The Emerald Swan

Chapter Fourteen

Lord harcourt leaned back against the tavern wall, tipping his stool on its hind legs. He blew a ring of smoke up to the blackened rafters, narrowing his eyes as he took up his tankard of mead. He was drinking deep but it seemed to have no effect on him tonight.

"Your throw, Gareth." Brian leaned forward, squinting against the smoke to push the dice across the upturned ale keg that served as a table.

Gareth took a long swallow from his tankard, set it down, and scooped up the dice. He cradled the bones in his palm, then threw them in a lazy arc across the table.

"Hah! You have the luck of the devil tonight, my friend." Brian swung round on his stool. "Hey, potboy. Over here with that ale jug!"

Gareth brought his stool back onto its four legs. "Nay, I'll drink no more and play no more this night. I've a feeling my luck's about to change for the worse."

"Come, now, Harcourt, you'll not desert us before we've had a chance for our revenge?" Lord Lenster cried. "'Tis most unsportsmanlike to walk off with your winnings."

Gareth merely smiled. "I'd challenge any man to accuse me of lack of sportsmanship, Lenster. But, indeed, I've a mind to seek my bed." He scooped up the shining pile of guineas, dropping them into the leather pouch he wore at his belt.

"You'll not be rushing back at your sister's behest, I trust?" Brian fished a moth out of his tankard, shaking it free in a shower of ale drops. "You give your sister too much rein, m'boy," he continued, peering into his tankard for any more foreign bodies drawn by the candle. " 'Twas the same with Charlotte."

Gareth's nostrils flared, and a muscle jumped in his cheek. He said nothing and Brian, who had spoken without thought, looked up amiably. Then his already drink-raddled countenance suffused with bright crimson. He looked appealingly at their companions, but they all, including Kip, sat stone-faced, staring into the distance, refusing to meet his eye.

"Beg pardon, Gareth, if I spoke out of turn," Brian mumbled.

Gareth stood up and strode out of the low-ceilinged room, away from the tavern and down to the river.

"It's the truth," Brian said to the table at large, half in defense, half in appeal.

"Aye," Kip responded dourly. "And d'ye think Gareth doesn't know it?"

"He seemed less melancholy tonight," Lenster observed, gathering up the dice. "Until you spoke your mind, Rossiter."

Brian mumbled and held out his tankard to the potboy for a refill.

"This marriage between Roissy and Lady Maude means much to him," Kip observed. "It's subject to viewing, of course. But that'll provide no problems."

"No, indeed, a toothsome wench," Warwick muttered into his mead. "Thought she was supposed to be an invalid. Looked very healthy to me."

"Yes, very," Kip responded, tracing the pattern of an ale spill on the tabletop with a finger. "As if she's never known a day's illness in her life."

"Her marriage to Roissy will put the Harcourts back in the forefront of power in the French court."

"Aye, and by the same token, he'll have Elizabeth's most attentive ear here," Kip murmured, as if to himself. "She's ever one to milk those best placed for information from abroad."

"I've long thought it strange that Gareth should choose to stand idle these days, when he used to be so much a force, used to wield so much influence," Lord Lenster mused.

"It was meat and drink to him," Brian agreed. "Before…"

There was no need for him to finish his sentence, and Kip said obliquely, "It's to be hoped his marriage to Mary Abernathy will prove fruitful."

"Aye. And that one'll give him no trouble," Warwick declared. "Pure as the driven snow and dutiful as a nun."

"She'll need to breed strong if his sister's line is not to inherit."

"But his sister has no line. Lady Imogen shows no tendency to breed. I. doubt Dufort has the balls." Brian grinned cheerfully, his earlier tactlessness forgotten.

"To mount her or sire an heir?" Lenster inquired with a ribald chuckle.

"Either or both." Brian tossed the dice. "What's with you, Kip? You're half asleep in your cups, man!"

"Your pardon, I find myself a trifle preoccupied tonight." Kip smiled but his shrewd eyes remained absorbed and puzzled.

Gareth strode down to the river, his eyes darting from side to side on the watch for footpads. He held his sword half unsheathed in readiness but he heard only the hollow ring of his booted feet on the filth-encrusted cobblestones. A wavering light shone ahead from the Lambeth water steps and he increased his pace, emerging from the muddy lane into the pool of light thrown by a lantern lashed to the bows of a waterman's wherry.

Gareth stepped into the small craft, drawing his cloak about him as he sat in the bow. "Harcourt mansion beyond the Strand steps."

