“No!” Hugh flushed, looking much younger at that moment than his eighteen years, and Maud almost smiled. So it was a lass, after all. Reminding herself how vulnerable first love could be, she said, not unkindly, “There is no crime in being smitten by a pretty face. Nor is there any great harm in sowing a few wild oats, provided that the girl is not already spoken for…” Her son’s face twitched, and she said, more sharply, “Hugh, no good can come of lusting after a married woman. Even if she is only a villein, it is not wise, for-”
“Rosamund is no villein,” he snapped, sounding offended. “She is well bred and gently born. Nor is she married.”
“Rosamund who?” she asked, so unobtrusively that Hugh found himself mumbling her surname before he could think better of it.
Maud regarded him thoughtfully; clearly this was more serious than she’d realized. Was he enamored enough to want to marry the girl? Clifford’s daughter would make most men a perfectly acceptable wife, but the Earl of Chester could aim much higher. What of the negotiations to wed him to the young daughter of the Count of Evreux? “Hugh, I hope you’ve done nothing rash. You’ve made no promises to this girl, have you?”
He shook his head mutely, and she sighed with relief. But then he added in a burst of miserable candor, “I would have, but she’ll have none of me.”
Maud’s temper ignited. That self-serving malcontent, Clifford, dared to refuse her son? What better husband could he crave for his daughter than Hugh of Chester, cousin to the king? Forgetting for the moment her own opposition to a Clifford-Chester match, she said indignantly, “Some hawks fly high these days, need to get their wings clipped for certes!” Hugh did not seem much comforted by that, and she patted his arm con solingly. “Ah, lad, I do understand. This is the first lass you’ve set your heart upon, and I know it is hurtful. But-”
“No, you do not understand!” Hugh’s despair was so naked that his mother fell silent, for such an emotional outburst was quite unlike him. “Hurtful, you say? You do not know the half of it! What choice did she have, a girl convent-reared and all too trusting? But I could do nothing, had to watch as he took her to his bed, with her lout of a father cheering him on!”
Maud stared at him. “What in God’s Name are you talking about? Who took Rosamund Clifford into his bed?”
“Who do you think?” Hugh’s mouth twisted. “The king!”
“Harry… and Rosamund Clifford?” She sighed again, this time sadly. Poor Hugh, no wonder he was so distraught. “Well, that is unfortunate, but it might turn out better for the girl than you think. If she was indeed a virgin, Harry will surely be generous enough to compensate for the loss of her maidenhead, and there are men who’d take a perverse pride in having a woman bedded by the king.”
“You still do not understand! This is more than a grope in the dark or a quick tumble between the sheets. He is besotted with her, keeps her as close as he can. Where do you think he is now? At Woodstock-with her!”
Maud’s breath hissed between her teeth. Instinctively, she glanced over her shoulder, making sure they were still alone. So that was why Harry had lingered so long in England! Jesu, but men were such fools. “Have you spoken of this to anyone else, Hugh?” When he shook his head, she reached out and gripped his arm. “See that you do not.”
Hugh looked annoyed. “What do you fear, Mother, that I’d blurt it out to the queen? I have more sense than that. But my silence will matter for naught. Sooner or later, she’ll hear about her husband and Rosamund.”
“Yes,” she agreed grimly, “she will. But it will not be from you.”
Meliora had not ventured far, only to an apothecary’s shop on Calpe Street, but the rain started again before she could return to the shelter of Winchester’s great castle. It was a stinging, cold rain, interspersed with sleet, for although the calendar had marked the first week of March, England was still in winter’s frigid grip. But Meliora was not one to be daunted by bad weather; pulling up her mantle hood, she continued on her way. Several boisterous young men came sprinting toward her, laughing and cursing as they sought to outrun the rain to the closest alehouse. A woman passing by made haste to cross the street, but Meliora didn’t give the rowdy youths a second glance. Now in her fifties, she still had the bold spirit that had led her to leave her native Cornwall in search of adventure and more opportunities than any Cornish village could offer.
Twice married, twice widowed-the first marriage for fun, the second for security-she had three grown children, and a dower sufficient to keep her in a comfortable old age. But for all that her flaming red hair was now greyed, her waist thickened, and her step slowed by a touch of the joint-evil, her thirst for the unknown had not been slaked. And so when the king asked her to attend the Lady Rosamund Clifford, Meliora had accepted with alacrity.
Hearing sudden footsteps thudding behind her, she spun around, her grip tightening on the walking stick that would make a useful weapon. But the man bearing down upon her was no cutpurse, far too well dressed for that. As he drew nearer, she recognized him as the castellan’s second-in-command, and readily accepted his offer to escort her back to the castle. With ostentatious gallantry, he insisted upon carrying her apothecary’s sack and she relinquished it with a droll smile, knowing full well that the days were long past when young men vied for her favors. His chivalry was motivated by curiosity for certes; she’d wager the entire garrison was gossiping about the girl who’d accompanied the king to Winchester.
Meliora was not averse to gossip and answered readily enough, amused by the youth’s clumsy attempts at nonchalance. She confirmed that she and her lady would be leaving for Woodstock on the morrow, weather permitting, now that the king had continued on to Southampton. No, she did not know when the king would be returning to England. Yes, she and her lady would be needing an escort, but she believed the King’s Grace had arranged that with the castellan ere his departure yesterday. She was so agreeable, so affable that it was only later that he’d realize just how little she’d actually told him.
The castle’s postern gate was open for there was still a trickle of sodden daylight remaining. Thanking her escort with just a trace of perceptible irony, Meliora crossed the bridge and waded through the mud, heading for the square tower in the northeast angle of the inner bailey that Henry had occupied for his brief domicile in Winchester.
Meliora knew that Henry had deliberately chosen to eschew the king’s chambers and the royal bed he’d shared with Eleanor. She wondered if Rosamund did. She had a genuine liking for the king. They’d met several years ago during one of his frequent stays at Woodstock, Meliora’s home for the past two decades. She enjoyed his sly humor and cavalier disregard for protocol, admired his sharp-edged intelligence, and was impressed by the generosity of the offer he’d made to her, for she knew he was not a spendthrift by nature. She’d jumped at the chance to enter his world, shrewdly sure she knew what he wanted-a shepherd to watch over his little lamb for as long as his infatuation with the girl lasted-and after four months in the king’s service, she had yet to repent of her impulsive acceptance.
She huffed up the stairwell to their chamber, then shed her wet mantle, kicked off her clogs, and hurried over to thaw out by the hearth. Rosamund Clifford had been lying down, but at the sound of the opening door, she jerked the bed hangings aside. “Where did you go, Meliora? Look at you, you’re soaked through.” Snatching up a garment from a wall pole, she hastened toward the hearth. “Here, put this on.”
Meliora snorted incredulously at the sight of what Rosamund was holding out, the new bedrobe given her by the king. Made of finely woven scarlet, the most luxurious of all woolens, it shimmered in the lamplight, a deep, rich mulberry. “Child, I’d be lucky to get my elbow into that wisp of cloth, much less my rump. And even if it fit, I’d be as skittish as a treed cat, wearing something more costly than my late husband’s best cow.” She sketched a cross in the air, adding a perfunctory “May God assoil him,” and then grinned. “The husband, not the cow.”