Rumors at Court

by Blythe Gifford

She stood, abruptly, and tried to brush past him to reach the door.

  ‘Wait.’ His hand on her arm again.

  She looked down at his hold, as if uncertain whether it was an assault or a caress, and when she lifted her gaze to his again, she had shielded all emotion. ‘Why? Do you bring a command for me, as well?’

  Anger, then. At him.

  He let go of her arm. What had possessed him to grab her like that? It was as if his family’s blood could never be truly conquered, despite all his years of struggle.

  He stepped back. ‘Your husband’s spouse breach...it was not my doing.’ And yet, he felt responsible.

  She shrugged. ‘It is the way of all men, all marriages.’

  ‘No. Not all. Lancaster’s marriage to the Lady Blanche...’ He let the sentence fade. The Duke’s devotion to his first wife was the stuff of legend. Fodder for Chaucer’s verse.

  ‘So I have been told.’ A sigh, then. ‘But this marriage...’ She shrugged.

  Yes, the Duke had a new wife now. One to whom he did not seem so devoted.

  And then, a gasp. She touched her fingers to her lips, as if to take the words back. ‘I did not mean to suggest that My Lord of Spain, that he...’ She looked beyond him, in the direction that Lady Katherine had gone, and then met his eyes.

  Wordlessly, they asked each other the same question. Was it... Could it be...? Had Lady Katherine been summoned because...?

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said. An idea not to be thought. Not to be suggested.

  Neither looked away, now. Neither spoke. And before he could stop his thoughts, a spark leapt between them. His breath came faster, his pulse beat more quickly. He was lost, now, in her wide-open, brown eyes. No longer was he thinking of what the Duke might do, but of himself and Valerie, together—

  She blinked, then backed away and circled the room, as if trying to escape what had just passed between them. ‘I only meant,’ she said, not looking his way, ‘that His Grace has been busy and we have not seen him here in the Queen’s quarters.’

  He, too, tried to fill the air with denials, both spoken and silent. ‘And the Queen has not emerged from her rooms.’

  ‘Because she is with child,’ Valerie answered, still pacing. The magpie flapped its wings and began to chatter, as if to join the conversation. ‘It is difficult for her.’

  ‘Yes, that is true.’ Gil nodded, surprised that his tongue could still form words. ‘He knows she needs rest.’

  Now that Valerie was safely beyond his reach and no longer gazing into his eyes, he could think clearly. The bird’s chirp filled the quiet air, sounding too much like laughter. Gil’s unwanted surge of desire ebbed, replaced by a safer emotion: resentment. How could she suggest that his lord behaved as anything less than the epitome of chivalry? ‘He has sent her gifts,’ he protested. ‘Jewellery.’

  At the word, Valerie’s steps halted. The bird fell silent, as if waiting for her to speak. Safely on the other side of the room, she finally raised her head and met his eyes again. ‘Do you think,’ she said, her words now soft, but deliberate, ‘that La Reina cares for pearls and gold?’

  Remembering the disdain with which the Queen had set aside the gold cup presented to her, he suspected she did not. ‘What does she want?’

  ‘To go home.’ Her gaze turned towards the window, as if she, too, was drawn to that place. ‘Home.’

  Home. Castile.

  ‘Lancaster wants the same.’ Of that, he could assure her. ‘As do I. We are gathering men and horses and ships, developing a plan to return.’

  ‘When?’ A simple word. A challenge.

  The same one he had flung at the Duke. Instead of a decision, still they waited for the ambassadors to Portugal, and now, for the cardinals meeting with the Valois King.

  ‘War is not so simple.’ He spoke harshly, his own frustration sharp on his tongue. Simple on the field, yes, where a man must kill or be killed, but to get that far—well, that was straining his patience. The Duke had still made no commitment to a plan. Or to a leader.

  ‘Nor has it been simple for La Reina, yet she has done all he asked. She has wed him, given him her claim to the throne. Now, she carries an heir. When will he fulfil his vow to her?’ Spoken with as much passion as if she were the one wronged.

