The King's Mistress

He had seen the sensual, enticing, womanly Marguerite at first. This was the angry, controlling, warrior-like Marguerite.

Was there some other plotting going on? He took a breath and asked, “And what is to come?”

“My lord Henry is simply putting me in my place. He wishes me to know what he could do if he is displeased with me. I fear you have been caught up in a lovers’ quarrel.”

“Henry will call off the wedding today?” His instincts told him there was much more going on here.

“Of course he will! He loves me and will not give me away to some northern lord who never attends court.” She must have seen his look of disbelief, for she added, “I was raised as consort for a king, not some…some…”

“Barbarian of mixed blood, my lady?”

The King’s Mistress

Harlequin Historical #735

Praise for Terri Brisbin

“A lavish historical romance in the grand tradition from a wonderful talent.”

—New York Times bestselling author Bertrice Small on Once Forbidden

The Norman’s Bride

“A quick-paced story with engaging characters and a tender love story.”

—Romantic Times

The Dumont Bride

“Rich in its Medieval setting…Terri Brisbin has written an excellent tale that will keep you warm on a winter’s night.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Beautifully written and well researched, this book is a perfect ten in many ways.”

—Romance Reviews Today

Terri Brisbin

The King’s Mistress

Available from Harlequin Historicals and TERRI BRISBIN

The Dumont Bride #634

The Norman’s Bride #696

The Countess Bride #707

The Christmas Visit #727

“Love at First Step”

The King’s Mistress #735

This book is for Gail Link, romance author and bookseller extraordinaire, who was one of the first authors I ever met and continues as a friend to this day! Thanks, Gail, for the hours of enjoyment you’ve given me with your books and for your ongoing support!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Prologue

Anjou Province

November in the Year of Our Lord 1177

The slippery satin of her floor-length gown swished around her legs as she turned to face the king in anger. Unable to believe the pronouncement made by him, Marguerite of Alencon gasped.

“Sire! Surely you cannot mean to turn me away from your affections.”

“You will always bear my love, fair Marguerite, even as you bear my child. But you must be clear on this point—you will never take the queen’s place in name or in honor.”

“You have made her a prisoner, Your Grace. You have stripped her of her wealth and power. ’Twould serve you well to seek another as your queen and wife.”

Only after the words escaped did she realize the danger in teasing the Plantagenet temper to rouse. So caught up in her own plans and desires, she stepped too far in voicing these thoughts.

“’Twould serve many well to remember that I am the one who made her prisoner and that I am the one who controls her wealth and power. ’Twould serve many well not to meddle in the affairs of this kingdom.”

With his fists clenched in anger and his head thrown back as he spoke, his words echoed through the chamber and sent shivers through Marguerite as she reconsidered her approach.

“Sire, I beg your forgiveness for my brazen words. I wish only to love you and to give you pleasure and heirs as you desire. I carry one now within my womb and simply want to share my joy at the honor with you.”

Nothing inside her could make her take back the words. She wanted to be queen. She carried his son now. Her blood was noble enough to take her place next to him. Bastard or not, the blood coursing through her veins could be traced back to Charlemagne.

But she was a realist if nothing else, and so, gathering her pride in a bit, she lowered herself into a deep curtsy at his feet and tilted her head down until she was lower than his hand. After a minute in that humbling position, she raised her head and lifted his hand to her mouth. With a reverent kiss on it, she touched it to her forehead and whispered to him.

“I am yours, Henry. I live to love you and to serve you only.”

His manner calmed for his heavier, angrier breathing slowed and he did not pull away from her. Instead, he assisted her to her feet and he guided her to a chair. Once she’d taken her seat, he paced across the chamber without speaking. Marguerite had seen this behavior before in him. When first confronted with news that was neither pleasant nor wanted, he exploded, his temper getting the best of him. Then, when given time to acclimate himself to the news, he dealt with things in a fairer way.

Ridding himself of the disgraced Eleanor would take some maneuvering with both church and nobles and Henry was probably thinking of ways around the objections that may be made to it. In spite of their age difference and her perfidy to him in matters of family, he was most likely seeking a benevolent manner to remove Eleanor, yet one without losing the wealth and lands she brought into the marriage as her first husband had.

Marguerite reached over and, to soothe her parched throat, took a sip of the sweet wine still in her goblet. Watching the king pace back and forth, she knew he was beginning to agree with her assessment and ideas. She relaxed against the back of the high chair and waited. There was no sense in interrupting Henry now. Just as she began to get nervous over his silence, he stopped and turned to face her.

