Читать книгу The King's Mistress - Terri Brisbin, Terri Brisbin - Страница 8

Anjou Province

November in the Year of Our Lord 1177

The slippery satin of her floor-length gown swished around her legs as she turned to face the king in anger. Unable to believe the pronouncement made by him, Marguerite of Alencon gasped.

“Sire! Surely you cannot mean to turn me away from your affections.”

“You will always bear my love, fair Marguerite, even as you bear my child. But you must be clear on this point—you will never take the queen’s place in name or in honor.”

“You have made her a prisoner, Your Grace. You have stripped her of her wealth and power. ’Twould serve you well to seek another as your queen and wife.”

Only after the words escaped did she realize the danger in teasing the Plantagenet temper to rouse. So caught up in her own plans and desires, she stepped too far in voicing these thoughts.

“’Twould serve many well to remember that I am the one who made her prisoner and that I am the one who controls her wealth and power. ’Twould serve many well not to meddle in the affairs of this kingdom.”

With his fists clenched in anger and his head thrown back as he spoke, his words echoed through the chamber and sent shivers through Marguerite as she reconsidered her approach.

“Sire, I beg your forgiveness for my brazen words. I wish only to love you and to give you pleasure and heirs as you desire. I carry one now within my womb and simply want to share my joy at the honor with you.”

Nothing inside her could make her take back the words. She wanted to be queen. She carried his son now. Her blood was noble enough to take her place next to him. Bastard or not, the blood coursing through her veins could be traced back to Charlemagne.

But she was a realist if nothing else, and so, gathering her pride in a bit, she lowered herself into a deep curtsy at his feet and tilted her head down until she was lower than his hand. After a minute in that humbling position, she raised her head and lifted his hand to her mouth. With a reverent kiss on it, she touched it to her forehead and whispered to him.

“I am yours, Henry. I live to love you and to serve you only.”

His manner calmed for his heavier, angrier breathing slowed and he did not pull away from her. Instead, he assisted her to her feet and he guided her to a chair. Once she’d taken her seat, he paced across the chamber without speaking. Marguerite had seen this behavior before in him. When first confronted with news that was neither pleasant nor wanted, he exploded, his temper getting the best of him. Then, when given time to acclimate himself to the news, he dealt with things in a fairer way.

Ridding himself of the disgraced Eleanor would take some maneuvering with both church and nobles and Henry was probably thinking of ways around the objections that may be made to it. In spite of their age difference and her perfidy to him in matters of family, he was most likely seeking a benevolent manner to remove Eleanor, yet one without losing the wealth and lands she brought into the marriage as her first husband had.

Marguerite reached over and, to soothe her parched throat, took a sip of the sweet wine still in her goblet. Watching the king pace back and forth, she knew he was beginning to agree with her assessment and ideas. She relaxed against the back of the high chair and waited. There was no sense in interrupting Henry now. Just as she began to get nervous over his silence, he stopped and turned to face her.

“Several years ago, I supported a monk from Sempringham in his battles against the revolt and the charges of his lay brothers,” the king said. She knew not where these words led, but waited for his explanation. “The order now thrives and is under my protection. One of their lay houses would be a good place for you to remain until you give birth.”

He was banishing her?

“My lord, do you mean to send me to a convent?” She could hardly draw a breath at the thought. “I only want to…”

“I understand, Marguerite,” he said, smiling that charismatic smile that had entranced her from their first meeting. “’Tis best to have the babe before any other plans are made between us.”

A small measure of fear crept up her spine at his words. Something within her knew that he was twisting her words and her desires for his own. But then, was that not what kings did when given the choice? She had not reached the level where she was now by avoiding the difficulties, and so she pressed her suit before he could leave and not give her some commitment to hold on to.

“And marriage, sire? Will there be marriage after the babe?”

Henry walked swiftly to her and pulled her to stand. The goblet dropped from her grasp as he wrapped his arms around her in possessive embrace and brought her mouth to his. His mouth took hers in a lustful, claiming kiss like the many they had shared for months and months between them. Over and over, he tasted her lips and his tongue played against hers as she felt her resistance to him and his ways diminished. When she was breathless, he drew back from her, tilted his head so that he met her gaze with those clear, Angevin eyes and he smiled at her.

“Oh, fair Marguerite, there will be marriage.”