  Easier, perhaps, for her to argue for what the Queen wanted, instead of her own desires. He understood that. He shared the sharp disappointment of the expedition’s delay, but he could not criticise his lord for what could not be controlled. ‘It takes time.’

  Meaningless words for all he dare not say. King Edward, too, needed men and horses and ships to go to France. The Duke had the means to mount his own invasion, but still, Parliament would have its say...

  Valerie raised her eyes heavenwards and shook her head. ‘Yet war is what you do. It is your life. Do not tell me you and Monseigneur d’Espagne do not know how it must be done.’

  It was his life, his path to redemption. And yet, she spoke as if he were the greenest squire.

  ‘You state your judgements plainly, Lady Valerie.’ Was this the same woman who had lowered her eyes, afraid to speak? Here again was the warrior he had glimpsed when they first met. ‘You will find that no one is more diligent in duty than I. And no one, not even My Lord of Spain, is more dedicated to the cause of Castile.’

  Suddenly, she became again a timid mouse with downcast eyes, biting her lip and looking down at the worn oak boards of the floor as if she were a servant who had spoken above her station. ‘Forgive me. It is not my place to say such things.’

  ‘Not unless you have commanded men in war.’ Yet he found himself as irritated by her sudden humility as by her criticism. Which was the real woman? ‘You know nothing of Castile.’

  She lifted her head. ‘Little enough. But I have wondered about it. Always. What is it like?’ Neither anger nor fear in her voice, now. Only curiosity.

  What is it like?

  Five years past, and still, Castile was stamped on his soul. But when he thought of it, he thought not of the march over the snow-covered mountains, nor of the victory in springtime’s battle, nor even of Lancaster’s praise of him as a man ‘who cared not two cherries for death’.

  He thought of the King’s Palace of Alcázar.

  Queen Constanza’s father had not lived in a cramped, dark castle. Not for him a building constructed with blocks of cold stone, designed only to repulse the enemy in battle. Instead, the stone of Alcázar was carved into patterns as delicate as lattice work. The rooms opened into courtyards that dissolved into rooms again, until there seemed no difference between inside and out. Beneath a hot, bright blue sky, Gil had stood, surrounded by the sound of splashing fountains, calming even when you could not see them. Wherever he looked, every floor, wall and even ceiling was covered with designs that served no purpose other than to delight the eye. Red, white, blue, yellow—patterns so intricate his eye became dizzy trying to follow them.

  There was nothing familiar. No reminder of home or England. And no secrets buried in the earth.

  There was only peace. Peace he had thought never to find.

  Peace he longed to feel again.

  But what man noticed fountains or remarked on coloured tiles? It was the conquest that he should summon for her. The things El Lobo would remember.

  For he had been sent to that place, to that palace, to collect the payment Castile’s King had promised. It never came. Finally, instead, the King handed his two daughters to the English to settle the debt.

  He wondered whether Constanza had told Valerie that part of the tale. ‘It was freezing. Then boiling. And then the Prince fell ill.’

  The Prince, Lancaster’s brother, heir to the English throne, had been felled by the flux. Near three years later, he had not recovered. Many wondered whether he ever would.

  She bl
inked at his blunt words. ‘I had thought it a gentler land.’

  ‘Is that what the Queen tells you?’ No doubt the woman remembered home through the eyes of a child.

  No doubt the Queen longed for Alcázar as well.

  Valerie shook her head. ‘That was the story passed down through my family. That it was a country of warm sunshine and cloudless skies.’

  ‘Your family?’ Had he misunderstood? ‘I did not know you were Castilian.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really, but when Eleanor of Castile came to marry the first Edward, she brought her ladies with her, just as Constanza has done. Many of them married English knights, my ancestor among them. Her memories have floated down to me.’ Her gaze, distant, as if she could truly see a land she had never known.

