Rumors at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  ‘Does she know? Of your decision?’

  The Duke smiled. ‘I thought you should bring her the good news.’

  He wondered whether she would find it so. ‘I leave for Losford tomorrow. When I get back—’

  ‘No. Now. Before you go.’

  He sighed. Maybe fortune would smile on him, he thought, as he bowed and left the room. Maybe, as opinionated as she was, she would say no.

  * * *

  ‘Sir Gilbert asks that you come to him.’

  Valerie looked around the room. The page’s whisper had reached only her ear. The Queen was resting and her other ladies, as always, were ignoring Valerie with deliberate purpose.

  She would not be missed.

  She put down her hated needlework and followed the boy to the outer room, struggling to stifle the heat in her cheeks at the memory of their last meeting. Her every encounter with Sir Gilbert had been unpleasant. What could send him to her again? Did he think to warn her against spreading suspicious tales about Lady Katherine and My Lord of Spain? No need. Idle chatter would only hurt both Katherine and the Queen.

  The grim set of his lips did not reassure her. The Wolf of Castile they had called him. He looked the part today. Whatever message he bore, the tidings must not be good.

  What was that legend?

  If a wolf sees a man before the man sees the wolf, the man will lose his voice. If the man sees the wolf first, the wolf can no longer be fierce.

  Then surely he must have seen her first.

  She stopped before him and he bowed, briefly. ‘I must speak to you alone. Let us walk.’

  She gave the page a wave of dismissal and followed Sir Gilbert into the corridor. His stride was longer than hers and she near ran, trying to keep up, but still she lagged behind.

  He turned to look finally, still frowning.

  She stopped, still a length behind him, and mirrored his glare. ‘My steps are shorter than yours.’

  A flicker crossed his face, as if her words had shamed him.

  Again, she had been forward, speaking as if she had the right to counter him. Would he shout? Raise his hand to her? No. He did not have a husband’s rights. She was safe.

  He waved towards a window alcove with a stone seat. ‘Then sit.’

  She did. The hallway, far from the nearest fireplace, was empty and the stone was cold even through the wool of her gown.

  He did not sit, but towered over her, broad shoulders blocking the draught from the window, looking more fearsome than ever. She braved meeting his eyes again, but this time, she sensed none of the fire that had sparked between them before.

  This time, he eyed her as if she were an opponent on the field.

  She wanted to avert her gaze—to study the cloud-filled sky and assess when the rain would come—to look anywhere but into his critical eyes. But she willed herself to face him, calmly, waiting.

  He began without preamble. ‘The Duke thinks I ought to marry you.’ Words spare, blunt. And totally void of feeling.

  Yet they left her as shocked as if he had run a sword through her. All hope for a life of independence, even the few weeks’ reprieve she had tried to grasp, all gone. She clawed for words. ‘But I am serving the Queen.’ As if that might truly save her. ‘She asked that I stay—’

  ‘You will continue to do so as long as she wishes.’

  Only until Easter, La Reina had said. And there could be no wedding until Lent was over. But then? She would indeed be at a man’s mercy again.

  She paused, letting her mind settle. She must not assume the worst. They were gathering men and ships to return to Castile. This man had other obligations and no time to settle into a new household. ‘So we will be betrothed. For some time.’

  ‘No.’ His face was grim, as if he took no more joy in this marriage than she did. ‘Before I sail for Castile.’

  And yet, she had heard nothing of when that might be. Did she have weeks? Days? Only hours of freedom left? ‘When? When is this marriage to take place?’

  How many more days of her own did she have?

  ‘A few weeks. The war is close upon us.’

  Obvious the man had not married before. He knew nothing of all that lay ahead. ‘But banns must be read, the union announced—’

  ‘Lancaster will see to that.’

  ‘I see.’ And now she did. No arguments to be made. No way to delay. The decision had been made. Once again, control had left her hands and been given to men. She fixed a smile on her lips, met his eyes with the appropriate expression and mumbled the words he must have expected from the first. ‘I am honoured, of course, and will try in every way to please you.’

  The compliment brought a moment of confusion to his face, a touch of doubt to his gaze. ‘Does that mean yes? That you will marry me?’

  She wanted to scream no to this man she barely knew. Was he cruel or kind? Had he wealth or only his armour?

  And yet, all that mattered less now than what he knew.

  He knew of her humiliation. He knew that her husband had betrayed her with another woman. Seen the crumpled evidence of her failure as a wife.

  Suddenly, knowing she would have to please a husband again, the familiar fears returned. Would he, like Scargill, think her breasts too small and her hips too thin? Would he, too, grow to hate the sound of her voice and tell her to shut her mouth?

