The Passionate Pilgrim. Juliet Landon
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soon beneath lowered clouds and a heavy drizzle. By the time they had reached the handsome stone porch of the archbishop’s palace in the cathedral precinct, they were almost drenched. Step by dark step, Merielle had followed the curve of the spiral stone staircase from the corner of the porch up to the small anteroom where a fire had been lit within a recess in the wall. She remembered how its stone hood looked like an upturned funnel.
Master Gervase disappeared through a door on the far side of the whitewashed room, and then reappeared some moments later. “His grace will see you alone, Mistress St Martin. No—” he put out a hand for emphasis “—alone, sir, if you please.”
Bonard had looked deeply uncomfortable, but helpless. “It is not seemly,” he protested, in a low voice.
Master Gervase raised his eyebrows. “I cannot argue with his grace if he insists, Master Bonard, can I?”
Through yet another chamber where clerks at tables scratched inky quills across parchments, Merielle was shown into a larger chamber, headily warm after the cold damp outside and glowing with colour from the wood-panelled walls. A fire blazed in one corner and candles made haloes of light that eclipsed whatever was nearest, their sweet scent of beeswax mingling strangely with a lingering aroma of linseed oil.
She had met the king only once before when he had been entertained by the merchants of Lincoln, of whom her first husband had been one. They had given a memorable feast in his honour and lent him vast amounts of money for his French campaigns at the same time and she, as a newly married merchant’s wife, had curtsied and been raised to her feet to meet a pair of admiring eyes. As she was doing on this occasion, only three years later.
His hands beneath hers were firm and warm. He was tall and of athletic build, a man renowned for his valour and skills in battle, his love of jousting, of building schemes, a patron of the arts. He was, she believed, everything one expected of a king. He recalled their meeting as he removed her cloak and, unexpectedly, her damp veil, draping them over a stool near the fire. “There,” he said, “we’ll give them time to dry, shall we?”
He came back to take her hands, rather like an uncle, she thought at the time. “Now, Mistress St Martin, these are sad times, are they not? But if you will sit with me awhile, I will do what I can to help. Your first husband was a staunch supporter of our French cause, you know.”
“Yes, sire. Sadly, he was lost to me soon after your visit to Lincoln.”
“Indeed. And your father also, I believe. You have had more losses than you deserve at your age. What is your age, mistress?”
“I have eighteen years and some four months, sire.”
She did not mention her most recent loss of the infant she had wanted, for she knew that, while she could control tears for Philippe, she could not do the same for the other. She had dressed with care for the occasion, black relieved by edgings of silver inkle-loom braids and silver grey fox fur. With her thick black hair in a nest of plaits around her face, entwined with silver cords and studded discreetly with pearls, the only contrasting colour was the warm apricot skin on her neck, which had now been uncovered. It did not unduly disturb her, for she knew that kings were different from other men in what they were allowed to do. His offer of wine was accepted while he listened attentively to her problem and read the lawyers’ letter.
Basking in the sympathy that followed, she saw her troubles receding already and was thankful that he did not ask her why it was so important for a woman as wealthy as she was to keep hold of these far-flung Yorkshire lands. That would have been difficult to answer except that she resented being fleeced like a helpless sheep, especially at a time like this.
He replenished her goblet with more of the sweet wine and held out his own to make a toast. “To your peace of mind, mistress. Leave it with me, if you will. I’ll have the appropriate fine sent to Sir Rhyan Lombard’s notary. Sir Rhyan is one of Lord Scrope of Bolton’s retainers, you know, both of them the Duke of Lancaster’s men. A good man in battle, so my son tells me. He holds fast, as well he should. A lovely woman should not have to cross swords with a man of his calibre.” He smiled at her and leaned his arm along the table behind her. “Now, tell me of your family. Are they still in York?”
Warmed by the fire and the wine, and more relieved than she could say, Merielle talked to him as a friend might, laughing at the way sisters, who should always agree, did not. She told him of her plans to bring Laurel to live in Canterbury.
The king’s eyes, lazily absorbing Merielle’s grace and beauty, blinked slowly. “I may be able to help you there, mistress. I have a well-connected bachelor in mind. Winchester. Would that be convenient, do you think? Near enough for sisters who agree to disagree?”
That had been another of her problems solved in an instant. “Oh, sire. How can I ever thank you?” She smiled, too radiantly. Looking back, it was probably the stupidest thing she could have said. The age-old response. A child’s, not an intelligent woman’s. It was the last time she ever said it to anyone.
The king slowly unfolded himself and rose, pulling her to her feet. “Come,” he said, “I think I have the answer to that.”
At eighteen, there was no reason for her to distrust him. She had heard, of course, of his reputed lack of scruples, his tendency to withhold repayments of loans, to forget some debts altogether. But he and his friends had, only eight years previously, founded the Most Noble Order of the Garter and that must surely be the ultimate guarantee of his attitude towards women. She thought, believed, that he was about to show her something of interest, and even when he led her across the shadowy room to a small door in the wainscot, she had no idea of what was in his mind.
The tiny chamber was no larger than a closet, built into the wall where the air was stuffy with the smell of candlesmoke and the same unmistakable linseed. Here, Merielle was drawn inside by one hand, still expecting the king, her hero, to light a candle and reveal a book, a relic, a document, perhaps. She found that she could not move backwards for something that pressed against her legs, and the last thing she saw was the king’s hand pulling the door closed behind him.
“Sire…I beg you…what?” She strained backwards, but too late to avoid his arm about her waist or the heat of his mouth on her throat, his other hand on her body. “Please…no, sire!”
His voice was hoarse, his previous manner now totally at odds with his assault. “You want to know how you can thank me, mistress? Or have you reconsidered? Am I not to receive some reward for my help…a small token as payment?”
“Payment, sire? I thought—”
“Hah! You thought?” He laughed, softly. “Don’t think. Women like you should not think too much.” While he spoke, his hand was finding its way into the wide neckline of her cote-hardie. “You’ll not deny me a little comfort before I return to France, surely? Something for us both to remember? By God, mistress, you’re beautiful.”
In the oppressive blackness, Merielle pushed and twisted, scratching herself on his gold buttons and smelling his heat. “Sire, I am a widow and recently bereaved. Have you forgot?”
“I’ve not forgotten that you’re free now, mistress, and ready for a man, eh? Come, give yourself to me. You are young and strong.” While he spoke, and without giving her a chance to reply, he leaned on her, forcing her backwards and rendering her helpless either to reach him or to right herself, and she wondered then, in the warning flash behind her eyes, how many other women had been lured into this same trap and held there until payment had been exacted in full, for surely this was not the first time he had done such a thing.
It was the blackest of experiences in which her participation was as unnecessary as her cooperation while he forced himself between her legs, both hands exploring every surface beneath her gown, taking her at last with a suddenness that made her yelp with pain and brought tears to her eyes. Even then, she would not tell him, knowing that if her bereavement could not stop him, then nothing else would. He kissed her only once, when it seemed as if he would never finish and, when he did, she understood why he had felt it necessary to closet them in this small place, for his roar would surely have