Something stirred, in her breasts, on her skin, delicate as a breeze or a ripple of water.
The thought of the marriage bed.
Was it possible that she might find the pleasure there some women did?
He saw her then, met her eyes and did not look away. Did she see a yearning in his or was that only her own hope?
She dropped her gaze.
Foolish dreamer. Be grateful if he does not beat you.
And yet...
The steward rushed forward, the servants swarmed and Isabel of Castile was helped from her horse and ushered into the castle.
Valerie wakened to her duty, pointing out which trunks belonged to the Queen’s sister and which to her attendants until the final, small chest that was hers was the only one left and all the menials were gone.
She looked up to see Gil. His expression was stern, as she had come to expect, yet his gaze hinted at something more.
Our child will be called by whatever name you choose.
Scargill would never have said such a thing.
‘Are you well?’ he said awkwardly, as if she were a servant instead of his betrothed. As if the moments of closeness they had shared when alone had never happened.
She lifted her head. ‘Very well, my lord.’
A frown.
‘I mean, Gil.’ His name still felt foreign. Too intimate.
Silent, he looked at her, as if assessing the truth of her assurance. Then he saw the Queen’s gift, weighing heavy on her neck. ‘What is that?’
She lifted her hand to touch the cross as he reached to examine it and their fingers tangled, awkwardly.
He let go.
She smiled. ‘A gift from La Reina in thanks for my service. So I could...’ Pray for a child? Words too blunt. ‘Earth from Castile. From the shrine of the Virgin at Guadalupe.’
‘We will go there together to give thanks, when we reach Castile.’ His expression lightened. ‘Before St Crispin’s Day, if all goes well.’
‘So soon?’ A flower did not change its colour with every new dawn. Yet war plans seemed to change between the rising of the sun and the moon. When he had spoken to the Queen, it seemed clear there would be no invasion this year. ‘But the ships were lost, all was delayed.’ Guilty, she realised she had rejoiced to think the defeat at La Rochelle had postponed the inevitable invasion.
But now there was joy in his smile, joy and excitement as she had never seen. ‘King Edward will sail against the French, yes, but Portugal signed a treaty with us. We have an ally. Both expeditions can move.’
‘But you had said the French, the Castilians, they might come to Wales.’
‘We think to beat them first. All the men pledged to Lancaster have been called here to witness the wedding tomorrow. The next day, he will announce that we leave for Castile.’
To witness the wedding and then to fight for Castile. Poor, young Isabel. She was here not as a bride, but as a military rallying cry.
But Valerie, too, had been called here to become a bride. All thoughts of Constanza and Isabel and Katherine and Castile seemed to pale before that fact. ‘So are we, too, to wed before then?’
‘Yes.’ His look of triumph and hope suddenly shifted and he looked at her, an edge of craving in his gaze, as if she were terrain to be taken. ‘Tomorrow.’
Tomorrow.
No more hope to delay or postpone. And she had not realised, until that moment, how steadfastly she had resisted facing the truth about how her life would change.
She swallowed. ‘At what hour tomorrow?’ Each moment of freedom left to her, now to be counted, to be cherished.
‘Immediately after Lady Isabel and Cambridge.’
She donned her smile, the one that meant nothing, and nodded. If Constanza could bear to be abandoned, if Katherine could bear to share her lover with his wife, then she could face marriage to this man.
‘I will be ready,’ she said, hoping her words disguised her fear.
But his words gave her strange hope, as well. He would leave soon, before there was time to know him, before there was time to do anything but give him her body. Like her first husband, he would to sail to war, leaving things as they were before.
‘La Reina, in expectation of our wedding, has given me permission to leave her service, so that we may set up our household, at the Castle of the Weeping Winds.’ So much work to be done there. Would she have time to lay out a garden? ‘Until we leave for Castile, that is.’
The excitement on his face turned again to loathing. ‘I told you. We will not go there again.’
‘But...’ She had thought that once he told her, once there was no more to hide, he would realise that he had a wife, there must be a home. A home in England.
She had, it seemed, been wrong.
But if she were not to go to Leicestershire, if she need not stay with the Queen, she might go home. To manage her own land. To tend her own garden.
Last time she had asked, he said it was not safe, but that was weeks ago, when they feared an invasion. Wales was on the westernmost side of the island. She would be more safe at home than at Hertford.
‘In that case,’ she began, struggling to keep the delight out of her voice, ‘I shall return to Kent.’
Already, she could list all that must be done. Crops to tend before harvest. The ewes that were ready to breed. The quince tree would be showing its fruit, though they would not be ready for months. ‘Until we must leave for Castile, I will—’
‘You cannot.’
‘Why not?’ She had not thought this man as arbitrary as that, stubborn as he was about his past. ‘You do not want me to return to Leicestershire and the Queen does not need me now.’
‘The land is gone.’
‘What?’ Land could not disappear. ‘That cannot be.’
‘No longer yours. Lancaster has given it to a banneret from Suffolk. He has already claimed it.’
