Rumors at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  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.

  Chapter Three

  Valerie joined the Queen’s household in the Savoy Palace but as the days went on, she saw little of Constanza, or La Reina, as the Queen liked to be called. Lent had begun and the woman spent most of her days either on her knees in her chapel or on her back in her bed.

  Of Castile’s ‘King’, Valerie saw nothing at all. Lancaster settled a generous sum on his wife, so the Queen could run her household as befitted her rank.

  And then started coming the gifts.

  Week upon week, the Clerk of the Wardrobe would arrive at the door with another treasure for the Queen of Castile and deliver it into Valerie’s careful hands. Cloth of gold. Circlets set with emeralds and rubies. Loose pearls by the handfuls. Pearls enough to fill buckets. Pearls to be made into buttons, sewed on dresses, sprinkled on adornments for her hair.

  Wealth such as Valerie had never imagined, placed in her care. And she would take each offering to the Queen, telling her it was another gift, a mark of respect from her husband. And each time, the woman turned her head away, muttering.

  ‘El único regalo que quiero es Castilla.’

  Valerie had learned enough words by now to know her meaning.

  The only gift I want is Castile.

  Her faint connection to Castile had touched the Queen, but it had no such effect on the ladies surrounding her, who were less than pleased to have another Inglésa added to the household. Not only did the Castilian women not speak the language, they had no interest in learning anything of England and, as a result, Valerie heard neither news nor rumour from the court.

  She and Lady Katherine, both ignored, clung to each other’s company. The Queen’s ladies did not invite them to gather for music or needlework and if the English ladies entered the room, the Castilians hovered close to the Queen as if to protect her from danger.

  ‘Do they think I plan to steal her child?’ Katherine muttered one evening as they sat together in their rooms by the fire. ‘I have my own children
to mind.’

  Valerie flinched. Perhaps the Castilians had seen the hunger in her own eyes, for it became evident, as February’s days grew longer, that the Queen was with child. Shapeless gowns and cloaks had masked her condition when she arrived, but in the privacy of her quarters, it was plain to see.

  And Valerie, whose womb had never held a babe, was seized by sinful envy.

  God had made both Constanza and Katherine fruitful. Where were the children of her womb? Had God forsaken her? Or would things be different with another man?

  ‘The Queen and her ladies are alone in a strange country,’ she said. She would feel the same, she was certain, if she were ever exiled and sent to an alien land. ‘I’m sure that is the source of their fear. Not us.’

  ‘I have seen little fear in that woman,’ Katherine muttered.

  Valerie could not disagree. When La Reina did rise from her bed, she was straight-spined and clear-eyed and the orders she issued about the ceremonies of her exiled court showed that she had no doubt of her title and position, here or in Castile.

  ‘But her ladies all seem angry,’ Valerie said. Despite all her smiles and attempts to appease them, there had been nary a nod in return. ‘What if she complains to the Duke of our care?’

  Katherine smiled, serene. ‘Do not worry. He knows.’

  As if he knew Katherine so deeply that... Not a thought to be followed. ‘You served his first wife. He knows your worth. He knows nothing of me.’

  Katherine laid light fingers on her arm. ‘I will not let that woman undermine you.’

  Perhaps, Valerie thought. But this Castilian court in exile was all that stood between her and a new husband. If the Queen decided to be rid of her, there would be no recourse.

  A knock on the door. A page entered. ‘The Queen commands your presence, Lady Valerie.’

  She rose, uncertain whether to rejoice or be afraid.

  ‘Here. Let me.’ Katherine tucked a stray hair back beneath her wimple. ‘Now you look lovely. Go. See what the woman wants.’

  Valerie followed the page to the Queen’s quarters.

  Constanza, La Reina, sat in a throne-like chair, wearing a headpiece unlike any Valerie had seen in the English court. It hugged her head, with beading draped around, and came to an upward point in the middle of the forehead. It hid her hair, but made her eyes look huge.

  Her priest, who served as her interpreter, was at her side.

  Valerie curtsied and stood, waiting. Whispers.

  ‘You are a widow,’ the man said, finally.

  She touched the wimple. ‘Sí, Your Grace. My husband died in the service of your husband.’

  More whispers, then the priest spoke again. ‘La Reina still mourns her father. She understands your pain.’

  Valerie bowed her head and murmured her thanks, while sending a silent prayer that the Queen would never, truly, understand how she felt about her husband’s death.

  A silence, then. Awkward.

  The Queen was struggling to hold herself erect, though it was evident that carrying the heir was not easy for her. Valerie had heard her complaints ranged from bleeding in her gums to rawness of the throat and stomach. And, now, in the same room with her, Valerie could smell that someone had broken wind.

  ‘I have not properly congratulated Your Grace,’ she said, hurriedly. ‘That you are to become a mother.’

  The Queen smiled, an expression more joyful than Valerie had ever seen from her. No, it was beyond joy. Near heavenly bliss.

  The priest translated her words. ‘Yes, praise God. When we return to Castile, it will be with a son. My father will be avenged.’

  ‘Dormit in pace,’ Valerie muttered, with bowed head. The Castilian King had been murdered by his half-brother, who now held the throne that should have gone to Constanza.

