Читать книгу Secrets at Court - Blythe Gifford, Blythe Gifford - Страница 12

Chapter Four

You will lie.

Could she? When she opened her mouth, would the words come out?

She would, because she must.

Because her whole life was a lie.

She reminded herself of that, after the evening meal, when she looked for Nicholas in the Hall. Her lady had asked that she befriend him and befriend him she would, ignoring the fact that the idea appealed to her for reasons her lady must not know.

As before, she saw him standing alone at the edge of the Hall, looking out over the dancers. She joined him, relieved he had not moved in the time it took for her to hobble to his side. He could easily escape her and she could not chase him around the Hall.

‘I hope you do not mind my company,’ she said, as she sank onto the bench and leaned against the stone wall. Her leg ached and she wished she could rub it.

‘I wonder why you seek mine,’ he said, in a sour tone. ‘I seem to do nothing but insult you.’

She felt heat in her cheeks. ‘Forgive me. I must be ever pleasant and positive with the Countess.’ She pulled her needlework out from its pouch and fumbled with the needle and thread. ‘Sometimes, I...’ She bit her tongue.

‘Tire of it?’

‘Do you not? Are there not times you want to say something the Prince would not wish to hear?’

He smiled, sheepishly.

So that had happened. Recently. ‘I can see that you have.’ She wondered what impolitic thing he had wanted to say. And whether it had been about her lady.

‘I’ll keep your secret,’ he said, the smile warmer now, ‘if you’ll keep mine.’

She had to return his grin and, for a moment, she felt as if they were partners instead of adversaries.

‘You have my promise,’ she said.

Relationships, promises, loyalties. In the end, that was all a King had. That was what allowed him to rule. That was what kept the world from falling utterly to dust and what kept Anne from starving alone.

Nicholas was loyal to Edward. He would find what Edward wanted him to find.

All would be as it must.

As she stitched, the noise of the after-supper entertainment rose. Singing, dancing, the tumbling and juggling echoed around the hall.

Old Robert the Fool rolled across the floor in a somersault, then jumped to his feet in front of them, tossing and catching five painted wooden balls. ‘And who is this new arrival come before us?’

‘A juggler like yourself,’ she answered, putting down the alms purse. ‘Sir Nicholas Lovayne.’

He turned to her with a frown.

She ignored him.

‘Ah,’ Old Robert said, both tongue and hands still moving, ‘this is the miracle worker I’ve heard of. The one who can make Eve into the Virgin Mary.’

Shamed, Anne flushed, silent. Fools had licence others did not, but it was a blatant reference to her lady. And not a flattering one. She hoped Joan would never hear of it.

‘Look lively, Sir Miracle Worker.’ The fool tossed a ball to Nicholas.

Astonished, she watched him catch it and throw it back and suddenly, they were juggling the five between them and Nicholas was smiling again.

When, finally, he missed a catch, he picked up the fallen ball and tossed it to Old Robert with ease. ‘I’m not your match, Fool.’

‘Ah, it depends on the game, doesn’t it?’ He winked at them and moved on.

She cleared her throat. ‘He has been with the King for many years. He assumes privileges.’

He shrugged. ‘A fool’s words are not worth repeating.’

Able to breathe again, she turned back to her stitching, watching Nicholas out of the corner of her eye.

Loyal to the Prince, he would spread no tales. And yet he sat alone while Edward the father and Edward the son cast bets on the throw of the die with other knights and nobles.

She met his eyes and nodded toward the laughing group in the corner. ‘You do not join them?’

He turned to follow her glance. ‘Life itself seems a game of chance. I do not actively seek uncertainty.’

‘You have spent years at war. There is no certainty there.’

‘More than you would think. We are certain to ride long days, certain to be hungry, certain to fight. I control all the things I can, but in the end, I am certain to either live or die.’

‘As God wills.’

‘Or the King. Or your lady.’

She must have stared for a moment, shocked at his words. Blasphemy, no doubt, but they reflected her own life, lived at the mercy of someone else.

