Tabby wiped her eye. “’Tis nothing,” she said, turning her attention to the beast in the cage. She slid her hand inside the glove. It was warm from Nevril’s hand and so large, it would have slid right off if she hadn’t held it in place.
“Do you need help?” he asked.
“Nay,” she replied, using the glove to hold the fox’s head in place as she untied the muzzle. Despite the ungainly size, it worked quite well and she withdrew her hand with no injury. The poor fox panted and looked around, but now he was bandaged and safe—even though he likely didn’t know it.
Tabby handed the glove back to Nevril, hoping that he would ride on back to the head of their train. But he did not.
“He will heal?” the master-at-arms asked after a moment.
“I am sure of it,” she replied. “If for no other reason than to make certain you do not wish to turn him into a hand muff.”
Nevril chuckled. “I do not think you would allow it, Mistress Tabatha. I believe I have learned my lesson from your sharp tongue.”
She smiled. “Well, at the least the old saying is not true: an old dog can be taught new tricks.”
He glanced at her sharply, then returned his attention to the road ahead. His bearded jaw shifted. “An old dog? I am not so very old.”
Tabby looked at him in surprise. His tone was odd and mayhap there was a little ruddiness on his cheeks. “But I did not mean you were ancient,” she replied. “Only that you are…no young pup.” His hair had no gray in it—though it was hard to tell for certain, as it was light in color and tight with curls. But mayhap it was the scar that made him seem old. Or, at the least, older than her.
“I am only one score and a half,” he told her, still looking straight ahead.
“Ah,” she replied. Then, feeling the need to change the subject—for ’twas clear he had no intention of leaving her to ride along in peace—she said, “Yestereve, when we were stopped for the night, I heard you jesting with Sir Galbraith. About a lute for Lord Warwick? Does my lord play the lute?” Tabatha knew she sounded incredulous—but after all, picturing her lady’s new husband crooning a song over a lute was nearly as ludicrous as picturing Queen Eleanor begging forgiveness of Lady Judith.
Now Nevril looked at her once more and she saw a hint of humor in his expression. “Nay, Warwick doesn’t play the lute. ’Twas only a jest we had some time ago when he was preparing to wed Lady Beatrice. He was in a fine mood all the time for several days, after having been an angry bear for a fortnight. Gambert and I jested that mayhap he could be playing the lute for us, he was so light of heart.”
“Warwick was to wed Lady Beatrice?” Tabatha said in surprise.
“Aye. He was sending messages nearly every day from court—to her father, the Lord of Delbring, Peter of Blois, Salisbury and others. The contract was being negotiated and we were all very happy for that—for ’twas the reason we’d come to court.”
“How did he come to wed my lady then?” she asked, a niggle of unease settling in her middle. Did Lady Judith know this?
Nevril shook his head. “I am not very certain what happened, but ’twas after that day—that day when you brought a message for Lord Malcolm. Gambert and I had just made our lute jest, for Lord Mal had been so very light-hearted for nearly a se’ennight. Then I came upon you, and you asked that I deliver the message from Lady Judith.” He shrugged. “My lord went in to a black mood after that, and then some days later all at the nonce he was wed to Lady Judith. I knew naught of it until the deed was done—nor did Gambert or Gilbraith or the others.” His expression was grim. “I do not know what happened to change it all. Mayhap the woman denied him at the last moment—though I cannot imagine why she should. Warwick would have brought her family much power, and their lands are very close.”
“Indeed,” Tabatha murmured, gnawing on her lip.
“And Lady Beatrice has visited with her father several times since Lady Sarah died four years past. They were cousins, and she knew Lord Mal quite well. ’Tis a complicated world, the wedding of great lords and gentleladies.” He shrugged and looked straight ahead once more. “’Tis glad I am that a simple knight like myself has little to consider when choosing a wife—only her comeliness and personality. And whether she might bear a son or nay.”
And to Tabatha’s surprise and consternation, he looked purposefully at her—then kicked his horse into a leap, cantering off toward the front of the caravan.
It was only after he’d left that she realized her heart was pounding and her cheeks were hot.
“There,” cried Judith, pointing into the distance. “Lilyfare!”
Malcolm drew back on his reins and halted Alpha next to his wife’s mount. In the midday sun, the green hills undulated in front of them, brilliant as a swath of emerald fabric. They were dotted with yellow, white, and orange flowers, and on the top of the largest hill—but a much smaller rise than any at Warwick—sat a dark gray enclosure. Jutting up from inside was the keep, a single, crenellated column made of the same iron-colored stone as the wall. Flags of yellow and gray fluttered in the breeze.
