Mary Gillgannon (20 page)

That was another reason he must bed Astra. If he were finally able to release his tormenting lust, he wouldn’t be so edgy and preoccupied. He could get back to the business of winning his fortune.

He paused, his back to a sturdy alehouse, and allowed himself to contemplate the fulfillment of his plans. Tonight, Astra would open her legs for him. She would sigh in her soft voice and stroke him with her tender fingers. In turn, he would make her moan and quiver. He would give her unimaginable pleasure. All night he would love her. The sordid horror of Southwark would be forgotten. When the sun rose on the morrow he would awake to paradise and his angel beside him. Heart and soul and body—she would finally be his.

The image heartened him and called back his usual confidence. He was the Black Leopard, one of the most formidable warriors who had ever served King Henry. He would to be a great man some day—a baron, a man who influenced others. No one would laugh at him or spit in his face or call him a bastard ever again. He would win the fame, wealth and glory he deserved. And when he did, Astra would be beside him.

A
stra laced up the bodice of the pale violet gown, then glanced at her reflection in the borrowed mirror. Tonight she would have to be adamant. Richard could not touch her or kiss her until they had discussed their future together.

She straightened her shoulders and made a stern face in the mirror, trying to feign a confidence she didn’t feel. She had agreed to meet Richard alone, and he no doubt assumed she was going to let him bed her. Somehow she must resist his attentions and force him to listen to her plan. Once he knew she meant to go to the Queen and ask for her aid, he might be confident enough of the future to propose to her. Astra took a shaky breath. It was a daring scheme, worthy even of Marguerite.

Perhaps that was what worried her. Marguerite’s clever plans always went awry at the last minute. Tonight was too important for that. She must settle her future with Richard. She could not go on like this. She ached for him and lived for the mere sight of him. She must have some assurance he would be her husband someday. Then she could give herself to him and let him take her to that breathless, rapturous paradise again.

A frown wrinkled her brow. That was it, the fatal flaw in her plan. She wanted Richard much too badly. If he began to kiss and caress her, she would be lost. She could not allow him to suborn her will. She must be firm. Nay, obstinate. Until they spoke of their future, she could not allow him to touch her.

Astra leaned forward and gave herself one last look in the Queen’s mirror. She looked alluring enough, if perhaps a little pale. She pinched her cheeks to give them color.

“No need for that. Merely think of Richard kissing you, and your cheeks will bloom like roses.”

Astra nearly knocked over the mirror. “Marguerite! You startled me! Is it time already?”

“Aye. Will’s men are waiting for you at the back entrance to the palace. They’ll hire you a wherry to take you to Queenhithe.”

“And the Queen?” Astra asked nervously.

“Your notion to pretend sickness was brilliant. She thinks you are in bed with the ague. I’ve let on that it is catching, and I’ll see you myself. Even the servants will avoid the chamber where you are presumed to be resting.”

“If only I can depart the palace without being seen.”

“Wrap up in your cloak and walk slowly. No one will guess that such a tattered, old garment conceals a beautiful young demoiselle. They’ll think you’re one of the washerwomen.”

Astra nodded and took a deep breath. She’d never done anything like this before. Even when she met Richard in his tent, she’d had Alyce to guide the way. The idea of venturing out alone to meet Richard terrified her.

As Marguerite had predicted, no one paid the slightest attention to Astra as she left by the back entrance. She saw two soldiers waiting there and pulled back the hood of her cloak so they would recognize her. They settled her between them to escort her to the Kingsbridge quay. They helped her into a wherry, said a few words to the oarsman, then bowed and sent the small boat on its way.

Astra had traveled the Thames several times before, but she had never found it as unnerving as she did tonight. The dark water swirling around the boat made her stomach dip and sway. The wherry seemed pitifully small compared to the rain-swollen river. She clutched the edge of the boat tightly and struggled to keep the gorge from rising in her throat.

She stared at the riverbank to distract herself, seeing the city from a new perspective. It was nearly twilight, but the shapes of houses and buildings were still visible through the mist. Huge ships were anchored along the docks. Their masts rose up in a ghostly forest. As they passed the bend of the river, Astra saw open fields and gardens beyond the city. Then the river’s edge grew crowded again, with great warehouses for storing goods arriving from French ports as well as Genoa, Venice and the Baltic.

London Bridge loomed ahead—nineteen stone arches spanning the river from Bridge Street to Southwark. The current of the river grew faster. Astra held her breath as they sped down the formidable causeway. Abruptly, the oarsman steered the wherry toward shore and guided the boat to dock at a large quay.