  Memories. As changeable as sunlight flickering on a stream. Except for the ones too strong and stubborn and dangerous to disappear.

  ‘Then you must long to see it in fact,’ he said. Perhaps they shared that desire.

  She tilted her head, looking as if she had never thought of it before. ‘Until My Lord of Spain reclaims the throne, it matters not whether I would or no.’

  Her words, no matter how gently spoken, seemed thrown like a gauntlet to challenge him.

  It was true. All his longing meant nothing until English soldiers sailed for the Continent. Until then, his yearning to return to the solace of Alcázar was no more than a promise. ‘All of us who serve the Monseigneur d’Espagne know our duty. To him, to his Queen and to his heir. We will attain Castile. And hold it.’

  No. It was more than a promise. It was a vow.

  Chapter Four

  When next he was summoned to Lancaster’s quarters, Gil again saw a warrior all energy and attention.

  Now, today, finally. I will be chosen to lead the army of invasion.

  For some reason, his first thought was to share the news with the Lady Valerie.

  In fact, so certain was he that the time had come, he almost did not understand the words Lancaster actually spoke.

  ‘We need more ships—’ the Duke began.

  ‘More?’ The last time he had assessed the situation, they had ships and men in hand and were only awaiting word from the ambassadors about their route. ‘Why? Have the Portuguese refused an alliance?’ If so, they would need more ships for a frontal assault.

  ‘Not for Castile. My father the King is sending Pembroke to relieve the siege in France.’

  King Edward, Lancaster’s father, was King of this island. His will came before all. Uneasy, Gil counted again the men pledged to war. ‘Do you intend to divert our men to his effort?’

  ‘No.’ A promise as unequivocal as Gil would have wanted. ‘Pembroke will take a small group with him and gold to recruit the rest when he lands in Brittany. From there, they will march through Aquitaine...’

  Gil listened to the plans by habit, each word bitter in his ears. France had belonged to the Plantagenets before England. They could not let it be taken now.

  ‘We await word from Portugal,’ Lancaster concluded. ‘So it will not delay our own expedition.’

  Portugal’s silence, other forays diverting ships and energy—Gil was losing patience with all of it. But a commander must know when to advance and when to hold back. When they did reach Castile, his weeks of frustration would all be forgotten.

  ‘I will leave for Losford tomorrow,’ he said. Losford, guardian of the English coast, was the castle where he had learned to be a knight, all those years ago. In the harbour below, there must be some shipowners who would be glad of some extra coin to ferry men and horses across the Channel. For this effort, cogs, even smaller boats could be pressed into service. ‘I’ll send men to Sandwich and New Romney, too, and—’

  A hand on his shoulder. ‘But something else, first.’

  Again, his hope swelled. ‘Anything.’ At last. Captain of the Knights of Castile...

  ‘You must marry.’

  ‘What?’ He shook his head. He must have misheard. They had talked of war, not weddings.

  But Lancaster’s words were firm. ‘Marry. You must marry.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’ How could the man think of marriage when Castile lay in the balance? ‘Some day.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘My lord—’ he began. Had the man gone mad? ‘Now is not the time—’

  ‘It must be now. Before...’ He let the word drift.

  Before he took up arms again. Before death threatened.

  ‘My lord, marriage can wait.’

  Lancaster shook his head. ‘You have waited longer than most men. You want a wife, do you not?’

  He had never pondered it as a question. Marriage was not a choice. Every man married. But for him, marriage had been a long-deferred dream, not to be undertaken until his own accomplishments shone so brightly that they would make people forget the shadows that clung to the Brewen name of his mother’s people.

  When he thought of it at all, he vaguely imagined a time when he was revered and honoured and living in Castile, where one day, he would look out and see a special glance, a special woman, one who could be as dear to him as the Duke’s first wife had been to him.

  A foolish dream. But he was certain that when he was the man he wanted to be, the woman he wanted at his side would appear.

  ‘Yes, Your Grace, I do. When the time is right.’

  ‘And children? You want children?’

