Читать книгу Rumours At Court - Blythe Gifford - Страница 14

Chapter Four

When next he was summoned to Lancaster’s quarters, Gil again saw a warrior all energy and attention.

Now, today, finally. I will be chosen to lead the army of invasion.

For some reason, his first thought was to share the news with the Lady Valerie.

In fact, so certain was he that the time had come, he almost did not understand the words Lancaster actually spoke.

‘We need more ships—’ the Duke began.

‘More?’ The last time he had assessed the situation, they had ships and men in hand and were only awaiting word from the ambassadors about their route. ‘Why? Have the Portuguese refused an alliance?’ If so, they would need more ships for a frontal assault.

‘Not for Castile. My father the King is sending Pembroke to relieve the siege in France.’

King Edward, Lancaster’s father, was King of this island. His will came before all. Uneasy, Gil counted again the men pledged to war. ‘Do you intend to divert our men to his effort?’

‘No.’ A promise as unequivocal as Gil would have wanted. ‘Pembroke will take a small group with him and gold to recruit the rest when he lands in Brittany. From there, they will march through Aquitaine...’

Gil listened to the plans by habit, each word bitter in his ears. France had belonged to the Plantagenets before England. They could not let it be taken now.

‘We await word from Portugal,’ Lancaster concluded. ‘So it will not delay our own expedition.’

Portugal’s silence, other forays diverting ships and energy—Gil was losing patience with all of it. But a commander must know when to advance and when to hold back. When they did reach Castile, his weeks of frustration would all be forgotten.

‘I will leave for Losford tomorrow,’ he said. Losford, guardian of the English coast, was the castle where he had learned to be a knight, all those years ago. In the harbour below, there must be some shipowners who would be glad of some extra coin to ferry men and horses across the Channel. For this effort, cogs, even smaller boats could be pressed into service. ‘I’ll send men to Sandwich and New Romney, too, and—’

A hand on his shoulder. ‘But something else, first.’

Again, his hope swelled. ‘Anything.’ At last. Captain of the Knights of Castile...

‘You must marry.’

‘What?’ He shook his head. He must have misheard. They had talked of war, not weddings.

But Lancaster’s words were firm. ‘Marry. You must marry.’

‘Of course, my lord.’ How could the man think of marriage when Castile lay in the balance? ‘Some day.’

‘Now.’

‘My lord—’ he began. Had the man gone mad? ‘Now is not the time—’

‘It must be now. Before...’ He let the word drift.

Before he took up arms again. Before death threatened.

‘My lord, marriage can wait.’

Lancaster shook his head. ‘You have waited longer than most men. You want a wife, do you not?’

He had never pondered it as a question. Marriage was not a choice. Every man married. But for him, marriage had been a long-deferred dream, not to be undertaken until his own accomplishments shone so brightly that they would make people forget the shadows that clung to the Brewen name of his mother’s people.

When he thought of it at all, he vaguely imagined a time when he was revered and honoured and living in Castile, where one day, he would look out and see a special glance, a special woman, one who could be as dear to him as the Duke’s first wife had been to him.

A foolish dream. But he was certain that when he was the man he wanted to be, the woman he wanted at his side would appear.

‘Yes, Your Grace, I do. When the time is right.’

‘And children? You want children?’

He wanted a son. Wanted with the same fierce longing that a starving man yearned for bread. ‘When we hold Castile, my lord.’ When he could return to the gardens of Alcázar, this time, as one who belonged there. ‘Then, gladly.’

The Duke shook his head. ‘You cannot wait. If anything happens to me, the Queen will bear my heir to sit on the throne. If we lose my brother, his son will sit on my father’s throne. If something happens to you...’

If something happens...

Death could come today. Tomorrow. By accident or disease. In France as easily as in Castile.

Lancaster had sired four sons. Only one still lived. He was a man who knew the shortness of life. Gil knew it, too, but he somehow believed he could hold death at bay until he had redeemed the Brewen name.

The Duke cleared his throat. ‘The leader I choose should think of the future.’

Was marriage, then, a condition of his appointment?

Gil swallowed. ‘Who?’ he said, finally, testing the thought. ‘Who would you have me marry?’

He had never actually devised the image of a wife. A son, with eyes the same pale blue as his own, he had imagined in detail so precise the boy might as well be real. But the woman who would warm his bed and wake up beside him day after day for all the years to come? He had not envisioned her at all.

Valerie’s face flashed before him. Why should he think of her now?

‘I have chosen,’ his lord said, ‘the Lady Valerie.’

Gil fought the quickening of his pulse. Had the man plucked her image from his mind?

But she was nothing he wanted in a wife. She shared his passion for Castile, perhaps, but from the words they had exchanged, he did not think they would suit. Stubborn, opinionated... He had thought to marry someone...different. Someone who would not remind him of his failures. ‘But we are in the midst of a war. The King wants ships. There is no time—’

‘There is time enough to bed her.’ A grim smile from the man who had bedded his wife somewhere between France and the English coast.

