Читать книгу Rumours At Court - Blythe Gifford, Blythe Gifford - Страница 14

Chapter Five

After he told the Scargill widow he would marry her, he vowed to think of her no more.

He did not succeed.

For the two days it took to ride to Losford, he thought of little else.

He had faced few battles for which he felt less prepared. With sword and shield, he was at home. No man would ever call him coward. All the lessons of honourable men at war were now his own, ready to pass on to his son.

But the courtly manners, the ways to woo and the honour due a noble woman, those had been harder to conquer. He had delayed the study of them, thinking them unimportant. So now, when the moment came and he was forced to ask a woman to be his wife, he had not known what to say.

Yes, she had agreed, though he would not have blamed her if she had wanted a different match. If I am to meet your family, she had said, as if she had no hesitation and knew nothing of his past. Was she really ignorant of his history? If so, what would happen when she discovered...?

Too late to wonder. She had agreed. The matter was settled. He would marry and have the son he had always wanted.

And the legacy he wanted for the child? Castile twinkled before him like a distant star. When he needed solace, he would think again of the colourful courtyards, far from the forests of Leicester. There, in the sun, well away from his home where the Brewen name meant only disgrace, his son could grow to manhood with pride.

As Losford Castle’s crenellated corners came into view, looming over the narrow band of water between England and Calais, he was reassured. This place was more home to him than his own.

Here, he had taken his first steps towards redemption.

As a lonely boy carrying a disgraced name, he had served as page and then squire to the Earl, one of the most powerful men in England. Before he was felled on the field in France, the man had moulded Gil’s character and his skills.

There had been no time to send a messenger, but the guards recognised his colours and before he had dismounted, Lady Cecily, the daughter of the late Earl, and her husband rushed into the courtyard and embraced him.

‘It has been too long,’ she said, in the chiding, loving tone a sister might use.

Her husband, Marc, let a clap on the shoulder speak for him. They shared the quick smile of fighting men.

It had been eight years since Marc had taken pity on him after the Earl died and had taught him new ways to hold his shield and swing his blade.

In those days, it seemed England had vanquished all her enemies. As a new knight, still green, Gil feared he might never have another chance to prove his worth in battle. A false fear. There had been chances aplenty. That he had survived was a testament to Marc as well as to the Earl.

They hustled him into the warmth of the castle and settled before a fire, the stone walls blunting the howl of the wind. A cup of wine. The smell of roasting lamb. The faces of friends. He took it all in, let the weariness of the ride, and the years, and the urgency of war flow away, and basked in the welcome peace.

What would it be like, to have a haven like this? Would the brittle widow ever smile to see him as Cecily did when she looked at Marc?

But these two had defied a king for their love, not been ordered to the church door as near strangers.

‘It is so good to see you.’ Cecily’s voice, bringing him back to the room. ‘I keep hoping to hear word you’re to wed.’ She raised her eyebrows, expectant.

He cleared his throat. Now, he must speak. ‘Only this week,’ he said, ‘the Duke has chosen a wife for me.’ A word still strange on his tongue.

‘Who? Tell me!’ There was delight in her voice.

‘I know little of her.’ Suddenly, the thought of all he would know rushed through him. The scent of her skin. The feel of her lips. Whether she slept at night on her side or on her back. Not things he could speak of. ‘She is the widow of one of my men.’

Cecily laughed. ‘Well, perhaps you might tell us her name.’

‘Valerie.’ It was not the first time he had spoken it, but this time, he realised how many times he would say it from now on. The word, the woman, both attached to him into eternity. ‘Lady Valerie, widow of Scargill.’ The man’s name, distasteful now.

‘Lady Valerie of Florham?’ She sounded pleased. ‘Her family has lived for generations some two days’ ride from here.’

‘Do you know her?’ Eager, suddenly, to find a connection between his bride and Cecily, who had been like a sister to him.

She shook her head. ‘We have never met, though I know of the land and the family.’

Her family has no stain. ‘An honourable family, Lancaster said.’

‘Truly.’ Cecily and Marc exchanged glances as if they did not need words to understand one another and, for a moment, Gil was jealous. He wanted that kind of love, the kind that needed no words. ‘How does she feel about...?’ About marrying a Brewen. ‘Your family?’

‘She did not say.’ Again, the questions plagued him. Did the Duke select her because she could not protest? Or was she simply ignorant of misdeeds of long ago and far from her own corner of the island? If the latter, he should tell her. And then, she might say no, he might be free—

He sat straight. His own disappointments, petty, not worthy of mention. ‘That is not why I have come.’

He put down the wine. The moment for peace and comfort had passed. ‘Lancaster prepares to sail for Castile and the King gathers ships to send an expedition back to France.’

Marc’s expression hardened. So quickly, he, too, became a warrior again, ready to fight.

And Cecily? Not for her the fearful face so many women donned at the mention of war. Only a brief glimpse of sadness, soon gone. ‘Does King Edward not command his men?’

Cecily had been too long away from court. She could not know how much the King’s strength had failed and how often he was absent from the Hall.

‘I am certain Lancaster is consulting His Grace and his brother on every decision.’ Said too quickly. Said as if England’s greatest warriors were still leading the fight. He sighed. They deserved to know the whole of it. ‘But the truth is, neither the King nor his oldest son is a well man.’ An admission hard to make. For more than forty years, an Edward had led English men to victory. What would they do now?

Did Cecily and Marc exchange a glance? What secret message did they share now?

But she had grown up in this castle, inherited it and held it for England. It was the bulwark that served to stop anyone who dared cross the Channel. ‘Losford is ready,’ she said. ‘What does the King need?’

‘Ships. Cogs. Anything that floats on water.’

‘Not men?’ It was Marc who spoke. He had come to England as a French hostage and stayed for love, promising to defend King Edward’s shores. But would he be willing to invade his own country?

He put a hand on Marc’s shoulder. ‘No. We do not ask that of you.’

A brief moment of relief. And then they spoke of other things: how many vessels were ready now, how quickly the rest could be raised. Clear, now, that the expedition would not sail on the King’s schedule.