“Did you catch the brigands?” she asked after an awkward moment of silence.
“Aye. The survivors are brought to the—to the king.” Mal cursed himself for the stumble. Fool. “His majesty will pass judgment and sentence them,” he forced himself to continue.
“Very good,” she said, and turned toward the keep. “Pray, I beg your leave. I must needs return. The queen awaits me.”
Mal stared after her, very nearly as stunned as if she’d thwacked him aside the head with a log. Not only had she not required him to engage in an overlong conversation, but she’d not made one jest about the condition of his tunic sleeve. And she’d called him Warwick.
Warwick instead of Malcolm…or even my lord.
Judith wasn’t lying when she told Malcolm the queen awaited. Eleanor did expect her attendance—but not for another hour.
In truth, it was the unexpected sight of him that set Judith’s thoughts to scattering…and then converging into one desire: escape. She didn’t want to talk with him, didn’t want to be tempted into jesting or teasing him as she had done in the past. She wasn’t even certain she was capable of doing so any longer. At least not now.
Two weeks of warming the king’s bed had become a heavy burden. The late nights. The secrecy. The mixed feelings, the confusing emotions. The dull, ugly scraping in her belly every time a knock came to her chamber door or a page approached. And Henry’s obsession with her seemed not to have waned in the least.
Last eve, he’d even insisted she sit at the high table—next to him. Fortunately, inviting a peer to join him and the queen and archbishop at the dais wasn’t an unusual occurrence. But Judith had hardly been able to choke her food down a throat dry as sawdust. Particularly when the king rested his hand on her thigh…and elsewhere…during the meal.
Pray God the queen hadn’t noticed. Nor anyone else.
When she came upon Malcolm unexpectedly, Judith surprised herself when her heart gave a great, happy surge. But almost immediately, the warmth evaporated. Yet, he was a sight for sorely weary eyes: tall and broad, confidence exuding from his very stance. His too-long hair, the color of walnuts, might even have been trimmed since she last saw him—for it hardly brushed past his jaw. But he hadn’t shaved this day, and he was dusty and grimy from riding and fighting. Still, her heart had made that great leap.
And now she rushed back into the keep, wondering why he mattered so much.
When Judith arrived at the queen’s solar less than an hour later, she found her mistress in a fine fettle.
The other ladies in waiting were gathered in the chamber, seated on hassocks or chairs, embroidering and gossiping as usual. Some were eating, others had their attention on the queen attempting to amuse her, and Lady Amice plucked at a lute in the corner. Judith smiled briefly at Maris of Ludingdon, who’d arrived only two days earlier with her infant son and had settled in with the court as if she’d never left it. But Eleanor, still slender and quick despite the rounding belly showing beneath her gown, was pacing while gesticulating energetically.
“Judith! What has kept you!” she said as Judith stepped across the threshold. “You are late!”
“My apologies, my lady,” she said, sweeping into a curtsy. She was not late, but one did not argue with the queen, and most particularly when she was in this state of mind. “I brought you a bit of a nosegay to brighten your chambers.”
She offered a small bouquet of sweet-scented orange lilies with black and yellow spots, picked at the last minute from the herb garden. Eleanor glanced at the flowers then flapped her hand at one of the pages. “See to them.”
Judith relinquished the nosegay and rose from her curtsy. “How may I serve you this day, my lady? Shall I peel an apple for you? Or mayhap you wish to—”
“Nay, nay,” Eleanor said, still swirling about. Her graceful hands clasped and unclasped in agitation. “I am not hungry.”
“The party who went after the brigands has returned,” Judith suggested. “Mayhap Lady Maris has some news? Was not your husband in the group?” She turned her attention to the other lady, who was one of the more level-headed—if not blunt—women who gathered around the queen.
“I did not know they’ve returned,” said Maris. Her eyes lit with pleasure. “But with her majesty’s permission, I shall take my Rogan to see his papa—and to hear any news.” Before the queen responded, the woman was on her feet, preparing to leave.
“Nay, pray, stay you one moment,” said Eleanor, at last ceasing her incessant pacing. “For there is one thing you may take with you.”
“Of course, your majesty,” Maris said, pausing next to Judith.
“You may take this lying, cock-licking, backstabbing slut of a bitch from my sight!” Eleanor erupted. And before Judith realized what she said, the queen lashed out, striking her sharply across the cheek.
The blow sent Judith reeling as every occupant of the chamber gasped. She nearly tumbled to the floor, bumping into Maris, who caught her as she went off-balance.
