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  “You will go to Ilmer and marry Sir Mauger.”

  “I will not. I will escape on the road and take sanctuary. If I am watched too close, I will refuse at the altar. If I am made unconscious and answers given for me, I will escape from Ilmer and take sanctuary and seek annulment by right of forced unwillingness. I will marry no man except William of Marlowe.”

  She had waited, braced for the beating that would come, eyes full of tears, trembling and wincing away from the pain of blows on her already bruised body—but no blow had fallen. Her father had laughed.

  “You will not marry William, for he is wed already to Lady Mary of Bix.”

  And while she was still stunned, he had led her out to confront William’s father, who had confirmed the news. Seeing her battered countenance, old Sir William had looked distressed. “You must understand, Elizabeth, that marriage is not a matter of childish dreams. With your brother Gilbert already contracted to my daughter Alys, there is no reason for another blood bond between Hurley and Marlowe. Your brother John must be provided for. Your daughter’s portion is simply not enough for my heir. William has accepted Lady Mary. She brings a most comfortable estate, plus the keep at Bix, into our family.”

  What galled her worst of all was that “has accepted.” The words rang in her head for months so that all through the trip to Ilmer and her marriage, she was like a lackwit. She thought of how she had suffered, the pain and fear and hunger and thirst—and William “had accepted” a better offer. She hated herself for being a fool, hated William for having made a fool of her, hated Mauger simply for existing. But life rolls on.

  The shock of her husband’s blatant infidelities as soon as she was with child had, oddly enough, restored Elizabeth’s balance and her sense of humor. It was when she heard herself muttering, “I will kill him,” that she began to think rationally. Kill him for what? she asked herself. Do I want him abed with me? The answer was no. She had made it clear that she found her husband loathsome. Was it so unnatural that he should salve his pride by bedding a mistress openly?

  Aubery’s and John’s births had given her someone to love, and then all her father’s plans had come undone. First William’s sister Alys had died in childbirth and the child with her, then Gilbert and John… That memory hurt. Such a senseless, inexplicable way they had died—and Elizabeth had loved her brothers, who had always tried to shelter her from their father. So they had come back to Hurley, she and Mauger, for her father had been broken when his sons were killed and he had not outlived them long.

  By then Elizabeth no longer hated William. She herself had made expedient adjustments to life for the sake of her own comfort and she understood such expediencies better. Was she not already thinking in terms of advantageous marriages for her boys? It was just as well she had adjusted because Mauger, casting his eyes over the lands of Marlowe, insisted that they be good neighbors and dear friends with those so close to them. He had ridden over to visit, had seen five-year-old Alys, and had come back full of a proposed union of the estates. How he induced William to come to Hurley, Elizabeth did not know, but the instant their eyes met she knew William had not forgotten. And as soon as she saw him with Mary, another pain had been salved. William was no happier with his wife than she was with Mauger.

  He had been stiff at first, formal and awkward, but time had smoothed their meetings until the easy exchange of thought and laughter between them had become a pleasure once more. Then Mary died. For months misery and jealousy tortured Elizabeth again. This time William would choose a wife for himself and, naturally, he would choose a girl he could love. But William did not marry. Years passed and Elizabeth grew happy, even though she often lay awake at night tortured by unfulfilled desire. She mothered his daughter, teaching her the women’s skills that Martin did not know.

  And now… Mauger had had many mistresses, but none of them had been so incredibly stupid as Emma. In the presence of a noble visitor, the preceding whores had the sense to make themselves scarce. William’s rage had undone her. It had showed her that he had never shamed his wife in the same way, no matter how little he cared for her, and the rage had also salved a hurt she did not know she had borne. The passion she had hidden so long broke its bounds. She would have given herself to him with joy, if only he had not said those words.