“Several years ago, I supported a monk from Sempringham in his battles against the revolt and the charges of his lay brothers,” the king said. She knew not where these words led, but waited for his explanation. “The order now thrives and is under my protection. One of their lay houses would be a good place for you to remain until you give birth.”

He was banishing her?

“My lord, do you mean to send me to a convent?” She could hardly draw a breath at the thought. “I only want to…”

“I understand, Marguerite,” he said, smiling that charismatic smile that had entranced her from their first meeting. “’Tis best to have the babe before any other plans are made between us.”

A small measure of fear crept up her spine at his words. Something within her knew that he was twisting her words and her desires for his own. But then, was that not what kings did when given the choice? She had not reached the level where she was now by avoiding the difficulties, and so she pressed her suit before he could leave and not give her some commitment to hold on to.

“And marriage, sire? Will there be marriage after the babe?”

Henry walked swiftly to her and pulled her to stand. The goblet dropped from her grasp as he wrapped his arms around her in possessive embrace and brought her mouth to his. His mouth took hers in a lustful, claiming kiss like the many they had shared for months and months between them. Over and over, he tasted her lips and his tongue played against hers as she felt her resistance to him and his ways diminished. When she was breathless, he drew back from her, tilted his head so that he met her gaze with those clear, Angevin eyes and he smiled at her.

“Oh, fair Marguerite, there will be marriage.”

Chapter One

Abbeytown

Silloth-on-Solway, England

July in the Year of Our Lord 1178

“My lord!”

Orrick turned at the brother’s call and stopped in his stride to his horse. Brother David, large and lumbering, approached him without calling out again. A message then?

“Good brother, what do you need of me?”

He knew most of the brothers by name because he had spent time since he was a babe here both with his father and alone on his own tasks. This one had been a member of the community for nigh onto ten-and-four years and in charge of the abbey’s vast assortment of clerks.

“The abbot requests another moment of your attention, my lord. In his office chamber.”

Orrick nodded to his men and, with his helmet still in his hand, followed Brother David to the abbot’s office. ’Twas something important or the abbot would not summon him back so soon. A few minutes brought him face-to-face with Abbot Godfrey.

“Come in for a moment, my lord. There is someone to see you and I thought you might want some measure of privacy.”

Orrick ducked lower to enter under the short doorway and straightened to his full height when inside. The royal envoy, wearing the insignia of the Plantagenet king, stood before the abbot’s table that was already strewn with papers and scrolls. The abbot left quietly without looking at either of them.

“My lord,” the man said, bowing before him. “Abbot Godfrey thought to save us both some travel. This is from the king.”

The sealed scroll lay in the air between them and something within Orrick made him hesitate to touch it. Not expecting word from the king who was in Anjou at the present, he could not imagine what tidings were carried within this roll of parchment. And part of him did not wish to know.

Pushing off his mail coif and tucking his helmet under his other arm, he reached out and accepted the messenger’s duty. The waxed seal cracked off the parchment in his hand and he stepped back away from the man to unroll the parchment until he could read the words. Then he stopped breathing as the words began to make sense to him.

Henry wanted to reward him for his father’s past and his current service to the Crown. A woman, nay, a wife, befitting his standing in the esteem and respect of the king. More gold for some service already performed. Another title.

Orrick swallowed as the words struck him. His father had been no fool and neither was he. He knew, plain and simple, that he was being bought. And the price being paid was high enough to make him worry. If Henry was stepping into the affairs of his nobles, Orrick knew he should be worried. Especially when it happened in the remote area of England where he lived and breathed. And when it brought him the likes of a bride named Marguerite of Alencon.

The messenger asked if he should wait for a reply and Orrick shook his head. “My answer will be my attendance on the king’s call, sir.”

“I shall convey your willingness to him, my lord.”

The man’s words were said almost as a question rather than a statement. His call to wed the king’s vassal was obviously not a secret at court for even the envoy knew the contents of the letter. And the words contained some doubt that he would agree. Not permitting any question to remain between them, Orrick replied to the envoy’s unspoken words.

“I am the king’s dutiful servant, sir. I live to serve as he needs me to.”

