Chapter 29 #3
Someone rapped on the door. They ignored it. It came again, louder. Richard swore. “Go away!”
“Milord? Milord?”
“Later!”
Gwen almost had him free. Another minute and they would be joined. She kissed him. His tongue plunged into her mouth with the same dark rhythm his body would soon imitate.
“Milord! A message from the king, milord!”
Richard’s head snapped up.
“No!” Gwen cried, trying to pull him back down. “Can’t it wait?”
“Nay.” He went to the door and opened it a crack. Gwen sat up. She couldn’t hear what was said, but she knew as soon as he closed it he was leaving.
He walked back to the bed, straightening his clothes. Gwen tugged her skirts in place. “Please stay,” she said.
He shook his head. “I cannot.”
“We need to talk, Richard.”
His expression softened. “Aye, I know. When I return, I promise.” He snatched his mantle off the floor. “Why don’t you take a hot bath and get some rest? We’ll have all night for talking… and other things.”
He winked before he slipped out the door.
Richard strode through the corridors of Westminster, anxious to get this meeting over with and return to Gwen.
His body still throbbed with the memory of his arousal. He’d been so hard he thought he might explode the instant she touched him.
He’d missed her. At first he was able to ignore it, thinking it would pass soon enough. But instead of going away it had only gotten worse.
She was a fever in his blood. He needed her. For weeks he’d fantasized about the kinds of things he wanted to do to her body.
He refused to believe it was anything beyond a physical connection. She was just so beautiful and passionate that he desired her above all others.
He would not deny himself any longer.
When he reached the king’s solar, a youth stepped inside to announce him. The boy returned and held the door open, bowing as he swept past.
“Richard! Jesú, but you are prompt,” Edward said, rising and clapping his friend on the back. “Fetch some wine. Gascon, I think,” he said to a servant.
At Edward’s bidding, Richard sank into an ornately carved and cushioned chair.
The room was richly appointed with velvet hangings and sendal tapestries.
The golden-lion banner draped across one wall.
The ceiling was green, spangled in gold, and over the fireplace the wall was wainscoted and painted with scenes of the strange animals in the royal menagerie.
Richard knew, because he knew Edward, that the room had not changed since the days of Henry III, Edward’s father.
Henry had loved magnificence and opulence whereas his son barely took heed of it at all.
Edward was a soldier at heart. His energies would more likely be directed at strengthening a keep’s defences than decorating its chambers.
“So where’s the little wife?” Edward asked. “Leave her at home so you could play?”
Richard grinned. Ned was always thinking with his prick. “Nay, she’s at Dunsmore House.”
“Ah. Pregnant yet?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Jesú, I thought you’d have planted your seed deep by now.”
Richard shrugged. “She is Llywelyn’s daughter. Mayhap it takes longer than with other women. ’Tis not from lack of trying, I can assure you.”
Edward laughed, his eyes twinkling. “I knew you’d not have a problem. That lass could get a rise out of a corpse, I’ll warrant.”
Richard shifted uncomfortably, remembering the rise she’d given him not too long ago. He changed the subject before he got it again. “Has the queen given birth yet?”
“Aye,” Edward said, his eyes lighting. “’Tis another daughter, but she’s beautiful. The next one will be a son.”
Richard smiled. Ned needed an heir. The last one had died years ago, but the king never failed to rejoice over the birth of a daughter. England didn’t much worry over it either. She still had Edmund and his sons if it ever came down to it.
But Edward was young yet, barely in his forties, and he had the cool confidence of a man who knew he’d give England her next king eventually.
The servant returned and poured wine into two golden goblets. When he took his leave, Edward fingered the rim of his cup and said, “The pope wants me to lead another crusade.”
Richard’s heart dropped to his feet. “When?”
“Sometime next year.”
Richard took a drink, let it bathe his suddenly dry throat. The last crusade had taken four years.
His palms slipped on the goblet and he gripped it tighter. Ned could not require him to go. All he had to do was pay the scutage and send the knights he owed the crown. That would be enough.
His free hand strayed to his sword. He had to go with his king! Honor demanded it. He had sworn to always support Ned’s causes, no matter what, no matter where. It was his duty.
Richard tossed back the wine and reached for the flagon to pour another.
“We’ll have to call a council to discuss it, of course. Perhaps in the spring. What do you think?”
“Aye,” Richard said.
Edward’s face lit with excitement. “’Twill be like old times, eh Richard?”
The king continued to speak but Richard did not hear. He downed a third goblet of wine, then poured another. Why did life suddenly seem meaningless?