Outrageous (20 page)

“Where’s King Henry’s tent?” Oliver shouted to the nearest royal sentinel.

“Who wants t’ know?” the sentinel demanded.

Oliver leaned down from his saddle and glared at the hapless soldier. “The king’s private secretary.”

“Oliver King?” At Oliver’s curt nod, the sentinel pulled his forelock in exaggerated deference. “King Henry’s been askin’ fer ye. Ye’re t’ ride t’ him at once. Up there, on th’ rise. See his banner?”

“A comely sight,” Art muttered. “And one long in coming. Do ye think we can find our way?”

The laughter he generated died under Griffith’s frown, and the Welsh knights turned aside to mingle with the other Welshmen already camped. Art heaved a sigh. “Right glad to get away from ol’ puckerpuss, they are,” he said to the thin air.

“Well, you’re not so lucky,” Griffith snapped. “Stay with me and secure my baggage.”

The ride to the king’s tent was silent and, on Art’s part, fraught with unspoken ire, much like the rest of the journey. All in all, it had been a difficult trip, for although the weather had been pleasant, Griffith’s mood had not. He had been brooding, and since he had no experience in such matters, he hadn’t done it gracefully.

Marian had let him go into combat without a single tear of remorse.

She hadn’t sent tender messages or in any way betrayed a concern for his well-being. She hadn’t even gone to her window to wave—he’d checked as he rode out of Castle Powel. Didn’t she understand some of the men in this battle would be killed? Didn’t she understand he himself could be hurt?

He had more than his share of confidence, so he laughed at womanly concerns. But he wanted
his
woman to fear for him, ache for him, every moment he was gone.

Before they dismounted at the king’s tent, Henry himself stepped through the open door. “Griffith, where have you been? I’ve been making war without my most trusted adviser. Oliver, where have you been? My squire’s been writing my letters, and making a botch of it.”

The king’s squire and his military advisers crowded around him, protesting loudly, but they were grinning. The campaign, Griffith concluded, must be going well. Handing the reins of his horse to a page, he asked, “Where’s the earl of Lincoln and his troops?”

Henry slapped him on the shoulder. “A pleasant greeting.”

Realizing he had been abrupt, Griffith said, “You sent for your humble servant, and I come on the wind, my king.” He hitched his cloak closer around his shoulders. “Where’s Lincoln?”

Henry laughed and shook his head. To the waiting assemblage, he asked, “Have you ever heard of a Welshman lacking a honeyed tongue?”

“Mayhap, my king,” Oliver said, “he needs Welsh soil beneath his feet and a beautiful woman in his arms before the honey can flow.”

Griffith glared at Oliver. “Mayhap the king’s secretary should keep his mouth shut and his teeth intact.”

Oliver sniffed delicately and demanded to see Henry’s correspondence, but Griffith knew the subject was not closed. Henry’s private secretary did more than write letters; he served as Henry’s sieve, discarding the dross of commonplace gossip and bringing him only the jewels of information.

The scene he’d witnessed at Castle Powel was a nugget of pure gold.

Henry led the way into the tent, with Griffith and Oliver on his heels. Art followed, dragging both Griffith’s saddlebags and his own.

Pointing to a bench opposite his camp chair, Henry commanded, “Sit here and take refreshment. Your squire, Art—it is Art, is it not?”

Art grinned and nodded, flattered by his sovereign’s notice.

Henry continued, “Art will serve you while I reveal Lincoln’s location.”

With a mumbled thanks, Griffith sank onto his seat, still sour from Marian’s neglect. Would the memory of the woman ever leave him?

Henry took no notice of Griffith’s morose demeanor but plunged into his account. “I’ve received word that Lincoln wants to get to the walled safety of York.”

Accepting the ale and bread from Art, Griffith
asked, “Is the man so stupid he doesn’t understand that cutting across country would expose his flank to our crossfire?”

“I wish he were.” Henry sighed. “He has forded the river Trent and pitched his camp along a ridge.”

“That’s why we’re here? So we can march up the Fosseway and grind them into the mud?” When Henry nodded, Griffith grinned savagely. “When do we move?”

“Soon. This afternoon. My royal forces are better equipped and better armed than the rebels. My generals are more experienced.” Henry accepted the ale and toasted Griffith with his cup. “I have more troops—my spies say the odds are two to one. Only a colossal blunder could keep the royal cause from prevailing.”