“It hasn’t changed at all,” Judith said, blinking rapidly as she strained to see from her side saddle. “Not from here, anyway,” she added, looking at him with glistening blue eyes. She blinked and a tear fell, and she used her palm to wipe it away. But she was smiling and her gaze was filled with open delight. He’d never seen such a beatific expression on her face. “It may have changed within, surely it has some bit—it’s been six or seven years—but from here, it looks as it always has done.”
Mal’s attention was divided between the lush landscape in front of him and the glowing beauty next to him. Judith looked so luminous and carefree. A sense of comfort and completeness settled over him; a settled, swelling feeling of warmth—and not, this time, in the crotch of his hose.
“Shall we ride on? I’m eager to see the rest of this heaven of yours,” he said, smiling down at her.
Since they left Lock Rose Abbey, the last four days of travel had been both difficult and surprisingly pleasant for Malcolm. He no longer feared an attack—for now the first one had failed, there was no time nor ability for the queen—or whoever—to arrange for another one. While at the abbey, he’d sent messages to Ludingdon and Mal Verne, as well as Salisbury, about the experience. He outlined his suspicions carefully but in subtle terms—for who knew whose hand the message could fall into—and knew his peers would spread the word through court in their own way. He also trusted Duncan would soon meet up with them, and Mal hoped his man would have information from the runaway attacker, whom he’d attempted to follow.
The difficult part of the journey thus far, however, had been the temptation of her company. Thanks to her years of traveling with the queen, Judith journeyed for long hours and without complaint—all on horseback. And though at the beginning of their journey, Mal was uncertain whether he could stand to listen to her chatter day after day, hour after hour as they rode along, even after nearly a se’ennight he found himself enjoying her company as well as her conversation. She was interesting and intelligent, and he realized he was more than content with her company and her thoughts. Being in her company thus nearly made him forget the fact that he could not bed her. It was nearly as satisfying.
They discussed everything from falconry and fox hunting to horse breeding, the best crops to raise on each estate, whether the women serfs should have access to Judith’s private solar for sewing (where the light was the best, but where they also invaded her peace with their constant bickering) and what sorts of punishments or fines should be meted out for a variety of criminal offenses. To his relief, she also lapsed into long stretches of silence, giving his ears and mind a rest and allowing him to contemplate other business he must attend to, now that he was wed again and going home with two new estates to manage. He’d received word of an outbreak of disease among the cattle at Warwick, and he must investigate that as soon as possible.
Judith also sang or hummed to herself on occasion, and quite often, instead of Malcolm, she rode with Lelan, Holbert or any of the other men-at-arms and conversed with them as well. Betimes, she and the others broke out into song as well, and if some of the tunes were bawdy and lewd, she merely sang the louder.
If the days of travel had been easy and entertaining, it was the nights which Malcolm found the most troublesome. For though he spent all the day feasting his eyes and attention on his vivacious wife, he was relegated to the mens’ chambers at the abbeys and keeps that gave them respite for the night. The single night spent in her bed had been too fleeting, and memories from their brief interlude at Lock Rose Abbey haunted him.
When he looked back on that moment, however, Malcolm was filled less with desire than with self-loathing and disgust. He’d had his wife pushed up against the wall, ready to use her like a whore, in the corridor of an abbey.
Had his mind completely deserted him?
And all the while, even as he tried to push away the self-recrimination, he heard an echo of Judith’s own words: He is blinded by lust and obsession.
Aye, she’d been speaking of Henry…but, God’s truth, those words could just as well have been about Malcolm himself. He was no better than the king, hampered by his own lust and obsession.
Malcolm gritted his teeth. He should have given Judith time to get beyond her affaire with the king before crawling into bed with her. Aye, she’d insisted on it, but he realized she was determined to consummate the marriage so it could not be drawn asunder. She was a practical woman.
And she had not denied him, nay. He did not believe she would; for she knew her duty. But Judith’s silent tears were a clear indication of her feelings about the activity.
Now, as they cantered across the last hillock to the portcullis of Lilyfare Keep, Mal fought an internal battle with himself. Tonight, he could sleep in a bed and seduce his delicious wife, hoping there would be more than mere acquiescence from her….