Even when Gil had handed her the scarf, proof her husband had betrayed her as well as beaten her, she had felt nothing. Her husband and her feelings, now both dead. Hope, desire, all those passions were well behind her.
Or so she thought.
But now, she must put aside all thoughts of her husband so that she could tell Elyot all she knew of the Queen’s condition.
They left the next morning for Hertford.
She did not see him alone again.
* * *
Gil delivered the midwife, who attended the Queen immediately. La Reina was still uncomfortable, Valerie told him, but there had been no new pains.
News he could deliver to Monseigneur d’Espagne without fear of distracting him from the military planning.
With the Queen safe, for the moment, he waited for Valerie to speak of his family. Or of their kiss. Instead, all seemed as it had been before, her wimple and her smile both firmly in place.
But as he was about to leave for London, a summons came. He and Valerie were to present themselves to the Castilian Queen.
‘Why would she want to see us?’ he whispered to Valerie, as they walked through the corridor, following one of the Queen’s other ladies. He was learning to adjust his stride to hers, but still, she would break out in a run beside him.
‘No doubt,’ she began, doubling her steps, ‘she wants to express her thanks.’
They paused before the closed door. She brushed the hair out of his eyes and straightened his sleeve. Small, comforting gestures, ones that might be witnessed, and yet, ones that made him feel as if they were married indeed.
And she the woman who had given herself to his kiss.
The door opened.
He served her husband, which meant he served the Queen as well, but somehow, he felt as if he had been summoned to the enemy camp. Valerie knew the woman well and he was strangely glad to have her by his side, as if she could shield him from harm.
La Reina’s expression did not comfort him. She seemed to have aged years in the weeks since he had seen her in London.
Valerie dipped a curtsy.
Gil bowed. ‘My Lord of Spain asked that I send you his warmest greetings and tell you he looks forward to the day you may return to London.’
Had he become such a liar? And the Queen as well, Lancaster had said, when Gil reminded him. Well, he did not say what words to use.
An interpreter sat at her side, but she did not wait for the Castilian translation before she shrugged, as if she knew exactly how inconsequential the words were.
‘You are to wed Lady Valerie?’ The interpreter’s voice. The Queen’s question.
He glanced at Valerie, then back to the Queen. A strange beginning. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘La tratarás bien.’
‘You will be good to her,’ the translator said.
Not a question. A command.
He smiled. At the Queen, at Valerie, at the world in general. This, he could promise. ‘I will, Your Grace.’
And yet Valerie looked to the ground again. Was she shy? Or did she have doubts, now that she knew the truth?
But the Queen had nodded, satisfied. Now she had a whispered conference and then her translator spoke again. ‘You lead men to Castile.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Surprising that she knew. Had her husband written? Or had Valerie shared the news? ‘My Lord of Spain has given me the honour of commanding the expedition to Castile.’
‘When?’ The Queen’s own voice. She had learned a few words of English from Valerie, it seemed.
He swallowed. ‘When we hear from the King of Portugal, later this summer—’
‘Ships to sail now. Not to Castile?’
He opened his mouth. Closed it. And silently cursed Lancaster and the priest Gutierrez. They had tried to keep the news from her, but it was too late for that.
Next to him, Valerie stood with head bowed and hands clasped, looking like a nun in prayer. Or like a conspirator, caught.
‘Not this time, Your Grace. This is only a small force, going to relieve the siege at Thouars.’ Pembroke’s task was much more modest, perhaps the reason he had resented Gil.
The Queen looked at Valerie, who nodded. Had he confirmed news she had shared? If so, he had just proven her loyalty to the Queen. No small matter for those who lived in the shadow of a throne.
‘No a Castilla?’ The Queen herself spoke to him, the disappointment of her dashed hopes shimmering in the words. Perhaps she had hoped Valerie was wrong. Or that plans had changed again.
‘Not yet, Your Grace. We hope by July.’ How much should he tell her of diplomacy and invasion plans? ‘With permission from the King, we can go through Portugal.’
Her expression, a mixture of pain and disgust. ‘I did not marry the King of Portugal.’
‘No, Your Grace.’ How easy it must seem, to ride to war, when you knew nothing of men and ships and making certain you would not be attacked on the way to your objective. ‘I, too, am eager to embark.’
‘Mi señor, el Rey...forgot?’
The words an echo of his own fears. The King was ageing, the Prince was ill and Lancaster was pulled away from the affairs of Castile. Normandy, Aquitaine—there were battles on all sides. Some days, there were too many commanders. Other days, there seemed to be none at all.
‘He has not.’ Now, with clenched jaw. ‘Nor have I.’
He must prove it. To her, to Valerie, to himself.
‘My Lord of Spain gave me the honour of making certain we regain Castile because he knows that no man is more dedicated to that end.’ He put a hand into his pocket and pulled out the stone he carried with him always. It hung by his side as if it were part of his flesh. ‘I made a vow when I stood in this garden.’
The small piece of stone lay in his palm, heavy. One side was flat and smooth, glazed with tile of blue and white and green and even a colour like the orange fruit. The other side was jagged, rough-edged and broken, perhaps by a clumsy gardener.
