Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2 Read online

  Robert, apparently unperturbed by desire, made a hearty breakfast, touched his lips with his napkin, held out his fingers to be washed and patted dry by the server and then rose from the table.

  ‘I must take my leave of you, Your Grace.’

  She was amazed, and she could not hide it. ‘You’re going so early?’

  ‘I am to meet a few men in the tilt yard, we are practising for the joust of the roses. You would not want me unhorsed in the first tilt.’

  ‘No, but I thought you would sit with me for the rest of the morning.’

  He hesitated. ‘Whatever you command.’

  She frowned. ‘I would not keep you from your horse, Sir Robert.’

  He took her hand and bowed over it.

  ‘You were not so quick to let me go when we were together in your rooms at Kew,’ she whispered to him as she had him close.

  ‘You wanted me then as a woman wants a man, and that is how I want to come to you,’ he said, as fast as a striking snake. ‘But since then you have summoned me as a courtier and a queen. If that is what you want, I am at your service too, Your Grace. Always. Of course.’

  It was like a game of chess, he saw her turn her head and puzzle how she could outwit him.

  ‘But I will always be queen,’ she said. ‘You will always be my courtier.’

  ‘I would want nothing less,’ he said, and then he whispered, so she had to lean forward to hear him, ‘but I long for so much more, Elizabeth.’

  She could smell the clean male scent of him and he felt her hand tremble in his. It took an effort for her to make herself move away, sit back in her chair and let him go. He knew what it cost her, he had known women before who could not bear to lose a moment of his touch. He smiled at her, his dark, saturnine, knowing smile, and then bowed low, and went towards the door.

  ‘Whatever you command, you know you will always be queen of my heart.’ He bowed again, his cloak swirled from his shoulders as he turned and he was gone.

  Elizabeth let him go, but she could not settle without him. She called for her lute and she tried to play but she had no patience for it, and when a string broke she could not even be troubled to retune it. She stood at her writing table and read the memoranda that Cecil had sent her but his grave words of warning about Scotland made no sense. She knew that there was much that she should do, that the situation with the currency was desperate, and that the threat to Scotland and to England was a real and pressing one, the French king was on his deathbed and once he died then the safety of England died too; but she could not think. She put her hand to her head and cried: ‘I have a fever! A fever!’

  At once they were all over her, the ladies fluttered around her, Kat Ashley was called and Blanche Parry. She was put to bed, she turned from their attentions, she could bear no-one to touch her. ‘Close the shutters, the light burns my eyes!’ she exclaimed.

  They would send for physicians. ‘I will see no-one,’ she said.

  They would prepare a cooling draught, a soothing draught, a sleeping draught. ‘I want nothing!’ she almost screamed with her irritation. ‘Just go! I want no-one to watch me. I don’t even want anyone outside my door. Wait in my presence chamber, I don’t even want anyone in my privy chamber. I shall sleep. I must not be disturbed.’

  Like a troubled dovecote they fluttered out as they were bid, and went to the presence chamber to discuss her. In her bedchamber, through two closed doors, Elizabeth could still hear their concerned murmur and she turned her hot face to the pillow, wrapped her arms around her own slim body, and held herself tight.

  Sir Robert, riding slowly up and down the line of the tilt yard, made his horse wheel at the bottom, and then took the line again. They had been doing the exercise for more than an hour. Everything depended on the horse’s willingness to ride a straight line, even though another horse, a warhorse, with a knight in full armour on its back, his lance down, was thundering from the other end, only a flimsy barrier between the two creatures. Sir Robert’s horse must not swerve, not even drift aside, it must hold its line even when Sir Robert, lowering his own lance, was one-handed on the reins, it must hold to the line even if he rocked in the saddle from a blow, and all but let it go.

  Robert wheeled, turned, did the line at a trot, wheeled, did the line again at full gallop. His horse was blowing when he pulled it up, a dark patina of sweat marking its neck. He wheeled it round and raced down the line once more.

  A ripple of clapping came from the entrance to the yard. A serving girl was standing at the entrance where the riders came in and out, a shawl around her shoulders, a mobcap becomingly perched on her head, a lock of red hair showing, her face pale, her eyes black.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he said in quiet triumph, as he recognised her, and rode towards her. He pulled up the horse and dropped down from the saddle.

  He waited.

  She nipped her lip, she looked down, looked up again. He saw her gaze dart from his linen shirt where his sweat was darkening the cloth at his chest and on his back, to his tight riding breeches and his polished leather riding boots. He saw her nostrils flare as she took in the scent of him, her eyes narrow as she looked up at him again, at his dark head silhouetted against the bright morning sky.

  ‘Robert,’ she breathed.

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘I have come to you. I can be away from my rooms for no more than an hour.’

  ‘Then let us not waste one moment,’ he said simply and tossed the reins of his warhorse to his squire. ‘Put your shawl over your head,’ he said softly, and slid his arm around her waist, leading her, not to the palace, but to his private rooms over the stables. There was a small gated entrance from the garden, he opened the door and led her up the stairs.

  In Robert’s apartments, Elizabeth dropped the shawl and looked around. His chamber was a big room with two tall windows, the walls of dark linenfold panelling. The plans for the next day’s tournament were spread out on the table, his desk was littered with business papers from the stables. She looked towards the door that was behind the desk, the door to his bedchamber.

  ‘Yes, come,’ he said, following her gaze, and led her through the door into his chamber.

  A handsome four-poster bed took up most of the room, a priedieu in the corner, a shelf with a small collection of books, a lute. His plumed hat was on the bed, his cloak on the back of the door.

  ‘No-one will come in?’ she asked him breathlessly.

  ‘No-one,’ he assured her, and then shut the door and slid the heavy iron bolt.

  He turned to her. She was trembling with anticipation, fear and mounting desire.

  ‘I cannot have a child,’ she specified.

  He nodded. ‘I know. I will take care of that.’

  Still she looked anxious. ‘How can you be sure?’

  He reached into the inner pocket of his doublet and drew out a prophylactic, made of sheep’s bladder sewn with tiny stitches and trimmed with ribbons. ‘This will keep you safe.’

  Torn between nerves and curiosity, she giggled. ‘What is it? How does it work?’

  ‘Like armour. You must be my squire and put it on me.’

  ‘I cannot be bruised where my women might see.’

  He smiled. ‘I will not leave so much as a print of my lips on you. But inside, Elizabeth, you will burn up, I promise.’

  ‘I am a little afraid.’

  ‘My Elizabeth,’ he said softly, and stepped towards her, and took off the mobcap. ‘Come to me, my love.’

  Her mass of red hair tumbled about her shoulders. Robert took a handful of the locks and kissed them, then, as she turned her entranced face towards him, kissed her full on the mouth. ‘My Elizabeth, at last,’ he said again.

  Within moments she was in a dream of sensuality. He had always imagined that she would be responsive but under his skilled hands she stretched like a cat, revelling in pleasure. She was wanton: no hint of shame as she stripped to her skin and laid on his bed and reached out her arms for him. As his che