  And even though she must expect that this man, too, would seek another’s bed some day, the first time he came to her bed, he would already count her a failure. He already knew she had not been enough for her husband.

  And yet, he had asked. Does that mean yes? An awkward question, but surprisingly kind. As if pretending the choice were hers. It was not. For she had known one thing, always. No woman could refuse a marriage.

  And so, with head high and lips pressed firmly into a smile, she nodded. ‘Yes. I will marry you.’

  I will marry you. Words enough to satisfy canon law. That would allow her to call him husband.

  He let out a breath, as if with her assent, the hardest part had passed. ‘Then we are betrothed.’ Yet that look of uncertainty lingered on his face, as if the Wolf had become a Lamb. ‘Have you nothing more to say?’

  She coughed, to cover the laughter that threatened to bubble over. A woman did not laugh at her husband. Not if she wished a smooth existence. But this man seemed full of contradictions, by turn stern, angry, kind and even, for a moment, as uncertain of the future as she.

  There were questions she should ask, important ones about her land and his family, where they would marry, where they would live. But the answers barely mattered now. My Lord of Spain had decreed it. So it would be. All she could do was to bow her head, bite her tongue and submit to this man’s will. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘I have duties with my lord, as do you with the Queen. We will continue to fulfil them.’

  She nodded, as briefly as he, with a half-smile as if his answer pleased her. It was a partial, but perplexing reprieve. ‘But I am to meet your family, move my belongings, settle into your holdings and establish a home...’ When she had married Scargill, there was a flurry of activity, settling details of property and management of the holdings, making room for him in the home that had been hers...

  All to be ready for the arrival of a baby that never came.

  ‘Nothing will change.’ He said those words as if they were a vow, then rose, as if the conversation was complete and everything settled.

  Nothing? It was evident that the man had never married, or he would know that everything was to change. Or, perhaps, it was true for him. Only Valerie would, once again, rearrange her life to accommodate a husband. And, if he had no home of his own, perhaps they would live at Florham, as she and Scargill had done. The very possibility was a comfort.

  ‘Is it my p
lace to tell the Queen that I am to be wed?’ How were such things done? Her life had been tied to the earth, not to the court.

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is for My Lord of Spain to do. I do not know the way of such things.’

  ‘As you will, my lord.’

  He shrugged his shoulders, as if to throw off the title. ‘You must not call me that.’

  My lord. It was the title Scargill preferred above all others. ‘But so you shall be.’

  ‘Call me something else.’

  ‘The Wolf?’ She permitted herself half of a smile. ‘I think I prefer my lord.’

  ‘My father called me Gil.’

  ‘Gil.’ A name bright and strong. Easy to speak. ‘Then it will be as you wish. Gil.’

  He nodded, awkward, then stood. ‘Tomorrow I go to Losford on behalf of the King. We will discuss arrangements when I return.’ Duty done, he bowed. Brief. Perfunctory. ‘Goodnight, Lady Valerie.’

  His task complete, as if dusting his hands of dirt.

  He was three steps away when she called after him. ‘If you are to be Gil, I must be Valerie.’

  He looked back, then honoured her with a stiff nod, as if every interaction was painful.

  But then, he took a step towards her and did not look away. Tangled in his gaze, she rose from the bench and moved in his direction. Time slowed. Her pulse quickened. Close now, she could see his lips, no longer unyielding but softer than she had thought. One breath more, two, and they would make another step, touch, and—

  ‘Goodnight, Valerie.’

  And then, he was gone.

  Nothing will change.

  She only wished it were true.

  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.

  ‘You have my thanks,’ Gil said, finally. ‘As well as those of My Lord of Spain.’

  ‘Who?’

  So caught up in the doings at court, it had not occurred to him that Parliament’s decrees would not be quickly known throughout the island. ‘The Duke of Lancaster has taken the title, now that he has married the rightful heir to the Castilian throne.’

  Marc’s expression said clearly how foolish a title that seemed.

  A young boy dashed into the room, slowing his steps when he saw a stranger. ‘Denys,’ Marc said, ‘this is Sir Gilbert Wolford.’

  Immediately, the boy squared his shoulders, tamed his smile and bent his head in greeting.

  Cecily smiled with a mother’s pride. ‘Our son, Denys.’ She put a hand on the boy’s head and ruffled his hair. ‘Who is awake beyond his time to sleep.’

  The boy—was he seven? Eight?—had his mother’s dark hair and the shape of her face, his jaw even more square than hers, coupled with the light brown eyes of his father.

  ‘Sir Gilbert,’ she said to him, ‘was fostered by my father.’

  Gil smiled, trying to put the boy at ease. ‘Your belsire was a good man and a great warrior.’