  I will honor you as you deserve. How dared he! He had betrayed her once. When it became convenient, would he not betray her again? Even as the bitter thought passed through her mind, Elizabeth knew it was unfair. William had loved his father. It is a hard choice between love and love, and William was only seventeen, his best friend the richest earl in the kingdom. The need for a greater estate must have been very clear to him, even if she, who had never been to court nor mixed with those far richer than herself, did not then understand. She understood now. Mauger never ceased to cry of his poverty, of his need to make a show to impress those who could advance his sons’ positions.

  Because life had taught her tolerance, Elizabeth did not wound William by speaking her bitterness aloud. Besides, she loved him. That he had given her up for profit was a weakness she could never forget nor completely forgive, but it had no effect on her love. And he had been steadfast for five years. He could have married and married very well. Yet, he did not marry. Surely that was for her.

  The bitterness faded. Elizabeth’s green eyes glowed as she recalled instead the heat of William’s mouth, the blessed strength of his arms around her. She wanted him…wanted him! Yet all the things she had said were true. She loved her sons. Was it right to burden them with a mother who could rightfully be called “whore”? It would bring war. William’s hope of concealing her at Bix was foolish. It would certainly be the end of any hope that Alys would wed Aubery.

  That, at least, would be no disadvantage, Elizabeth thought, temporarily diverted from her own troubles. It had been some years since she had thought that that marriage could possibly be happy. At first, when Aubery and Alys were children and played pleasantly together, Elizabeth had been as enchanted with the idea as Mauger had been, and supported it warmly. In recent years, however, she realized that Alys had been mothering Aubery, that she was far older than he in emotions and outlook, and that as Aubery matured and noticed this, he strove constantly to dominate Alys. This, Elizabeth knew, would be disastrous to a marriage between them. Both Alys and Aubery had much good in them, but Alys needed a man who would appreciate her strength and Aubery needed a woman who would appreciate his.

  She had already mentioned this problem to William. He agreed that it was something to consider but felt that it was too soon to reject the relationship out of hand. Elizabeth understood that the attraction of having his daughter so near him, of not losing her entirely, made William unwilling to face the facts. That had annoyed Elizabeth at the time, but now when she thought of it her throat tightened with unshed tears. Poor William. He was lonely.

  She was lonely also. Perhaps she and William… No. It was best not even to think of it. She was still young enough to get with child, and that was surely a way to come home by Weeping Cross. Mauger had not been in her bed for many years. Tears filled her eyes. She had said she needed William’s friendship, but could they be friends now?

  She heard a shod horse clattering over the planks of the drawbridge over the inner ditch. It seemed to her that Mauger and William had stood talking a very long time after they had left her. Had Mauger noticed anything different in her manner? William’s voice had been as usual—or had it? Elizabeth had not dared look at him. Had Mauger noticed that? She was of so little interest to him, except that she saved him the cost of a steward, that he had never noticed previously how much she looked at William.

  But Elizabeth was totally mistaken. Although it was generally true that Mauger, who was by no means stupid, did not pick up the sly double entendres his wife used to relieve her feelings about him and that he did regard her as a dull and docile domestic animal, he was enormously proud and possessive. He had no intention that any other man
should be able to use his property or cuckold him and was always alert to signs of incipient betrayal.

  Elizabeth’s rejection of him and lack of interest in any other man during the first five years of their marriage had nearly convinced Mauger that she was a sexless creature only capable of breeding. Then William of Marlowe had come to Hurley and could not, no matter how he struggled, keep his eyes for long from her. That had set up a train of thought in Mauger’s mind.

  Marlowe was a rich holding, richer than Hurley partly because the town of Marlowe held the docks for the river traffic. The tolls were shared, since Hurley commanded the river also and could stop the traffic if the demands of its holder were not satisfied. Yet the profit from the town itself, from the merchants and artisans who sold to the boatmen and repaired the boats, went to Marlowe alone. It would be very nice, Mauger thought, if he owned Marlowe too. And the hot spark in Sir William’s hazel eyes held out a hope of how that could be arranged.

