Читать книгу Rumours At Court - Blythe Gifford, Blythe Gifford - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Valerie closed her eyes, blocking the sight of the muddy, wrinkled piece of cloth. It was proof, proof again, of how little she had mattered to her husband.

Sir Ralph Scargill had sailed away to war in the springtime. Another spring came and went. She had not missed him. Though she knew the war was going badly, no one bothered to report details to a knight’s wife and he was not a man to send home tender words.

So it was only a few months ago, when the Duke returned and her husband did not, that she knew the whole of it. Or thought she did.

For now, this man, the one they called The Wolf, stood before her with furrowed brow and an outstretched hand, holding silk that had touched the flesh of an unknown woman who had, no doubt, lain with her husband.

Had she, too, had to hide her bruises?

Even if that were true, he must have cared for this woman to carry a reminder of her into battle. He had never asked Valerie for a token.

And she had never offered one.

But the man before her, a hardened warrior, blinked to hear the truth. ‘I thought...’

She felt a twinge of regret. Poor man. He had only tried to comfort a grieving widow, not knowing she had never grieved.

A frown touched his brows and she saw compassion in his eyes. Around them, people had stopped to look.

She turned away, abruptly, and heard the murmur of conversation again. Bad enough to have seen the man’s shock. She did not want to face his pity. Or anyone else’s.

‘Wait.’ The word low and urgent. His fingers circled her wrist, a touch at once hard and hot.

Reluctantly, she looked back. ‘Why?’ The scrap of silk, discarded, now lay crumpled at his feet. She resisted the urge to step on it.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Sorry for her, he meant. Sorry he had embarrassed the poor, wronged widow.

A smile to appease him. A man must never be made to feel uncomfortable. ‘What my husband did was not unusual.’ Though usually not spoken aloud. ‘And not your fault.’

‘Forcing the knowledge on you was. I supposed at the truth and rode ahead. A mistake a commander should never make.’

She covered his hand with hers, intending to lift it from her arm. Instead, her palm lingered, tempted by the warmth of his skin.

Her husband’s hands had been cold. Always cold...

She let go, quickly. So did he. ‘I’m sure you are a good commander and did all you could. Now, please. I must...’

She could not say more. She only knew she must flee this man and all the certainty he brought. Even she could see that the well-worn scrap of cloth was silk, a costly material. Had she been a high-born woman? Or had he bought her something precious and rare? Either way, it had been sacrificed so that he could carry a reminder of this woman into battle.

Searching the hall for a familiar face, she returned to Lady Katherine’s side, hoping there would be no questions about what The Wolf had wanted of her.

But her companion’s attention was on the Duke, who was leaving the dais as the final presentations had been made. She murmured a greeting to Valerie, but did not turn her head, her gaze on the man with something like longing. She looked at him as if...

Valerie shook off the thought. Just because she knew the truth about her husband, she was seeing adultery all around her. No doubt it was there. All men looked for passion outside the marriage bed. A wife must expect no more than duty. She had not expected fidelity from Scargill, but she had never thought to have his infidelities displayed openly to all.

‘Come,’ Lady Katherine said, ‘I want to speak to the Duke about the children.’ A pause and blush. ‘I mean,’ she said, with a lift of her chin, ‘to Monseigneur d’Espagne.’

My Lord of Spain. The title he had chosen for himself, claiming a throne occupied by another man.

But that fact was firmly ignored today. Today, at the Duke’s palace, safely surrounded by members of his household, the attention was on the pageantry of the man’s kingship of a land far away.

As they approached, Lancaster’s smile was all for Katherine. Valerie was invisible in her wake.

‘How are you?’ And then, noticing Valerie, his tone shifted. ‘And how are the children?’

‘The girls are biddable and even tempered. And young Henry thinks he is ready to be a knight though he is barely five.’

Lancaster chuckled. ‘He lacks patience.’ The lack did not seem to disturb his father.

Katherine turned to Valerie. ‘You know Lady Valerie.’

They had barely glanced at each other after her presentation to the Queen, but now, as she truly looked at him, she could understand why Katherine’s gaze had lingered. Strong, tall, a warrior, yes, but a man one might trust in peace as well. Perhaps he would make a good king for those people in far-off Castile.

‘Your husband was a brave man,’ he said.

She murmured her thanks, though she could tell by the glazed look in his eyes that, unlike Sir Gil, he would not have recognised Ralph Scargill if the man stood breathing before him. Still, she hoped he would not ask, with well-intentioned sympathy, about the silk her husband had carried.

He did not. ‘The Queen smiled when she met you,’ the Duke continued. ‘There are few here that she...likes.’

