In Bed With A Stranger by Mary Wine
Chapter One
Warwick Castle, 1578
“She shall not touch my pearls.” The Countess of Warwickshire was a beautiful woman but her lips twisted into an ugly expression as she glared at her husband’s mistress.
“In sooth, she shall, Wife.” The earl entered on silent feet; even his spurs didn’t make any noise. He kept his voice even but there was the unmistakable ring of authority in it. Every servant in the room lowered their head in deference to the master of the house before continuing on with their tasks. But they listened to every word. The brewing discontent of the lady of the manor sent excitement through the staff. It had been growing since the day the lord’s mistress had been discovered with child. A reckoning was long overdue.
“She shall wear the pearls and the new garments I instructed you to order made when the babe was birthed.”
Lady Philipa bit into her lower lip as a scathing reply leapt to mind. She dared not voice it too harshly; men were such fickle creatures when it came to their cocks. She lowered her head to hide her frown as she curtsied to her husband. When she raised her face, her lips were smooth once more, a testimony to years of training at the hands of her governess. Women had to be much more controlled than men, in the world where they were owned by them.
“My lord, am I to have no comforts? Shall I be reduced to seeing my own finery placed onto your leman? Will you see me shamed in front of my own household?”
The earl stepped in front of his wife, his dark gaze traveling over her face as he lifted one finger in front of her nose.
“You are a bitch, Philipa. A truly spoilt, pampered bitch, who doesn’t even bother to perform the function of a true bitch.” His hand closed into a fist that he shook in front of her alarmed eyes. “Hear me well, lady wife! There will be no dishonesty in this house! Declare to one and all that you are without comforts and I will have your chamber stripped of its tapestries and carpets. Your fine gowns and jewelry will be shut away and the spice cabinet locked so that you may, in truth, live without comforts.”
The countess gasped but covered her mouth lest she spit out an angry retort and seal her fate. The earl nodded his head to himself before gripping her arm and turning her to face his mistress, Ivy Copper. Ivy was sitting up in bed with her new daughter at her breast. The babe kicked and pushed a plump fist against her mother’s swollen breast as it suckled. She was a lively babe, in spite of the fact that no one had swaddled it. The strips of fabric cost money and Ivy didn’t have any say over what she was given. The servants were Philipa’s to command. She had not commanded that anyone spend time wrapping the babe in strips of swaddling fabric to ensure that its limbs grew straight. Only a long shift covered the babe, like a peasant child.
Ivy’s hair was brushed into a soft shine over her opposite shoulder as she celebrated her sitting-up day. Philipa secretly hoped that her husband’s mistress might die of childbed fever, but she sat there looking the picture of good health. Even her milk had come in to ensure that her bastard would be full and strong.
“Yet, you are shamed, Philipa, shamed by the fact of your own cowardice.” Her husband turned her so she could stare up into his face. A shiver shook her as she caught a hint of his manly scent. Her weak female body enjoyed it. Avoiding his bed took discipline.
“Ah, you’re a coward, Philipa. You left my bed for fear of childbirth. Look at my new daughter, Wife. God favors the bold.” His gaze softened for a moment as he offered her a kind look. “You are my lady wife. Return to my bed and take up your duty as wife. If you do, I swear there will be no other taking your place. No bastard-born child set above your own children.”
Her head shook back and forth as she pulled against his grip. Fear strangled her, trapping her words in her throat. Giving birth was deadly! Over half her friends had gone to their graves as fever engulfed their bodies or, worse still, their babes refused to be pushed from their wombs. They died in withering agony, with long hours of endless pain.
The earl snorted with disgust. Pointing his thick finger at her, his voice boomed so that it reverberated against all the walls of the chamber. “Then you yourself shall place that string of pearls around my leman’s neck and follow her to her churching. You will stand as godmother to my new daughter.”
“You mean to acknowledge the bastard?” In shock, Philipa felt her lower lip quiver. “What of Mary? I have given you a daughter, my lord!”
“And you were honored well and truly.” Her husband released her arm and ran the back of his hand across her cheek. “I’d honor you again without holding a grudge if you’d return to my bed as a wife should.” He lowered his voice so that Ivy could not hear him. “I’ll set her aside, Philipa, for you and a legitimate son. Think on it. But I’ll not turn to rape. You will not lay such a burden upon me. We are married and it is your duty to bear my child as much as mine to take you to my bed.”
Her husband left her to join the group of visitors celebrating Ivy’s survival of childbirth. Today was her sitting-up ceremony, and in another two weeks if she still lived, there would be the churching day when the new mother was cleansed by the estate clergy and allowed back into the church. The bastard would be taken from her at its baptism. The traditions were older than anyone remembered. If Ivy died before she was churched, she’d be buried in unconsecrated ground. If the baby died unbaptized, it, too, would be denied burial in church ground.
The baby’s soft smacking sounds filled the chamber as Philipa watched her husband lean over to kiss his mistress. The bed was draped in lavish display. Thick wool tapestries covered the top of the bed and hung as curtains along the side of the bed. There were fine linen sheets, the stained sheet from the day of the birth proudly displayed by the window. The visitors all touched it for good luck as they passed. Ivy was wearing a shift taken from Philipa’s own wardrobe. The fine fabric shimmered against her creamy skin. There was mulled wine at her command and cakes baked with spices from the lord’s own private stock.