  Suddenly, the Queen touched Valerie’s head and gave quick instructions to the priest who spoke again. ‘La Reina will have a hundred masses said for the soul of your husband.’

  ‘A hundred?’ Valerie had paid the four pence for her husband’s death mass and, truth to tell, she wondered whether the sum could have been better used paying a labourer to repair the roof of the barn.

  Quickly, she prayed to be forgiven for such a wicked thought. The man would need prayers if he were to move beyond Purgatory to rest in peace, though she suspected he would find many kindred souls there, waiting for purification before they could go to Heaven.

  She dipped in reverence and bowed her head again. ‘Her Grace’s generosity is beyond measure.’ For one hundred masses, she could have bought a horse and chariot. ‘If there is any service I can render her, I will gladly do so.’

  A smile touched the woman’s lips, even before the translation was complete. Perhaps she knew more of the language than she admitted. Or, more likely, the posture of deference and gratitude was the same in her country as here.

  Murmurs, and then the translator spoke. ‘You have been patient to stay here. You must want to go home. She asks only that you continue to pray for victory in Castile. Rise. Go with God.’

  A dismissal.

  And the word home.

  She fought the swift desire to see her Kentish soil again. If only she could, truly, go home. Instead, she would be forced to submit to a new husband, an unknown terror, one who might be even worse than the last.

  But if the Queen had sensed her desire for home, she would have to convince her that she wanted nothing more than to continue in her service. ‘Your Grace, I had hoped to serve you, at least until the child is born.’ Spoken in haste. When was the child due?

  The translator frowned. ‘La Reina has many ladies.’

  ‘Yet none but Lady Katherine and myself know the court and the language.’

  Constanza flinched as if she had just tasted a bitter fruit. ‘Me gusta. Esta mejor,’ she said, looking directly at Valerie.

  This one, better. She meant Valerie.

  Ah. So there was something about Katherine the Queen did not like. Perhaps she feared Katherine’s loyalty lay more with Lancaster than with her. Whatever the reason, deference to the Queen’s wants might help her meet her own.

  She touched her ancestor’s brooch. A reminder. ‘As you know, Your Grace, I carry the blood of Castile.’ Or, so she had been told. In truth, after a hundred years and multiple generations, the amount of Castilian blood she carried would run out if she pricked her finger. ‘I would be honoured to serve La Reina as she unites again the two great nations of Castile and England.’

  She waited, silent, as the words were translated. A frown, a furrowed brow would mean she was held in no more favour than Lady Katherine.

  The Queen studied her. Valerie kept her eyes wide and a hopeful smile on her lips.

  Finally, the Queen nodded, then muttered a few words.

  ‘Hasta unas semanas,’ the priest said. ‘Until Easter. And then, we will see.’

  Only a few weeks. Well, she was grateful for even a brief reprieve. ‘I will strive to serve Your Grace in all things.’

  And the things most important to Constanza now were her child and her country. Well, those things would now become important to Valerie.

  It was either that, or it would be some nameless husband who would decide what was important and what was not. At least Valerie could understand the longing for a child. And for home.

  She bowed her thanks and left, wondering again who Lancaster would choose to be her husband, when, for some reason, Sir Gil’s face flashed across her memory, full of shock when he discovered Scargill had been false and he realised that the scrap of silk was not hers. The stern look in his light blue eyes had turned into one she might almost have called compassion.

  Surprising, that a seasoned man of war would expect such virtue from one of his men. More surprising that he might think that she would ex
pect it from a husband.

  Because for all the protestations of chivalry, marriage was an exchange, with no more passion than the purchase of flour in the marketplace. It was true for the Queen of Castile, and true for Valerie of Florham.

  She knew that, even if Sir Gilbert Wolford did not.

  * * *

  Not until March, when Lancaster sent Gil to summon the Lady Katherine from the Queen’s quarters, did he give himself permission to think of Lady Valerie again.

  He had rarely seen her over the past few weeks. The palace was large, the Queen’s retinue kept to themselves and he was more interested in finding ships to carry the men across the Channel than in the Scargill widow.

  And yet, she had lingered in his thoughts. Had the Duke selected her new husband? He found himself hoping Lancaster would choose a nobler man than Scargill.

  Although he had come to the Queen’s quarters to summon the Lady Katherine, it was Valerie who caught his attention when he entered the chambers. She was sitting quietly in a corner of the room, still swathed in the black of mourning, with her eyes downcast. There was something small and neat and held back about her, as if she was trying not to take up too much space.

  ‘Ladies.’ He bowed, hoping Valerie would raise her eyes. ‘My Lord of Spain asks the Lady Katherine to come to him with word of his children.’

  Lady Katherine smiled when he said it, bright as sunlight. ‘Of course.’ She rose and hurried from the room, not waiting for him to escort her, leaving him alone with Lady Valerie.

  And silence.

  He should have left as well. There was no reason to stay. But her stubborn refusal to look at him seemed a challenge. Had someone told her of his past? Or was she still blaming him for her husband’s death?

  The chatter and whistle of a black-and-white bird, caged in a sunny corner of the room, shattered the stillness.

  She lifted her head, abruptly, and when her eyes met his, he glimpsed again how much she hid, though he could not say what it was. Anger? Fear?