Griffith flinched in disapproval. He was soldier enough to know a battle could turn on circumstance and superstitious enough to cringe at Henry’s confidence. “One such blunder at Bosworth cost Richard his life, my liege.”

The occupants of the tent gasped at such a blunt upbraiding, and Henry lowered his cup. “Damn, man, what vermin bites at you?”

Belatedly Griffith realized he’d been tactless, and he sought to ease the situation. “’Tis naught, my king, but my desire to protect you from the fruits of boastfulness.” The occupants gasped again, and Griffith went on. “That is to say, we should entreat God to grant us victory, not challenge God with boastful predictions.”

“I understand what you say—’twould be impossible not to, and be assured, I will take it to heart.” Henry glanced at Oliver and raised a questioning eyebrow, and Oliver rose from his writing table and came to his side. The secretary whispered in his ear while Griffith squirmed, and when Oliver finished Henry waved him away.

“What did he report?” Griffith demanded.

“What do you think?” Henry retorted, leaning forward.

“I’m going to marry her.” Griffith spoke quickly, defiantly, for his sovereign had every right to refuse the match if he desired, and Griffith knew he had but one chance to convince him of the rightness of his suit.

Clearly Henry understood. Clearly Oliver had spoken the name of the lady, for Henry didn’t ask to have it defined. But Henry’s chin lifted, and Griffith’s heart sank. Then he pointed at Griffith. “You’ve been gone from court nearly a month. Why haven’t you married her yet?”

Griffith exchanged glances with Oliver, who smothered a grin. The king’s other aides were studiously busy, and every ear, Griffith knew, was trained on this extraordinary exchange.

“Because I’ve not convinced her I will marry her. She seems to fear”—Griffith looked straight at Henry—“your intervention with her son.”

Henry slowly slid a hand over his chin and cheek. “I need to be shaved,” he mused. “I hate to ride into battle in a disheveled manner. It might affect the morale of the troops. Art, can you shave a man without nicking him?”

Art bobbed in a bow. “I can slice a man’s throat or not, as I please, and it would please me to shave ye without a nick.”

“Is he boasting?” Henry asked Griffith.

“Not at all,” Griffith replied.

“Then shave me you shall,” Henry told Art. “Take my knife and hone it to the proper sharpness.”

“If ye don’t mind, my king, I would use Sir Griffith’s knife. I gave it to him myself, a good many years ago, and the blade is of finest Spanish steel.” Without awaiting permission, Art dumped the contents of Griffith’s saddlebag on the royal carpet and scrambled among the clothing.

“Art, what are you doing?” Griffith asked in exasperation.

“Looking for yer knife.”

“Have you been beaten by the stupid stick?” Griffith pulled it from his belt and dangled it in front of Art’s nose. “You know I keep it always close to hand.”

“I’d forgotten.” After ramming Griffith’s possessions back into the bags, Art took the blade and ran his callused thumb along the edge. “’Twill take but a few moments to whet it.”

“Do so.” To his squire, Henry said, “Bring me hot water.” To the clump of milling noblemen, he announced, “I don’t like an audience when I am shaved.”

When Henry chose to, Griffith realized, he was capable of clearing the room in less time than it took to shear a sheep and with just as much purpose. Only Oliver remained, his pensive gaze firmly attached to the paper on which he scratched military notations.

“As to Lady Marian Wenthaven…” Henry’s thin lips compressed into a single line as he sorted through the shiny pile of armor. “She’s of interest to the Crown only insofar as she is a cherished friend of the queen’s. Her son is of interest to us because the queen is his godmother.”

“Is she?”

“Did you not know?”

“Nay, but it is fitting.”

Henry ignored that comment with regal disdain. “So the queen is concerned with Lady Marian and her son, but as I have pointed out to her, Lady Marian has a father who is not, to our knowledge, a traitor.”

He paused, and Griffith murmured, “Not quite yet, my liege.”

“Not quite yet? There’s the rub, is it not?” Henry flashed a glance at Griffith. “Not quite yet. I’ve heard tales that Lord Wenthaven is hiring Welsh mercenaries.”

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Wenthaven has ever been a thorn in my side. He’s clever, with dreams that far overreach his humble beginnings. When this battle is done, I will have to do
something about the earl of Wenthaven.” Henry lifted a breastplate from the pile and examined it for dents. “If Lady Marian’s father rebelled against me and was put to the horn, Lady Marian and her son would be a royal responsibility. As a respected king, I should teach every traitor a lesson by chopping off his head and reducing his family to penury. In this way, I would be intervening with Lady Marian’s son. What’s his name?”