  Within the year the families visited back and forth frequently and the children were fast friends. Mauger proposed that Alys and his son be contracted in marriage. William, his eyes on the happy children and his memory full of how Elizabeth and he had played and loved, young as they were, was ready to agree. There was no thought in William’s mind that Mauger desired Marlowe. Mary was alive and, in fact, breeding when the proposal was first made. Although many babes had died, Alys lived, and the next to live might be a son.

  It was Mary, limp, colorless Mary, who objected. She did not wish her daughter to be contracted until she had a son alive and likely to live to maturity. There would be plenty of time for a formal contract. Let it go for now as a hopeful possibility. If she had no son, she pointed out to William when they were alone, Alys, heiress of two rich holdings, could look far higher than Aubery for a husband.

  William had explained to Mauger, saying frankly that he did not care for a greater marriage but that Mary asked very little of him, ever, and he would not go against her will in this, especially at this time. Mauger was annoyed, but he concealed it well, comforting himself with the fact that the longing in William’s eyes when he looked at Elizabeth grew and grew. It would do no harm to let the man heat up a little more. Then, when the children were betrothed, he would thrust William and his wife together. Doubtless the man would try to take her. He would hear of it, spy on them, rush in on them, an offended husband, and kill the insulter of his wife. By right of the betrothal of the heiress to his son, Mauger would then hold Marlowe. Mary could go back to Bix. He would arrange for her to die there after a decent interval so she could not marry again and complicate the inheritance.

  The plan was excellent, only it had not worked. As Mauger came back into the hall, a flash of irritation ran through him. Without ever seeming to object, William had managed to avoid a formal betrothal or even a formal promise. Mauger had never really dared to press too hard. He disliked William intensely. Under the smooth and courteous exterior, William was rock hard, and he had a sickening sense of honor. For all the heat of his looks and in spite of being insinuated into various private and even intimate situations with Elizabeth, he had never said a word or made a gesture to which the most jealous husband could take exception.

  As he sat down by the hearth again, Mauger actually licked his lips. That was over. Something had happened between William and Elizabeth. He was not sure what or how far it had gone, but the easy rapport between them had been destroyed. Where previously their eyes had met often, even when their remarks were addressed to others, this time neither had looked at the other. Mauger was sorry now that he had given Emma such a beating for her presumption. She had done him a good turn.

  All his plans were working now. Mauger was so excited that he could not sit still and had to get up and pace the hall. The tale he had paid Theobald of Hurley to tell the king had had far more direct results than he expected. The abbey at Hurley, to which Mauger owed knight service, was corrupt and rotten all through. That was all to the good. It made the abbot very willing to do Mauger a good turn whenever he could so that Mauger would be disinclined to complain about the behavior of the monks among his serf women and in other ways. Thus, when one of their number had been selected to serve the king, the abbot had sent him to Mauger to ask if there was any little service he could do.

  Mauger was aware that William was vassal to Richard of Cornwall and that he was often in service with his lord. He was not aware of how close the bond between them was because William never mentioned it. Since it would never have entered Mauger’s mind to be so restrained—if he had an earl for a friend, he would have screamed it aloud every moment—Mauger assumed the relationship between William and his overlord was formal. All he had expected Theobald’s story to do was to raise suspicions against William’s character that would reduce any sense of surprise or outrage in his overlord when he was murdered for tampering with another man’s wife.

  It had never occurred to Mauger that the king would take Theobald’s story so seriously, but then, he did not know exactly what tale Theobald had told, aside from the fact that it must show William as treacherous and dishonorable. Actually, most of the details had been owing to Henry himself, who had, by his questions, directed Theobald’s quick mind into the suggestions that would most disturb and infuriate the king. All Mauger knew was that the knight in William’s household must be a spy, and he chortled with joy. There would be plenty of material to gather—plenty. Probably William would follow his advice and try to keep the most innocent things secret from the spy, that would make the fellow suspicious. Then, too, William was not by nature secretive or mealy-mouthed. Surely he would forget himself and say something to criticize the king.