“Get out!” shrieked the queen. “Get out of my sight!”
Holding a hand to her throbbing cheek, Judith straightened with as much dignity as she could manage. “Your majesty,” she began, looking directly at the queen. Fighting back tears, struggling to keep her voice steady, she said, “Whatever you may think of me, please know I regret hurting you from the bottom of my heart.”
“Get you out of my sight!” Eleanor cried. Her cheeks were bright red, her eyes glassy with madness. Her movements were frenetic, near insanity.
“My lady, the babe,” Maris said, turning to the queen. “Have a care for the babe.” She tried to soothe the woman, casting Judith a pointed glance.
Judith turned and, removing her hand—which was wet with blood—from her cheek, walked toward the door. It seemed to take forever; every step seemed to draw her further away from the exit rather than toward it. Her eyes stung, her insides were in turmoil. The ugly gnawing in her belly was back with a vengeance, threatening to empty its contents at any moment.
At last, she was out of the chamber. The doors closed behind her and, stunned, hurt and heartsore, Judith made her way back to her chamber.
“Oh, my lady!” cried Tabby when she opened the chamber door and saw Judith’s face. “What has befallen you?”
“The queen,” Judith replied, still fighting to hold back the tears.
“The queen? Wh—” Tabby repeated, then cut off whatever else she was about to say. Instead, she helped her mistress to the stool by the fire. “She found out, didn’t she?” the maid asked quietly. “About the king.”
Judith looked at her in surprise, her misery swelling. “You know?”
Her maid’s eyes, still concerned, flared with indignation. “By the rood, I’m your tiring woman. Of course I know. I’ve known since the beginning. The nights you cried—trying to keep silent. I heard you. I wanted to tell you there was no need to hide it from me, but I didn’t know how. I’m sorry, my lady.”
Judith lost the tenuous hold on her emotions and for the first time since her affaire with the king began, she began to sob. Loudly, harshly, with big, choking, gasping sobs. Tabby, bless her, was there next to her. Like an older sister, the maid stroked her hair, even embracing her mistress as she slid off the stool and onto the rug in front of the hearth.
“There, my lady,” she said when Judith could cry no more. “I’ll see to your face. And a bath too, aye?”
“I prayed she would never find out,” Judith said. Her throat was raw and her voice gritty, but she lifted her face from where it was buried in her arms. “But ’tis a secret that cannot be kept. I would not have hurt her,” she added fiercely.
“I know, my lady. I know. Damn the king,” she whispered fiercely. “’T may be treason to say so, but damn him.” After a moment, Tabby pulled to her feet. “I will call for a bath. And I must get a paste for your cheek. Was the queen wearing a ring?”
“Aye,” Judith replied dully, reaching to touch the mark on her cheek. It was wet with blood mingled with tears. “She must have been.”
A knock at the chamber door had both women freezing. Tabby looked at her mistress, whose heart ceased pounding for a moment. “Answer it,” Judith said, wiping her eyes. “If ’tis…him….” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “Answer it.” Her voice was strong.
But, praise God, it wasn’t the king nor any of his messengers at the door.
“Lady Maris,” Judith said, rising from her stool.
“If you will allow me, I’ll see to your cheek,” said Maris as she whisked into the chamber. She smacked a kiss on the cheek of her chubby, bright-eyed babe, then thrust him at Tabby. “’Twould be a shame if the queen’s rage left a scar,” she said, moving directly to Judith.
“Have a care,” Judith managed to say as Maris fairly shoved her back down onto the stool. “I do not wish for her wrath to fall upon you as well.”
“Pish,” Maris told her, peering closely at the cut on her cheek. “The queen can have no fault with me. I am Ludingdon’s wife, a close favorite of the king. Aside from that…she does not know I am here.” She smiled grimly.
Judith sat silently as Maris prepared a sweet-smelling paste from dried herbs and a dark aromatic tea. She sensed the other lady wished to talk, or at the least, wished Judith to talk, but she had naught to say. While this was happening, Tabby took the babe Rogan and showed him how to pet the kitten with his pudgy hand. He cooed and laughed, his legs kicking in excitement.
“There,” said Maris a short while later as she finished applying a small piece of clean cloth over the paste. “Your hurts—on the outside, anyway—are tended. Mayhap you have others you wish to speak on?”
Judith bit her lip and shook her head. “Naught, other than I wished never to hurt the queen. But now the worst has come to pass, and I must lie in the bed made for me.” She stood.