“Yes. We escorted his father’s bier to York, where his body is now lying in state at the cathedral. Soon he will be sent to Westminster Abbey for burial. Prince Edward—I mean, King Edward—is on his way to London. Father asked that I bring you the news.”
“Thank you, Rickard. My friend Princess Joanna always insisted that her brother would never fight a war. Does this mean that there will be no campaign to reconquer Scotland?” Jory could not disguise the hope that had begun to blossom in her heart.
“The Earl of Pembroke and the army are still in the field, Lady Marjory, but the new king prefers to direct matters from the rear,” Rickard said with contempt.
“Is Guy in York with the old king?”
“Nay—I left him at Carlisle. Father said he had a mission.”
Jory went pale. She heard a low knock on the door and asked Rickard to answer it.
Young Catherine Mortimer blushed profusely when Rickard de Beauchamp unexpectedly opened Lady Marjory’s chamber door. She stammered, “Sir Rickard…what…when…that is, how—?”
“Catherine!” Rickard was as surprised as the young lady. “I had no idea you were visiting Warwick.”
“Catherine has graciously consented to be my lady-in-waiting.”
“This is marvelous news. Her brother Roger is my good friend,” he told Jory. “We are at Kenilworth. I’m sure he would have accompanied me if he’d known you were at Warwick.”
Jory looked from the handsome young man to the blushing maiden. “If you can stay, Rickard, I’ll have your old chambers plenished.”
He took Catherine’s hand and drew her into the room. “I would love it above all things if I could stay, ladies. But I am at the beck and call of a king who is riding to London with all speed.” Rickard kissed Catherine’s hand, then walked across the chamber and took Jory’s fingers to his lips. “Au revoir. I deeply regret that I must take my leave. Catherine, I charge you to take good care of my father’s beloved wife.”
Jory guessed the couple would like a few minutes alone together. “Catherine, go with Rickard to the hall and ask Mr. Burke to fill a tankard of good Warwick ale to quench his thirst.”
When she was alone, Jory whispered, “Guy, please don’t slay Robert Bruce. There is no need. My heart belongs to you alone.”
“You have news for me?” Robert Bruce descended the stone steps of Douglas Castle.
Warwick stared at the man who approached him. He was staggered at the contrast between this twenty-three-year-old Celtic warrior and the pitiful excuse of a king who was the same age and who now ruled England. What Bruce lacked in height, he made up for in the breadth of his shoulders. He was all sinew and rippling muscle. Christ, Jory, you have superb taste in men!
Guy de Beauchamp heard the echo of Lynx de Warenne’s voice: “Bruce, Earl of Carrick, is the rightful King of Scotland.” As the dark Celt drew close, Warwick knew in his bones that it was the absolute truth. All that stands between this man and his rightful destiny is a knife thrust!
“Edward Plantagenet is dead,” Warwick declared. He saw the flare of ambition in the Bruce’s eyes, but he also sensed his genuine regret.
“We will never see the like of him again, Warwick.”
“Sadly, that is true.”
“You are a close friend of Lynx de Warenne?”
“We are more than friends; we are related by marriage. Lady Marjory is now the Countess of Warwick.”
Robert Bruce showed surprise. “You are a lucky man—I envy you, Warwick.” His mouth curved. “I adored Jory. She was the most generous woman I have ever known. At her suggestion I wed the Earl of Ulster’s daughter, Elizabeth de Burgh, a sure way to get him to support my bid for the throne.”
As Warwick listened to the revelation he realized that Jory had never truly been Robert Bruce’s mistress. Ambition had been bred into his bones. The Bruce had only one mistress and that was Scotland. The man has no notion that he got Marjory with child. She never told him. She wanted him to fulfill his destiny—that’s how selfless Jory is!
Warwick was at war with himself. He had come to kill Robert Bruce, but his instincts told him that Jory would never forgive what she would consider an act of treacherous betrayal.
You were given a rare second chance at happiness. Don’t squander it, Warwick!
