‘No. The Queen must not be told.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing must disturb her. Or the child she carries. I made it clear to her translator. She must hear only good news. And tonight, we rejoice.’
* * *
Rejoicing was the last thing on Gil’s mind as he stood in the Hall that night. It was a celebration, yes. Even Lancaster’s father, King Edward had come, a sign of his support of his son’s ambition to be a king in his own right. His appearance was like a blessing that conjured past glories and past triumphs, seeming to assure future success.
No wonder Lancaster wanted nothing to spoil the evening.
But as Gil approached Lancaster, who was in an intense conversation with the man who would command the expedition to France, it was clear that smiles were only on the surface.
‘Surely My Lord the King of Spain cannot plan to give command of the Castilian invasion to Wolford. He’s a...’ Pembroke looked up as Gil approached and fell silent.
But the way he looked at Gil said it all: You cannot give such a command to a Brewen.
The past suddenly came alive again. The jeers of the squires who had shunned him. The doubtful looks when he first rode to battle. The ladies who had looked the other way when he smiled at them.
If he had hoped Valerie would not discover the truth, he hoped in vain. The old stories, the old pains, would never die.
‘What were you going to say?’ Gil asked, belligerent, daring the man to hurl the insults to his face instead of whispering the stories behind his back.
A moment’s hesitation. Pembroke bit his lip. Not so brave now. ‘My lord and I were only discussing the invasion plan.’
‘Enough,’ Lancaster said, putting an arm on Gil’s shoulder. ‘Do not question my judgement, Pembroke. Sir Gilbert has fought by my side with bravery and honour. I will hear no ill spoken of him.’
The man nodded, silent, and backed away. No, Pembroke would not question Lancaster again, but he would remain convinced that Sir Gil Wolford was an outlaw instead of a knight.
‘He does not speak for me,’ Lancaster assured him, after Pembroke took his leave. ‘I have no doubts.’
Grateful, Gil murmured thanks as Lancaster was drawn into another conversation. No doubts, he said, but also, he had not yet named Gil his commander.
Sometimes, it seemed that My Lord of Spain was the only man in England who did not doubt him. Enough reason for Gil to give the man unwavering loyalty.
And a reminder that Castile remained his goal. On the Iberian plains, they did not know the Brewens. They knew only El Lobo, un hombre de honor, a label he was proud to wear.
He looked for Valerie, finding her, finally, across the Hall, somehow in the centre of a discussion between the Queen’s ladies and the court musicians.
‘What is Valerie doing?’ Willing to brave a question to Lady Katherine, hoping she would not ask him if he had told Valerie the truth. ‘There, with the women and the minstrels?’
‘I believe she is trying to help them explain how Castilian dance music should be played.’
‘How would she know that?’
‘She has made a great effort and learned a few words of Castilian. And, a task even more difficult, she has taught the Queen’s ladies some words of our tongue.’
He looked again at the woman who was to be his wife—small, dark-eyed, her expressions hard to read. Did he know anything of her? How could a woman so meek as to fear his glance mediate among the cacophony of agitated voices in two languages? Finally, he glimpsed again the woman he had first met—strong and unafraid to speak her mind.
But if she was trying to learn the language, it was a sure sign she shared his devotion to Castile and to the marriage, despite all. He allowed himself a smile and a moment of pride. A wife who knew the language would be an asset indeed.
* * *
In the midst of struggling to imagine a translation for animado, Valerie looked around the Hall for Gil.
Despite the spirit of celebration, he looked as stern and angry as ever as he spoke to the Duke and another nobleman. Only when Katherine joined him did Valerie see a fleeting smile cross his face.
It was when he looked at her.
She smiled in return. Could she have pleased him in some way? How?
But she had little time to ponder it. Queen Constanza had left her chambers to go somewhere besides church and the ‘court in exile’ had developed a special entertainment of Castilian song and dance. The Castilian ladies had forced every page and squire at their disposal to masquerade as if for a disguising. Their faces had been smeared with cinders and their clothes decorated with ribbons and bells, as gay as Yuletide jesters.
Valerie’s few Castilian phrases had been pressed into service, though how successfully, she feared to discover.
The musicians were given their final instructions, with a waving of hands, then Valerie stepped away, fingers clasped as if to pray, and the dance began.
Gil joined her at the side of the dais as the men began to hop about the floor. The music and the rhythms were as foreign as the language she struggled to learn and she had no idea whether the result was what they had hoped. She could only pray that La Reina would be pleased.
The crowd at the edge of the floor pressed in on either side. Gently, Gil moved her in front of him, so that no one would stand before her and block her view.
She struggled to keep her mind on the dance. She knew Gil was a strong man, but she had not been so close to him for so long before. Short as she was, no taller than his shoulder, he could easily see over her. Close and strong at her back, she felt his hands on her arms, steady, sure.
When Scargill had put his hands on her, he meant to cage, force, trap her. But Gil’s touch spoke of protection, as if he wanted to make certain she was not shoved aside by a careless courtier.