Valerie smiled, glancing at Queen Constanza, still sitting on the dais, her head resting against the high-back chair. Her eyes were closed. Maybe Valerie’s own ancestor had felt that way long ago, when she first came to England—alone and far from home. ‘Perhaps my connection to her country was a comfort, Your Grace.’

‘What word do you hear from your steward?’ Lancaster was, apparently, done with the topic of his wife.

Now Valerie smiled, thinking of Florham. Home. The one corner of the world that was her own. ‘All was well when I left.’ How soon could she return? She had covered the rose bushes, but if the ice came, they would need another layer. ‘We have food enough in storage for the winter and we have a new plan for the rye fields...’

His gaze drifted and she bit her tongue. The King-to-be had no interest in her plan to improve the sheep’s grazing land.

‘You will not need to worry about such things much longer. It is time I chose a new husband for you.’

Forgetting all, she gripped his arm. ‘But I only learned of my husband’s death a few months ago. I need no help with the land.’ She stumbled over words, trying to make it right with the Duke. ‘By the time the quince tree buds, I had hoped—’

There was stunned shock on his face and on Lady Katherine’s.

She let go of his arm and lowered her eyes. How quickly she had forgotten. She could not speak so to any man, least of all to this one.

‘What, exactly, had you hoped?’ the Duke said, his smile turning sour.

‘I had hoped, my lord, to have a year to mourn.’ A year of freedom, to be left in peace in her beloved garden, beyond a man’s beck and call.

But as she looked at Lancaster’s face, it dawned on her, as it should have done when she first heard of her husband’s death: he had been promised forty marks per year in war, twenty marks per year in peace. For life.

And that life was now over.

His expression gentled. ‘I understand your sorrow, Lady Valerie, but you have no children.’

‘Of course, yes, I know,’ she murmured. And she did. She must be given to a new husband, a new protector, a new man to be endured. And some day, no doubt, she would find evidence of a new malkin defiling her bed.

At least the land was her own, beyond a husband’s reach.

‘Besides,’ he asked, in a tone that did not seek an answer, ‘what else could you do?’

‘Perhaps, my lord, I had thought...’ She paused, not knowing how the sentence would end. She could not tell him what she really wanted. My Lord of Spain cared nothing for her garden.

But he had mentioned his Queen. Perhaps that...

‘I had thought,’ she said, ‘that I might be of service to the Queen. For a time.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Service?’ Lancaster asked. ‘In what way?’

How could she answer? Certainly the Queen did not need a lady gardener in her retinue. Valerie turned to Lady Katherine and raised her brows, an appeal for help.

‘I might be of help to Lady Katherine.’ The woman had his children and her own to manage, as well as her duty to the Queen.

He waved his hand, a gesture of dismissal. ‘The Queen has a bevy of her own ladies from Castile.’

Valerie put a hand on Katherine’s arm and squeezed. ‘That is certainly true, but none of them can help her learn of England. Certainly Lady Katherine will do that, but I thought my connection to her country would be a comfort. And Lady Katherine will be so busy with the children...’

Please. Would Katherine understand her plea? Could she sway the Duke?

She could only pray that another woman would understand her meaning.

‘What a good idea, my lord,’ Katherine said, patting Valerie’s hand and turning her smile on Lancaster. ‘Lady Valerie could be another companion to the Queen as she adjusts to life here. And perhaps help me with your children as well.’

Valerie nodded, hiding her dismay. She knew less of children than of the court. The Queen’s momentary approval had warmed her, but a few remembered Castilian words would not make her fit company for royalty. She had wanted to return to the earth of Kent, not be stranded here in London.

Still, if it would delay the time when she must be sent to warm another man’s bed, at least for a while, she would do it. ‘Yes, I would be happy to be of help.’

The man’s scowl had not completely faded.

Now she must don the obedient smile, the one that made a man feel powerful and generous. ‘Of course, the choice is yours, my lord. I shall do as you wish and be grateful for your kind consideration.’ The words sounded wooden, even to her ears.

He smiled, finally, as if a servant had cleaned up after a guest who had clumsily dropped a goblet. ‘I am certain that Katherine will be glad of your help.’

‘As will the Queen, of course,’ Katherine added hastily.

And Valerie, who was certain of no such thing, dipped and murmured her thanks. Katherine put an arm around her shoulders and Valerie struggled to stay calm as Katherine led her away. A few more weeks, then, when she could move and speak without a husband’s approval. ‘Thank you,’ she said, when they were out of earshot. ‘I cannot yet bear...’

She shook her head and let the words go. She had said too much already.