“I answered Edward Plantagenet’s call to arms to reconquer Scotland,” he said bluntly. “If we can reach an understanding, I pledge to take my men-at-arms home to England and never return.” Guy de Beauchamp wagered that Robert Bruce would do the expedient thing, as always.
“An understanding?”
“Marjory is mine. Scotland is yours.”
“Done!” A grin spread over the Bruce’s handsome features as the two men clasped arms. “I am more afraid of the bones of the dead father, than of the living son!”
“Lord Warwick has just returned, my lady.”
Jory let out a long, slow breath. “Thank you, Mr. Burke. Are the men-at-arms with him?” she asked anxiously.
It had been a month since Rickard de Beauchamp had brought her news of the king’s death, and Jory felt as if she had been holding her breath ever since, waiting for her husband to return.
“They are, my lady, and they’ll be thirsty. If I don’t hurry to the hall, Meg will be there before me.”
She watched the steward hurry off and wanted to follow, but she suddenly felt shy and self-conscious about her appearance. She had carried her baby for eight months and only in the last two had she been unable to conceal her pregnancy by wearing a loose, flowing gown. She carried the child high, her hands often resting on the small mound in a protective, loving gesture.
Jory closed her eyes and offered up a prayer of thanks that Guy de Beauchamp had not been killed in battle. Did she dare to pray that he had not killed Robert Bruce or would God think her greedy?
She left her own private tower room and went down one flight of steps to what she thought of as Guy’s chamber. She went to the window and looked down into the bailey, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dark, infamous earl who held her heart captive. She didn’t see him, but she caught glimpses of Brutus dashing about, wild with joy at his master’s return. Just knowing Guy was there, issuing orders, stabling Caesar, and setting all to rights, comforted her and bolstered her sense of security.
Jory opened his wardrobe to make sure he had freshly laundered shirts and her hand fell on his black velvet bed robe. Her fingers traced the embroidered golden bear and the Warwick motto, Non Sans Droit. “Not without right.” Jory shivered. In spite of the noble-sounding motto, she knew that Warwick and every other earl, including the Earl of Carrick, believed that might was right.
Jory heard servants moving about in the dining room that was below Warwick’s chamber and she realized it was approaching the dinner hour. Will he forego eating in the Great Hall tonight so the two of us can dine together? The thought did little to quell her anxiety. Perhaps he wanted to be alone because he had distressing news to impart. Her baby kicked and she caressed her belly with gentle, soothing hands. She called down the stairs for a servant and asked that water be brought up so Guy could wash. It was Catherine who brought it upstairs.
“This is all so exciting, my lady. I think it marvelously romantic that you have a private dining room.”
Tonight it doesn’t feel romantic. It feels intimidating! “I think I had better change my dress. Will you help me, Catherine?”
Back in her own chamber, Jory chose a velvet gown in a shade of deep amber. It was low cut to show off her breasts that were now full and lush. She pinned on the black onyx brooch carved in the likeness of Guy’s wolfhound, Brutus. Catherine brushed her hair and fastened an ornament of sparkling jet at Jory’s temple.
They heard footsteps on the stairs. Jory licked lips that had gone suddenly dry, while Catherine retreated to a shadowed corner. The door swung open and Warwick filled the doorway. He was taller, darker, and far more powerful looking than she remembered. Jory tried to swallow and couldn
’t. He sees only my belly!
“Will you do me the honor of taking supper with me, my lady?”
Those are the very words he said to me when he abducted me. Jory remembered the reply she had given him: You smooth-tongued French devil, how can I resist such a gallant invitation? But tonight words failed her and all she could manage was a nod.
Warwick’s hand rubbed his unshaven jaw. “I shall come for you in a half hour, chéri.”
When he turned and left, Jory remembered to breathe. She paced to the window and wondered when darkness had fallen. Below in the bailey, torches blazed as campaign tents and weapons were unloaded. She took it as a positive sign that they would not soon be returning to fight in Scotland.
She was still racked with worry, however. Warwick had been on a personal mission—to kill Robert Bruce. She understood that he wanted to obliterate Robert from her thoughts, and the only way he knew how to achieve such a thing was to obliterate him completely. Did my husband accomplish what he set out to do? Jory shuddered.