"Aye, m'lord." The waterman plied his oars and the boat moved into the center of the river to catch the running tide. It was close to four in the morning and the water was black, the sky even blacker, and few lights showed from the riverbanks. The small boat swung around a reach and a muffled curse came out of the darkness, sounding to Gareth so close as to be almost in the wherry.

"A pox on ye," the waterman muttered, pulling away from the raft from which two men were fishing for eels. "Why can't ye show a light?"

The only response was a grunted "God rot ye!"

Gareth huddled into his cloak, wishing he'd thought to bring a warmer, longer outergarment. But he hadn't expected to be out on the river at this late hour. And he hadn't expected to be returning in this mood.

Brian had spoken only the truth, but he had no idea, how could he, of the reasons behind the truth. How could Brian know that Gareth recognized in Imogen the same obsessional love for himself that he had felt for Charlotte? Imogen's every waking minute was devoted to her brother's concerns. She lived in and for him. And because he knew the power of such an exclusive love, he could not reject it, as his had been rejected.

The bump of the wherry against the Harcourt water steps broke into his grim reflections. He jumped lightly ashore, handed the waterman a shilling, and rapped at the wicket gate. The porter stumbled from his hut, yawning prodigiously, cramming his hat on his head with one hand, trying to trim the wick of his lantern with the other.

"Beggin' yer pardon, m'lord. Must 'ave dropped off."

Gareth merely grunted and took the lantern. "I'll see myself to the house."

The first gray streaks of light now showed in the eastern sky; the torches lining the path to the house had burned low and one or two had gone out altogether. Gareth caught a glimpse of orange, flickering on the path ahead, then Miranda came running barefoot toward him, Chip bounding along beside her.

"Milord?"

Gareth frowned, trying to shake himself free of the black cloud of memory. "What are you doing here, Miranda?"

Her face was a pale glimmer in the darkness, her eyes dark in contrast. "I couldn't sleep and it was so lonely in that miserable chamber. I was feeling so mortified! I can't believe I just took off my shoes like that. And on top of everything else! And Lady Mary was so shocked, and you didn't say anything at the time, so I thought I'd come out and wait for you."

Her smile was slightly hesitant. A torch flared suddenly in a gust of wind from the river, casting light over their faces. Her smile faded. "Oh, what is it?" she said. Instinctively she reached up to touch his mouth with the pad of her thumb as if she could smooth away the harsh pain on his countenance. "What is it? What has happened? Is it the nightmare again?"

He looked down into her face, into the great blue eyes so filled with concern, so open, so straightforward, so honest; perfectly accurate reflections of a character with less guile than any he had ever known.

What could she know of the black snaking tendrils of obsession? Of the flames, hotter than hellfires, of guilt and shame that scorched in its wake? And the desire, the need, the desperate longing to lose himself, to purify the nightmares in the simplicity of this untainted soul, engulfed him.

His hands moved to span her narrow waist and she rose on tiptoe, her thumb pressing against his lips, an urgency flaring in her eyes, an instant's bewilderment that gave way to pure passion the second before she moved her thumb, reached for his face, and her mouth opened hungrily beneath his.

The lamp above them flickered, the wick wavered and guttered. The garden was in darkness, clouds once more obscuring the moon, and the damp night air was filled with the rain-fresh scents of roses and stock. And now, in the darkness, Miranda seemed to exude an air of mystery and allure. The simple orange gown clung to the slender body he held between his hands, the small head with its shining auburn-tinted helmet brushed against his cheek as she moved her mouth on his and excitement stabbed into his loins, contracting his belly.

She tasted sweet and fresh as new-baked bread, her lips were warm and pliant and eager, but he knew her mouth was virginal, that it had not opened in this way for another man, and through his mounting desire a great tenderness welled within him. His fingers unlacing her bodice were gentle although they quivered with urgent need to lay his hands upon her breasts.

They were small breasts, but perfectly formed, fitting neatly into his palms. Her mouth against his pressed harder and he heard her soft moan as he caressed the silky roundness, stroking the nipples until they rose hard against his fingertip.

He raised his head, looking down at the pale oval of her face in the dimness. Her head fell back, exposing the bare white column of her throat. He kissed the hollow of her throat and the little pulse beat fast against his lips and slowly he trailed his lips down her throat to her right breast.

Wickedly, he flicked the small, hard nipple with his tongue. And when he drew it between his lips, suckling, grazing with his teeth, the girl moaned again, so softly it was as if she were afraid to make any noise. He moved his mouth to her left breast, while his hand covered the right one and he felt the nipple press into his palm.