The messenger nodded and bowed before leaving the chamber. Orrick watched in silence as Abbot Godfrey walked slowly back in and waited for his reaction to the news he’d received. Godfrey kept his counsel in good times and bad and Orrick did not hesitate to tell him this life-changing pronouncement of the king’s.

“I am to marry at the king’s behest.”

“Marry, my lord? Did the king speak of whom you marry?”

Orrick knew that the marriage agreement was more important than the people involved, but he nodded to the abbot. “Lady Marguerite of Alencon.”

“Do you know the lady?” Godfrey asked, looking over Orrick’s shoulder at the king’s words. Free in his examination, the brother reached over and took the parchment from him, reading the words several times. ’Twas their practice since Godfrey knew Orrick would miss some of the important details and Orrick knew Godfrey would not. “Marguerite of Alencon…. The name seems somehow familiar to me. Mayhap your lady mother would know of this woman?”

“If she belongs to Henry’s court, my mother will know her name and her history, fear not.”

“’Tis true, my lord. Your lady mother has an inordinate amount of knowledge amassed about the king and his people. If she would turn her interests to other matters, her soul might gain some wisdom.”

Orrick knew Godfrey disapproved of his mother’s hunger for courtly gossip, but the years of being separated from her extended family and many friends in Normandy had not lessened the urge to follow the goings-on of those she’d left behind. In this instance, it might help him decide if he were being rewarded or punished with this marriage gift from the king.

“I will speak to her about her weakness, good abbot,” he said as he rolled the parchment up and slid it safely into the tunic he wore beneath his chain mail.

Godfrey cuffed him on his shoulder and laughed. “You will ask her what you need first and then reprimand her for her weakness, will you not, my lord?”

“You know me too well, Godfrey,” he said, acknowledging his plan. “Why waste valuable information without finding it first? This is my future I speak of. I should discover what I can before answering the king’s call and taking the wife he offers.”

Godfrey’s wizened face lost its joking expression. “Orrick, make no mistake in the flowery language of his message or in the beauty of the woman he names. You are ordered to take this wife. And to take her now.”

Orrick matched his seriousness. “I did not miss that part of the message, Godfrey. I understand the intent within this.”

“Then go with God, my lord. I will keep you and the lady Marguerite in my prayers until you return safely to our lands.”

He reached out and shook the abbot’s hand and then received a blessing from him. ’Twas the way of Godfrey. Without another word, he made his way to his men and mounted his horse. The journey would take nearly two days unless they pushed. Now with the need to return home and prepare for his travels to the king’s court and a wife, he did urge his men faster.

First though he must tell his mother and make arrangements for her comfort elsewhere within the keep. His wife would need to have a certain hold on the way things were done and he suspected that his mother, familiar with the keep and its people for over three decades, would not relinquish her power without challenges. There would be time for all of that, of course. First he needed to go bring home his bride.

The journey seemed to speed by as he thought about the woman who would be his wife and the mother to his children and heirs. He was not some green youth with no idea of what was to come. Marriage had been on his mind for some time, but always one matter or another came up and interfered with it. Now, the king had given him a way to do it simply and plainly.

So, it was with great anticipation that he and his men rode into the yard of Silloth Keep and approached the stairway to the great hall. He had taken no more than three or four steps when his mother’s voice rang out to him, squashing any belief that the king’s orders would work out for the best.

Lady Constance came tearing around a corner and faced him as her ladies and various other servants caught up with her. The redness in her face and her labored breaths spoke clearly of her agitation. But what was she upset about?

His stomach sank as she waved several parchments in his face. Without any attempt to lower her voice, she addressed her most pressing concern to him.

“Swear to me that you will not marry Marguerite of Alencon!”

How had she known? They had just arrived at the keep after a strenuous ride back from Abbeytown. The king’s messenger reported to him there without traveling here. How could she have known?

“Mother, the king has ordered our marriage. I go now to answer his summons and to bring her back here. How did you know her name?”

He watched as the confusion and anger and frustration filled her face. She turned to several of her ladies and none gave her the answer or reassurance she sought from them. Orrick was becoming convinced, as Godfrey was, that his mother spent entirely too much time fretting over gossip and other womanly worries such as those. Mayhap his new wife could help to distract her from such ways?

“You cannot marry her.”

This was getting out of hand. This was why he should not have delayed his marriage this long and why his mother needed to take her place within his wife’s household. But her sorrow over his father’s death had driven him to mercy and her excellent skills at chatelaine had won out. ’Twas time to change that and his wife would be just the person to do so, with his guidance and control.

