To Love A King

Chapter Three-1

Chapter ThreeMarchington Manor, December, 1511

Topaz and Lady Margaret received Christmas invitations to neighboring Kenilworth Castle from its lord, Matthew Guilford. Feeling the need for a diversion, Topaz decided to go, while Margaret declined, as she'd already been invited to court.

Topaz had never made Sir Guilford's acquaintance, but imagined him as a stilted nobleman bedecked in stuffy raiment and a graying pate. However, she mused, nobles sired eloquent sons, capable of engaging her in lively debate far beyond the scope of any common Warwickshire yeoman. Her new title could do well to yoke a worthy counterpart. She knew she'd been obscuring her title when she could be using it to her advantage.

She folded her lacy cloths and placed them in a traveling trunk. Mayhap a younger Guilford would pluck one of these up twixt his teeth in the triumph of a won tournament.

After two days' journey, Topaz and her small retinue of servers cantered down the final rutted road leading to Kenilworth. The charming castle paraded a sandstone glow and sprawling gardens, a striking ornament astride the velvety pastures and sparkling lake that lapped up against its walls.

A groom helped her dismount in the courtyard and a maid escorted her to a set of comfortable apartments. She dressed conservatively for that evening's meal in the great hall, her subdued blue gown devoid of ribbons or lace, and with a higher neckline than the fashion dictated. Actually, it was one of her mother's older gowns. She didn't want to outshine Lady Guilford–not on the very first evening.

As she descended the staircase, her eyes swept the entry hall for familiar faces. She tried to guess who old Lord Radcliffe could possibly be, but the guests milling about and entering through the huge oaken doors were of her own age group.

She halted halfway down the steps, spotting the tallest head in the crowd. A crop of dark blond hair caught the light like a cluster of glowing embers. He stood draped in blue, from his turquoise hat to the moderate tones of his doublet and hose tucked into indigo shoes. A satin undertunic peeked out, trimmed in gold. Sapphire rings glittered on his fingers. Swirls of aquamarines studded his doublet.

His laughter, resonant and confident, prevailed over the tittering and chuckling. A growing circle enclosed him. Guests clamored for his attention, especially the ladies. They threw their heads back in gaiety, headdresses bumping, as they nudged each other aside to get near him. A bejeweled hand stroked his sleeve and lingered. One of the more aggressive ladies clutched his arm and turned him to face her.

His eyes swept across the entry hall and over to the staircase. He looked in her direction. She stood, rapt. His eyes met hers. He turned away, but she kept a steady gaze on him. A moment later he glanced her way again.

This time their eyes locked. Smile met smile. He excused himself and his graceful figure glided through the growing press of bodies. He met her on the staircase, above the crowd. They stood detached from the rest of humanity as if they'd been swept away on a cloud.

“'Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my fine lady. Allow me to introduce myself. I am your host, Matthew Guilford.”

He took her hand and raised to his lips before she spoke a word. The image of the wheezing old man withered and died. “And I am Lady Topaz Plantagenet of Warwick Castle.”

She couldn't remember another word either of them said…except his last question before he excused himself.

“Would you be so kind as to honor me with your presence for a stroll over the grounds after we sup, my lady?”

She heard her voice say yes.

While the music played and the mummers jangled, Topaz couldn't even think of eating. The sight of all the roasted fowl, meats and steaming dishes made her stomach churn. She barely said a word to those seated around her at the long table. She didn't give a fig about crops, weather, or even the explorations in the New World—not now. She could only stare at that dark blond head, that warm smile, and that exquisite body so magnificently dressed.

* * *

She perched on a seat in the winter parlour for quite a while before he finally arrived. He apologized for his lateness.

“Your faux pas is forgiven, of course.” She lifted her hand to his lips and he kissed it. A thrilling shiver ran through her. Drowning in those green eyes, she heard his calm elegant voice speak of…she wasn't quite listening. His voice as smooth as the velvet of his doublet, he could have spoken his words backwards for all she cared.

She'd already decided that she would be the next Lady Guilford.

She found out all about him in the next few days, over the tournaments, card and dice games, asking casually of the other guests. Bred of good stock, he was landed and educated. His father, Sir John, had died fighting at Bosworth, the battle that brought Henry the Seventh to the throne. Throughout the entire twelve-day celebration, every slavish female in the shire flattered and fawned over him. He took it in good humour, brushed off his cloak and invited more. Though she ached for his exclusive company, Topaz acted aloof and disinterested, the opposite of all the other twittering wenches. It worked. She piqued his interest, for he asked to meet her again…and again.

He invited her back to Kenilworth, and she returned a second and third time. Oh, yes, I shall become Lady Guilford before Hocktide, she vowed.

* * *

“Tell me more about Topaz of Warwick. Who is she and where did she come from?” he asked one night as they sat before the fire in his solar. She'd just finished asking him more about the chapters of his life, learning of his love for hunting, ancient Rome, and his assortment of allergies.

