Infamous (29 page)

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 tried 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.

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.”

“You were skilled in herbs. You also learned much from Alyce.”

Afraid to lie, Meg nodded.

“What did my wife take?”

“Isabel was young and afraid of childbirth. She took an herb that Alyce told her would prevent conception.”

“What did my wife take?” Warwick repeated grimly.

“It was hellebore,” Meg whispered.

Guy closed his eyes and thanked the saints that Jory had only been given pennyroyal. Hellebore was a deadly poison. Meg had wanted Jory to lose her child; she had not tried to kill her.

“You are complicit in the death of my first wife. Let us move on to the second. You poisoned my son's mind about his mother, telling him of her faithlessness and urging him to follow her.” He stopped himself before he said too much.
The tragic outcome of that makes you complicit in the death of my second wife.

“I loved Rickard like he was my own son!”

“Aye. You coveted him, and that adds to your sins.” Warwick glanced at Mr. Burke, who looked outraged at the revelations. “Now you will explain why you put pennyroyal in Jory's ale.”

“Rickard is your rightful heir! Her child would soon replace Rickard in your affections. She'd set one son against the other.”

“Your opinion of me is abysmal. I might be hard and cruel and insufferably arrogant but, before God, I am not evil.”

“I don't think you evil. I love you! I too have de Clare blood. When Isabel died, you should have made me your countess!”

Warwick recoiled.
Holy God, you were jealous of my wives! Jealousy blackens the soul. No one knows that better than I.
“You cannot remain here. I am returning you to the de Clares in the Welsh Border. Pack your belongings.”

That evening, the Warwick knight who had discovered Meg's secret hiding place in one of the castle's many turrets came down with a fever, and a tale quickly spread among the servants that Meg was a Welsh witch. Because she had been banished, the reasoning went, she had cast a spell on the unfortunate man, and his sickness was bound to spread throughout the castle like a plague.

Mr. Burke brought the tale to Guy de Beauchamp as everyone gathered in the Great Hall for the evening meal. Warwick cursed under his breath and held up his hands for silence.

“It has come to my ears that a tale of witchcraft is being bandied about. The serving woman, Meg, has been sent back to Wales on my orders. She was an odd female with strange ideas, but she was not a witch. Belief in spells is superstitious nonsense and I want none of it at Warwick!
Do I make myself clear?
”

Warwick's fierce glance swept over everyone in the hall. “John Montecute has a fever and a sore throat, most likely brought about by standing guard duty in the pouring rain. A dose of borage and clary will cure his affliction.”

Guy gave orders to his steward. “Make sure Montecute is put in quarantine; if his fever spreads, witchcraft rumors will be rife.”

At midnight when Warwick retired, he knew he would have another sleepless night. His worry about Jory was so intense, he feared it would drive him mad. His wife could not bear to be near him, but he could not bear for her to be out of his sight.

He flung back the covers and quit the lonely bed. He paced to the window and gazed out. Lightning still streaked through the dark sky, though it had moved off some distance. His thoughts were filled with Jory. He knew she would be able to hear the storm at Windrush and hoped she wasn't afraid.

Of course she's afraid! Not of the storm, but of the ordeal she will soon face. She will not be able to banish the thought that her mother died giving birth to her. Neither can I.

He left the window and began to dress.
Christ Almighty, I can't go to her until I'm sure there's no contagion here.

He heard a scratch at the door and opened it to admit Brutus. His wolfhound gave him a knowing look and Warwick went back to the window and smote his fist against the stone sill. He felt covered with shame that he had not eased Jory's mind about Robert Bruce.

“Don't look at me like that!” he growled. Brutus growled back. “I was going to tell her over dinner in our private dining room. I went down to the kitchen for ale so we could drink a toast.”
Aye, you wanted to make a grandiose announcement that you'd decided to spare the Bruce, so Jory would think you noble.
“What a self-righteous swine I am!”

Brutus nodded his agreement.

She begged me, and all it did was fuel my jealousy.
He clenched and unclenched his fists.
When I actually saw him and spoke to him, my jealousy disappeared and was replaced by a feeling of rightness—that Bruce was fulfilling his destiny.

“Why did I let her leave without easing her mind? Why the hellfire did I let her leave at all?”

Brutus hung his head in remorse.

 

The next sennight crawled by as Guy de Beauchamp kept watch on the health of everyone at Warwick. Two servants who had come in contact with John Montecute came down with fever and they were immediately quarantined along with the knight while Warwick held his breath and strived to keep up everyone's morale.

If the days seemed to crawl, the nights seemed to stop altogether and the hours became endless tests of his endurance. A haggard Warwick looked into the mirror and finally admitted to himself that fear stared him in the face. Nay, fear was a pale thing beside the stark terror for Jory that was relentlessly building inside him. He vowed that if no others had fallen ill come morning, he would ride hell-for-leather to Windrush.

Warwick checked on his knight's health just after dawn and, much to his relief, Montecute's fever and other symptoms had abated and no others had come down with the malady. He packed his saddlebags, told Mr. Burke where he was going, and admonished, “Keep Brutus from following me.”

