Page 82 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold
They lifted their hands in farewell, then guided their horses toward the gatehouse.
As they rode slowly away, she heard James say, “That man Beaumont was training with—did he look familiar to you?”
Reynold shrugged. If he spoke, Margery heard none of it. She watched her brothers until they entered the gatehouse, then she looked blankly at the ground and hugged her cloak tighter against the chill.
She went to the chapel for Mass, and prayed to God for help. But with all the sins she’d committed, she didn’t believe she deserved any.
~oOo~
During the fortnight until the Cabots’ tournament, Margery barely spoke to Gareth. But she felt his presence in everything she did, watching over her, protecting her. She was miserable.
Every night she pretended to be asleep when he entered her room. She heard each movement as he made his pallet and lay down, as far away from her as he could get. Every night she wondered if he’d come to her bed, and if he did, what she would do.
She could never again welcome him for mere pleasure’s sake. The recklessness that had invaded her soul had burned to ashes. No longer was she shaking her fist at the heavens, determined to behave like a man. She was only a tired, lonely woman, with a decision to make that seemed to have no more consequence for her.
What did her choice matter, if it couldn’t be Gareth?
She even wrote that list of all the men she had to consider, and tried to find the one with the most promising traits. But they each had some flaw, and soon all their faces blurred together.
She found herself writing Gareth’s name, over and over. When she realized what she’d done, she scratched it out so hard she put a hole in the paper. Then she buried her face in her hands and wept.
~oOo~
Five days later, they traveled in a small caravan for two rainy days to reach the Cabots’ tournament. The Cabots’ home was more a sprawling, welcoming manor house than a fortress, and Margery usually felt at peace there. But now she kissed Sarah’s delicate cheek, and congratulated her on her coming child, all the while feeling so remote and distant it was as if she watched another person acting as her.
Across rolling meadows, as far as the eye could see, tents and pavilions flew the pennants of their owners, and grassy stretches of fields had been roped off for various competitions. Peddlers and villagers sold their wares from booths. Ladies and their servants cheered as their men trained for the tournament.
By twos and threes, men started to surround Margery before she’d even had a chance to escape inside. There were men she knew, men on her list, men she’d never even met. They enclosed her, suffocated her, and she wondered frantically where Gareth was. Would even Sir Humphrey be in attendance, ready to kidnap her again?
Then the noise of the crowd hushed to a murmur, and as they parted, she could see the manor house. King Henry descended the stairs, resplendent in his royal blue silks, his long, pale face slightly smiling. While all her suitors bowed, Margery sank into a deep curtsy.
She had not known the king was coming. Her stomach roiled at the thought of his questions.
She lifted her head, and then felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. For standing at the king’s side was Peter Fitzwilliam.
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Gareth dismounted and watched Margery become swallowed up in a sea of eager men. He flung his cloak back and kept his hand on his sword hilt, almost wishing one of them would try to take her away.
Yet he could not be so spiteful. He wanted her happiness above all else, and if one of these men could bring the sparkle back to her eyes, so much the better.
When the king stepped out into the sunshine, Gareth bowed like everyone else, but he couldn’t keep his head down for long. He had seen the man at the king’s side before. He was of middling height, obviously appealing enough to women, with curling brown hair that shined as if he took extra care with it. The vanity of noblemen never ceased to amaze Gareth.
It took him a moment to remember why the man was familiar. He was overcome by a vague feeling of sickness, and he realized it was the memory of his most recent vision. This was the man he had seen kissing Margery. Through the mists of Gareth’s mind, they had looked into each other’s eyes, destined for a lifetime of happiness.
As the man descended the stairs at the king’s side, Gareth told himself it was for the best, even as the pain in his chest felt like it was constricting his breathing. Margery deserved a normal man, one who could move with her from court to country, at home anywhere. A man without visions or curses, a man who wouldn’t use her for his own selfish purposes.
The nobleman approached Margery, and brought both her hands to his lips.
Did she already know him, or would this be the first meeting that swept her away with wonder and the beginnings of passion? Gareth found himself walking numbly forward, as if he had to see it all for himself. He deserved every last bit of torture.
Then he saw Margery’s face. She had gone chalk-white, her mouth sagging open.
He stepped closer, pushing aside squires and pages.
When the nobleman lifted his head to smile at her, bathed in the approving gaze of the king, Gareth saw her tremble.
“Who is that?” he asked one of Margery’s knights.
