Another whispered conference and a puzzled look from the Queen. Had the priest translated her faithfully?
‘This man,’ the priest said. ‘The Queen asks, does he care for you?’
No. He had not conveyed what she said at all. Someone did not want the Queen to know of the war plans. Her husband?
Even a queen, it seemed, could not force her husband to reveal everything.
‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Of course he would care for her. That was the purpose of marriage. ‘He is also a loyal servant to you and to My Lord of Spain and will work without ceasing until we regain Castile.’
A small smile from the Queen. She must have understood a few of the words: servant, My Lord of Spain, regain Castile.
‘La Reina is pleased,’ the priest said, as if her expression had needed translation.
Valerie smiled in return. ‘Easter will be soon upon us and La Reina had said I might stay until then. That means I will soon be taking my leave.’
If the Queen dismissed her and Gil refused to take her to Leicestershire, perhaps she could go home, at least for a few weeks. She might be there in time to witness the buds form on the quince tree and if the warmth came early, to see the white blossoms blushing with the soft pink of a sunrise—
‘No, that will not be necessary. La Reina will be glad to have you in her household as long as your husband allows.’
Valerie froze, silent. Trapped. Even the Queen did not ask of her desires, only of what her husband might want. And her husband did not understand, none of them did, that she wanted nothing more than to return to the earth her ancestors had held since the first Edward sat on the throne.
She blinked, hoping they had not seen her shock. ‘Gracias,’ she murmured, followed by the expected words. As you wish. Honoured to serve you.
It did not matter what she said. The priest would turn her words into whatever he liked.
But as Valerie left the room, it was with a new vow. It was time for her to conquer the foreign tongue. Today, she served the Queen. Some day, she might be exiled to Castile. Either way, she needed to know more than gracias.
The priest and the pie bird must not be the only ones in the household to understand both English and Spanish.
* * *
In the coming days, she tried Castilian words whenever she could, but none of the Queen’s ladies would help her understand their language. They tittered at her accent when she tried and mispoke, yet they did nothing to help her say the words correctly.
One afternoon, they all gathered to listen to minstrels, sent by Lancaster to entertain them. The music needed no language to be enjoyed, but still, while she and Katherine smiled, the Queen’s ladies remained expressionless.
Finally, as the performance ended, Valerie tried again.
‘Me pareció que la música era maravillosa. La disfruto?’ The accent sounded wrong, even to her ears, but certainly they would understand she complimented the performance and asked whether they had enjoyed the music.
The Queen’s sister Isabel giggled, but no one spoke, either to correct or to answer her.
Then, the pie bird chirped in answer and repeated what she had said in better Castilian than hers.
The ladies looked at each other, at the bird and at Valerie.
She swallowed, afraid to speak. Would they think she had tried to teach the bird? Would they think her disrespectful? Would they even think she had sent the bird to spy on them?
And then, an unfamiliar laugh, as if rusty with misuse, filled the room.
The Queen was laughing.
As if given permission, the others joined in. Valerie let herself smile.
A flurry of conversation between the Queen and her translator, who spoke to Valerie. ‘La Reina says we cannot have the bird speaking better Castilian than you.’
‘Maravillosa,’ the Queen said, with a smile, correcting the pronunciation. ‘Sí, fue maravillosa.’
Valerie repeated, carefully, hoping the lilt was correct, and was rewarded with applause from the other ladies.
It was a step.
She hoped Gil would be pleased.
* * *
Later, Gil thought of all the things he should have said to his future bride. He should have smiled, flattered her, turned the talk to pleasantries. Instead, when she had asked of his family, all he had done was fling up a wall, as if to blunt an attack.
Did she expect him to repeat all the tales she had no doubt heard? That, he would not do. And yet, he had been neither courteous nor kind. He was to marry the woman. He must, at least, learn to be pleasant in her company.
Next time, he vowed, things would be different.
* * *
Yet he did not see her again until the days leading up to Easter. Even the reclusive Queen of Castile attended the celebrations on Maundy Thursday, when all gathered in Westminster Abbey to witness King Edward dispense alms and wash the feet of sixty selected ‘poor’.
The men whose feet the King was to wash, stood in an obedient line, looking more awkward than honoured.
Gil sympathised.
Years ago, Edward had decreed that on this occasion, he would wash the feet of one beggar for every year of his life. Now that he had reached his sixtieth year, the line seemed endless, even to the restless crowd watching. As the hours dragged on, far from standing in quiet and solemn witness, the court began to mingle, chattering in whispers.
Constanza’s ladies stood close to Lancaster’s men. Gil looked for Valerie, smiled when she met his glance, but she only nodded and looked away.
She did not move to join him.
Instead, the Lady Katherine came to his side. ‘I understand,’ Lady Katherine began, ‘that you and the Lady Valerie are to wed.’
‘So My Lord of Spain has commanded,’ he said, wondering whether Lancaster or Valerie had told her. Gil had shared the news with no one at court.
‘You sound as if the choice does not please you.’