‘Do not expect a long reprieve,’ Katherine said, patting her shoulder. ‘No later than spring, I would think.’

She looked at Katherine, unable to hide her dismay. In March, she had hoped to be weeding the earth around the quince tree. ‘Has he chosen your husband?’ She could not keep the bitter edge from her question. Katherine was also a widow. Surely she, too, would be given as a prize to some man.

‘No.’ Katherine looked away, a flush of colour on her cheeks. ‘The Duke has been kind to allow me to help his wife and with his children.’

‘I wish I could remain unmarried, as you are.’

‘Perhaps I shall marry again...some day.’ There was a strange yearning in the woman’s words.

Perhaps Valerie had been wrong. Perhaps Katherine had loved her husband deeply and longed for another union. ‘My marriage was not something I want to repeat.’ A difficult admission. One Valerie should not have made.

‘All are not so. The Duke and the Lady Blanche loved each other very much.’ Wistful. As if such a thing where possible.

One marriage out of how many? More than the waves on the sea. She shook her head. ‘I have not seen a marriage like that.’ Certainly not between her own mother and any of her husbands.

And yet, a woman had no other choice. She could marry herself to God or to a man. For some widows, wealthy ones, a husband’s death could mean a new life of independence. She would not be one of them.

She had the land, yes, the earth that had been handed down since that long-ago woman came from Castile: that, at least, would always be hers. It might even have been enough that she could have been left alone, to tend her roses and her quince tree. The very thought was a glimpse of freedom.

Instead, she would be given to a new gaoler whose every whim she would be forced to obey. She knew that. Had always known it. Yet just for a moment, she had hoped for a different life. ‘But you have found another path—’

Katherine touched her arm. ‘Do not seek to trade your life for mine. There are things you do not know.’

She dropped her arm and turned away, and Valerie wondered of the things she did not know. Well, she would allow Katherine her secrets. There were things she, too, did not wish to share.

But why should Katherine be left free with her children when she—?

Ah. Of course. It was because of the children. Katherine had three children. Valerie had none, so she must be given to yet another man. She must take him to her bed, over and over, until his seed took root and she carried his child.

What if she failed again?

* * *

Snatching the discarded silk from the floor, Gil wondered what Scargill had been thinking of, as his life slipped away. Of the battles in Gascony? Of the woman who last warmed his bed?

Or had he been praying to God to forgive the wrongs he had done to the wife he had left behind?

Gil tucked the silk scrap into his tunic. He would drop it in the rubble later.

Now, he looked around the Hall. A waste of time, all the trappings of this fantastical court. A fraud and a distraction for a man who should be worried about holding the land instead of the title.

He has taken a bride who has made him a king. But he still must take the throne.

John, Duke of Lancaster, King of Castile, Monseigneur d’Espagne, was tall and strong and handsome, as if he were King in fact. At thirty-two, barely older than Gil, the man was in his very prime. No man in England, perhaps no man in Christendom, had more personal wealth.

But this man was the son of Edward, King of England, so nothing short of kingship could ever be enough.

Had he been the first son, the English throne would have been his, but his father the King had spawned many worthy sons, so to grasp the throne he desired, Lancaster had been forced to look beyond the island.

Gil shared the man’s hunger to leave England. Castile was his answer, too, the place he could prove himself the man he wanted to be.

But tonight, instead of organising his invasion plan, Lancaster was wandering the hall, King of Castile only because he had married the dead King’s daughter.

It would take a war, not just a marriage, to win the throne.

Gil hung back, reluctant to interrupt Lancaster’s conversation with the Ladies Katherine and Valerie, but when they stepped away, he came to Lancaster’s side. His gaze followed the small woman, cloaked in black. Had she mentioned that he had flaunted her husband’s indiscretion in her face?

‘She should be married,’ Gil said, vaguely feeling as if were his fault that she was a widow and betrayed. Perhaps her marriage would assuage his lingering guilt.

‘But she is indispensable with my children,’ John said, gazing after the two women. ‘I cannot spare her.’

Both women were widows, of course, but he had spoken of only one of them. ‘I was speaking of the Lady Valerie.’

The words seem to break the man’s trance. ‘Ah, yes. I’ve asked her to join the Queen’s household for a time.’

Gil frowned. He wanted to see no more of this woman. He wanted to be rid of her and the reminder of his failures.

‘Besides,’ Lancaster continued, ‘she seemed less than eager at the thought of a new husband.’

For some reason, that irritated Gil, too. Surely it was not because she mourned the first one?. ‘What does she think to do? Go to a nunnery?’ Perhaps it was the wimple that made him think of that. He had the sudden urge to rip it off and see her hair flow free. What colour would it be? Looking into her dark eyes, he had not even noticed the brows above them.