Now Gil’s blood swirled hot and his body surged in response, as if suddenly given permission. To know the colour of her hair, the feel of the skin of her shoulder beneath his fingers—that tempted him beyond reason. ‘But my duties to you, to Castile...’

Lancaster waved his hand. ‘None of that will change.’ And then, a wisp of memory clouded his face. ‘Mine didn’t. Not this time.’

But Gil wanted, needed, change. If he married now, he would have no home to offer but the one he had fled. ‘But surely this marriage can wait until we regain Castile?’

‘I said things would not change,’ Lancaster said, ‘but changes will come, Gil, as they do to all men, whether you want them or not.’ Memories and regret, both stamped on the Duke’s face. ‘Which is why your marriage must be now.’ The words, final. Allowing no more debate.

He swallowed. ‘Is she...willing?’

The Duke looked baffled. ‘She is a woman. She will do as I bid.’

And so must Gil. In truth, the decision belonged neither fully to him nor to her. True, either of them could protest at the church door, but the church ruled life after death. Lancaster, Monseigneur d’Espagne, ruled their lives on earth, hers as well as his. Their relationship with their lord was a complex series of agreements and promises, many written on parchment, others written on the heart, but all bonds made of honour, strong as iron. Vows not to be broken.

Not if Gil was to be the man he wanted to be.

But his true question lay answered. Will she have me? Will she take a Brewen?

He asked a different way. ‘Her family...will they consent?’

‘She has no family left. And no children from Scargill, so none to compete with the ones you will give her.’

He nodded, silent, understanding why the Duke had thought her a good match. No family left. No one to object.

‘She told me,’ Gil began, ‘that one of her ancestors had served Eleanor of Castile.’

‘Yes,’ the Duke said. ‘Her family has no stain through all those generations.’

He gritted his teeth. An awkward acknowledgement. He needed a spotless reputation from a wife more than he needed worldly wealth.

Assuming his agreement, the Duke continued. ‘Her dowry is the parcel of land given to the family years ago, but it is part of Scargill’s holdings now and he died with debts. I will arrange a dowry payment for her instead of passing on the land.’

Because a duke could do such things.

‘Does she know? Of your decision?’

The Duke smiled. ‘I thought you should bring her the good news.’

He wondered whether she would find it so. ‘I leave for Losford tomorrow. When I get back—’

‘No. Now. Before you go.’

He sighed. Maybe fortune would smile on him, he thought, as he bowed and left the room. Maybe, as opinionated as she was, she would say no.

* * *

‘Sir Gilbert asks that you come to him.’

Valerie looked around the room. The page’s whisper had reached only her ear. The Queen was resting and her other ladies, as always, were ignoring Valerie with deliberate purpose.

She would not be missed.

She put down her hated needlework and followed the boy to the outer room, struggling to stifle the heat in her cheeks at the memory of their last meeting. Her every encounter with Sir Gilbert had been unpleasant. What could send him to her again? Did he think to warn her against spreading suspicious tales about Lady Katherine and My Lord of Spain? No need. Idle chatter would only hurt both Katherine and the Queen.

The grim set of his lips did not reassure her. The Wolf of Castile they had called him. He looked the part today. Whatever message he bore, the tidings must not be good.

What was that legend?

If a wolf sees a man before the man sees the wolf, the man will lose his voice. If the man sees the wolf first, the wolf can no longer be fierce.

Then surely he must have seen her first.

She stopped before him and he bowed, briefly. ‘I must speak to you alone. Let us walk.’

She gave the page a wave of dismissal and followed Sir Gilbert into the corridor. His stride was longer than hers and she near ran, trying to keep up, but still she lagged behind.

He turned to look finally, still frowning.

She stopped, still a length behind him, and mirrored his glare. ‘My steps are shorter than yours.’

A flicker crossed his face, as if her words had shamed him.

Again, she had been forward, speaking as if she had the right to counter him. Would he shout? Raise his hand to her? No. He did not have a husband’s rights. She was safe.

He waved towards a window alcove with a stone seat. ‘Then sit.’

She did. The hallway, far from the nearest fireplace, was empty and the stone was cold even through the wool of her gown.

He did not sit, but towered over her, broad shoulders blocking the draught from the window, looking more fearsome than ever. She braved meeting his eyes again, but this time, she sensed none of the fire that had sparked between them before.

This time, he eyed her as if she were an opponent on the field.

She wanted to avert her gaze—to study the cloud-filled sky and assess when the rain would come—to look anywhere but into his critical eyes. But she willed herself to face him, calmly, waiting.

He began without preamble. ‘The Duke thinks I ought to marry you.’ Words spare, blunt. And totally void of feeling.

Yet they left her as shocked as if he had run a sword through her. All hope for a life of independence, even the few weeks’ reprieve she had tried to grasp, all gone. She clawed for words. ‘But I am serving the Queen.’ As if that might truly save her. ‘She asked that I stay—’

‘You will continue to do so as long as she wishes.’

Only until Easter, La Reina had said. And there could be no wedding until Lent was over. But then? She would indeed be at a man’s mercy again.