“The king has gifted me with Marguerite of Alencon, as you apparently know. And the king is generous in doing so….” His words drifted off as even he experienced an uneasy feeling over the amount of gold being paid to take this woman as wife. Damn, but his mother knew what was at the heart of this matter and now he feared asking her. But he must know what he faced from the king. “Tell me now, for I would hear all of it.”

Steeling himself for what was to come, Orrick took a deep breath and faced his mother in the midst of all who looked on around them.

“The king is truly generous, Orrick, but not in this instance. He pays you gold for he seeks to give you his mistress as wife. Marguerite of Alencon is the king’s whore.”

The king’s whore?

Now that he’d heard his mother’s words, he turned and sought his chambers. Orrick needed to prepare for this summons and prepare himself to take the king’s refuse as his wife.

At least now he completely understood that he was being punished for some sin committed by either himself or his father. What other reason could there be for such an insult as this?

Chapter Two

“Henry will not do this to me. You are wrong,” Marguerite argued. “He loves me.”

But the words sounded hollow and unconvincing even to her ears. Marguerite turned away from her companion and looked at the elaborate dress spread on her bed. It could not be. It simply could not be true that Henry had given her in marriage to someone else.

“You know him better than anyone, Marguerite,” Johanna replied in a bland tone of voice. “If you say he will claim you before the marriage can happen, I believe you.”

Her temper flared and she flung the dress from the bed onto the floor. Grasping the edges of it, she tore it open and pearls and gems went flying all over the room. Before she could rip it into the pieces she wanted to, another voice called out to her from the doorway.

“Is this how you treat the gifts of the king?”

Marguerite turned as Lord Bardrick, Henry’s steward and henchman here at Woodstock, entered her chambers. Johanna made a quick curtsy and escaped, though Marguerite was not sure if her own temper or the steward’s lecherous gazes at the woman’s ample bosom made her run from the room. The door slammed and she was alone with one of very few men who had Henry’s confidence and knew the king’s secrets.

“My lord,” Marguerite said, dipping gracefully as she knew she could to the floor in a curtsy, one that shared a glimpse of her own now well-endowed bosom with him. “I fear I am overwrought with excitement over my impending marriage to Lord…Lord…” She pretended not to remember the name of her prospective husband for a moment until Bardrick said it.

“Lord Orrick of Silloth.”

“Just so. Lord Orrick of Silloth. I mean no disrespect to the king. Indeed I am always pleased by his attentions and his gifts.”

They both knew the gift most recently given to her by Henry. The babe had been a girl unfortunately, and of no use to Marguerite in her plans to make a claim for Henry’s further attentions and affections. At least a boy would have been accepted and graced with a title and a position of power and wealth as Henry’s other bastard son, Geoffrey, had been. Through a boy she could have some hold. But the girl born a few months ago was worthless to her and remained behind at the convent where she had given birth to her, a nameless noble, nay a royal bastard, to be raised by the nuns there. Her own sister stayed behind to oversee the baby and to answer her own call to a life of service to God.

Bardrick walked to the door of the room, opened it and spoke to one of the servants waiting outside. “Take this to one of the seamstresses and have her see to it. And quickly, girl,” he yelled, pushing the servant to move more rapidly. “The wedding is on the morrow and it must be ready.”

Marguerite watched with a sense of amusement as the girl gathered the pieces of the dress together and stumbled from the room. She had not moved from the spot in which she stood.

“The king plans on carrying out this farce then, Bardrick?” she asked.

“’Tis no farce, lady. You will marry Lord Orrick and Henry will brook no refusal on your part.”

“And if I do not?” Marguerite could not believe this was the end. Henry would reclaim her. He would object, mayhap even at the last moment, and save her from this unspeakable match.

“The last three people who refused the king’s generosity are not alive to tell you the stupidity of doing so. Think on that tonight as you prepare yourself for your marriage in the morn.”

A shiver shook her and, even though she tried to hide it from this weasel, his smarmy grin told her of her failure.

“Aye, lady. The prudent thing to do would be to acquiesce to Henry’s wishes. His loyal subjects who do usually live longer and better than those foolish enough to stand against him.”

Fight it though she did, she nodded slightly in his direction, 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.

“Sleep 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 his class. Someone content to suffer his touch and his life in the rough place he called his own.