Читать книгу Secrets at Court - Blythe Gifford, Blythe Gifford - Страница 10

Chapter Two

Usually, Lady Joan floated into a room and settled on to her seat as lightly as a bird alighting on a branch.

Not today. Had the news not been to her liking?

‘What is wrong, my lady?’ Anne bit her tongue. She should not have spoken so bluntly.

The Countess was rarely irous. When she was, Anne knew how to coax her with warm scented water for her hands and her temples, with a hot fire in winter or an offer to bring out her latest bauble to distract and delight her eye. If that did not work, she would summon Robert the Fool to juggle and tumble about the room. Sometimes, if they were clean and not crying, seeing her children could restore the balance of her humour.

Normally, her mistress buried all beneath a smile and behind eyes that gazed adoringly at the man before her. But today...

Anne put aside her stitching as her lady paced the room like a skittish horse. Then, she remembered the ambassador’s face. The news must not have been all Lady Joan wanted. ‘The decision of the Pope? Will you and the Prince be allowed...?’

‘Yes, yes. But first, they think to investigate my clandestine marriage.’

Relieved, Anne picked up her needle. Well, thus was the reason she had been roused from her bed in the middle of the night. ‘I witnessed it, of course. And will tell them so.’

The large blue eyes turned on her. ‘Not that one.’

Her hands stopped making stitches and she swallowed. ‘What? To what purpose? You have no enemies.’

Lady Joan laughed, that lovely sound that captivated so many. ‘Even our friends find it difficult to countenance the marriage of the Prince to an English widowed mother near past an age to bear. They think we are both mad.’

Mad they were. But then, her lady had always been mad for, or with, love. It was a privilege most women of her birth were not allowed, yet Joan grasped it with both hands. She was the descendant of a King, born to all privilege. Why should this one be denied?

Anne swallowed the thought and kept her fingers moving to create even stitches, as her lady liked them.

‘But we could not wait,’ Joan said, speaking as much to herself as to Anne. ‘You know we could not wait.’

‘No, of course,’ Anne agreed by habit, uncertain which of her weddings Lady Joan was thinking of. For what her lady wanted could never, never wait.

‘The pestilence is all around us. It could fell us at any time. We wanted...’

Ah, yes. She spoke of Edward, then.

This time, the pestilence had struck grown men and small children hardest. Even the King’s oldest friend had been taken. The Prince, any of them, might be dead tomorrow.

The reminder stilled her fingers. Since birth, Anne had needed all her strength just to cling to survival.

‘Do you think we’re mad, Anne?’ The voice, instead of commanding an answer, was wistful, as if she hoped Anne would answer no.

She sounded once again as she had all those years ago. Just for a moment, no longer a woman with royal blood, born to command, but a woman in love, desperate for reassurance that miracles were possible.

Joan had worn the same face then. Blue eyes wide, fair curls about her face, pleading, as if one person were all the difference between Heaven and Earth.

How could she answer now? Joan was mad. Playing with the laws of God and men as if she had the right. And suddenly, Anne wished fiercely she could do the same.

Such choices did not exist for a cripple.

‘It is not for me to say, my lady.’

Joan rose and gathered Anne’s fingers away from her needle, playing with them as she had when they were young. ‘But I want you to celebrate with me. With us.’

Ah, yes. That was Joan. Still able to wind everyone she knew into a ball of yarn she could toss at will. So Anne sighed and hugged her, and said she was happy for her and all would be well, succumbing to Joan’s charm as everyone did. It was her particular gift, to draw love to herself as the sea drew the river.

‘It is settled, then,’ Joan said, all smiles again. ‘All will be as it must.’

‘Of course, my lady.’ Words by rote. A response as thoughtless as her lady’s watchwords.

But her lady was not finished. ‘Have you seen him? The King’s ambassador, Sir Nicholas?’

Anne’s heart sped at the memory. ‘From afar.’

‘So he has not seen you.’

She shook her head, grateful he had been spared the sight of her stumbling as she stared after him.

‘Good. Then here is what you must do for me.’

Anne put down her needlework and listened.

An honour, of course, the life she lived. Many would envy a position at the court, surrounded by luxury. And yet, some days, it felt more like a dungeon, for she would never be allowed to leave her lady’s side.

She knew too much.

* * *

Nicholas stood in an alcove on the edge of the Great Room of the largest of the King’s four lodges, watching Edward and Joan celebrate as if they were already wed in the eyes of God and his priests.

All evening, men had come up to him, slapping him on the shoulder as if the battle were over and he had won a great victory.

He had not. Not yet.