As Catherine chattered and hung up the dress the countess had changed from, Jory cautioned herself to not ask about the Bruce, even though his welfare was uppermost in her mind. When she looked at Warwick, she must not even question him with her eyes. She heard a noise at the door and gasped.
Guy strode forward and gallantly held out his arm. “Are you ready to dine, Lady Warwick?”
“I am, my lord.” Jory knew she sounded breathless and unsure.
Her husband held his hand at the small of her back as they descended to the dining room. “You are positively blooming tonight. I hope you have been well, Jory.”
Blooming with child! “Yes…I cannot complain.”
She looked at the table that had been laid for two. She saw that both Meg and Mr. Burke stood ready to serve them. She felt suddenly cold and moved to the fire to warm her hands.
Guy walked to the side table that held wine and goblets. “Where is the ale I brought from the brew house?”
“It’s still down in the kitchen, Lord Warwick,” Meg declared. “I’ll run down and fetch it.”
“Nay, I’ll go. My throat is as dry as an Arabian desert and my lady prefers ale to wine, I warrant.”
To Jory, the minutes dragged out endlessly until Warwick returned with a jug of ale. She lowered her lashes in an attempt to hide her impatience and her anxiety as her husband filled a goblet with ale and handed it to her.
He filled one for himself and raised it. “I met my full obligation when Edward Plantagenet called me to war. It is over and done. Warwick will not take up arms again against Scotland.”
You are torturing me! What about Robert Bruce? Jory raised her goblet slowly as Warwick watched her closely. An unusual aroma filled her nostrils. She took a long, deliberate sniff in disbelief and raised accusing eyes to Warwick. “You cruel swine!”
She flung the contents of the goblet into the fire and heard the flames hiss. She was acutely familiar with the unique smell of pennyroyal. Her brother’s mistress, Alice Bolton, had used the abortifacient to rid herself of Lynx’s child.
The goblet fell from her fingers and her hands moved to cover her baby in a protective gesture. “You never wanted it! Oh, you wanted me all right, but not my child.”
“What the hellfire are you talking about?” Warwick demanded.
“Taste the ale. Do you deny that it has been dosed with pennyroyal? It won’t affect you, of course, but it will effectively rid me of my child!”
Jory saw the shocked look on Mr. Burke’s face and the fury on Warwick’s. It did not deter her. “I will not live under this roof while you are in residence, Lord Warwick. I shall go to my own castle of Windrush, unless you want it back?” she challenged.
“I forbid you to travel in your condition,” Warwick growled.
Jory laughed cruelly. “Because I might miscarry?”
Warwick’s jaw set. “You will not leave tonight.” His voice was implacable. “Tomorrow I will provide you with safe escort.”
He watched her leave, then turned a bleak face to his steward. “I see Meg managed to slip away. Find the woman, Mr. Burke, no matter where she has run to.”
“I hope you will come to love Windrush as I do, Catherine.”
“The women of this castle are so kind and welcoming. They can’t seem to do enough for us. I can understand why you like it here.”
When they finished unpacking Jory’s garments and hanging them in the wardrobe, the two sat down before the fire that the castle women had lit for them. “Catherine, I warrant you have many questions about why I suddenly left Warwick, but I thank you for not voicing them.” Jory sipped on a cup of ewe’s milk that one of the kitchen maids had brought her.
“I just worry about you having your baby away from Warwick.”
“The women of Windrush are thrilled that I have chosen this castle for my lying-in and have assured me that Mary and Maggie are competent midwives. Catherine, are you afraid of childbirth?”
“Oh, no, Lady Marjory. The Mortimers are prolific breeders. I’ve been in attendance at all my sisters’ birthings.”
“That’s comforting; it’s a new experience for me.” She knows my mother died in childbirth—Joanna announced it with such glee. “I confess I am apprehensive. Not about the pain. I am well aware there will be pain. I just want my baby to be all right.”
“Would you like me to rub your back, my lady?”