“Lionel, my liege.” Griffith was fascinated with this performance of regal distress and more fascinated that the king agreed with Marian, but in a completely different manner.

“Lionel.” Again Henry ran his hand across his face, but he paused and pressed hard against his mouth, as if Lionel’s name tasted unpalatable to him. The twinge faded, however, and he continued, “But, as I said, Lady Marian is a friend of the queen’s, and the queen would be distressed if I so treated her former lady-in-waiting and, of course, Lady Marian’s son—the queen’s own godson. So if Lady Marian were the wife of a loyal subject such as yourself…”

He left it to dangle in the air like the bait on a fishing line, and Griffith took it without hesitation. “She would be safe, and her heritage kept intact?”

“For her
son
, Henry agreed.

“Ah, but Lady Marian has expressed concerns much like your own, and what she fears is much different from what you’ve foreseen.”

“I would have the queen’s friend be without fear.”

“Nevertheless, Lady Marian has expressed a concern that if I should wed her,
I
will be put to the horn.”

“In case of her father’s treachery, do you mean?”

“For whatever reason,” Griffith said carefully.

“You may assure Lady Marian that you are, at present, one of my trusted advisers. If she would wed you, I would treat you with all the respect your position demands, even”—Henry looked straight at
Griffith—“if you were to retire from court and concentrate on your holdings to the exclusion of all else.”

By which Henry meant, Griffith concluded, he would be relegated to obscurity when he wed Marian. It was the price he would pay for his bliss.

“You would, of course, be properly compensated.…” Henry sounded sincere but abstracted, as if he knew compensation little interested Griffith. Coming to the heart of his concern, he asked, “Lady Marian has honor?”

“An excess of honor,” Griffith confirmed.

“Aye.” Henry sighed. “Of course, she must have. Elizabeth has described”—he faltered briefly, then rallied—“the queen has described Lady Marian’s support through those months of terror in Richard’s court. I don’t know how my wife would have survived without Lady Marian’s quick wit and fierce friendship. I don’t know…” His hand shot out, and he grasped Griffith by the shoulder in a fearsome grip. “I give her to you. Take her. Take her son. Keep them from harm, from those who would use them for their own purposes. As your king, I charge you with this task. I pray you perform it well, for the consequences of failure are dire and dread.”

This was no royal performance. This was the cry of a man who would safeguard his wife, his heir, his throne.

Seeing Henry now, with resolution burning in the smithy of his mind, Griffith was struck anew by the rightness of his kingship. This man would wield England into one entity, given the chance, and his vow—that nothing and no one would ever take his throne—branded fear in Griffith’s soul. Fear, respect, and comprehension. A comprehension far beyond men’s fumbling attempts at communication.

“I will do so, whether you wish it or no, but I must know—who is the child?”

Henry’s eyes betrayed no emotion. “Why, he is Lady Marian’s son.”

At the appearance of Henry’s cold, still face, Griffith stifled the questions that clamored for release.

“Oliver!” Henry cried.

The secretary leaped to his feet.

“Write to the lady Marian, inviting her to visit us immediately, and we will celebrate her marriage to Sir Griffith at court.” Henry beamed benevolently at Griffith. “Although her father has the means, I myself will help dower the bride.”

Griffith gulped in dismay. “I don’t know…”

Reading Griffith’s mind, Henry asked, “She will come. We simply must choose the messenger with care. Whom does she trust above all others?”

“Art,” Griffith replied.

Art stuck his head in the tent. “Ye called?”

“Art.” Henry wrapped his arm around the man’s skinny shoulders. “Art, Griffith tells me the lady Marian trusts you.”

Wary, Art agreed.

“Then you’re the very man to fetch her to her dear one’s side so we can conclude a marriage between Sir Griffith and Lady Marian. Dear me.” Henry frowned. “She’s the daughter of an earl, so she carries the title of ‘Lady,’ and Griffith is only a ‘Sir.’ We’ll have to do something about that. Oliver, make a note. Sir Griffith needs a title.”

“Aye, my liege.” Oliver’s face never changed expression as he selected a clean parchment and wrote the reminder in bold letters.