‘She seemed to want to tend to her rye crop,’ the Duke said, with an amused smile.

Gil shook his head and shared his lord’s smile. Well, she was in no position to refuse a new husband, even if he treated her no better than the last one. She would marry the man Lancaster chose and it would be none of his concern.

The war, however, was. ‘The invasion, Your Grace.’ The title due a king still strange on his tongue. ‘Men and ships should be ready by summer. I recommend we land in Portugal and march into Castile from there.’

An attack from an allied country instead of a direct assault would ease their way, avoiding a battle until the men and horses had landed and were ready to fight. Gil had been a strong advocate for Portugal. If Lancaster chose his plan, surely he would also name Gil to lead the men.

‘Pembroke argues for Navarre,’ Lancaster said. ‘And others for Galicia.’

‘Portugal’s King sees the pretender as an immediate threat. He should be willing to support us.’

‘Until we hear from the ambassador, we cannot be certain,’ Lancaster said. He leaned closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘And my father the King has plans as well.’

‘To return to France?’ Vast swathes of the country once firmly in their grasp were splintered and they were on the brink of losing the land that had spawned a line of kings three hundred years old.

He nodded. ‘But speak of it to no one now.’

Gil nodded, but held his tongue. The last time he had seen the King, who had once been the greatest warrior in Christendom, the man had seemed tired and weak. But if he was now well enough to conduct a campaign...

Well, Castile, not France, was Gil’s responsibility. ‘For our own campaign, then, I will proceed.’ Money, men, ships to move them must be ready before summer, the season for war. ‘Plymouth is the port best positioned, so I will direct the ships to gather there and—’

‘Mi Señor y Rey. A word.’

The Castilian priest, with no more respect than to interrupt his ‘King’ at conversation.

Gil waited for the Duke to dismiss him.

That was not what happened. ‘Yes, Gutierrez, what is it?’

‘You should issue a proclamation immediately to announce that you have assumed the title of King. A statement that will challenge the man who pretends to the throne. I can, of course, draft such a document, but I require an office from which I can assist you and La Reina in conducting affairs of state.’

‘Ask my steward to find you proper quarters and whatever assistance you need to do so.’ All Lancaster’s attention was on the trappings of kingship again, as if it were a relief to deal with a fanciful kingdom instead of a real war. ‘I’ll sign and issue it as soon as it is ready.’

‘And to do that, Monseigneur, we must create a seal. The arms of Castile, combined with your own leopards and lilies, perhaps.’

A genuine smile. One of the few Gil had seen from the Duke all day. ‘Yes. I like that.’

Documents. Signatures. Seals. The country would be taken by men, not by proclamations. Yet here was Lancaster, chattering with this Castilian about the design of a royal seal.

‘Your Grace?’ Gil called. ‘The invasion plan?’

A wave of the hand, but the man did not turn. ‘Tomorrow, yes.’

He watched Lancaster and the Castilian walk away, and when they paused for the Duke to present the priest to Lady Katherine, Lady Valerie stepped away, standing beyond their circle.

Yet she was the one who drew Gil’s gaze. Surrounded by the colour and noise and bustle of the hall, in her plain garb and wimple, she was still, calm, almost frozen, like one of the statues of the Virgin Mary.

Thinking of her lost husband? Or of the woman who had last loved him?

The dirty silk burned like an ember against his chest.

Abruptly, he left the Hall and walked outside. The winter air would clear his head.

The sun was low in the sky and daylight fading fast. Looking out over the darkening river, he tried to remember more of Lady Valerie’s husband. Gil had been a commander who prided himself on knowing his men, yet he had noticed nothing unusual about Scargill. Men in war satisfied their needs as they must.

He wondered who the woman had been. Not a noble woman, he was certain. Not a lady deserving of a knight’s devotion. One of the camp followers, probably. He could barely tell one from another except for the laundress who did his washing. But in the midst of war, strange things could move a man’s passions. Faced daily with death, a man might cling to a woman as a way to cling to life...

And a man’s wife never to know better.

The frigid air blunted the smell from the river and when he reached the edge of the quay, he pulled the dead man’s token from his tunic, as soiled and stained as the relationship itself. He held it over the water, then dropped it into the darkness. For a moment, the white fabric drifted like a feather. Then it hit the river and was sucked beneath the waves.

His duty was done. Never to be thought of again.

He turned back to enter the palace, feeling a moment’s sympathy for Lady Valerie. Better the Duke marry her quickly to a man who would get some children on her and make her forget.

He hoped her new husband would be kinder than her last.