The Marsh King's Daughter (34 page)

She was wild with renewed excitement for now she knew what the reward could be, and the sight of Nicholas's tortured face as he fought for control was an added fillip. With great daring, she removed her hand and straddled him, her inner thighs smoothing against the outside of his as she took him into her body.

Now it was his turn to clutch and cry out, his hands kneading her spine and his face buried in her shoulder as he shuddered within her.

Miriel sobbed and clenched herself fiercely around him as for a second time her loins were wrung by overpowering sensations. Oh God, one could die from this, she thought hazily as the ripples faded. She wanted to cling to the feelings for ever, but they dissipated as swiftly as steam from a cauldron.

With reluctance, she lifted herself from him and tugged the bunched fabric of her gown down over her legs. Still gasping, he adjusted his own clothing, and then he turned on his side and looked at her in the guttering lantern light. 'It shouldn't have been like this,' he said. 'If only you had stayed that night in Nottingham.'

She stiffened. 'As I remember, you wanted no truck with a runaway nun who might jeopardise your road to freedom. I had to fight tooth and claw to make you escort me. If you had a change of heart or mind, you never said.'

'You gave me no opportunity!'

'So the fault is all mine.' She started to pull away, but he caught her back, drawing her into his arms and holding her there.

'The fault lies with both of us,' he said, 'and there is no use apportioning blame. What I meant to say is that I wish it had been different.' He stroked her cheek.

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. 'So do

I.'

He pressed his face into her throat. 'You could leave with me now,' he murmured.

Miriel closed her eyes, squeezing back the weight of tears. 'I cannot.' Her voice quavered with the effort of maintaining control. 'The time when we could have been together has come and gone.' She wove her fingers through his hair, her emotions a razor of pain and joy that cut deep with each stroke of her heart. 'Tonight must be enough.'

'It will never be enough,' he muttered into her skin. 'For the rest of my life, I will remember this moment and starve.'

'No, you won't. You will find other outlets for your hunger, as you did before.' She let the gleaming strands slip through her grasp and forced herself to let him go, to push out of his arms and rise to her feet. 'Convince yourself it never happened. It is the only way.' She tried to wrap the crown in its silks, but her hands were shaking so badly that the task was almost impossible.

'I cannot do that any more than you,' he said bitterly. 'It is like giving a blind man the gift of sight and then shutting him up in a darkened room.'

'You had best leave,' she said in a choked voice, gazing upon her fumbling hands rather than at Nicholas's stricken face. 'Robert must return soon, and I do not want to face him like this.'

'Then how will you face him?'

'As his wife.' Miriel drew a deep breath and stiffened her spine. 'He's a good man. I would not have him suffer for what is none of his doing.' And he would suffer if he found out, she thought. He would want to know every detail, would spare neither her nor himself.

Nicholas rose and beating floor dust from his cloak swept it around his shoulders. 'So let the guilty suffer instead?'

'He is my duty, my obligation.' She gave him a pleading look, willing him to understand.

For a moment she thought that he was going to walk out on her, stalk away like an adolescent in a fury of hurt pride, but he took no more than two strides, and these brought him level with her. 'You know where to find me if you change your mind,' he said and, taking her shoulders, pulled her against him in a kiss that crushed the breath from her body. 'Or if you have need.'

Then he was gone and the lantern guttered out, leaving Miriel in bitter-cold darkness, the smell of burning wax in her nostrils, and the sharp feel of Mathilda's crown in her hands.

It was very late when Robert came to bed, lacking only a few hours until dawn. Miriel felt his weight settle on the mattress and inhaled the sour smell of wine and a scent that reminded her of stale attar of roses. She curled on her side, feigning sleep, expecting him to give her a nudge and make her turn over so that he could pay his dues, but he drew up the covers and, with a heavy sigh and a punch of the bolster, kept to his own side and began to snore.

Feeling relieved, Miriel relaxed. She had not been looking forward to performing her marital duty, fearing that Robert would notice a change in her attitude. It was her own guilt that made her think he would be able to tell she had given herself to another man, but she could not banish the thought. Nor did she relish the prospect of Robert's vigorous assault on her body. Not when she had been shown the difference. She was consumed by a bitter-sweet ache. To think of lovemaking with Nicholas and compare it with Robert's notion of the same was unbearable, and yet it had to be borne. She could not run from her responsibilities and duties as she had done at St Catherine's. Those had been created for the convenience of others; the ones that bound her today were of her own making and she was inordinately proud of them. She ought to have realised that pride always came before a fall. Caveat emptor.

Nicholas's barges were laden with sarples of wool and bales of cloth from the Lincoln Fair, purchased by Guido of Florence and destined for the market places and dye shops of his native city. The dapper little Italian himself had ridden on to Stamford in search of more cloth, but had entrusted Nicholas to take his existing cargo upriver to his warehouses at the main port.

The flat fenland landscape stretched to the horizon, broken only by the occasional tower or steeple of a religious house, built to make the most of the rich soil and fine grazing reclaimed from the marsh. Built too in the right place to exploit the river for its eels, fish and human traffic. Hearing steeple bells ring out across the water, Nicholas thought of St Catherine's, of lying in the infirmary, weak as a new-born kitten, and setting eyes on Miriel for the first time. Just a nun, he had thought, a young nun. And even in those early moments, how wrong he had been.