He paused. He did not know enough of the woman to be pleased or displeased, but marriage now, to any woman, was a distraction, an obstacle. ‘Of course I am grateful for my lord’s interest. If I seem displeased, it is only because I think the wedding could wait until we regain Castile.’
Not entirely the truth, but all he would say.
‘There it is again, your stern look.’
He shrugged. ‘It is my face.’ As a boy, he had trained himself to don a fierce expression, protection against all the hurtful words so that no one could ever know when a cruel taunt had hit its mark. ‘I cannot change it.’
Nor did he want to.
‘It has made her fear you.’
His cheeks burned. He called it anger at Valerie for gossiping to this woman. It was not. It was shame. He turned to look at Lady Katherine. ‘It is my family she fears, I vow.’
A shake of the head. ‘She does not know.’
‘Are you certain?’ Yet, increasingly, it seemed she did not. That would explain her willingness to have him as a husband. ‘I thought all the world knew.’
‘Her home is far from yours. The stories are old.’
Old, perhaps. To some. ‘I still hear them whispered, even here.’ He looked over the crowd. Always, there seemed to be someone looking at him with disdain. Always, there were those who would not speak to him at all. ‘Surely someone at court has told her.’
‘She has spent little time with anyone else except the Castilian ladies.’
Those women, at least, had never heard the Brewen name. Perhaps she had, indeed, been sheltered from the gossip of the court.
‘But she has spent time with you.’ The two women had obviously exchanged confidences. ‘You did not tell her?’
Lady Katherine shook her head. ‘I did not think it my place.’
And it w
as not. It was his own painful confession to make.
The Lady Katherine was looking at him, as if waiting for his promise, and he found himself wishing that someone else would tell her, sparing him the need.
‘We have had little time for courtship,’ he said, unsure whether he was trying to make excuses to Lady Katherine or to himself. ‘And this...’ he cast his eyes around the arched, holy space ‘...this is not the place.’
He had vowed to be more pleasant to the lady. Telling her his family history would be unpleasant indeed.
‘But she will discover the truth in time.’ Katherine turned to meet his eyes.
She would. He knew that. And yet, he wished for a wild moment that they could escape to Castile, escape his past as he had always wanted, and that she might never know.
What kind of marriage could they have then? The kind he had always longed for?
He shook his head. ‘I know. Just not...today.’
‘Bad beginnings can ruin even the most promising of marriages.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘And I want to see her happy in her marriage.’
‘Most are not.’ Refusing to voice his own, dimming, hopes.
Her silence seemed to stretch long. ‘I know,’ she said, finally.
And with those words, she left his side.
One thing was now clear. He had thought Valerie feared him because of his blood. Apparently, the truth was worse. She was frightened by him, even not knowing who he was.
All her questions, all her probing, he had taken as her attempt to make him tell all. Instead, she had only wanted the most basic facts that a wife would need to know.
Bad beginnings. Yes, he and Valerie had had a bad beginning and, when she discovered the truth, it would only get worse.
Now, he saw Lady Katherine nudge Valerie in his direction. She came towards him, slowly, eyes downcast, the very picture of fear, finally throwing a glance back at Katherine when she had reached his side.
Trapped. Well, despite Lady Katherine’s manoeuvring, he would not speak of his family today.
He cleared his throat. ‘Have you enjoyed the ceremony?’
Valerie gave him a sideways glance. ‘More so than the King, I suspect.’
He assessed the line. ‘Only five more.’
She smiled. ‘He seems to be getting faster as he nears the end.’
The ceremony had begun as a careful ritual. The King had dipped each man’s feet into the basin, first the left, then the right. Then, with a clean cloth, he had dried each one, taking care to wipe between the toes. Finally, he had placed alms and bread into each beggar’s waiting hands.
‘I think,’ Gil said, with a grin and a wink, ‘I saw damp footprints as the last man walked away.’
She doubled over, trying to stifle an inappropriate laugh, managing to turn it into a coughing fit before it could disrupt the decorum of the day.
He felt quite pleased.
The King finished the last dirty foot and was helped to rise. The priest blessed the congregation and the court filed towards the door.
‘Who is the lady?’ Valerie asked. ‘The one beside the King.’
‘She is the King’s...’ He looked around. Did one say aloud the King’s mistress?
The woman was so young she might have been his daughter. She hovered close at hand now, always, displacing the royal attendants, so that, it seemed, the King need only think of a thing and she made it appear.
‘She is...close to His Grace.’ He could not keep the tinge of judgement from his voice. Certainly it was too much to expect a man to be faithful to a wife after her death, and yet... ‘Her name is Alice Perrers.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Valerie nodded, without a trace of hesitation, surprise or disapproval, and looked over her shoulder, for a final glimpse. ‘I understand My Lord of Spain thinks her good for the King.’
He never seemed to know the way of a woman’s mind. Particularly this woman’s.
Still, King Edward looked better than the last time he had appeared in public. Gil wondered whether credit could go to his mistress, brazen enough now that she appeared at his side, even on a religious occasion.