Everything was laid out as grandly as it had been when she was the mother and her daughter Mary first allowed to be seen. The only difference was that a wet nurse had suckled the child because as a noblewoman she could afford the luxury of not tending to a newborn’s fussing. Philipa gazed at Ivy’s breasts as the milk ran across the baby’s cheek and the earl laughed. He wiped the milk away with his own hand. Ivy smiled as the lord bathed her with his attention, praising her and her whelp.
The sight left a bitter taste in Philipa’s mouth. She shivered as she realized what it would take to win his attention away from his mistress. She couldn’t do it. Not again. It had taken two days to force her daughter into the world. Days that had seemed endless as the pain wrung her body. In truth, she couldn’t have suckled her child because she hated it so much for hurting her so greatly. That hate extended to her husband and his demands for more children. Her mother had had to endure such from her father, but it was a different time now. England had a queen and Mary could inherit everything. Elizabeth Tudor would see to that. Men were going to see an end to their absolute rule over their female relatives.
Turning in a flare of silk petticoats, Philipa left. Let the bastard be acknowledged! It would not change the fact that she was mistress of the estate. The earl would be called back to court and Ivy and her child would answer to her.
Warwick Chapel
“By what name shall the child be known?”
The congregation held their breath as they waited to hear the baby’s name. A child was never named until it was being baptized to ensure that Satan couldn’t send one of his demons to snatch the child’s soul.
“Anne.” Philipa spoke clearly as the clergyman looked to her as the godmother to decide on the name. “After the Queen’s own dear departed mother.”
The clergyman almost dropped the infant into the baptismal font as his eyes bulged out in shock. Philipa fluttered her eyelashes innocently at him. There was a mutter running across the congregation but she did not care. Let the bastard bear an unlucky name. Anne Boleyn had lost her head long before her daughter wore the crown of England. Her husband was forbidden to attend the baptism along with Ivy in an attempt to cleanse the child completely without any softhearted parents in attendance. Philipa glared at the clergyman and he dunked the baby with far less grace than he normally did.
Anne screamed as she was pulled out of the baptismal basin. Philipa frowned as the baby turned red and the congregation sent up a cheer of acceptance. If the baby hadn’t screamed to release the devil, then it might have been shunned by its Christian community. Anne screeched loud enough to reach even the last pew.
At least she had managed to give the brat an unlucky name. The clergyman muttered a closing prayer before wrapping the infant in a towel and handing it to her. Philipa controlled the urge to sneer as she carried her goddaughter out of the chapel. The moment they entered the private hallway that led to her chamber, she thrust the child at a servant, turning her back on it. What she failed to see was the disapproving looks her maids gave her back as they cradled and soothed one of their own. Anne hiccupped before snuggling into the bosoms offered. The servants cooed to her as they stroked her dark baby hair.
The senior maid cast a look down the hallway her mistress had taken and frowned. “Some folks are mean hearted. Indeed they are! A baby is a blessing to the whole house! Everyone knows that. The mistress will poison herself with such meanness. It’ll bring dark times to everyone living on the land. Mark my words.”
The two under maids said nothing, holding their tongues in time-honored tradition. Speaking against the mistress of the house was grounds for dismissal. But not a one of them would admit to hearing anything from the housekeeper. Making an enemy of the housekeeper was bound to get a girl assigned the worst tasks. Instead, they reached up to touch the baby, smiling at the tiny rose lips. A healthy baby was good luck for everyone. Life was hard. Best to set your attentions on the good things when you could.
Warwickshire, the following spring
“Mother, come see. The swans have hatched.”
Philipa smiled. Her daughter scampered down the hallway, her nurse on her heels.
“Of course mother shall come and see, my precious one.”
Philipa followed her daughter toward the doorway. Looking down she smiled at the way Mary’s hair shone in the sun. She was pure blue blood. Everything about her fine and noble.
Unlike Ivy’s bastard.
Her daughter was perfection and legitimate. Joy filled her heart but it died in a sizzle when she gazed across the yard to see Ivy. The strumpet was big bellied once again and the gossips whispered that this time it was a male child. “Look Mother!” Mary pointed a chubby hand toward the swans but Philipa had lost all enjoyment of the moment. She glared at her husband’s mistress. Alice, her lady companion, spoke softly.
“You must reconsider my lady and invite your husband to your bed once more.”
Philipa turned on Alice in a sweep of the finest milled wool but her servant stood firm in the face of her displeasure. Alice had all but raised her and the disapproval drawing Alice’s features tight was hard to face, even for a mistress of the house as she was now. Inside she was still a little girl who had answered to Alice and taken discipline from her hand.
“He might send you back to your father with a divorce, my lady. It’s your duty. You need only give him a son.”
“But what if I birth another useless daughter?” Philipa shuddered. “You heard the midwife, Alice. My hips are too narrow. If Mary had been a bigger babe…I might…have…”
It was too horrible to finish saying. Alice shook her head in sympathy. “My lady, the first babe is always the hardest. Give the lord a son and your position will be secure. Then let the Copper girl bear the rest.”
Philipa’s entire body shook as she pressed her thighs tightly together beneath her skirts. Just the thought of birthing made her body run as cold as an icy winter river. She could not do it. She wanted to live. Not die in a pool of her own blood.
“I will not, Alice. I shall not ever bed my husband again! I swear it! Even if it means he sends me back to my father.”
Philipa felt her tears easing down her cheeks as she looked back at Ivy. Envy flowed into her heart, filling it. She welcomed it because it drove her fear away. Hate began to grow as she embraced her temper. An intense aversion for Ivy and her bastards and for everything they took from her, filled her heart.
She hated them. Hated, hated…hated.