It was dreamlike, magical, here in the richly scented shadows of the garden, and this lovemaking took on an ethereal quality. Neither of them spoke, this was not a time when words were needed. Miranda in rough haste pushed her unlaced gown off her hips so that it fell in a dark puddle to her feet. Beneath she was naked.

Gareth's hands moved over the slim frame, feeling the cool softness of her skin, the little tremors of her body beneath his exploring fingers. He could feel her hesitancy, her apprehension, just as he could feel the power of her spiraling excitement, and his own mounted with each brush of his fingers over her flesh.

He felt her hands sliding up beneath the back of his doublet and shirt, feeling for his skin. The same tentative hesitancy was in her caressing strokes, but with each touch, she grew more confident.

He took her rib cage between his hands, marveling at how narrow she was, at how he could feel her heart racing beneath the thin skin. Holding her waist now, he knelt in the grass, bending his head to kiss her belly. A shudder rippled through the lean little body. A fine dew misted her skin as his tongue dipped into her navel, his hands moving down now to hold her hips, his thumbs pressing into the sharp bones as he painted her belly with his tongue.

Her skin had a wonderful scent, like vanilla and cream. Her legs parted, her feet shifting on the grass, as his tongue stroked lower and his fingers slid between her thighs, seeking the untouched secrets of her body. He opened her gently and the rich folds of her center resisted an unfurling that had never before been done to this private flesh. As her lower lips opened to him a deep shudder ripped through her.

Her hands were on his head, palming his scalp, curling and gripping his hair as the vital tumult in her loins tumbled and roared and she didn't know what was happening to her only that she couldn't bear it to stop, that she couldn't bear it to continue, that it was tearing her apart. And then her body seemed to burst asunder and she couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, as the wildness flooded her core, filled every inch of her, and then slowly, oh, so slowly, receded.

Gareth held her for a minute, his own breathing ragged, his need now a powerful, all-consuming force that couldn't be denied. He drew her down to the grass and she came eagerly, aware on some periphery of her mind and body that it wasn't over, that this was not a pleasure to be taken alone.

She leaned over him unbuttoning his doublet, unlacing his shirt, as he sprawled on the grass. Her un-practiced caresses were sweet and fleeting, a fingertip brushing his nipples, tracing the line where his neck curved into his shoulder, tiptoeing over his ears, smoothing down his chest. So fleeting, so tentative, were her movements that it was as if she was trying to discover how to touch a man to pleasure him, and Gareth found her hesitation another delight, even more delightful because it began to mingle inextricably with the renewal of her desire. A desire he could feel in every ripple of her dampening skin when he touched her, could read in her heavy, languorous eyes, her eagerly parted lips.

He guided her hands to his hose, and with a tiny frown of concentration, she unlaced him, freeing the hard, erect shaft. She touched him with a fingertip, the same fleeting, tentative caress of before.

Gareth smiled and drew her down beside him. Once again he opened her thighs, she shuddered again, and when he placed his hand over the soft mound of her hot sex her body jumped against him. But her body was damp, pulsing, ready for his touch. He slid a finger inside her and she tensed against him. So small, so tight, he thought, kissing the silky inner skin of her spread thighs. He slipped his hands beneath her, cupping her bottom, and he smiled with delight at how neatly the round cheeks fitted into his palms.

He rose above her in the darkness, lifting her on his palms as he eased into her. Her gasp was almost a cry. She was so small and tight he was afraid of hurting her, but the juices of her arousal flowed freely and her body opened around him. He pressed deep within her, holding her hard against him, so that as his flesh moved within her he could feel her sensation as part of his own.

She was moving with her own rhythm now, rising to meet his thrusts as they grew more urgent, pressed ever deeper within the tight, silken sheath. Little sounds came from her, surprised little gasps and cries. They made him think of some small woodland creature startled by an unexpected intruder.

He wanted to laugh with the sheer astonishing joy of this encounter, and when his seed burst from him in an endless pulsing climax he did so, his laughter ringing through the dark night as he clutched her against him, his fingers curled into the tight, contracted muscles of her bottom, her damp belly pressed into his as if he could meld her skin with his. And he held her thus as her own body contracted around his throbbing flesh, as spasms of pleasure convulsed her and her little cries became gasping sobs. And only when she went limp in his hold did he let her fall back to the damp grass, closing his eyes as a wave of sated exhaustion washed over him.