“Queenhithe,” he announced in a bored voice.

Astra gathered herself together and climbed unsteadily onto land. She searched the nearly deserted wharf for Richard. Panic engulfed her as she realized how alone and vulnerable she was. A shadowy form loomed up behind her, and she opened her mouth to scream in terror.

“Astra. Beloved.”

Shaking with relief, she allowed Richard to embrace her. He smelled warm, sweaty and wonderfully, reassuringly male. As his hot, plundering mouth found hers, she almost forgot her resolution to resist him until they talked. Then his hands slid beneath her cloak. Astra pulled his fingers from her bodice laces and stepped back.

“Richard... I... I must talk to you.”

“In due time, my love. First, we must find a warm, dry place.”

She nodded. The mist had thickened, covering everything with a fine, bone-chilling dampness. Richard took her arm and began to lead the way down the quay. Astra had to walk rapidly to keep up with his long, powerful strides. Several times she attempted to begin the conversation she wished to have. He insisted it could wait until they reached their destination.

“Where are you taking me?” she finally asked.

“Southwark.”

Astra stopped walking. Her memories of the crude settlement on south bank of the Thames were very unpleasant.

“What’s amiss?”

“Southwark is a place of sin and abomination. I don’t want to go there.”

“You will be with me. I will protect you.”

“But why must we go there? Certainly you know of its disgusting reputation.”

“Disgusting, aye, but also private. No one from court will think to look for us there.”

Astra sighed and allowed Richard to take her arm again. She didn’t relish the long walk over the bridge and the feeling of suffocation that afflicted her as the houses crowded in above them, shutting out the sky.

“Why didn’t you have me take a wherry to Southwark? I am tired of walking.”

“Shush, love. I could not risk you arriving in Southwark before me. I shudder to think of you in such a place by yourself.”

His voice was tender, soothing. Astra decided not to argue. It made her sound like a peevish fishwife. That was hardly the way to win a man’s favor, to entice him to propose.

As much as she dreaded Southwark, Astra was relieved when they reached the massive gate at the end of the bridge. As they walked the narrow passageway over the bridge, her breath clawed in her chest, as if she were smothering. They reached the street and she took a deep breath and then grimaced as the rank odors of Southwark filled her nose.

“Only a little farther,” Richard coaxed. “Then I have a surprise for you.”

Astra nodded. Her legs ached and her elegant slippers pinched her feet. At this rate, she would be too exhausted and irritable to care if Richard took her to bed. She was not even sure she had the energy to hold him off until she convinced him of her plan.

She shivered as Richard led her down a narrow alleyway. A quarter moon shone feebly through the fog, offering little light to guide their way. A cat yowled in the distance, sounding for a moment like a child screaming in pain. In the shadows near their feet, Astra heard rustling sounds and what she fancied were the squeaks of rats. She clutched Richard’s arm fiercely and dug her nails into his thick muscles.

“Ayez pitié. Ayez pitié.”

Astra screamed as a wraithlike creature loomed out of the mist. Swathed from head to foot in rags, it extended a claw-like hand towards them and begged in a rasping, foreign voice. “
Ayez pitié. Demoiselle? Monsieur?
”

Richard tried to lead her past the creature. Astra hesitated. The moon broke through the mist, and she caught a glimpse of the phantom’s face. It was a woman, not old. Her nose was gone; it left a horrible scar in the middle of what must have once been a lovely face. Her blue eyes were wild, ravaged. She might be wasting away with fever, or merely starving.

Astra pulled at Richard’s arm. “Please, Richard, give her something.”

“God’s wounds, Astra, I cannot feed every leper in Southwark!”

“She’s not a leper,” Astra whispered. “Her nose has been cut off.”

“Probably a whore who set up her customers to be robbed,” Richard grumbled. He reached for his coin bag. “A wound like that is the mark of a thief.”

“We should help her anyway. If she was a whore, who would want her now?”

“You’d be surprised,” Richard said grimly as he pulled out a handful of pennies. He gave them to Astra and she offered them to the woman coaxingly, as if tempting an animal to eat. The woman regarded her warily, then reached out and grabbed the coins. She disappeared immediately into the mist.

“Jesu, Astra, you’re too soft-hearted. You’re going to beggar me.”

“Thank you,” Astra whispered. She felt warmer, knowing she had done God’s work. The squalid alleyway seemed less threatening. She began to relax.