Surrounded by his strength, she felt safe. And hopeful. Perhaps he would be a kinder husband than her last.
She turned back to the dance.
Foreign movements. Strange looks. She did not know if the result was truly Castilian or only a poor translation, as awkward and uncertain as her words had been.
And when it was finished, the men on the floor stood, struggling to smile, looking at each other.
Silence reigned in the Hall.
Then, the self-styled King of Castile stood and clapped, long and loudly, until, finally, the rest of the room joined him. Sitting beside her King, La Reina beamed with joy, as if for the first time since she arrived, she felt at home.
Valerie’s eyes met hers and she was rewarded with a nod. Some joy, then, in giving the woman a taste of all she had missed.
More familiar music filled the air again, and Gil’s hands fell away as the audience became a crowd once more.
‘It was supposed to be a dance of Castile,’ she said, wincing as she looked at him. ‘Did you see anything like that when you were there?’
Gil gifted her with another smile. ‘I believe they do it somewhat differently in Spain.’
She laughed. ‘I would not be surprised.’ Still, both the Queen and Gil seemed pleased. ‘I do not understand why their faces must be darkened.’
‘There are Moors in Spain. I think this dance is one of theirs.’
A reminder of all that awaited her. Her smile faded. ‘Is this is a heathen dance?’ She would not have thought the devout Queen would want to see such a thing.
‘It is not so unusual there. They are superb horsemen and they can create places of great beauty.’ The thought seemed to take him away. ‘You will see. When we are there.’
An unwelcome reminder.
Castile loomed like a dragon over her. Nothing would be familiar. Not the land, the weather, or the language. And now, to discover it was peopled with strange, dark beings...
&n
bsp; ‘Lady Katherine said you have learned some Castilian,’ he said, his tone warm with approval.
Was that was the reason he had smiled? ‘I have tried. The Queen and her ladies speak nothing else. I could not help but learn a few words. But then they wanted me to explain a Castilian dance I have never seen...’ She looked to Heaven. ‘I was not at all certain that my meagre interpretation was helpful.’
And yet, this brief triumph, this moment in which she had made both the Queen and Gil smile, this had been because she had tried something new, as strange and foreign as it had been.
‘You have done well to master even a few words. I learned little more than three phrases during all the months I was there. We were ever in search of a translator.’
A translator like the priest, who, she was certain, had filtered her words to the Queen. What else had he kept from the woman? Had she any knowledge of what was happening around her?
‘Then how could you be sure the translation was right? That your meaning had been accurately conveyed?’ In diplomacy and war, what could be more important than understanding what friends, or enemies, had said?
His dark brows met. Memory and doubt touched his face. ‘Sometimes, it was not.’ Then he studied her face, finally gracing her with a smile. ‘Henceforward, you will be my translator.’
Was he in jest? ‘Then I have much more to learn.’ They shared a smile.
Dancers filled the floor again and Gil shepherded her to a corner of the Hall, away from the crush and the noise, and they stood silent for a time. Finally, Valerie took a shaky breath. ‘Tell me,’ she began, ‘about Castile.’
Gil’s smile disappeared, as if the word brought memories he did not want to share. ‘It is hard to explain.’
‘You had said it was freezing and boiling. And yet, you long to return.’
‘I spoke of the campaign,’ he said. ‘All campaigns are hard. The mountains were cold, but the plains were warm and dry.’
A hot, dry land. What could possibly grow in such a place? Her roses thrived on the dew of a summer morning, before the sun rose too high. ‘It does not sound...welcoming.’
‘Ah, but the palace, Alcázar, is a wonder. You will understand when you see it. Courtyards, gardens...you could live outside as easily as under a roof.’
Gardens. Perhaps this foreign land might hold one familiar joy.
She could see her own garden, clear, in her memory, knew every inch of it. She had left home in February and it was April now. She had missed seeing the periwinkles bloom. The bluebells would be next.
But she had planned to do so many things before now. The latticework where the roses climbed needed repair and the tunnel vine arbour, planted by her Castilian ancestor years ago, would soon leaf over. If only she could go home, just for a time. To stand and see the dappled sunlight filter through the vines...
She glanced at Gil again. He had smiled on her today. Perhaps, if she asked nicely... ‘I, too, have a garden. Now that spring has come it needs care. If I might have your leave to go home, just for a visit—’
‘No.’ Abruptly he became again the harsh, fearsome man who frowned to see her. But he pulled her further away from the crowd and lowered his voice to a near whisper. ‘You must not leave London.’
What had she said to cause such anger? ‘I would seek the Queen’s permission, of course.’
He shook his head, keeping her hands tightly gripped in his. ‘Not even then. It is too dangerous. We have word that the Castilian and French are gathering ships to cross the Channel.’
Talk of war was hard for her to follow when she was thinking of her garden. ‘I do not understand.’
He leaned in, his lips close enough to brush her cheekbone, and whispered in her ear, ‘The enemy may try to invade our shores.’
Wide-eyed, she looked up and met his eyes. He nodded, silent, grim.