Do I tell him the truth now or let him keep wondering? she asked herself. No, tell the truth. Spin a yarn and it'll backfire somehow, with these talebearers lapping up the juices of gossip like thirsty hounds. Besides that, she needed someone to talk to, to share her pain. Who better than her future husband?

“I know the Earls of Warwick go back several centuries.” He stretched his legs and rested on his elbows.

“To 1088, to be exact.” Her tone swelled with pride. “King William the Second created the Earldom. My father, Edward, was the son of the Duke of Clarence. My grandfather's brother, King Edward the Fourth, had my grandfather executed on trumped up charges and drowned in a butt of malmsey when he was twenty-nine years old and my father was but three.”

“Why? What did your grandfather do that his own brother would have him executed?” His eyes widened in curiosity.

“He tried to take the throne a few times.” She gave him the bare fact.

He nodded. “Ah. That will do it.”

“My father never got to know his father,” she revealed her sad history. “He was almost the same age I was when Taffy Harry killed my father.” Her voice dripped resentment, and Matthew refilled her wine goblet in order to ease the pain these memories evoked.

“My father, the last of the Plantagenet line, was born in Warwick Castle. King Richard knighted him along with his own son. When King Richard's son died, he named my father heir. When Tudor killed King Richard at Bosworth and seized the crown, my father was named de jure King of England, as he was the nearest in succession. So he was a threat to Tudor, being the rightful heir, by bloodline and all else.”

“So that is why Tudor imprisoned your father for the rest of his life?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “When my father was eight years old, Taffy Harry clapped him in Sheriff Hutton Castle, then had him brought to the Tower. He met my mother in the Tower when she went there to visit her father, the Earl of Ashford, who was awaiting execution.”

“For what?”

“He fought on King Richard's side at Bosworth,” she replied.

“So what happened to your mother then?”

“When Ashford had his land stripped from him, my mother was shipped off to live with an aunt. She had nothing. My father had Warwick Castle taken away and it reverted back to the crown. He and my mother fell in love and got permission to marry. She took up residence with him there in the Bell Tower and became a court musician and singing minstrel.”

“So you were born and bred in the Tower?”

“Aye. A virtual prisoner. My only happy childhood memory was of the splendid Royal Menagerie they had there in the Lion Tower. They had monkeys, elephants, zebras, and giraffes, and huge tortoises, colorful birds, and all kinds of exotic animals from Africa.” Her hands fluttered like wings. “The guards let me go there almost every day and I would stand and stare at the animals, fascinated with their behavior, their ways of communicating with one another, their rituals. I named some of them and the guards let me feed them. When Matilda the elephant had a baby, I named him Perkin, and he became my playmate. I would grab his trunk and he would curl it round my hand like a real friend would. Then one day returning from the menagerie, my mother and I climbed the stairs to the Bell Tower and I saw…saw them dragging my father away…” She stopped, not wanting to relive this scene. “Taffy Harry had my father executed when my mother was breeding with Emerald. Just because he was a threat to the crown. It shows how preposterous it all was. My father, imprisoned since age eight, who they said was so simple-minded he couldn't tell a hen from a goose, trying to depose the king! He was executed on Tower Hill. Didn't even have the honor of the green, where the nobles get their heads lopped off. We were all sent to live with my father's sister Margaret and her husband Richard Pole, and their brats. I began collecting animals, healthy ones as well as sick ones. I gave them names, I cared for them all, and learnt how to heal the sick ones in very much the same way our family physician cared for us. I made medicines for them and birthed them. That was my only escape, the menagerie they let me have. Animals were my only friends. It was my world.”

Matthew sensed her pain permanently embedded within her soul.

But he understood. He held her and let her cry, and when she calmed down, he asked her to marry him.

* * *

Warwick Castle, October, 1512

Topaz strolled across the footbridge crossing the River Avon and headed for the Peacock Gardens where she was meeting her betrothed. Kenilworth Castle wasn't as grand as Warwick, but it was close enough to her rightfully inherited home that she could visit her family whenever she pleased and set up another animal hospital there.

She was now living at Warwick since Lady Margaret moved to court at King Henry's invitation, and took all her servers with her.

Topaz raised her left hand, and for the dozenth time that day, admired her betrothal ring, holding the cluster of rubies set in gold up to the sunlight. It glinted, twinkled and winked at her as if to commend her on her choice of a husband. No way would she succumb to any arranged marriage, as her sisters inevitably would. Marriages were for combining lands and titles, and the parties involved were merely vehicles to secure the claims. No, Topaz, Duchess of Warwick would bestow her generous dowry on the man of her choice, not her mother's, not that fraudulent Henry's, no one's but her own.

She watched the peacocks strutting proudly, the males displaying their brilliant tails. How much like Henry VIII they were, so pompous and haughty and proud! And what were they really, without that majestic splaying of feathers? Just ugly, scrawny birds, like Henry undoubtedly was under his royal regalia of ill-gotten jewels and robes. A pretender, nothing more. Males. Phonies, one and all.

Matthew was no exception. Handsome and comely as he was, he was there to serve one purpose: to sire her heir, her future King of England, Edward the Sixth.