“I’m not at that stage yet, Catherine. Let’s go down to the River Windrush and feed the ducks. Ducks always make me laugh.” If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. The lump in my throat is choking me.
A few days later, when Jory and Catherine were sewing baby garments with the women of Windrush, a castle guardsman came up to the solar. “Ye have visitors, Lady Marjory.”
Jory stiffened. “Is it Lord Warwick?”
“Nay, it is Lord Warwick’s son, my lady.”
Catherine pricked her finger and jumped to her feet, blushing.
“Rickard is supposed to be in London.” Jory hurried down to the courtyard with Catherine in tow.
Rickard and Jory looked at each other and both said exactly the same thing: “What are you doing here?”
Catherine gave a squeal of joy, for the young man with Rickard was her brother Roger Mortimer.
Rickard led Jory away from the brother and sister so they could speak privately. “Is Father here?” His manner told her that Rickard hoped Warwick was not at Windrush.
“No. I came alone. When we married, your father gave me Windrush. Oh, I’m so sorry, Rickard. You didn’t know. You too came here seeking refuge.”
Rickard flushed because she was so perceptive. “Did Father return from Scotland?”
“Yes, he’s at Warwick.”
It was Rickard’s turn to be perceptive. “There is trouble between you and Father.”
“Yes—it’s—a private matter, I’m afraid.” She watched his face closely. “Is there trouble between you and the new king?”
Rickard flushed to the roots of his hair and glanced quickly at Roger and Catherine Mortimer. “Edward recalled Piers Gaveston. Before his father is even buried, his favorite is back at Court.”
“I am aware of their relationship, Rickard. You need not be embarrassed with me,” she said gently.
“Gaveston can do no wrong. Edward piles honors, land and lucrative wardships upon the arrogant swine. He has made Roger, and Catherine too, wards of Gaveston until they come of age.”
“But their uncle, Mortimer of Chirk, is their guardian.”
“No longer, I’m afraid. Gaveston has a foul ulterior motive for wanting wardship of Roger. My friend was so outraged he refused to stay at Court another day, so we rode here to Windrush. I’m sorry to disturb your peace and quiet, Lady Marjory.”
“You’ve told me Roger’s reason for leaving—what is your reason, Rickard?”
He flushed again. “Don’t ask. ’Tis unfit for gentle ears.”
“I can guess. I warrant Gaveston has t
ried to assault you.” Sexual assault would be my guess!
“Fore God, Lady Marjory, I beg you keep this from Catherine.”
“I won’t speak of it. She’s too young to know such things. Come to the hall. ’Tis almost dinner hour.”
“No! Not tonight—I can’t face her. I can’t face anyone.”
“I understand.” She laid a comforting hand on his arm and felt tender compassion when he flinched. “Take whatever chambers you used in the past. I’ll have the steward plenish them for you.”
When Catherine and her brother approached Jory, Rickard disappeared into the castle. “Hello, Roger. I attended your wedding with Princess Joanna a few years ago and you were once at Goodrich when I was wed to Humphrey de Bohun.”
“I could never forget so fair a face, Lady Warwick.”
Jory tried not to stare at the pair. They shared a dark, brilliant beauty that caught the imagination. “I welcome you to Windrush. I willingly share my haven with you and Rickard.”
Rickard remained apart for days, but gradually his sensitivity lessened and finally he joined the others in the hall for meals.
Chapter 28
A grim-faced Warwick stared at the woman crouched before him. “Explain yourself.”
A three-day search of the immense castle for the Welsh serving woman had finally borne fruit.
“Lady Marjory asked me to brew—”
Warwick took a threatening step toward her and Meg immediately stopped speaking. “Start at the beginning. How did my first wife, Isabel de Clare, die?”
“My lord, I swear that she died by her own hand.”
“I am quite familiar with the old tale that she could no longer bear me as husband,” Warwick declared. “Now we’ll have the truth! If you start to utter a lie, you will be dead before you finish your sentence.” A crack of thunder added emphasis to his words.
“Isabel’s best friend was Alyce of Angouleme—her brother’s first wife. The foreign woman taught your wife all about potions and poisons.”