  Mauger’s pacing stopped suddenly. Had his warning to William been strong enough? He went back to his seat beside the fire to consider the various ramifications of William’s behavior. Mauger wanted the spy to report that William was disloyal in intention, but he did not want the king to be so convinced that he would disseisen William. That way Alys would not inherit and Mauger could not hold the lands through her. It would be useful to have the betrothal made formal—Mauger intended, now that matters had changed between William and Elizabeth, to make another effort in that direction—but it was not essential. After William was dead he could simply seize the girl. No one would care, and he had witnesses enough that the marriage had been discussed and even approved by the girl’s father.

  What was necessary was to keep a close eye on what was taking place at Marlowe. In a day or two he would ride over. Perhaps he would take Elizabeth and try to judge from her reaction and William’s exactly what had happened between them. Mauger sighed with satisfaction. Yes, he was sorry he had beaten Emma so hard. Perhaps he would find some trinket of Elizabeth’s to give her.

  The rays of the sun had pierced Elizabeth’s window. From where she sat, the light struck directly into her eyes. After a moment this assault broke into her painful-wonderful waking dream. She shook herself angrily and rose to take up the ordinary tasks of her daily life. When she opened the door of her chamber, however, she heard the heavy shuddering sobs of a woman who had been crying for a long time.

  Elizabeth went to discover what was wrong and found Emma, bruised and terrified. The previous day, Elizabeth might have simply walked away or even felt some satisfaction. She did not want Mauger but, being human, could not help resenting the women he took to his bed. Also, Emma had given herself airs, which the others, seeing that Mauger was on good terms with his wife, had been clever enough to avoid. Now, however, Elizabeth felt differently. The passionate pleasure she had experienced in William’s arms, and the knowledge that it was Emma’s indiscretion that had furnished that pleasure, were still fresh in her mind. She bent over the disconsolate, sobbing heap.

  “Poor child,” she murmured, “you should have been more thoughtful, but he should not have beaten you so hard. Come with me. I will put some salve on your bruises so they will not hurt so much.”

  Having soothed Emma’s ph
ysical hurts, Elizabeth also calmed her terror by assuring her that she would not be cruel to her if Mauger was so angry that he did not want her as a mistress any longer. It was an easy enough promise to give. Elizabeth knew that Mauger would never leave such a beauty to be a maid in the keep. If he became bored or disgusted, he would sell Emma for a round price to some other man. He had always done so with his women in the past, and Emma was so exquisite that she should bring a nice profit.

  There was no point in telling this to Emma, because it would add to her fear, Elizabeth thought, but Mauger probably was not yet ready to part with the girl. He would not have bothered to beat her if he did not wish to teach her a lesson. One of Mauger’s good points was that he was never cruel or even harsh without a purpose. Most of the dreadful things he did were the result of neglect or necessity. With this in mind, Elizabeth even went so far as to tell Emma that, if she behaved properly, Mauger would probably keep her for the present.

  These assurances stilled Emma’s weeping, but left her nervous. “How will I know?” she wailed.

  Elizabeth tried to hide her laughter. The situation really was funny. It was not every household in which the mistress ran to the wife for help and advice. Still, it might have its advantages. “If you are puzzled, come and ask me, Emma. I will do my best to tell you what Mauger will expect.”

  Emma was stupid but not completely an idiot. She looked at Elizabeth with suspicion. “Why should you?”

  There could be no harm in telling her part of the truth, Elizabeth thought. “Because I do not desire that my husband share my bed. If he puts you aside, he will come to me or take one of my maids, and that would make trouble in my household. As you have learned,” Elizabeth pointed out, “you are no danger to my place. You do me a service in occupying Mauger. Why should I not help you?”