‘Yet you return to France.’ She must keep him speaking of himself so he would not think of questioning her. ‘Why?’

A wisp of longing washed over his face. ‘To return to war.’

‘But the war is over.’ A truce was signed. French hostages crowded the court.

‘Is it?’ He looked down at her, brow raised, as if she were no wiser than a child, then shrugged. ‘There will be another. Somewhere.’

‘And you care not where you fight? Or why?’

‘Men fight for only one reason. To stay alive.’

‘You don’t want a home?’ A wife? ‘Here in England?’

He shook his head. ‘I would rather keep moving.’

Envy tasted bitter. ‘Will you not wed?’

‘Of course.’ His voice, hearty, but bitter. ‘To a wealthy widow.’

‘Ah.’ She swallowed, ashamed of the direction of her thoughts. Of course he would marry. He was tall and strong. His legs, long and straight, stretched out before him, a deliberate insult to her own. The old King, Longshanks, must have had limbs such as these. ‘Will she be here soon?’

‘She? Who?’

‘Your...’ She had a moment’s jealousy of the woman who would lie in his arms. ‘The widow.’ Someone for whom she could stitch an alms purse.

He shook his head, eyes downcast. ‘There is no widow. But that’s what every poor knight wants, is it not?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what a poor knight wants.’ She kept her eyes on her work, ashamed that she had asked. There would be no one for her. Ever. And asking embarrassing questions of a handsome knight would change nothing.

‘I answered rudely. Your question was an honest one. What this poor knight wants is the ransom for his French hostage.’

‘So you’ve a prisoner?’ Keep the talk of him. Do not let him ask questions about her or her lady.

He nodded. ‘The reward for all my months of fighting.’

She looked out over the Hall where some of the French hostages were exchanging lingering glances with the ladies. ‘Is he here?’

‘He’s safely locked up in London, dining at my expense.’

‘But you’ll be paid for that, with the ransom.’

‘The French have been slow with ransom payments.’

She nodded. That much she knew. ‘And while we wait for French livres, the hostages entertain themselves with food and wine and gambling.’

‘That we must pay for. I sometimes wonder whether it would be cheaper for the French to pay the ransom than to keep paying their expenses here.’

Something she had never considered. He was a man accustomed to thinking of the cost of things. Her lady never did, even after the bill was presented. ‘Yet you are a fortunate man,’ she said. ‘You have a hostage. He will bring you gold.’

‘Forgive my ingratitude.’ He looked abashed and she was sorry. ‘I must seem rude. I’m just ready to be quit of him and back to France.’

‘No! I like that you do not...hold your tongue.’ So few were so blunt. Fewer still would speak of movement without a downward glance at her poor leg. ‘I envy you your journey. I would love to see...so much.’

‘Have you not been out of England?’

‘Yes, of course. The Lady Joan was in France when her husband, Lord Holland, died.’ They had gone when her lady willed and returned when her lady willed. And all the while, unexplored horizons beckoned.

He looked at her, his glance too perceptive. ‘And when next she returns, you will, too.’

‘They speak of Aquitaine. A kingdom of his own for the Prince.’

He grunted and took a sip of claret.

Again, she waited in vain for him to speak. Finally, she tried again. ‘You do not approve?’

He looked at her, his expression more shock than sneer. ‘My opinion makes no difference.’

A feeling she well knew. ‘But you have been there.’

He nodded.

‘And would you return?’ He, a man who had travelled across France. He would know whether it was a place she would like.

‘There is no need. We subdued it.’

So clear that this man knew no life but war. ‘I mean, should we—I mean, should the Prince and my lady go, will it be a pleasant place to live?’

‘A flat land with rivers. Hard to defend. The bridges need to be rebuilt.’

No mention of whether the rivers were wide and blue or narrow and rushing. No word of green leaves or yellow flowers or whether the sun was warm or the wine sweeter near its own soil. ‘Can you speak of nothing but horses and supplies and fighting?’