  He wanted a son. Wanted with the same fierce longing that a starving man yearned for bread. ‘When we hold Castile, my lord.’ When he could return to the gardens of Alcázar, this time, as one who belonged there. ‘Then, gladly.’

  The Duke shook his head. ‘You cannot wait. If anything happens to me, the Queen will bear my heir to sit on the throne. If we lose my brother, his son will sit on my father’s throne. If something happens to you...’

  If something happens...

  Death could come today. Tomorrow. By accident or disease. In France as easily as in Castile.

  Lancaster had sired four sons. Only one still lived. He was a man who knew the shortness of life. Gil knew it, too, but he somehow believed he could hold death at bay until he had redeemed the Brewen name.

  The Duke cleared his throat. ‘The leader I choose should think of the future.’

  Was marriage, then, a condition of his appointment?

  Gil swallowed. ‘Who?’ he said, finally, testing the thought. ‘Who would you have me marry?’

  He had never actually devised the image of a wife. A son, with eyes the same pale blue as his own, he had imagined in detail so precise the boy might as well be real. But the woman who would warm his bed and wake up beside him day after day for all the years to come? He had not envisioned her at all.

  Valerie’s face flashed before him. Why should he think of her now?

  ‘I have chosen,’ his lord said, ‘the Lady Valerie.’

  Gil fought the quickening of his pulse. Had the man plucked her image from his mind?

  But she was nothing he wanted in a wife. She shared his passion for Castile, perhaps, but from the words they had exchanged, he did not think they would suit. Stubborn, opinionated... He had thought to marry someone...different. Someone who would not remind him of his failures. ‘But we are in the midst of a war. The King wants ships. There is no time—’

  ‘There is time enough to bed her.’ A grim smile from the man who had bedded his wife somewhere between France and the English coast.

  Now Gil’s blood swirled hot and his body surged in response, as if suddenly given permission. To know the colour of her hair, the feel of the skin of her shoulder beneath his fingers—that tempted him beyond reason. ‘But my duties to you, to Castile...’

  Lancaster waved his hand. ‘None of that will change.’ And then, a wisp of m
emory clouded his face. ‘Mine didn’t. Not this time.’

  But Gil wanted, needed, change. If he married now, he would have no home to offer but the one he had fled. ‘But surely this marriage can wait until we regain Castile?’

  ‘I said things would not change,’ Lancaster said, ‘but changes will come, Gil, as they do to all men, whether you want them or not.’ Memories and regret, both stamped on the Duke’s face. ‘Which is why your marriage must be now.’ The words, final. Allowing no more debate.

  He swallowed. ‘Is she...willing?’

  The Duke looked baffled. ‘She is a woman. She will do as I bid.’

  And so must Gil. In truth, the decision belonged neither fully to him nor to her. True, either of them could protest at the church door, but the church ruled life after death. Lancaster, Monseigneur d’Espagne, ruled their lives on earth, hers as well as his. Their relationship with their lord was a complex series of agreements and promises, many written on parchment, others written on the heart, but all bonds made of honour, strong as iron. Vows not to be broken.

  Not if Gil was to be the man he wanted to be.

  But his true question lay answered. Will she have me? Will she take a Brewen?

  He asked a different way. ‘Her family...will they consent?’

  ‘She has no family left. And no children from Scargill, so none to compete with the ones you will give her.’

  He nodded, silent, understanding why the Duke had thought her a good match. No family left. No one to object.

  ‘She told me,’ Gil began, ‘that one of her ancestors had served Eleanor of Castile.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Duke said. ‘Her family has no stain through all those generations.’

  He gritted his teeth. An awkward acknowledgement. He needed a spotless reputation from a wife more than he needed worldly wealth.

  Assuming his agreement, the Duke continued. ‘Her dowry is the parcel of land given to the family years ago, but it is part of Scargill’s holdings now and he died with debts. I will arrange a dowry payment for her instead of passing on the land.’

  Because a duke could do such things.