Shocked, she looked over at the whirling circle dancers, not really seeing them. The war, always safely distant, here? On English soil? Even in her precious garden? Such a thing was unimaginable.
But as she looked again at Gil, and then to Lancaster and to the priest, she could see what she had missed before. The tight lips. The furtive glances.
These were not men thinking of music and dance.
And still he held her hands, the warmth itself reassurance.
She looked back at Gil and squeezed his fingers, a silent answer. ‘As you wish,’ she said. ‘I will remain here.’
He dropped her hands and they stood, silent, looking out at the dancers. Folly, somehow, to speak of ordinary things now. And yet, he stayed at her side, almost as if to lift a sword against the enemy, should they approach.
She looked back at the Queen, still smiling by her husband’s side.
She does not know. Valerie’s certainty caught her by surprise.
And only by chance that Valerie did not wear a smile as ignorant as the Queen’s. Both women, who must submit to the will of their husbands, and yet for all her power, the Queen, alone in a country not her own, seemed somehow more helpless than Valerie.
For she was isolated behind walls of words she did not understand, her world translated by men with motives of their own. Did her husband seek to spare her worry? Or to prevent her from interfering? It did not matter. He had snatched her choice along with the knowledge.
She glanced up at Gil.
He had not told her to keep the news secret.
And she would not ask.
* * *
The Queen’s household slept late the next day.
Valerie did not. She rose early to pace the corridor, looking out each window at the river below. How far was it to the sea? Two days’ ride, on a fast horse. And if a boat could travel upstream, could it even reach London?
She touched the walls, aware for the first time how thick and strong they were. Would they be safe, even here?
Perhaps she should speak to Katherine first. But if Katherine, close as she was to the Duke, knew of this and had not spoken of it, she might warn Valerie to say nothing.
For a moment, she stood, torn between loyalty to her betrothed and to the Queen. But what difference would it make to the men if the Queen were told? Their preparations would be the same. It was only the women who must be kept in ignorance, as if they were blind and deaf, valued only for the body that lay below the neck.
That had been the life she knew. But a queen? Well, a queen deserved better.
Late in the morning, she found a quiet, private moment, without the other women, to speak. The priest was there and she was certain he would try to block her meaning, but she could not wait. Her Castilian was insufficient to convey this important news, but she could say enough to force him to speak the truth.
She began with compliments and pleasantries, a remembrance of the last night’s joys, lulling the priest with smiles.
And then she changed her tone. ‘Sadly,’ she began, ‘amidst such joy, it came to my ears that a fleet of Castilian and French ships may threaten our shores.’
The priest’s flow of translation stopped. He turned to look at her, in horror.
Valerie met his eyes. ‘You have already informed La Reina of this news, I am certain.’
The man’s ruddy cheeks paled, a look more of guilt than fear. Yes, as she had thought, he had known the truth and kept from her what the woman should have been told. At her husband’s command, no doubt.
The Queen looked from one to the other, then spoke to the priest, who muttered something. From the calm look on the Queen’s face, he had conveyed nothing of what she had said.
So. Just as Valerie had suspected.
She paused. She still could keep the secret. And she should. An obedient wife would do so. If she told the Queen what she knew, there would be Gil’s anger to face. But he was a man, free to come and g
o in the world. For all that she was a queen, Constanza, younger than Valerie and pregnant, was at the mercy of what the men around her were willing to share.
Today, Valerie could do something to change that.
‘Father,’ she said, ‘perhaps you should try again.’ Her tone of warning would need no translation. ‘La Reina should know the caballeros may come here.’
The Queen looked at him sharply. ‘Qué dice?’
‘Sobre la guerra...’ And more words. Enough to bring a frown to her face, but not, Valerie thought, the whole truth.
With a pointed look at the priest, she spoke clearly. ‘If you are unable to do so, I will do it myself, but I am certain your command of the language will more gently convey the truth than my few, blunt phrases. And please tell La Reina, exactamente, that since an invasion threatens, she and the babe would be safer in the country, away from London.’
She turned to the Queen then, keeping her eyes and her smile steady. The priest translated, seemingly accurately this time, for the Queen’s eyes widened in fear, then her lips narrowed with resolve, and finally, she nodded with understanding,
‘Gracias, señora,’ she said, never taking her gaze from Valerie.
Another exchange between the Queen and the priest.
‘La Reina is grateful for your loyalty,’ he said, finally. ‘And for the dedication that you, and your betrothed, have shown to the true throne of Castile. She will have My Lord of Spain find a suitable castle in the country. Will your husband allow you to stay and help as we move to safety?’
A welcome reprieve. At one time, Gil had insisted she serve the Queen. Now, the Queen’s favour might shield her from his anger.
She sank into a deep, grateful curtsy. ‘Gracias, Mi Reina. I will ask him for permission to do so.’
The Queen smiled.
Chapter Eight
Bad enough that he was being forced to wed, Gil thought, as he strode through the corridor. Worse that he had been given a wife who could not be trusted to keep the secrets he had been careless enough to share.
Rumors at Court Page 8