The King's Mistress Read Free Page A

though she did, she nodded slightly in hisdirection, never meeting his eyes since she knew the satisfaction she would see there at her surrender. Bardrick bowed to her and backed to the doorway, the way he did when she was the king’s favorite. The insult of it was clear—she was one of the many who had sought the king’s bed and now were to be used as rewards for services rendered to his faithful.
    â€œSleep well, Marguerite.”
    The sound of his laughter and scorn as he made his way down the corridor away from her was the worst of it. It broke her resolve and she fell onto the now-empty bed and let the tears flow.
    This could not happen to her. She had been groomed throughout her life to be the consort of a great man. Her blood was of royal stock and she deserved a husband of the same. She did not expect to be given instead to some barbarian of mixed blood in the north of England. This Lord Orrick lived as far from the court and the king as anyone could get. His lands were in some godforsaken place where there was never sunshine as in her own homeland. He was simply some minor lord over a few keeps and a mongrel group of villeins. She deserved more than this, more than him.
    She deserved the king.
    Marguerite waited for her grief to pass. There was still time. Henry could still, would still intervene before the words proclaiming her Orrick’s wife were pronounced. He could step in at anytime and call off this farce and gift this “lord of the north,” as he was called, with some mealy-mouthed chit more of hisclass. Someone content to suffer his touch and his life in the rough place he called his own.
    She remained in her chambers for the rest of the evening, waving off her servants and her meal, preferring not to suffer the pitying looks of everyone around her over this match. As sleep was finally overtaking her, she prayed that Henry was simply making a point to her about overstepping her place and that he would keep her as his own.
    Surely that was his plan?
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    â€œIf you tug that once more, I will have your head!” Orrick said through clenched jaws. “I am not some maid who needs these kinds of clothes.”
    â€œBut, my lord, the king will be present at your wedding this morn, along with the most important of his court. You must look your best.”
    Orrick began to mumble, but realized the futility of it. His own servants’ efforts were being complemented by some of the king’s men in order to make certain that every order and direction of the king was being followed to the smallest of detail. The king’s steward here at Woodstock had visited him several times over the past two days in order to convey Henry’s pleasure over his quick arrival and his agreement to the marriage.
    The woman must have made herself into some kind of problem if Henry was this anxious to rid himself of her. And in but a few hours, she would be his—his wife and his problem to deal with.
    â€œFinish it, Gerard. Finish it now,” he growled under his breath.
    His man must have recognized the end of his limits of putting up with so much frivolity for he urged the others to complete their assigned tasks and leave the room. Gerard gave him one more look before also leaving.
    Orrick shook his head and found himself alone.
    He looked down at the elaborate tunic and the thick chains of gold that lay on his chest, and worried. He hated this much attention. He hated being at court. He hated all of this. But as a loyal subject of the king, he had no choice but to persevere until he could return to his own lands and sink back into the anonymity that the distant, wild north of England offered him.
    And take his wife with him.
    They would meet for the first time in less than an hour—a courtesy granted by the king at the request of the lady. She knew nothing of him; most at court could probably not describe him or even know they spoke to him as they did. But no one here hesitated