Thames ran broad and deep here, a rolling greyish-brown tide washing against mud banks shored up with steadily rotting wooden struts. The smell was offensive this close to the mud, and Virgil wrinkled his nose. But the stench of the river was no more offensive than the open ditch he had passed on his way into the warehouse, stinking and bejewelled with flies.
The back of his hair lifted in the breeze off the river, the sun beating down on his shoulders. He disliked having to visit the city in summer, as did every sensible man. Indeed the royal court had moved out to the leafy and modest palace at Richmond two days before, fleeing an outbreak of plague close to Greenwich. But Virgil himself had stayed behind on a sennight’s leave so he might procure more powerful ingredients for the king’s aphrodisiac than he had been able to find so far.
The infusion he had so carefully prepared for the king’s wedding night had brought arousal, His Majesty had grudgingly admitted, but not stamina. And the king wished to impress his new bride with his virility, not achieve his end within minutes and have to content himself with one hurried coupling every few days.
‘I should have heeded Master Greene and tested that potion properly before giving it to the king,’ Virgil muttered to himself, then folded his arms, glancing back towards the warehouse. The merchant was still nowhere in sight, just two lads dragging a large brown sack through a doorway. ‘I shall do so with this batch. And with a woman this time.’
He had not found an opportunity to test the finished infusion before the king’s marriage to Jane Seymour, other than to drink a few drops himself and observe its effects on his ability to achieve an erection. But in a man of fewer than thirty years, that was no great feat.
No, what he needed was to drink the next infusion before lying with a woman. A woman who was willing for him to perform not once, but several times in a night. A woman who was no virgin, but not a bawdy whore from the streets; he had no wish to infect himself with such inflamed disorders of the groin as he habitually treated in other men who dallied with prostitutes.
Margerie Croft.
He had thought of little else but her firm, pale body since their last heated meeting at Greenwich. Circumstances had kept them apart, but he had to have her. Weeks had gone by and it was becoming a matter of some urgency.
It was possible she was not a wanton. But no lady who wished for a husband would have yielded so readily to such intimacies, surely? Virgil remembered that night in the moonlit rose gardens at Greenwich Palace, and found himself stiffening at the memory of her lips against his, how eagerly she had kissed him back, the feel of her soft red hair under his fingers. He had slid those same fingers inside her later, brought her to climax against him, and she had not protested. What better sign did he need that she was no maid, that her body was available to him sexually?
She was beautiful. More than beautiful. Margerie Croft was captivating. Intoxicating and dangerous to a man’s senses, like the nectar of red Damask roses. What a heady mistress she would make!
‘Master Elton!’
He turned at the sound of his name. It was the merchant, Master Ferney, emerging from the entrance to his warehouse, blinking up at the sunlight as though he rarely saw it. Master Ferney hurried across to him at the water’s edge, his rich red doublet strained over a too-rounded belly. As he reached Virgil, his cap came tumbling off as a sudden gust of wind tore along the Thames, making their coats flap violently.
‘Master Elton,’ the merchant exclaimed, racing after his cap like a schoolboy, his thinning hair blown wildly about, his cheeks flushed, ‘I thought you had gone. I may have found that exotic aphrodisiac you were searching for. Would you care to accompany me back inside, sir?’
Margerie had not meant to rise so early. But she had long since finished the
The back of his hair lifted in the breeze off the river, the sun beating down on his shoulders. He disliked having to visit the city in summer, as did every sensible man. Indeed the royal court had moved out to the leafy and modest palace at Richmond two days before, fleeing an outbreak of plague close to Greenwich. But Virgil himself had stayed behind on a sennight’s leave so he might procure more powerful ingredients for the king’s aphrodisiac than he had been able to find so far.
The infusion he had so carefully prepared for the king’s wedding night had brought arousal, His Majesty had grudgingly admitted, but not stamina. And the king wished to impress his new bride with his virility, not achieve his end within minutes and have to content himself with one hurried coupling every few days.
‘I should have heeded Master Greene and tested that potion properly before giving it to the king,’ Virgil muttered to himself, then folded his arms, glancing back towards the warehouse. The merchant was still nowhere in sight, just two lads dragging a large brown sack through a doorway. ‘I shall do so with this batch. And with a woman this time.’
He had not found an opportunity to test the finished infusion before the king’s marriage to Jane Seymour, other than to drink a few drops himself and observe its effects on his ability to achieve an erection. But in a man of fewer than thirty years, that was no great feat.
No, what he needed was to drink the next infusion before lying with a woman. A woman who was willing for him to perform not once, but several times in a night. A woman who was no virgin, but not a bawdy whore from the streets; he had no wish to infect himself with such inflamed disorders of the groin as he habitually treated in other men who dallied with prostitutes.
Margerie Croft.
He had thought of little else but her firm, pale body since their last heated meeting at Greenwich. Circumstances had kept them apart, but he had to have her. Weeks had gone by and it was becoming a matter of some urgency.
It was possible she was not a wanton. But no lady who wished for a husband would have yielded so readily to such intimacies, surely? Virgil remembered that night in the moonlit rose gardens at Greenwich Palace, and found himself stiffening at the memory of her lips against his, how eagerly she had kissed him back, the feel of her soft red hair under his fingers. He had slid those same fingers inside her later, brought her to climax against him, and she had not protested. What better sign did he need that she was no maid, that her body was available to him sexually?
She was beautiful. More than beautiful. Margerie Croft was captivating. Intoxicating and dangerous to a man’s senses, like the nectar of red Damask roses. What a heady mistress she would make!
‘Master Elton!’
He turned at the sound of his name. It was the merchant, Master Ferney, emerging from the entrance to his warehouse, blinking up at the sunlight as though he rarely saw it. Master Ferney hurried across to him at the water’s edge, his rich red doublet strained over a too-rounded belly. As he reached Virgil, his cap came tumbling off as a sudden gust of wind tore along the Thames, making their coats flap violently.
‘Master Elton,’ the merchant exclaimed, racing after his cap like a schoolboy, his thinning hair blown wildly about, his cheeks flushed, ‘I thought you had gone. I may have found that exotic aphrodisiac you were searching for. Would you care to accompany me back inside, sir?’
Margerie had not meant to rise so early. But she had long since finished the
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