She paused, letting her mind settle. She must not assume the worst. They were gathering men and ships to return to Castile. This man had other obligations and no time to settle into a new household. ‘So we will be betrothed. For some time.’

‘No.’ His face was grim, as if he took no more joy in this marriage than she did. ‘Before I sail for Castile.’

And yet, she had heard nothing of when that might be. Did she have weeks? Days? Only hours of freedom left? ‘When? When is this marriage to take place?’

How many more days of her own did she have?

‘A few weeks. The war is close upon us.’

Obvious the man had not married before. He knew nothing of all that lay ahead. ‘But banns must be read, the union announced—’

‘Lancaster will see to that.’

‘I see.’ And now she did. No arguments to be made. No way to delay. The decision had been made. Once again, control had left her hands and been given to men. She fixed a smile on her lips, met his eyes with the appropriate expression and mumbled the words he must have expected from the first. ‘I am honoured, of course, and will try in every way to please you.’

The compliment brought a moment of confusion to his face, a touch of doubt to his gaze. ‘Does that mean yes? That you will marry me?’

She wanted to scream no to this man she barely knew. Was he cruel or kind? Had he wealth or only his armour?

And yet, all that mattered less now than what he knew.

He knew of her humiliation. He knew that her husband had betrayed her with another woman. Seen the crumpled evidence of her failure as a wife.

Suddenly, knowing she would have to please a husband again, the familiar fears returned. Would he, like Scargill, think her breasts too small and her hips too thin? Would he, too, grow to hate the sound of her voice and tell her to shut her mouth?

And even though she must expect that this man, too, would seek another’s bed some day, the first time he came to her bed, he would already count her a failure. He already knew she had not been enough for her husband.

And yet, he had asked. Does that mean yes? An awkward question, but surprisingly kind. As if pretending the choice were hers. It was not. For she had known one thing, always. No woman could refuse a marriage.

And so, with head high and lips pressed firmly into a smile, she nodded. ‘Yes. I will marry you.’

I will marry you. Words enough to satisfy canon law. That would allow her to call him husband.

He let out a breath, as if with her assent, the hardest part had passed. ‘Then we are betrothed.’ Yet that look of uncertainty lingered on his face, as if the Wolf had become a Lamb. ‘Have you nothing more to say?’

She coughed, to cover the laughter that threatened to bubble over. A woman did not laugh at her husband. Not if she wished a smooth existence. But this man seemed full of contradictions, by turn stern, angry, kind and even, for a moment, as uncertain of the future as she.

There were questions she should ask, important ones about her land and his family, where they would marry, where they would live. But the answers barely mattered now. My Lord of Spain had decreed it. So it would be. All she could do was to bow her head, bite her tongue and submit to this man’s will. ‘What happens next?’

‘I have duties with my lord, as do you with the Queen. We will continue to fulfil them.’

She nodded, as briefly as he, with a half-smile as if his answer pleased her. It was a partial, but perplexing reprieve. ‘But I am to meet your family, move my belongings, settle into your holdings and establish a home...’ When she had married Scargill, there was a flurry of activity, settling details of property and management of the holdings, making room for him in the home that had been hers...

All to be ready for the arrival of a baby that never came.

‘Nothing will change.’ He said those words as if they were a vow, then rose, as if the conversation was complete and everything settled.

Nothing? It was evident that the man had never married, or he would know that everything was to change. Or, perhaps, it was true for him. Only Valerie would, once again, rearrange her life to accommodate a husband. And, if he had no home of his own, perhaps they would live at Florham, as she and Scargill had done. The very possibility was a comfort.

‘Is it my place to tell the Queen that I am to be wed?’ How were such things done? Her life had been tied to the earth, not to the court.

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is for My Lord of Spain to do. I do not know the way of such things.’

‘As you will, my lord.’

He shrugged his shoulders, as if to throw off the title. ‘You must not call me that.’

My lord. It was the title Scargill preferred above all others. ‘But so you shall be.’

‘Call me something else.’

‘The Wolf?’ She permitted herself half of a smile. ‘I think I prefer my lord.’

‘My father called me Gil.’

‘Gil.’ A name bright and strong. Easy to speak. ‘Then it will be as you wish. Gil.’

He nodded, awkward, then stood. ‘Tomorrow I go to Losford on behalf of the King. We will discuss arrangements when I return.’ Duty done, he bowed. Brief. Perfunctory. ‘Goodnight, Lady Valerie.’

His task complete, as if dusting his hands of dirt.

He was three steps away when she called after him. ‘If you are to be Gil, I must be Valerie.’

He looked back, then honoured her with a stiff nod, as if every interaction was painful.

But then, he took a step towards her and did not look away. Tangled in his gaze, she rose from the bench and moved in his direction. Time slowed. Her pulse quickened. Close now, she could see his lips, no longer unyielding but softer than she had thought. One breath more, two, and they would make another step, touch, and—

‘Goodnight, Valerie.’

And then, he was gone.

Nothing will change.

She only wished it were true.