Miranda lay still as stone. Her loins and belly felt empty and yet filled at the same time, and the place between her legs was hot and stretched and still jumping with little needles of pleasure. She thought the earl slept. His breathing had deepened and his body beside her was heavy with relaxation. She gazed up at the sky, watching the clouds thin a little so that the moon showed as a diffused silver light. Now, in the stillness she could hear the water lapping against the water steps beyond the wall, but all else was silence, the river traffic ceased for the moment, the inhabitants of the dark bulk of the mansion looming across the garden asleep in their beds.

It felt as if only the two of them were awake in the whole of London, that the world belonged only to them, that the fuzzy light of the moon was theirs, the scudding clouds, the grass that was so damp beneath her bare back, the sweet fragrance of the laurel bush above her.

Then she heard Chip. He was muttering somewhere in the darkness and he sounded frightened. She rolled onto her side, propping herself on an elbow, and called him softly. He approached hesitantly, teeth bared, his eyes darting to the still figure lying beside Miranda.

"It's all right," she whispered, holding out her hand. "Nothing bad has happened."

Gareth came to with a jolt. He sat up and then closed his eyes briefly as a wave of shock rocked him to the core. How had it happened? How had he allowed it to happen?

Miranda touched his shoulder. "Milord?"

He turned slowly. She was smiling at him, the lines of her face still smudged with the aftermath of passion. "Dear God, what have I done?" Gareth muttered.

Miranda reached for the crumpled orange shadow of her dress. She knew as if he'd spoken the words that she had to go, had to leave him immediately. And in truth she was not sorry to do so. What had happened between them was something she too had to come to terms with. Her entire life seemed to have changed, everything she had ever believed in thrown back into the melting pot.

She pulled the dress over her head, but her hands were shaking too much to allow her to lace the bodice. But no one was awake to see her in this disarray, and an unlaced bodice wouldn't impede her climb up the ivy to her chamber. For some reason it didn't occur to her that there must be an open door through which she could gain entrance.

She looked back at Gareth. He had risen to his feet and stood with his head thrown back staring up at the sky. His shirt and doublet were still open but he had laced his hose while she was dressing. He didn't move as she left him, hurrying up the path, Chip, for once silent, jumping at her side.

Gareth ran his hands over his hair, over the back of his neck. His fingertips pressed against his mouth. What had he done? But he knew well enough, just as he knew that it could not now be undone.

King Henry of France and Navarre stood in the bows as the vessel ran before the wind across the bar at the entrance to the first of the deep basins that made up the quiet waters of Paradise Harbor. The white cliffs rose from the long stretches of sandy beach ahead and to either side of the harbor. The gray fortifications of the castle stood out against the bright blue sky and he could see sheep grazing on the green clifftops.

The town of Dover nestling at the foot of the cliffs seethed with life, the three basins were thronged with ships, naval and commercial, and his own vessel was only one of a long line of craft waiting to drop anchor.

"Will you announce yourself to the constable at the castle, my liege?"

"Watch your tongue, Magret." Henry spoke the reproof barely moving his hps as he stretched casually, his plain leather jerkin straining across his broad chest with the movement.

The count flushed but knew better than to apologize for his lapse. Just as he knew he wouldn't be making it again.

"Shall I send a courier to the castle, Your Grace?"

Henry stroked his chin, considering the busy yet peaceful scene. One typical of Elizabeth's industrious nation, he thought enviously. While his own land was locked in civil strife and the economic miseries that that produced, the English were busily feathering their nests, building their navy, expanding their empire. One cursory look around the harbor told even the most ignorant eye that this island nurtured a nation of shipbuilders and sailors.

"I suppose you had better," he said reluctantly. Henry had never been comfortable with ceremony, and even less so now after so many months of campaigning. "Although I'd prefer to journey to London without notice. But Roissy would be expected to claim hospitality on his arrival, particularly on such happy personal business."

"Indeed, my lord duke." Magret flicked with his handkerchief at a seagull who had settled on the rail beside his hand. "They are busy, these Englishmen," he commented, echoing his king's thoughts.

"Mmm." Henry gazed toward shore. Despite the sun, the wind was quite sharp with the first hints of autumn. Roissy would manage the siege impeccably, of course, but Henry disliked leaving his affairs in the hands of others. He must ensure that he returned to France before the weather made sea travel difficult if not impossible. There would be no time to linger on this wooing of the Lady Maude.