The court spilled out of the Abbey and into the sunshine. Queen Constanza was helped into a litter. Lancaster chose to ride a horse, but most walked. Gil fell into step beside Valerie, though it was a struggle to shorten his stride. He wanted again to make her laugh, but pressured to be merry, he could summon only serious thoughts.
Easter was early this year. It was still March and a sharp wind cut the air. Two ladies of the court hurried by and he caught a few words before they were snatched away.
‘...cares for Lancaster’s children...service of Venus, too.’
‘I saw her leave his quarters...’
The two walked ahead. The rest was lost.
Was that how it was?
He glanced at Valerie, but she seemed to have heard nothing.
He was not a man to listen to court tattle, but even he had wondered... And if it was true, had the Duke himself suggested Lady Katherine remind him of his duty to his wife?
Or, perhaps, it was no more than a rumour.
A high-pitched laugh shattered the air, too loud to ignore. He looked ahead at the flock of Castilian ladies, unable to tell one from the other.
‘The Queen’s sister,’ Valerie said. ‘Isabel.’
He had been presented, he was certain, but he could not remember her. ‘She seems most unlike her sister.’
‘They are of very different natures. Isabel enjoys the company of others, even if they are Inglés. If she does not understand what is said, she simply laughs.’
The path curved with the river and the wind whipped from behind them. Valerie hunched her shoulders and he put his arm around her.
Close, now, he realised anew how small she was. He could tuck her under his arm, envelop her in his cloak, even pick her up and carry her and not strain with the effort. But walking beside her, trying to match her steps—that was a challenge.
‘By next Easter,’ he said, as they reached the Savoy stairs and started to climb, ‘we will be in Seville. And it will be warm.’
She did not answer quickly. ‘I was told they celebrate differently there.’
The Easter he had been in Castile had been spent on the march, not in church. ‘In what way?’ They were all Christians. He had never wondered that the ceremonies might differ.
‘It seems,’ she said, so softly that he had to stoop to hear her, ‘that men walk through the city, whipping themselves, as a way to share the pain of Christ’s suffering.’
‘Really?’ This must be symbolic, as a way of teaching. ‘As we might watch a mystery play, you mean.’
‘No. They use a scourge. With nails.’
‘But the church has banned the Flagellants.’
‘Yes, but it permits devotees to pay tribute to the suffering of Christ during this week of his death.’ Her dark eyes, wide with horror, met his now. ‘They told me the streets run red with blood.’
He shuddered.
Life was full of pain aplenty. Why would any man seek more?
But the very thought stopped him from further talk and he murmured a brief farewell when they reached the palace.
Perhaps, he thought, as Valerie disappeared, the Queen’s ladies were simply exaggerating. But if not, this was a Castile far different from the peaceful garden he held in memory.
Which one was real?
Chapter Seven
Summoned to Lancaster’s quarters just after Easter, Gilbert was prepared with a report. The King had first decreed they would sail for France on the first of May, only a month away, impossible, as even the King now knew. Despite all his efforts, there were not enough ships in England to launch battle on two fronts.
But h
e had found enough ships to carry a small force, enough men to defend against pirates and enough gold to hire troops once they made land in Brittany. That would leave the bulk of the fleet to carry men and horses to Castile, under Gil’s command if all went according to plan.
But when he entered, Lancaster spoke first. ‘There is news,’ the Duke said. ‘The French and the Castilian pretender have joined forces. And fleets.’
For a moment, Gil was not certain he had heard aright. ‘A combined fleet?’ They had known, of course, that France’s ruler supported the Castilian pretender. But they had expected combined armies on land, not a defence of the Continental coast. ‘We do not have enough ships for battle before we reach the shore...’ he began. Not unless they abandoned plans for Castile.
‘Their plan is not to engage at sea. It is to invade England.’
Unimaginable. The Channel had protected the island nearly as effectively as a moat. ‘Are you sure?’
News from the Continent came late and changed with each messenger. Poitou was under siege. French ships would land in Wales. Could any of it be believed?
‘We cannot take the risk.’
Gil nodded. If it were the French alone, he would not worry. Over the years, the French had tried scattered raids on the English coast with little success. But Castile had ships and men to rival England’s. If Castilian ships were ready to sail, England might be facing an enemy landing on its own shores.
And so again, a new plan. He started to assess.
‘Losford will hold,’ Gil began, ‘but we must send them word.’
‘And set up watch points to scan the sea,’ the Duke added. ‘And light the fire, to spread word if they come.’
‘We can divert some of the ships to patrol the coast. I will leave at once—’
‘No. The celebration is tonight.’
In the midst of preparations for war, Lancaster had decreed that a pageant be held to celebrate the end of Lent and the heritage of the Kingdom they had not yet won. Queen Constanza and her giddy sister Isabel had dictated some of the food and entertainment, he had been told, in an attempt to bring Castile’s culture to the halls of the Savoy. ‘But if our shores are threatened, it should be cancelled.’
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