‘I beg of you, my lord,’ she said. ‘Consider what you say.’
‘Of what moment is it ... but to us two.’
‘There are others to consider,’ she answered. ‘My husband, a prisoner in your service, your wife the Queen. My honour and duty to my husband, yours to your country and your family. All your subjects who look to you to set an example. I beg of you, my lord, go from here. Forget me.’
‘You ask the impossible. Do you think I will ever forget you? Do not be cruel to me, lady. I have never wanted anything in my life as I want you. The crown of England, the crown of France, I would give them all up for one night with you.’
She laughed as lightly as she could. ‘And the next go to war to win them back. My lord, I know you well. My husband talked much to me of you. He loves you dearly. Would you betray him when he has become a prisoner in your service?’
‘I would not think of him. I would forbid you to do so.’
‘Not even a king can guide a subject’s thoughts, my lord. I should think of my husband as long as I live.’
‘I shall not rest until you tell me that you love me as I love you. And when a man feels as I do—even if he be the noblest in the land—he will not rest until he has obtained the object of his desire.’
‘And when a woman is determined to maintain her honour until her death she will do so, my lord.’
‘You fill me with despair.’
‘Alas, my lord, I must.’
The dance over, the King expressed his desire to retire and he looked to the lady of the castle to conduct him to his bedchamber.
Catharine took his hand. Now she was afraid for she had seen the resolution in the King’s eyes.
Others had noticed it too.
But the determination in Catharine’s eyes was equally strong.
He drew her into the bedchamber and turning to her put his arms about her.
‘Come, my love,’ he said. ‘Hold off no more.’
She was rigid in his arms and he released her.
‘So you continue to resist?’ he said.
‘My lord, I must, for the sake of mine honour and yours.’
‘Honour beside ...’
She answered for him, ‘Lust.’
‘I call it love,’ he answered.
‘It is not love that comes in a few moments,’ she answered. ‘Not that true love such as I have for my husband and you have for your wife.’
‘I tell you this. There was never one who affected me as deeply as you do.’
‘Nay, my lord. I am a woman like others. You like my face and form. That is all. Of me, the true woman, you know little.’
‘I know that you are as brave as a lion and as stubborn as a mule.’
‘Then, my lord, I beg of you, turn your thoughts from me.’
‘I could take you if I wished. You might protest never so much and none would heed you if it were the King’s pleasure that they did not.’
‘That is true,’ she said, ‘but I know that you never would.’
‘It seems you know as little of me as you say I know of you.’
‘I see in your eyes, my lord, that though you would break your marriage vows and ask me to do the same, you would not violate a woman. You would respect her will for you know full well that gratification you seek would never be yours if you did so and all you would know would be shame.’
‘You are bold, Countess,’ he said.
‘As you are, my lord.’
He took her hand and pressed his lips to it. ‘Methinks I love you more with every passing minute,’ he said.
‘My lord, I will wish you good night. It is better so. You will agree with me. I shall pray to God to preserve you and drive from your noble heart those villainous thoughts which have temporarily possessed it. I am ever ready to serve you as your faithful subject, but only in that which is consistent with your honour and mine.’
She withdrew her hands and opening the door went out. She went to the room which she had selected. She drew the bolt and lay down on the bed. She was exhausted but no longer so fearful.
He would never take her by force so she had nothing to fear. For she would never break her marriage vows.
Edward left for Berwick next morning.
He was silent and it was clear that his thoughts were far away from the war with Scotland.
He would never be contented again, he told himself. How could he be when Catharine was the wife of another man and he was married to Philippa?
His disloyalty struck him forcibly. He wished that he could stop thinking of Philippa. He could not. She was so much a part of his life, the mother of his beloved children. Yet he would have dismissed her, their children and their life together for Catharine Montacute.
It would not have been like that. He and Catharine could have been lovers and Philippa need never have known anything about it.
The thought made him smile wryly. How many people in Wark last night had slyly noted his obsession? They would be talking of it, whispering of it, nodding their heads over it. They had always marvelled at his fidelity to Philippa.
How noble Catharine had been ! She was the sort of woman who would die for her beliefs and she believed it wrong that he and she should break their marriage vows.
She was not only beautiful, she was peerless. The arch of her eyebrows, the pure line of her profile, the way she held her head ... all this he could see quite clearly and would remember for ever.
If she were his Queen he would be the happiest man on earth.
Philippa seemed to stand before him—her calm eyes sorrowful. She would understand of course. Philippa had always understood. Poor Philippa, she had never really been a beauty. He realized that more than ever when he compared her with the incomparable Catherine—plump Philippa, with her shining rosy cheeks and the goodness which was apparent in her very expression! He had always thought he had the best wife in the world ... but now he had seen Catherine.
And so it went on.
He was wretched. He had no heart for the fight. He was tired of the Scottish war. He wanted to go south, to put as much distance between himself and temptation as possible. He would go to France. Fight for his crown there. Sometimes he felt the Scots would never be subdued. They could always retire to their stronghold in the mountains and the strife could go on indefinitely.
There was news from Philippa. She was pregnant again. He should rejoice for he loved his children and could not have too many of them. But the thought of Philippa so disturbed his conscience that he felt more uneasy than ever.
Philippa reminded him that she had heard nothing for some time from their dear sister Eleanor, the wife of the Duke of Gueldres, and as Eleanor had corresponded frequently with her she hoped that was not a bad sign.
It was a relief to let his thoughts stray momentarily from his own affairs. Raynald of Gueldres, his sister’s husband, had been his firm ally in France. It was eight years since Eleanor had married him and she now had two healthy sons and had always appeared to be happy. Of course his sisters had had a very different childhood from that of his children. Perhaps memories of his early days had made him especially tender with his own children. How different his parents had been from himself and Philippa! His father had not been unkind but never interested in them and his mother had cared nothing at all for the girls and only for himself and his brother because of the importance they could be to her. So when Eleanor had gone to Gueldres she had been prepared to adjust herself. She had never been indulged as his own daughters had—particularly Isabella.
There must be some simple reason why she had not written. He was sure all was well in Gueldres.
Philippa’s news had steadied him a little, reminded him of the felicity of his family life so far. Catharine was right. It would have been wrong to disrupt it. Many of his ancestors had had mistresses and it had been considered quite a natural state of affairs. There had even once been a breath of scandal about the Conqueror. His grandfather had been a faithful husband and so had his great grandfather. They had set an example to the family. His own father had disgraced it, but even he had been faithful to his lovers.