The moon disappeared. Astra heard voices inside the buildings they passed—curses, laughter. She guessed they were behind a row of alehouses and cookshops. The smells grew more nauseating. A man threw a pail of something out a doorway ahead of them. Richard swore as they reached the spot and had to step over a mess of reeking fishheads and entrails.

“Sweet Maria, what a stink,” Astra gasped.

“Only a little farther.”

Ahead of them, the shadows seemed to move and moan. Richard pulled her closer and shielded her with his body. Pressed against him, Astra felt herself relax just as the moonlight caught the form of a couple embracing against a building. Pale silver light reflected on naked skin, and Astra saw what the couple were doing. The woman’s skirts were up to her waist, the man’s bare buttocks bunched and thrust—in and out, in and out.

They passed the couple within inches, the man’s raspy breathing harsh in their ears. Astra clung to Richard, feeling strange. It was repulsive, yet she felt an odd, aching feeling between her legs. She also felt an emptiness there, as if she needed to be filled—filled with Richard, with the hot, hard thing she had felt beneath his hose.

Richard’s breathing beside her seemed harsher. She realized he was aroused, tantalized as she was. Her heartbeat quickened. She had been mad to think she could be alone with this man and be able to resist him.

“Here we are.”

Astra gazed dubiously at the gloomy two-story building. There were no windows, no sign of light or comfort. Richard guided her to a wooden ladder, placing her hands on the rough sides.

“The back entrance. The other way is locked. No one will know we are here.”

She let Richard boost her up, and began to climb. It was a struggle in her long skirt. She felt Richard behind her, ready to catch her if she fell. She guessed that her wriggling bottom was directly in his face. The thought made her blush.

She was sweating when she reached the top, her silk gloves full of splinters. She climbed onto the small landing there and stared in dismay at the small, crooked doorway. She was ready to swear at Richard, to rail at him for making her endure such torture to reach this crude place. Then he opened the door to the room and made her gasp with surprise.

It was a very pleasing room. A brazier glowed in the corner, and tall, gleaming candles illuminated the rest of the cozy space. A table with a pitcher and two pewter cups stood in one corner, a bed in the other. The bed was not large, but it was covered with a sumptuous silk coverlet of vivid purple.

“Are you hungry, Astra? I can have them bring food up.”

Astra shook her head. She was hungry, but much too nervous to eat. “The room is ...” She did not know what to say. He had done this all for her. It was a gift, a splendid, romantic gift.

Richard suddenly seemed shy. She could not credit it, but he was. He seemed stiff when he walked to the table, completely unlike his usual graceful self. His hand shook visibly when he poured the wine.

Astra’s stomach was full of butterflies. When she took the goblet of wine, she had to hold it against her body so she wouldn’t spill it. She took a sip. It was fine and sweet, much like the wine served at the King’s banquet table. It went down slowly, burning a fire to her belly. The blaze suffused her limbs and warmed her. A flush crept over her skin.

Richard watched her from across the room, and she saw for the first time how elegantly dressed he was. Velvet hose, soft calfskin boots, a scarlet satin tunic that laced up his broad chest—he looked more like a prince than a knight. Only the jeweled misericord at his waist and the scar on his cheek gave him away as a fighting man. She studied his face, the dark, intense eyes, the smooth high cheekbones, the soft mouth. He was beautiful as only a man could be. Beautiful and dangerous. He reminded her of a gleaming gold dagger, the gracefulness of its lines unmarred by the deadliness of its function.

“Take off your cloak, Astra.”

She went to the table and put down the wine and then slipped off the ragged, dowdy cloak and laid it carefully on a stool by the fire. Richard was only a few feet away. His eyes moved over her body. The gown she wore was tight. It skimmed her hips, nipped in tightly at her waist and molded closely to her breasts. She’d worn it relatively unadorned, with only a slim silver girdle at her waist, delicate black silk gloves and a simple purple veil over her hair, held in place with a circlet of silver. She’d perspired on the way up the ladder, and the film of moisture on her skin made the dress cling more tightly than ever.

Richard’s eyes moved to her face. Her whole body felt heavy, as if she were underwater.

“Your hair, Astra. I want to see your hair.”

She turned away to hide the ridiculous trembling of her fingers. The circlet was easy to undo, but it caught on her gloves. She took them off and laid them carefully on top of her cloak, then removed her veil. Her hair was tightly bound in braids twisted around her head. She began to undo them.

It was a tedious process, and it seemed to take a long time to finish. She looked up once. Richard’s face was rapt, intent. His chest heaved slightly, as if he could not breathe properly.