber’s romantic allure.
Guy
de Beauchamp’s discerning glance swept about the room with approval. “Perfect, Mr. Burke. All I need is the key.”
The steward handed him the iron door key. “Thank you, my lord.”
Jory, who had arisen late for once, luxuriated in the lovely hot bathwater until the aches from three days in the saddle were eased away. Though she was insatiably curious about Warwick Castle, she decided it could wait until tomorrow. Today would be perfect for a long, solitary stroll about Kenilworth’s lake. Not only would a walk allow her to stretch her legs, it would allow her mind the unfettered freedom to seek a solution to her problem.
She gave the guard in the barbican tower above the portcullis a radiant smile, then walked along the causeway until she reached a grassy expanse that led down to the lake’s edge. Small frogs plopped into the water as she approached, and an occasional trout jumped up to catch an insect. Ducks swam among the bulrushes and tiny, iridescent dragonflies hovered above purple water hyacinths.
As she began to focus inwardly on her problem, the scene before her faded and she became unaware that her slippers and stockings were becoming soaking wet. She resolutely put aside what might be best for her and thought only of her baby. Perhaps I will have to confess all to Lynx and ask him to offer compensation to one of his knights if he will wed me and make my child legitimate. Perhaps the marriage could be in name only.
Guy de Beauchamp, astride his favorite stallion, had been slowly circling Kenilworth’s mere since dawn, hoping that Lady Marjory would be drawn by the lake’s beauty. If she failed to leave the castle he was fully prepared to go in after her, but his instincts told him that if he was patient, Jory might come outside to explore her surroundings.
Jory was distracted from her reverie by the sound of a horse in a slow gallop. She looked up and saw the dark outline of a rider. She thought her imagination was playing a trick on her, because the man reminded her of Warwick. As he rode closer, she became more certain that the rider was indeed Guy de Beauchamp. And yet she did not trust her senses. The vision before her seemed unreal, as if she were caught in a dream. Perhaps I conjured him.