A swig of claret did not help him swallow that truth, though Edward and Joan seemed to have no trouble ignoring it. Still, the Pope’s message had been private, not his to share. Nothing more than a formality. A few more weeks of inconvenience, then he’d find freedom.

He scanned the room, impatient to be gone. The treaty with France was a year old, but Nicholas had spent little of it in England. King Edward now held the French King’s own sons as hostages and Nicholas had been one of those charged with the comings and goings of men and of gold.

Now, instead of meeting the French in battle, King Edward, as chivalrous as Arthur, treated them as honoured guests instead of prisoners of war. He had even brought some of them to this forest hideaway to protect them from the pestilence.

Well, a live hostage was worth gold. A dead one was worth nothing. And Nicholas’s own French hostage, securely held in a gaol in London, would be worth something.

One day.

The King had called for dancing and some of the French hostages had joined in, laughing and flirting with Princess Isabella, who was nearly the age of the Prince and unmarried. Strange, that such a wise ruler as Edward had not yet married off his oldest children. Unused assets, too long accustomed to living as they pleased, both of them were strong willed and open to mischief.

Someone bumped into him, hard enough that his wine sloshed from the cup and splashed his last clean tunic. He turned, frowning, ready to call out to the clumsy knave.

Instead, he saw a woman.

Well, he did not see her exactly. The first thing he saw, he felt as it brushed over his hand, was her hair. Soft and red and smelling vaguely of spices.

A surge of desire caught him off guard. It had been a long time since he had bedded a woman, or even thought of one.

She had fallen and he swallowed the sharp retort he had planned and held out a hand to help her rise. ‘Watch yourself.’

She looked up at him, eyes wide, then quickly looked down. ‘Forgive me.’

Humble words. But not a humble tone.

She raised her eyes again and he saw in their depths that she was accustomed to serving the rich. He knew that feeling and wondered who she waited on.

‘I am sorry,’ she said, in a tone that implied she had used the words many times. ‘Usually there is no one here and I can catch a moment of quiet.’

‘I spoke too harshly.’ Life at court demanded strength and courtesy in a different mix from the work of war and diplomacy.

He grabbed her hand to help her up, ignoring the fire on his palm, thinking she would let go quickly.

She did not.

Her fingers remained in his, not lightly, as if she were attempting seduction, but heavily as if she would fall without his support.

‘Can you stand now?’ Eager to have his hand returned.

Her eyes met his and did not look away this time. ‘If you hand me my stick.’

Too late, he saw it. A crutch, fallen to the floor.

He looked down at her skirt before he could stop himself, then forced his eyes to meet hers again.

Hers had a weary expression, as if he were not the first curious person who had sought a glimpse of her defect. ‘It is a feeble foot and not much to look on.’

He did not waste breath to deny where his gaze had fallen. ‘Lean against the wall. I’ll get your stick.’

She did and he bent over, feeling strangely unbalanced, as if he might topple, too. The movement brought his hand and his cheek too close to her skirt and he caught himself wondering what lay beneath, not the foot she had spoken of, but the more womanly parts...

Abruptly, he stood and handed the smooth, worn stick to her, straight armed, as if she might catch sight of his thoughts if he got too close.

She reached for the staff, tucked it under her arm, then stretched her free hand to brush the stain on his tunic. ‘I will have this washed.’

He grabbed her fingers and nearly threw her hand away from his chest. ‘No need.’ Ashamed, with his next breath, that he had done so. She would think it was because of her leg.

It was not. It was because her fingers lit a fire within him. ‘Forgive my lack of chivalry.’ He had been too long at war and too little around women.

She laughed then. A laugh devoid of mirth, yet it rolled through her with the deep reverberation of a bell.

A bell calling him not to church, but to something much more earthly.

When her laughter faded, she smiled. ‘I am not a woman accustomed to chivalry.’

He studied her, puzzled. She would not have drawn his eye in a room. Hair the colour of fabric ill—dyed, as if it wanted to be red but had not the strength. An unremarkable face except for her eyes. Large, wide set, bold and stark, taking over her face, yet he could not name their colour. Blue? Grey?

‘What are you accustomed to?’ he asked.

Not a serving woman. She was too well dressed and, despite his first impression, did not have the cowering demeanour of those of that station.

‘I am Anne of Stamford, lady-in-waiting to the Countess of Kent.’

The Countess of Kent. Or, as she would soon be known, the Princess of Wales. The woman whose want of discretion had sent him to Avignon and back.

‘I am Sir Nicholas Lovayne.’ Though she had not shown the courtesy to ask.

‘The King’s emissary to His Holiness,’ she finished. Her eyes, fixed on him. ‘I know.’