His eyes cleared of memory and recognised her once more. ‘That’s why I was there.’

There with eyes focused not on the land, but on how they must move over it and what they must do to subdue it. ‘But I will not be there for war.’

‘The Prince will.’

‘But his wife will not. I hope there will be time to see other things.’

Quiet, but intent, he studied her. ‘What things? What things would you choose to see?’

She looked away, abashed by the perception of the question. If she were as tall and strong as he and free to choose her life, she would walk from here to Compostela to see the shrine of St James and from there to Rome, where the ancient stones of the Romans still stood. And beyond that lay Castile or Jerusalem or even Alexandria...

But those were dreams for someone else, not for a lame girl.

‘I go where my lady chooses.’ And was fortunate to do so. Fool. She had let the man turn questions on her and then been foolish enough to answer them.

She bowed her head over her needlework, grateful that the music and chatter had masked their words. She must turn the talk back to him before she said something else to regret. Dancers gathered before them on the floor as the minstrels lifted pipes and bows.

Turning back to Nicholas, she gave him her broadest smile. ‘Do you dance?’

* * *

Nicholas looked at Anne, uncertain what to say. Anything he said would be an insult to a woman who would never skip gaily through a circle dance.

‘There was little dancing in the midst of battle.’ It was the truth.

She looked up from her stitching and smiled, as if she realised the foolishness of the question. ‘Was there no respite from the fighting?’

‘The King made time for hawking.’ Which meant Nicholas had arranged for the care and feeding of the King’s favourite birds as well as of men.

‘Ah.’ She had a way of looking from her stitching to his face and back in a natural rhythm. ‘I have ridden after the falcons. Once. Or twice.’

She could ride, then. He had wondered.

His surprise must have shown plain on his face, for she answered it. ‘The falconer does most of the work.’

‘I did not think—’

‘I know what you thought.’ Her needle paused.

He, a man who cloaked his feelings from royalty, had allowed this woman to see his very thoughts. Dangerous.

Then, as if she had seen his dismay, she touched his hand with fingers straight and slender, some mad form of amends for her leg.

‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I try to ignore that which is perfectly obvious. You did nothing wrong.’

He wondered whether she had confessed so much to others. ‘You take your...situation...with remarkable calm.’

‘I have no choice. What else can I do?’

No choice. He shuddered. He had lived his life making sure that there were always choices, options, other paths to follow.

‘You could rail against your fate and insist on special treatment.’ He knew able-bodied warriors more peevish with less reason.

‘That would change nothing.’

He had no answer to that and the silence between them grew until, as the music ended, he realised her fingers still rested on the back of his hand. She saw them at the same moment and pulled them away, as if from a fire.

‘Will you join tomorrow’s hunt?’ Thoughtless words to cover the awkward moment. It was a deer hunt, demanding in a way that hawking was not.

And he was looking forward to it. He would ride as long and hard and fast as the running stag they chased. He would outride all the frustration of being stuck here because the King was overcautious.

Her fingers were busy with her needle again, the rhythm restored. ‘They have little patience with me on the hunt.’

‘Women ride.’ Some of them. ‘And there is no shame in lagging behind.’

‘Not as far behind as I do.’

Was her smile as wistful as he imagined? He supposed it would be a kind of death, to be left behind, trapped, while the rest of the court galloped off on a sunny summer day.

‘Come,’ he said, abruptly. He had seen slaughter enough in France. No need to witness the death of every deer. ‘I’ll ride beside you.’

Her needle shook, but her stitches did not pause. ‘Pity for the cripple?’

He grabbed her wrist, stopping her needle and forcing her to look at him. ‘No.’

She met his eyes, questioning, and he wondered what she saw there. In truth, he did not know why he had offered and more words would only make it worse.

Finally, she smiled, a slow, lovely thing. ‘I would like that.’

‘Tomorrow, then.’ He stood abruptly and with a curt bow escaped.

As quickly as that, he had committed himself to spend time with a woman who would do nothing but drag him down.