The King's Mistress Read Online Free Page B

of her husband’s twenty-six barbaric keeps, was easily heated, unlike drafty Edinburgh Castle in which she’d shivered continuously. Here, at least, she could cry in comfort.
    Her courses had come yet again.
    Alexander, who had proved himself fertile with his first wife, had done his husbandly duty by her on a weekly basis, so there could be no shifting of blame. The fault was hers and hers alone. And all would soon know it.
    At her back, her ladies-in-waiting were doubtless casting worried glances in her direction as they spoke in hushed tones and continued to embroider delicate fluer-de-lis and petals on swaddling clothes for the infant that only she knew was yet to be. A child all expected to distance the Scottish throne from that of the English and permanently bind Scotland to her beloved France, a country impoverished by constant war and in sore need of allies.
    “Your Highness?”
    Yolande turned to find Evette Franchot, her cousin and dear friend, at her side. “ Oui ?”
    As Evette leaned closer, the cauls holding her sable hair brushed Yolande’s cheek, and she caught the scent of lavender. “Mademoiselle Duval begs a word with you in private. She has news regarding Lady Armstrong.”
    At the mention of her husband’s favorite paramour, the fine hairs stood on Yolande’s arms. Lord forgive her, but she’d hated that woman from first sight.
    Tall, golden-headed Greer Armstrong, confident in her knowledge that she was the king’s favorite, had moved—nay, glided —about Edinburgh Castle as if the stronghold was hers but for the asking. As if she’d been born a Saxon princess instead of being the spawn of some landless knight. Adding insult, Yolande had been forced while in Edinburgh to sit night after night in the great hall at Alexander’s right hand while the whore sang one sanguine ballad after another like some gilded songbird…and her love-struck husband all but drooled in his lap.
    “Please tell Mademoiselle Duval to meet me in the herb garden.”
    There the ladies Campbell and Fraser, the Scot ladies-in-waiting who had been thrust upon her, would be hard-pressed to overhear anything Helene had to say.
    She loathed spies but acknowledged their necessity. At court, information was often more valuable than gold.
    Yolande faced her ladies-in-waiting and found all ten sitting with idle hands staring at her. She forced a smile. “Ladies, I have need for a breath of fresh air.” As they began to rise as one, she waved them back to their chairs. “Please stay and continue your work. I shall return in a short while.”
    Outside, Yolande found the youngest of her ladies-in-waiting pacing in tight circles in the pathetic patch of walled ground their Scot cook had the audacity to call a garden. “What is it, Helene?”
    Helene jerked in surprise, then dropped into a deep curtsy. “Your Highness, the wash maid we left behind in Edinburgh sent word that Lady Armstrong was seen retching near the stables before she left.”
    “So?” The woman had imbibed too much wine. Served the whore right.
    “In the morning, Your Highness, several days in a row.”
    Yolande shook her head. Dear merciful God, no. The whore could not possibly be with child.
    This could not be happening.
    “Why am I just now learning of this? Lady Armstrong left Edinburgh a month ago.”
    “Yes, but our maid wasn’t the one to spy Lady Armstrong retching. Another did.”
    “Who?” How many knew, for heaven’s sake?
    “A scullery maid spied her but said naught until early last morn when our wash maid offered to help her clean the great hall. They’d drunk the last of the night’s wine and were telling tales, as staff often do. The scullery maid, who’d witness Lady Armstrong’s many discomforts, apparently found it humorous that a highborn lady should find herself being unwed but with child as she herself once had.”
    Merciful mother of God, why was it that every female in the realm could breed like a hare—save for herself,