‘He cannot!’ She could not breathe. It was as if her hand—no, more, her arm, had been cut off. ‘The land was not Scargill’s, it was mine, and my mother’s and hers and more!’
‘And you received your dower settlement for it.’ His words sounded soothing and earnest. ‘Lancaster has already transferred it to me.’
The land was dowered, which should have meant it was hers, inviolable, hers and her family’s unto all the generations to come.
But things had changed, since the time of Queen Eleanor and the first Edward. A woman’s dowry was what she brought to the marriage, as well as what she could take from it. Some husbands preferred the flexibility of coin, the value of the land that could be spent even while the land itself remained. If her mother had made such an arrangement for her, the Duke would be well within his rights to give the dowry to her husband in cash.
To him, to both of them, the land was no more than a chess piece, to be moved, traded, exchanged for a more important or convenient piece of property that suited Lancaster’s purposes.
‘But the settlement will be protected,’ Gil said, thinking to reassure her. ‘It will be yours if...’ A pause before he spoke the words bravely. ‘If anything happens to me.’
And she saw, so clearly, that he did not understand. A man who hated his own land could not understand how much she loved hers.
‘But the man who holds it now, there are things he should know.’ Who was this banneret? Was he worthy of what had been entrusted to him? ‘I must tell him about the crops, about the flowers...’
About her dear quince tree, with fruit beginning to grow, and the pink-and-white roses, probably past cutting now...
Gil placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘You have a steward. He can tell the man everything he needs to know.’
She closed her eyes against the tears. It was not the steward who had measured the angle
of the sun in order to be sure the tree would have the best light. He had not been the one to prune the roses, nor to select where the pink ones were to be set and where the white.
She gripped the gold cross, with its scrap of Castilian soil, the only earth now truly hers. Then, she raised her eyes to his. ‘And what of my things?’ A mirror. A comb. The cloaks she would need come winter.
Now, his expression softened, as if he suddenly realised something of what had been snatched away. ‘They will be packed and sent.’
‘Sent where?’ Now, she had no home.
A moment of confusion, as if he had not thought of the question. As if all he needed was what he could carry into battle. ‘Is there a lot?’
She thought of the things that were hers, not part of Florham, and shook her head. ‘But there were a few tools for the garden. A spade. A trowel...’ Things worn to the shape of her hand.
‘When we are settled in Castile, you will not need to do that work. We will have gardeners.’ This was said with boastful pride. As if it were a gift, this magical future, this castle in the air of Castile.
Instead she felt as if she was to be pulled from the earth, ripped up like a plant that might or might not be suited for the soil of its next home.
She looked down at her cross, filled with dirt from a place she had never seen. What was the soil like? Parched or moist? Loam or sand?
‘You have what you need in your trunk now, yes?’
Silent, she nodded.
‘When the wedding is done,’ he continued, ‘you will return to the Queen until we regain Castile. Your things will be packed and sent to you there.’
She sighed. The Queen would no doubt understand.
He called over one of the men to lift her trunk and gave him directions. ‘He will show you where to sleep,’ Gil said. ‘The castle is crowded. You will have to share a room with the other ladies tonight. And tomorrow...’
His words brought heat to her cheeks.
Tomorrow, after the wedding, she would be sharing a bed. With him.
* * *
As Valerie watched the English King and his sons gather to celebrate the wedding of yet another son to yet another daughter of Castile, Valerie felt the ache of La Reina’s absence.
Or, perhaps, she concentrated on the other wedding to avoid thinking too deeply of her own.
The soon-to-be husband, Edmund of Langley, Earl of Cambridge, brooded in the corner, glumly sipping his wine. This marriage would bring him neither money nor power nor even the illusion of position, unless Constanza and his brother and their offspring all departed this earth.
Meanwhile, La Reina’s sister Isabel was all smiles and laughter. Flirting with men not her husband, batting her eyes and pursing her lips as if to kiss, under the guise of trying to speak the English tongue, she floated through the Hall, giggling and laughing. It was as if Constanza, only a year older, had assumed all the responsibilities of a parent and a queen, leaving her sister to act the child.
Isabel was only two years younger than she was, but Valerie felt infinitely older and wiser than this bride, for Valerie, at least, knew what awaited on the other side of the altar.
At least, she knew what lay behind her in her first marriage. Now, once again, she would be given to a man, tied to him through eternity.
Would she have two husbands in Heaven? A question only the theologians could answer.
But she knew what marriage on earth meant. And still, she hoped.
As they watched the exchange of vows, her eyes strayed to Gil, standing beside her. Shoulders strong enough to wield sword and shield. Lips that too seldom smiled. Fighting his past and living for the future.
This man had shown her kindness, made her think thoughts near as foolish as she had the first time, when she thought a husband would be a helpmeet instead of a scourge.
This man was not like the other, true. A stern warrior, yet Gil had the smooth courtesies of the nobility and even some inborn kindness, though that could be no more than the care one took of a horse or a hound. Certainly he did not understand her yearning to stay in England, attached to her own earth.
