“Husband?”
Although it was night and the light not good, he thought that she had paled. “You know why I have come,” he said harshly.
She shook her head. “No…no, I do not. If you had sent your steward I could have—”
“Could have what?” he interrupted. “Made sure that you weren’t going to be caught in the act of whoredom? Made sure that your foolish, purblind husband remained ignorant of what you have been doing behind his back?”
“I…I have been doing nothing,” she stammered, and pressed one hand to those white, round breasts. “Of what are you accusing me?”
“Treason in the form of adultery,” he snarled. “Do not deny that you and William Marshal are lovers. You have been witnessed at your fornication.”
She stared at him. “Whoever told you such a tale is lying.” She crossed herself and jutted her chin. “I swear to you on my father’s soul that I have not committed the carnal act with William Marshal.”
“Then you are forsworn, madam, because you were seen at your tryst this very afternoon. I have witnesses who will swear on the bones of Saint Hilaire that you and Marshal have been conducting an affair beneath my nose.”
“That’s not true!” she gasped. “You know it isn’t. Until recently he had a mistress.”
“Having a mistress doesn’t render a man faithful,” he snarled, “any more than having a husband does the same for a wife. How do I know that he’s the only one? Perhaps you have had a string of lovers in your bed!” He seized her by the shoulders and shook her.
“No…no one but you,” Marguerite cried, “although I don’t know why you should care when you are never in it. I might as well be a nun!”
“Well, that can be swiftly remedied.” Henry roughly unfastened the tie of her bedrobe. When she struggled and turned away from his kiss, he grabbed her jaw in his hand and forced her to face him. “You’ll not accept Marshal and refuse me,” he snarled.
“I haven’t lain with William Marshal!” she cried, struggling. “There is nothing between us! I will swear on whatever relics you choose to name that I am telling the truth!”
“Nothing between you?” His voice curled with contempt. “So much of nothing that beneath my nose you creep away to meet him for a tryst in the woods? You must think me stupid indeed.”
“It wasn’t a tryst. I walked my dog a little way along the bank and I happened upon him—I did not know he had walked that way too.” Her voice wobbled on the verge of angry tears.
“You expect me to believe that you hadn’t arranged it all with Marshal beforehand?” He dug his fingers into her shoulders.
“You would rather believe your cronies?” she spat with scorn. “Half of them have their swords out for Marshal, you know it. Why would I be foolish enough to agree to a tryst where we were almost certain to be spied upon and discovered? Who was it brought you the tale, Yqueboeuf?”
Henry’s complexion darkened. “You were seen embracing him. Do you deny it?”
She lifted her head. “I do. All I did was speak to him as a friend. Whoever has told you that we have fornicated together is lying.”
Henry studied his wife. Was she feeding him lies too? Did he believe her, or did he believe Ralph Farci and the five knights who were insisting that his wife and William Marshal had played him false? “Do you know what Philip of Flanders did to his wife’s lover?” It was a rhetorical question. Everyone knew that the man had been severely beaten by the household butchers and then hung upside down in a sewer until he suffocated.
“William Marshal is not my lover.” She had steadied since the first accusation, although she was as pale as a winding sheet.
“But you love him…”
She dropped her gaze to her hands and rubbed her wedding ring. “Yes,” she said. “I love him as a friend or as a sister.”
That statement at least was untrue because she would not look him in the face. “You’re a lying whore,” he said, taking relish in his words. “I am within my rights to beat you within an inch of your life and have Marshal executed for treason.”
Her chin trembling, she raised her head and looked at him again. “That is between you and your conscience,” she said. “I know what is on mine.”
Henry raised his fist, looked at it, then opened his hand and gave her a shove that sent her staggering. Then he turned on his heel and strode from the room. He had always felt antipathy towards his wife. She was neither beautiful nor witty and the steadier attributes of quiet attractiveness and intelligence had small value for him. As far as he was concerned, he was a victim of onerous duty and circumstance. That Marguerite was a victim too, he acknowledged, but gave little consideration to the fact. Perhaps now though, he had a way to be rid of her, if he was prepared to sacrifice his best knight. However, if he ordered Marshal’s arrest and execution as he had threatened, the affair would become an open scandal and he would be made a laughing stock, forced to wear his horns in public. Did he really want that? Henry slewed to a halt and stood in the corridor, caught on the tines of a decision.
“Sire?” Rannulf his chamberlain was passing, on his way to bed, and stopped to bow.
“Have you heard the rumours?” Henry demanded of him.
Rannulf raised his thin silver brows. “Rumours, sire?”
“Concerning my wife and William Marshal.”