He shifted his stance, moving a step away. His mission was no secret, but her tone suggested she knew more of his news than the courtiers who had slapped his back in congratulations.

He wondered what the Lady Joan had told her.

‘Then you know,’ he said, cautiously, ‘what a celebration this is.’

She looked out over the room, without the smile he might have expected. ‘Not until they are wed in truth. Then, we will celebrate.’

We. As if she and her lady were the same person. So they were close, this maiden and her lady.

Why would Lady Joan choose such a woman as a close companion? If one discounted her lameness, this Anne would not draw a second glance. Perhaps, then, that was the reason. Perhaps the Countess wanted someone who would not distract from her own beauty.

If so, she had chosen well.

‘Then let us hope we truly celebrate soon,’ he said. Celebrate and let him leave for the unencumbered life he wanted.

‘That will depend on you, won’t it?’

Close indeed, if she had been told so much.

He threw back the last swallow of claret. An unpleasant reminder of the task still before him. A waste of time, to look for things that had been proven to the satisfaction of God’s representative on earth long ago. ‘It will depend on how quickly the Archbishop can locate a dozen-year-old document.’

‘Is that all that must be done?’

He certainly hoped so. ‘His Holiness can expect no more. Except to prick the King’s ease.’

‘And will it be difficult?’

Full of questions. He glanced at the table at the end of the Hall. His answers, no doubt, would go directly to her mistress. ‘No.’

‘We are all just...’ The pause seemed wistful. ‘Ready for it to be over.’

‘As am I,’ he said. He felt like that Greek fellow. Hercules. One labour ended, another began. Surely he had reached his dozen.

They exchanged smiles, as if they were old friends. ‘A few weeks only,’ he assured her. ‘Less, if I can make it so.’

‘You sound as eager for the conclusion as I. What awaits you, when all this is over?’

Nothing. And that freedom was the appeal. ‘I will head back across the Channel.’

‘Another duty for the Prince?’

He shook his head. He was done with duties and obligations. ‘Not this time. Rather a duty to myself.’ Bald to say it. He looked down at his empty cup. ‘And now, I leave you to the peace you sought here.’

‘Do not leave on my behalf. The Countess will have missed me by now.’ She took a step, steadying herself with her crutch.

‘Do you need help?’ He waved his hand in her direction. How did one assist a cripple?

There was steel in her smile. ‘I do this every day.’

Maybe so, he thought, but as she left, her lips tightened and her brow creased. Every day, every step, then, lived in pain.

We are all waiting... Ah, yes. The Prince and Lady Joan were not the only ones depending on him for a quick resolution. So was her lady-in-waiting, he thought, as he watched her leave, rolling and swaying with her awkward gait.

He wondered why she cared so much.

* * *

Anne made her way back to the dais, then waited until Lady Joan could break off and they could speak unheard.

‘So?’ Beneath the smile, her lady’s whisper was urgent. ‘What did he say?’

Anne shook her head. ‘No suspicions.’ She had become sensitive to such things. Shrugs, tones of voice. It compensated for other weaknesses. ‘He gives little thought to the task except that it be over. He thinks that the Pope only wanted to create one final obstacle in exchange for his blessing.’

‘Yes, of course. That must be it. No other reason.’ Her lady breathed again. ‘All will be as it must. Now that we know, you must avoid Sir Nicholas.’

She knew that. Knew she should for all kinds of reasons. But her stubborn, sinful ingratitude flared again. The resentment that boiled over when Lady Joan, kind as she was, demanded something in the tone she might use to a command her hound or her horse.

No, she must be grateful. She nodded.

Anne looked across the Hall at him. Tall, straight, well favoured, with eyes that seemed to pierce the walls.

And able to move—oh, God, to move wherever he liked. Back to France for no good reason, as if it were as easy as walking into a room.

She had learned to stifle her envy as she watched women dance on their toes, watched men stride without stopping. But when this stranger took her hand, it was not envy she felt.

It was something worse. Attraction.

She turned away. Maybe it was not this man, maybe it was all that surrounded her. The wedding, the minute-by-minute need that Joan and her Edward felt, as if each was the other’s air...

That would never be hers, Anne knew, so she had never let herself want it. Never allowed her eyes to fall on a man and think of him that way. If she were so fortunate as to wed, it would be because some man had taken pity on her and agreed to carry the burden of her in exchange for beautiful stitching and a steady head. And if he did, she would, of course, have no choice but to be abjectly grateful.

Her eyes sought him out again. No, she needed no encouragement to avoid Sir Nicholas Lovayne. She wanted no reminders of things that would never be hers.