 

Rickard de Beauchamp was in Windrush Castle's courtyard when he caught a glimpse of his father riding in. He darted into the stables and joined Roger Mortimer, who was saddling up for a hunt.

“Father! He has the eyes of a hawk—I think he saw me.”

Warwick thundered up to the stables, dismounted, and strode inside. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

Rickard avoided his father's piercing black eyes.

“Why did you leave London?” he demanded. Giving no time to answer, he shouted, “Why did you leave the king's service?”

Roger answered. “Edward recalled Gaveston. He took my wardship away from Mortimer of Chirk and gave it to his lover.”

Rickard found his voice. “The strutting Gaveston and his friends from Gascony made it untenable. We left in protest.”

“Then you can turn around and go straight back to Court. You are the king's highest young nobles. You cannot leave the field to foreigners.”

“I won't go,” Rickard said flatly, demonstrating a deal of courage by defying his father. Though he tried to mask his embarrassment, his face turned crimson.

Warwick's eyes narrowed. “What exactly happened?”

“We brawled with the Gascons,” Roger declared.

Warwick turned to Mortimer with raised eyebrows.

“Rickard was within a heartbeat of slitting Gaveston's throat.”

“The cocksucker dared to touch you?” Warwick demanded.

“I fought them and had my knife at his gullet. I would have killed him if Roger hadn't stopped me,” Rickard confessed.

“Edward would have thrown Rickard in the Tower and executed him if he had harmed his bedmate.”

“Christ Almighty! Edward Plantagenet decreed in his last will and testament that Gaveston could not be recalled without the consent of Parliament,” Warwick declared.

“Edward Plantagenet is dead, Father. England has a new king who rules by divine right and thinks he can do no wrong.”

“The barons will soon disabuse the young cocksucker of his delusions of grandeur and rid him of his Gascon bum-fucker!”

Rickard changed the subject. “You have come to put things right between you and Jory, I hope.”

“I should never have allowed her to leave Warwick. I've made some damned stupid mistakes. One was keeping Meg around all these years to create havoc in our lives.”

“I've known since I was a boy that she couldn't be trusted.”

“I sent her back to Wales. She dosed the ale with pennyroyal so Jory would miscarry. Fortunately she didn't drink any.”

“Lady Marjory wouldn't tell me what the trouble was. She said it was a private matter.”

“Jory thinks
I
did it because I don't want another child.”

“She was right—it is a private matter. I hope you can resolve it, Father.” Rickard hesitated, then warned, “Go gently. You can be very intimidating at times.”

“Here, take care of Caesar for me. I've been worried to death about Jory. I want to see with my own eyes she's all right.” He removed his saddlebags and strode purposefully toward the castle.

When he encountered the steward of Windrush he greeted the man and moved toward the stairs.

“I should announce you, Lord Warwick.”

“I'll announce myself.”

“Begging yer pardon, my lord. Windrush belongs to Lady Warwick…I think it best that I announce you,” he said bravely.

“So much for being intimidating,” Guy muttered with irony.

The steward hurried upstairs and knocked on Lady Warwick's chamber door. Catherine Mortimer opened it and learned the rather alarming news. “Wait here,” she admonished him.

Jory, who had been enduring a nagging backache on and off for the past twelve hours was sitting on her bed, propped up by pillows and sipping on a concoction of barley water and fennel that Maggie had brewed for her.

“Not only will it ease yer pain; it will increase yer milk. The babe will be here by this time tomorrow,” Maggie predicted.

Catherine came to the bed. “Lord Warwick is here.”

Jory's eyes widened. “I don't want to see him!”

“I'll tell the steward, my lady,” Catherine murmured.

“No! Warwick will overrule the steward. Go down and tell him that I don't want to see him.”

“Me, my lady?” Catherine whispered with dismay.

“You stay here with Lady Marjory. I'll go and tell the earl,” Maggie declared bravely. She opened the door and told the steward, “Lady Marjory won't see Lord Warwick. Come, we'll tell him together. I don't have the courage to face him alone.”

The pair found the earl at the foot of the stairs. “Lady Marjory asked me to plenish a chamber for you, Lord Warwick.”

Maggie, who knew better than to lie to the earl, cut the steward off. “She said no such thing, my lord.”

“What
did
she say?” Guy asked quietly.

Maggie swallowed hard and raised her chin. “
I don't want to see him
, were her exact words, my lord.”

“Is she well?” Guy demanded.

“As well as can be expected. Lady Marjory hasn't gone into labor yet, but there are signs,” Maggie said cryptically.

Guy made an effort to control the panic that assailed him. “I'll take the chamber you offered,” he told the steward.

The manservant led Warwick to a small room on the second floor, next to the ones that Rickard and Roger were occupying. “I'll fetch you some water and towels, my lord.”

“Can you get me a piece of parchment and a quill? I must send my wife a message.”

“I can tear a page from the sheep tally.”

“That will do fine. Hurry, please.”

To Guy, the man seemed to be gone for an hour, when in actuality it was only minutes before he returned. Guy grabbed the sheet and the piece of charcoal and tried to convey the message in as few words as possible. He folded the note and handed it to the steward. “Would you be good enough to deliver this to my wife?”