He drew the miniature out of his doublet pocket and examined it for the first time since his decision- one that his advisors thought had been impulsive, not knowing that their king had been waiting for just such an opportunity for many months.

The pale, grave face looked up at him, the azure eyes most beautiful, the full lower lip promising a sensual nature, the smooth dark hair glowing faintly with auburn tints. A Huguenot of impeccable lineage. A perfect successor to Marguerite de Valois during these changed circumstances. And more than that. He traced the face of Maude d'Albard with a callused fingertip. It would make a change to have an innocent, a virgin in his bed. Marguerite had been debauched long before their wedding night, by her own brothers it was rumored, not that Henry had particularly cared one way or the other. It had been a marriage of royal alliance, designed to achieve the impossible, and it had failed, bringing him the ultimate humiliation.

He had hoped to unite Protestant and Catholic with his marriage to Marguerite, and he had been betrayed, plunging his own people into death and destruction. Now there would be no unity offered. He would give Catholic France a Huguenot queen, one whose mother had been murdered in the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. And thus it would come full circle and the price would be paid.

His rugged mouth thinned, and his hawk nose was suddenly pinched. He had not forgiven and these people would learn that, when he had the crown of France upon his head and an infant son in the cradle.

He replaced the miniature in his doublet pocket and moved away from the bow as sailors raced to lower the foresails and the vessel dropped anchor against the harbor wall. His servants hurried up from below with trunks and portmanteaux. A man couldn't visit Elizabeth's court without a suitable wardrobe, although to look at the supposed duke of Roissy at this moment one wouldn't know it. Henry could still have been in the besieging camp outside the walls of Paris. He wore his buff leather jerkin over knee-length britches and thigh boots. His head was bare. His sword was unadorned, as was his poignard. They were a soldier's weapons and the steel was pitted with use but the edges could saw through metal.

Henry was less interested in his personal luggage than he was in the horses that were being led up from the canvas shelters in the stern. His own charger was in the personal care of the royal head groom.

"Has he borne the voyage well?"

"Aye, my li… my good lord," the man said, touching his forelock.

Henry stroked Valoir's nose and the horse whickered into his palm. "He has always traveled well."

"Will you disembark, Your Grace?" The English captain of the sloop came across the deck to his passenger. He was a lean and leathery sailor who ordinarily had little time for the French and even less for their noblemen, but in this case he had found his passenger congenial, unaffected, surprisingly knowledgeable about seafaring, and a most excellent drinking companion. He would be sorry to part company.

" The skiffs are ready to row you ashore, sir. And the rafts will soon be in position to take the horses."

"My thanks, Captain Hall." Henry extended his hand in farewell. "A most enjoyable voyage."

"Helped by a good wind and clement weather," the captain said jovially, taking the hand. "It's been a pleasure, my lord. When you return to France, I hope I'll be able to serve you again."

"If you're in harbor in about two weeks, then I should be delighted to make the return voyage with you." Henry drew on thick leather gauntlets that reached his elbows.

The captain bowed and moved to the rail to see his ducal passenger down the swaying rope ladder and into the skiff. The duke and his noblemen made the descent with the agility of hardened soldiers and the oarsmen pulled away from the sloop toward the narrow entrance to the inner basin.

"We'd best send the messenger to the castle at once, Magret," Henry said, stepping ashore. "We will await his return in the Black Anchor." He gestured to an inn on the pier.

In the gloomy taproom, the king of France waved expansively to the landlord at the ale keg. "Fill the tankards, mine host. I've landed safe after a voyage and I've a mind to give thanks in company."

There was a roar of approval from the company gathered in the tavern, and within a few minutes Henry was surrounded by men of Dover, laughing and jesting.

Magret regarded his sovereign with resignation. Henry drank with his own soldiers and his own countrymen in the same careless fashion. He was suspicious to the point of obsession, and yet one would never guess it, looking at him now, merry as a grig in the company of strangers, his face growing ruddy with good-fellowship. But Henry trusted the common man, it was only his peers he suspected of treachery, and God knew, he had reason enough.

The constable of Dover Castle rode down himself to welcome the duke of Roissy and his entourage. He seemed momentarily stunned to find his noble visitor consorting in the public taproom with the fishermen and laborers of Dover, but there was something about his guest, something in his presence, that kept any comments stillborn.

He escorted his guests to the castle and immediately sent a courier to London with the duke's reverence to Her Majesty and his request to attend her at court, and a second letter to the earl of Harcourt, announcing the duke's arrival and containing the implicit claim of hospitality under the Harcourt roof.