The Queen’s eyes widened. She snatched it from his palm and cradled it in hers. ‘From the palace of my father,’ she said blinking against tears.
He nodded.
‘Look,’ she said, waving it at Valerie. ‘Alcázar!’
For a moment he thought she might hand it to Valerie, but then, she pulled back her hand, gripping the chunk of tiled stone so tightly, he feared he would not get it back.
Then, with a look of longing and a sigh, she put it again in his hand. ‘You,’ she said. ‘You recall to my husband his duty. The throne.’
Suddenly, the stone seemed both cold and hot in his hand, as if her words had bewitched it. As he held it, he was, once again, standing in the palace, walking the tiled courtyards, feeling the sun on his face and hearing the splash of the fountains.
He closed his fingers around the sharp edges. ‘He needs no reminder, Your Grace.’ He looked at Valerie, then. ‘Nor do I.’
It was his promise to her. He would take her far from the horrible corner of England she had seen to the warmth and light of Castile. A far different place, where he could be a different man.
The Queen turned her gaze towards the window and looked out on the cool, blue sky of the May morning. ‘I would smell again the naranja in the spring.’
How like Valerie she sounded, as if the plants and flowers held her to home. ‘The orange blossoms, yes. And taste the fruit?’
She returned her hollow-eyed gaze to him. ‘No. The fruit is bitter.’ Her tone sounded void of hope, as if she knew she might die on this unfamiliar island, never to see her home again.
‘You will see Castile again, Your Grace.’ He looked at Valerie, gripped the stone and shoved it into his pouch. ‘I swear by this stone.’
An unbreakable promise, to himself and to Valerie
, who had taken this Queen, this country, as her own, even before she fully understood why he must leave England. She had studied the language, she had told the Queen of war plans, she had proved her commitment to Castile.
And yet, when he repeated his oath and looked at the woman who would be his wife, he did not see the pride in her eyes he had expected.
He pondered it as he rode back to London, wondering all the way what expression he had seen on her face. He could not call her look that of determination, or even doubt.
Only as he reached the Savoy Palace did he understand the look he had seen in her eyes.
It was sorrow. When he spoke of Castile, he had seen only sorrow.
* * *
La Reina took to her childbed late on a summer day. Elyot and Katherine hovered the night long, along with Valerie and one of the Castilian ladies who knew enough of the language to be helpful. Between the two of them, they helped the midwife and the Queen to understand one another, as the Queen could not at once give birth and attempt a foreign tongue.
The Queen’s younger sister, Isabel, was not to be found. Flirting with one of the guards, Valerie suspected.
La Reina had insisted that Valerie stay close and she suspected it was in part because the woman wanted a companion who knew as little of giving birth as she did. And so she held Constanza’s hand and wiped her brow and when she was not translating from the Queen’s woman to the midwife, she muttered sounds intended to be soothing, though she could not have said what language she spoke.
Finally, the cry of a babe came as dawn woke the sky.
The midwife, efficient, cleaned and swaddled the child. ‘A healthy daughter.’
Valerie’s empty womb tightened at the words. Would she ever hold her own child? One that Gil had fathered? She longed for that now, more fiercely than ever before.
‘Praise to God,’ she murmured. A prayer of thanks and petition.
Katherine smiled, with some of the sadness of those statues of Our Lady, who somehow knew what was to come. ‘God would receive more praise had she borne a son.’
Valerie sighed. Matters of state intruded on even this most personal moment. Didn’t a daughter fill a mother’s arms as fully as a son?
Constanza, though a woman, had inherited the throne in her own right and if there were no sons, this child might do the same. Still, the Castilian people wanted a king, a man of their own blood.
And, a truth equally painful for Constanza and Katherine, a daughter meant that My Lord of Spain must return to his Queen’s bed to try again for a son.
Katherine reached for the babe to take her to the nursery, but Constanza clutched the tiny infant to her bosom, shaking her head as if she, too, were no more than a child.
Then, she turned to Valerie and stretched out her arms. ‘You.’
Valerie looked at Katherine.
‘No!’ The Queen’s voice stronger than she had thought possible. ‘You!’
Valerie held out her arms, uncertain, but somehow, the baby lay there as if in a cradle. The Queen smiled, at peace, and closed her eyes.
Valerie looked at the others, feeling helpless. ‘What do I do now?’
The Queen let out a soft snore and Katherine reached for the small bundle. ‘I can take her.’
Valerie hesitated. How painful for Katherine, to care for this babe of her lover’s wife. And yet, even this a woman would do for love, to take care of a babe not her own for the sake of the child’s father.
Katherine smiled and shrugged. ‘It is all right.’
Yet the Queen had said you. She had selected Valerie, trusted her to take care of this most precious child. She hugged the warm, wiggling bundle close. Perhaps caring for this baby would convince God that she deserved a child of her own.
She smiled back at Katherine, but did not let go. ‘I will learn. And I will not be alone with her care.’
Katherine took off her apron. ‘Someone must tell John the news,’ she said, not bothering to correct herself before Valerie. ‘If you can care for the child, I will go.’
Valerie nodded and they embraced, laughing when the babe cried in protest.
