The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(145)
As she pressed against him, he felt something… hard. In her breeches.
"What in God's name–?"
"Um, just part of my disguise," she said, pulling away slightly. "Got to have something in there for the look of it."
"Oh. Of course."
He kissed her again, partly to reassure her that it didn't bother him, but mostly because he needed to forget the past hour. He stroked her temples, her hair, the small of her back, the tight curve of her arse… She trembled. Damn, still a virgin, of course. He moved his hand back to her waist. She pressed against him, willing but tense as a deer under the hunter's gaze. After a few minutes they both realised she wasn't the only one with a bulge in her breeches.
"If you like me this way," she said with an embarrassed laugh, "I shall remain a boy. It is what I am used to."
He released her, abashed. It had been one thing to lie with Ned when he was lonely and in need, but a boy… Here in England they might be safe enough if they were discreet, but in France it would be a very different matter. Rumour had it Francis Bacon's brother was nearly burnt at the stake for molesting one of his pages, and had to flee home to England in disgrace.
"That cannot be," he said. "If you insist on remaining in this guise, then you and I cannot be lovers."
"No!" She bit her lip. "What… what about Ned and Gabriel? If they can be happy together, why cannot we?"
"They are grown men and, more importantly, men of little consequence. I have brought myself to the notice of those in power, and must therefore remain above the law. In the eyes of the world, at least."
"And where those eyes cannot pierce?" she said, glancing at the shadows about them.
She looked so hopeful – but he would have to dash those hopes, for both their sakes.
"You are a woman – and a child. You cannot understand."
She folded her arms, her eyes glittering with indignation.
"How like a man! You think because I am a woman I am weak and useless. Well, Master Maliverny Catlyn, next time you are taken captive and in peril of death, I shall not come to your rescue."
She marched back out into the street, head held high. He burst out laughing and followed her.
"You have me there." He weighed the purse in his pocket. A dozen angels; and more to come, if he took up Walsingham's suggestion. "Very well, I will take you into my service. I owe you that much at least."
She halted and turned back.
"Service? I will not be your doxy."
"Honest employment, I swear." Though it will be a sore trial of my honour, if I am to be chaste. "I am a man of substance now. I cannot do without a valet to look after my wardrobe. That is what you do, is it not, tireman?"
She grinned at him. "Yes. That is what I do."
"Then it is agreed." He held out his hand, and she grasped it firmly. "Come, let's find an inn for the night, and tomorrow, lodgings."
She fell in at his side and they walked down St Olave's Street in companionable silence, leaving the skrayling camp and guild house far behind. One day he would go back for Sandy. One day. Until then, he had another young soul in his charge. Perhaps he would make a Catholic of her yet. Making an honest woman of her; now there was a challenge.
EPILOGUE
Prince Robert shaded his eyes against the setting sun as the cavalcade trotted westwards along the London road. Golden onion domes glinted to his left, stirring a hundred memories of homecomings, but first he had a visit to make. A prince who neglected his magnates stored up trouble for the future.
Both riders and horses were bone-weary, though they had gone scarcely a dozen miles today. The sucking clay mud of the Thames valley had frozen overnight into a treacherous surface of ice-slick ruts and hollows that had already claimed one animal's leg and left its rider bruised and winded. Robert pulled his furs around him and flexed his gloved fingers. Having taken over his mother's tradition of the royal summer progress, he was no stranger to hard travel, but in this weather men of good sense stayed at home. If they could.
They passed the ivory grandeur of Syon House and turned south towards Ferrymead. Behind him, Robert could hear William Bourchier, the Earl of Bath, congratulating young Josceline Percy on his eldest brother's great good fortune in acquiring both Syon House and the lovely Lady Dorothy, though the boy seemed little impressed by either. Other lesser courtiers joined in the envious chorus. Robert noted those who sounded most sycophantic; it did not do for a powerful and ancient family like the Percys to become too popular. Especially the Percys. They had not forgotten that Robert's grandfather had been made Duke of Northumberland whilst they were only earls of that county.
Wrapped in these thoughts, he paid little heed to the servants that ran to greet them as they rode into the courtyard at Ferrymead. The master of the house was not, of course, at his door to greet them, so Robert left his escort in the great hall and ascended the stair with only Bourchier and Percy in tow. He found Grey in the ancient solar, seated by the fire. The young duke was wrapped in a crumpled blue velvet robe and clutched a small, fat book as if it held the very secret of life eternal; a psalter or book of devotions, perhaps? It would be understandable, for a man who had come so near death.
"You will forgive me if I do not rise, sire," Grey said, bowing as best he could from his seated position.