Usually he enjoyed the leisurely journey up the Witham to Boston, but now it stifled him. There was too much time to examine his thoughts, to probe at them like a man examining an aching tooth. The more he poked and examined, the worse it became, and yet he was unable to leave it alone. He desired what he could not have. Robert Willoughby stood in his way, and he was a vigorous man, likely to live a long time yet. In the darkest part of his mind, Nicholas envisaged the merchant meeting with an accident, and then recoiled from the thought. Thus had his father been removed by King John. Even to contemplate doing the same to another man made Nicholas feel sick to the stomach.

But he did not regret lying with Miriel. Nor could he prevent himself from wishing it to happen again, even if it was against God's commandment. Her vulnerability, the way she had cried out in surprise and pleasure, and then, beyond her innocence, taken him in her hand with all the artistry and finesse of the most accomplished street woman. Each facet delighted him, filled him with wonder. Made him want more than he could ever have.

He knew that putting to sea would take the edge off the frustration seething in his blood. A salt wind in his face, the kick of a true ship beneath his feet instead of the lowly meander of a transport barge, would appease his hunger. And there was Magdalene to comfort and assuage him should he choose to seek her out. Unbeknown to himself, he grimaced.

The barges moored and their cargo safely stored, he repaired to The Ship on the edge of the market place to seek hospitality for the night. He knew from past acquaintance that the mattresses had feather stuffing, the wine was good and the food reasonable.

Among the other visitors gathered around the trestle in the main room was the merchant Maurice de la Pole, whose dealings in Lincoln had caused Robert Willoughby such anxiety. He was of an indeterminate age that could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy, slender and sallow of visage with eyes so dark that they appeared black. Although he smiled and made good conversation, his expression remained cold and watchful. Not someone to cross, Nicholas thought, and remembered Miriel's worry that she might become embroiled in the conflict between de la Pole and her husband. He ate his coney stew and entertained a vision of the two merchants killing each other. Then, because that too was against God's law, he tried not to think at all.

Following the meal, Maurice de la Pole brought out a merels board inlaid with flint and seashell and set it up on a low coffer.

'Do you play?' he asked Nicholas.

'Occasionally,' Nicholas answered. He had no inclination to game with the merchant who he knew would want to wager money on the outcome, but could not see a gracious way of abstaining.

De la Pole gestured to the seat at the other end of the bench. 'Then will you consider humouring an old man?'

'I scarce believe you are in your dotage, sir.' Nicholas sat down, wondering how soon he could make his escape.

The merchant gave him a wintry smile. 'Time creeps up on us all. It seems not a season since I was as young as you, with a lifetime to conquer the world.' With quick, dextrous movements, he arranged the counters on the board. 'Now that lifetime is drawing to a close and I have hardly even begun. The man should rule the dream, not the dream the man, eh?' The smile developed a wry twist.

Nicholas shrugged. 'I am sure that is true, sir.'

'You know it is true.' De la Pole wagged a forefinger. 'From what I have heard, you are the youngest merchant sea-captain in northern Christendom, not only commanding ships, but owning them. A man of your age does not arrive at such a position unless he is filled with ruthless ambition.'

With a prickle of defensiveness, Nicholas opened his mouth to deny the statement, but found that he could not, because the merchant was almost right. He was indeed filled with ruthless ambition, but it was directed at proving himself rather than destroying his rivals. He was not, however, going to say as much to de la Pole. Instead, he gestured to the assembled merels board. 'Your move.'

De la Pole gave him a shrewd look. 'Aye,' he said, 'never let your opponent see what you are thinking.' He used his forefinger to push one of the counters from its position on the middle line of the outer of the three squares incised on the board.

They played several games and won an equal number each. De la Pole hated losing. Despite his dictum that it was unwise to reveal thoughts, his own were plain in the pursing of his lips and the tightening of the lines around his eyes.

'Call us evenly matched,' Nicholas said after six games, the last of which he had won, and rose from the bench.

'One more to decide,' de la Pole said, 'or do you walk away from the final challenge?'

Nicholas smiled and spread his hands. 'You said something earlier about ruling and being ruled. Tonight, I choose the first. I have no wish to sit at another game for the sake of pride - mine or yours.'

De la Pole eyed him thoughtfully. 'You have had enough then?'

'For the nonce.' Nicholas succeeded in keeping his tone polite and inclined his head, impatient to be gone.

But the merchant was not finished. As he began to gather up the pieces and return them to their leather pouch he said, 'I notice that you do much trade with Master Robert Willoughby.'

The name sounded a warning note in Nicholas's mind. 'Indeed I do,' he said warily. 'What of it?'

'Are you content with the terms you have negotiated?'

Nicholas felt uncomfortably like a fly being lured on to the sticky strands of a web. 'They are fair to both sides; I have no complaint. Why do you ask?'

De la Pole tightened the drawstring on the little pouch of counters. 'What if I were to offer you more advantageous terms than his?'

'Is that your intention?'

'It might be.'

'It would depend on your terms,' Nicholas fenced. He did not particularly want to offend the man, but he had no desire to deal with him. 'I would not give preference to a new customer if it meant slighting an established one.'

'A man of principle then.' The wintry smile returned.

Nicholas reddened. De la Pole could not know how much that remark stung. 'I try to be,' he said stiffly and, with a terse nod to conclude the conversation, went outside to relieve himself before the merchant could worm his way any further beneath his skin.