Katherine paused at the door. ‘Have you a message for Gil?’
‘A message?’ Did married couples communicate so? She and her first husband never had.
But she wished Gil could see her with a babe in her arms. If she could give him a child, maybe he would understand that even his home could be reborn. Maybe for a child, he would try to reclaim his own land instead of longing for Castile. ‘Tell him I wait on his pleasure.’
Pleasure. She remembered his lips on hers, his arms around her. She had felt a moment’s pleasure there, something she had never felt before. Some day soon he would be her husband, entitled to take his pleasure, whether she willed or no.
She looked down at the tiny face. Even if the act was as terrible as she remembered, it would be worth it for this reward.
Behind her the midwife sighed. ‘If you are going to care for her, I must teach you a few things.’
Chapter Eleven
Word of the expedition’s fate came early in July. Gil heard it first, as if on a bad wind in the dark.
The fleet destroyed. Men, burned alive on flaming ships, run aground at the entrance to La Rochelle’s harbour.
To him fell the hated duty of delivering the news to Lancaster. ‘My lord, the fleet, Pembroke...’
Lancaster looked up, all attention and smiles. ‘What news?’ Eager. Expecting to celebrate a victory.
Instead, defeat. And worse. ‘Gone. All gone. The ships, the men, the money...’ Words bitter and brutal. If Lancaster had seized the throne already, if the Castilians had not joined with the French, if...
Too late for wishes. Too late for prayers.
The man who would be King sat stunned, his face full of disbelief. ‘We have never been defeated at sea.’ The enormity of the disaster sank in slowly. And then, ramifications rippled across his face. ‘And Pembroke?’
‘Held for ransom by the Castilian pretender.’ Worst of all insults. ‘They are asking...’ Gil said the number. A sum unfathomable.
‘But he had twelve thousand pounds...’ Enough money to keep the soldiers in the field for months. ‘Surely that would be enough to set him free until the entire amount—’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone?’ Another wave of shock. ‘Where? How?’
He shook his head. ‘In enemy hands. Or at the bottom of the sea.’ Beyond their reach in either case. The money that was to pay the men, to buy victory in France, so they could move on to Castile, all lost.
Lancaster dropped his head, letting defeat roll over him.
Gil gripped his shoulder. ‘We will avenge their deaths. The men are ready.’ Near two thousand were gathering, ready to fight. ‘When we take Castile—’
‘We cannot land ships in France. How can we take Castile?’
The words a blow, yet he knew the truth of them. They could not reach Castile until they regained control of the sea. And so, once again, the dream of Castile, nearly within his grasp, floated from reach, as if washed out to sea and drowned with the English ships.
‘We can,’ Gil said. ‘We will.’ Recall to my husband his duty. The piece of stone from Alcázar hung heavy in Gil’s pocket. The man must not lose hope. ‘We have more ships. More men. We will land in Portugal.’ That must be their path now. ‘This is only a setback, like the blizzard in the Spanish mountains, which made the spring victory more sweet.’
Lancaster raised his head, shaken, still, but with a hint of his old energy. ‘I must go to my father, my brother. We must plan...’
New plans. More battles. Lancaster, surely, must make the decisions now. His brother the Prince, once the most feared of commanders, could rally from his bed for only moments at a time. No
t long enough to think or plan an invasion. And the King, by turns ill and distracted with his mistress, seemed distant, as if he were already contemplating the next world.
So would Lancaster’s first duty be to a Castile they did not hold, to the lands in France they were losing, or to England itself?
‘My lord. News.’ The guard barely spoke the words before Lady Katherine followed him into the room.
‘A babe, my lord.’ Her words rushed, as if she had run the thirty miles from Hertford. ‘Your wife has been delivered of a child.’
Lancaster’s face lit with eager anticipation. ‘A boy?’
A moment of anticipated joy. A male heir to the throne would give their cause new energy. It might even persuade more in Castile to support them.
‘A girl,’ she said, in a gentle tone, as if to soften the news. ‘And she is healthy.’
‘Congratulations,’ Gil said, his voice a bit too hardy.
Not even a nod of acknowledgement from Lancaster. As if this second news had been more crippling than the first.
Gil did not move, uncertain how to comfort the man.
But Lady Katherine approached him without fear, laying a hand on his arm, putting her head close to his, in a posture too familiar for her to take with her lord and monarch. ‘The Queen has named the girl María. After her mother.’
Her words roused him. And Gil again saw steel in the Duke’s eyes. ‘The girl,’ he said, ‘shall be called Katherine.’
He heard a catch of surprise in the lady’s voice. A slight flush of her cheek. Perhaps this was the reason the Queen had doubted her husband’s devotion to duty. Did she think the man would prefer to stay in England, close to his mistress?
‘You will tell the Queen of my decision,’ Lancaster said, looking first her, then at Gil, before stepping back, putting the distance due a king between them.
The Lady Katherine inclined her head. ‘I will so inform your lady.’
Silent, Gil looked from one to the other. There was more than lust in the Duke’s eyes. He had thought the expression regret that the child was not the longed-for son. Perhaps it was more. Perhaps it was regret for a love his life did not allow.
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