gaze. Roger rolled away and reached for his discarded shirt. "Here." He handed her his shirt even as he sat up on the side of the bed. "You'd best be going."
She hastily pulled on the shirt and scampered out of the bed past the prince. Before he could reach out to her, she had achieved the safety of the door. She looked back at Roger and smiled. "My thanks, milord."
"You hear that, Roger? The wench thanked you for giving her a tumble." Henry rubbed the stubble on his chin and shook his head. "I'll be damned if I've had any thank me."
But Roger wasn't attending him. He was thinking that he'd find the girl on the morrow and give her some money. Remorse already flooded over him as he thought he might have unwittingly loosed another bastard to suffer for his sins. And long ago he'd vowed that he would not be responsible for bringing another bastard child into the world. Well, he'd give her his direction and see what happened. His body felt good—a lot better than it had in months. If only it could have been Lea there as his lady wife.
"Roger, have you heard anything I've said?" Henry asked querulously. "What ails you?"
"I hope she doesn't drop a bastard."
Henry eyed him in disgust. "Trouble with you, Roger, is that you don't lay enough of them. I mean, what's a man to do when he's unwed? Burn? If they don't lie with you, they lie with some other lout. If they drop bastards, ten to one they don't know whose it is."
"Then why do you keep your bastards?"
"Because I'm the only man that has lain with the mother. With a serving wench, it's a different matter. A brat'd have to look like me before I'd acknowledge it then." He looked around the room for some more wine. "Don't tell me you've swilled it all."
"All."
"Go on back to bed. I'll go find myself some more."
Roger waited while Henry walked unsteadily out the door. Then he lay back down and thought of Lea. Somehow it seemed that he'd betrayed her—a foolish thought, since she had no idea how he really felt about her. How would she react if she knew? he wondered. Would she recoil in horror? Or would she return the love he felt for her? He ought to tell her before they left Rouen, but he doubted that he would. He could not chance that she might not go with him. It seemed he puzzled it a long time, wavering on how to tell Lea the truth about himself.
"Well…" Henry wobbled in the door carrying a pitcher of wine that he sloshed on the floor. "Your conscience can be clear, my friend. If she has a bastard from this night's work, she's more apt to blame me than you." He set the wine down on a low table. "And you don't have to pay her, either—I gave her plenty enough for both of us."
Roger curled up and felt sick.
----
7
Contents - Prev / Next
Eleanor sat pensively in the high-walled garden at Nantes, her thoughts wandering from those around her. In the background, her sister Margaret's still-sharp tongue could be heard in gossip with her sister Adelicia. But she was not attending what they were disputing. Old Herleva, now half-blind and more than a little deaf, sat in a corner on a low bench, working her needle with a deftness born of feel rather than sight.
It seemed strange to be sitting there after so many years had passed. To Eleanor, there was an aura of unreality to the scene—it was as though all that had passed since had happened to someone else. Her thoughts turned to that day when she'd been so frustrated with her stitching just before she'd heard the fight. Her ears harkened for a sound of it even now. And the Old Conqueror—she and Roger had met him that day—a day that had indeed proven fateful for both of them in more ways than one. Well, Roger had prospered since, and if men dared to call him "the Bastard," it was with the respect they'd used with "the Conqueror." Even Belesme seemed to have a measure of respect for Roger. He'd made sure that her brother was absent from court when he'd asked for her.
Belesme. A shudder passed through her at the
She hastily pulled on the shirt and scampered out of the bed past the prince. Before he could reach out to her, she had achieved the safety of the door. She looked back at Roger and smiled. "My thanks, milord."
"You hear that, Roger? The wench thanked you for giving her a tumble." Henry rubbed the stubble on his chin and shook his head. "I'll be damned if I've had any thank me."
But Roger wasn't attending him. He was thinking that he'd find the girl on the morrow and give her some money. Remorse already flooded over him as he thought he might have unwittingly loosed another bastard to suffer for his sins. And long ago he'd vowed that he would not be responsible for bringing another bastard child into the world. Well, he'd give her his direction and see what happened. His body felt good—a lot better than it had in months. If only it could have been Lea there as his lady wife.
"Roger, have you heard anything I've said?" Henry asked querulously. "What ails you?"
"I hope she doesn't drop a bastard."
Henry eyed him in disgust. "Trouble with you, Roger, is that you don't lay enough of them. I mean, what's a man to do when he's unwed? Burn? If they don't lie with you, they lie with some other lout. If they drop bastards, ten to one they don't know whose it is."
"Then why do you keep your bastards?"
"Because I'm the only man that has lain with the mother. With a serving wench, it's a different matter. A brat'd have to look like me before I'd acknowledge it then." He looked around the room for some more wine. "Don't tell me you've swilled it all."
"All."
"Go on back to bed. I'll go find myself some more."
Roger waited while Henry walked unsteadily out the door. Then he lay back down and thought of Lea. Somehow it seemed that he'd betrayed her—a foolish thought, since she had no idea how he really felt about her. How would she react if she knew? he wondered. Would she recoil in horror? Or would she return the love he felt for her? He ought to tell her before they left Rouen, but he doubted that he would. He could not chance that she might not go with him. It seemed he puzzled it a long time, wavering on how to tell Lea the truth about himself.
"Well…" Henry wobbled in the door carrying a pitcher of wine that he sloshed on the floor. "Your conscience can be clear, my friend. If she has a bastard from this night's work, she's more apt to blame me than you." He set the wine down on a low table. "And you don't have to pay her, either—I gave her plenty enough for both of us."
Roger curled up and felt sick.
----
7
Contents - Prev / Next
Eleanor sat pensively in the high-walled garden at Nantes, her thoughts wandering from those around her. In the background, her sister Margaret's still-sharp tongue could be heard in gossip with her sister Adelicia. But she was not attending what they were disputing. Old Herleva, now half-blind and more than a little deaf, sat in a corner on a low bench, working her needle with a deftness born of feel rather than sight.
It seemed strange to be sitting there after so many years had passed. To Eleanor, there was an aura of unreality to the scene—it was as though all that had passed since had happened to someone else. Her thoughts turned to that day when she'd been so frustrated with her stitching just before she'd heard the fight. Her ears harkened for a sound of it even now. And the Old Conqueror—she and Roger had met him that day—a day that had indeed proven fateful for both of them in more ways than one. Well, Roger had prospered since, and if men dared to call him "the Bastard," it was with the respect they'd used with "the Conqueror." Even Belesme seemed to have a measure of respect for Roger. He'd made sure that her brother was absent from court when he'd asked for her.
Belesme. A shudder passed through her at the
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