The ceremony concluded. The guests moved towards the Hall, ready for a banquet, and she stood, awkwardly, next to her husband-to-be.
Finally, the chapel was nearly empty and they walked, together, to stand before the altar, where the priest, Lady Katherine and Lancaster waited. Katherine stood safely distant from her lover, but the angle at which she held her head, the softness in his smile, the light in their eyes when they exchanged glances...she could see it all.
And more, she could see Gil watch them, with an envy that mirrored her own. The sort of love they shared? No man, or woman, should expect that within a marriage. Gil, as most men, would find it elsewhere.
She must expect that, even encourage it from the beginning, so that he would feel free to find it with another.
With kindness and a child, she would be content.
And now, they stood before the priest, in an empty chapel, for this afterthought of a wedding, arranged for the Duke’s convenience. An honour, to have him as a witness. Gil must be proud.
Lady Katherine moved to Valerie’s side and squeezed her hand, a quick encouragement. But they could not linger over this ceremony. Celebrations for the royal couple had begun in the Hall and they waited for Castile’s King to welcome his brother into the royal family.
It was the height of summer, yet her fingers were numb with cold in Gil’s large, warm hand. Now would come the words, the words which, once spoken, could never be undone. I plight thee my troth.
The priest began to speak.
* * *
Gil reached for his bride’s hand, so small, so cold. It chilled his palm. Did she fear him so much?
Or was she simply disappointed?
Each time he spoke to her, she bowed her head and acquiesced to anything he wanted, but today, he had seen her struggle when she realised he had no home to offer her. Nothing except the promise of Castile.
The priest muttered the final words.
Gil dropped her hand.
Lancaster clasped him on the shoulder. The Lady Katherine embraced Valerie. In all that time, his wife never raised her eyes to his.
They hurried into the Hall, where the feast of celebration for the royal wedding had begun. Few noticed them. A handful of the men who knew him gave him congratulations and said a kind word to Valerie. The newly married royal couple, sitting at the high table, was the centre of attention this night.
Isabel was twirling a silver cup between her fingers, mimicking the grotesque faces of the figures carved on it.
He and Valerie stood beside each other, awkwardly looking out over the room. And all he could think of was that he would come to her bed tonight. At last.
‘The lady over there wearing red. Is she not lovely?’
He glanced in the direction Valerie was looking and nodded, without attention. ‘I suppose.’
‘Fair haired,’ she continued. ‘A pleasing laugh. A pleasant woman to be around, don’t you think?’
‘I do not think of her at all,’ he said.
‘Or Lady Johanna, there. I hear that she sings and plays most delightfully. You might enjoy that.’
‘What?’ He had heard men say that women were confusing creatures, but he had never spent enough time with them to know, except for the Lady Cecily, who had always been a woman of logic and duty, except when she was not. ‘Why are you pointing out any of these women to me? We were just wed.’
‘But that does not mean...’ She stumbled on the words. ‘I know you see other women, that sometimes...’
What was she talking about? ‘If a woman is before my eyes, I will notice her, of course.’ As one might appreciate a finely turned sword or a well-made wine from Bordeaux.
/> Her cheeks turned red, but she did not turn her eyes away. ‘I know you will do more than notice.’
He grabbed her arm then, steered her to a quiet corner, away from the crowd, and studied her face. He could see not a hint of jealousy. ‘Do you expect me to take a leman?’
‘Many men do.’ So calm. He had sensed more passion when she spoke of her quince tree.
Well, no doubt she did expect it. Her husband, now Lancaster...
But he was not either of them. ‘You will be my wife, Valerie. I do not need a concubine as well.’
‘But what if—?’ She bit her lip.
‘What if what?’ It would take all the energy and wits he could muster to manage life with this woman. Whatever would he do with two?
‘If I am not...if you are...’
‘If I am tempted?’ There seemed to be something more in her question, but he could not understand it. ‘If I have the time and energy to be tempted by a woman not my wife, which I cannot envision, I will go to confession and practise my penance. Now, will you be content?’
Strangely, given the look on her face, she was not. He sighed. He could barely juggle his duties to God, England, Lancaster and now marriage. He certainly did not need an additional complication.
But she had already known a man. Maybe she was the one... ‘And you?’ The very idea was as painful as a wound. Already possessive of her. Already he cared too much. ‘Are you tempted by another man?’
But her astonished look of surprise said it clearly. No, more than surprise. Disbelief.
She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. ‘I am not!’
‘Good,’ he said sharply before he thought.
It would be his job to make certain she never would be. And he was beginning to look forward to it.
* * *
Valerie did not know how it had been done, but in a castle overflowing with guests, she and Gil had been given a room to themselves.
As the evening wore on, she slipped away from the feast alone, asking a serving girl to take her to the room they would share. Her husband—strange to use that word again—had left her side at last to join the men, drinking to future glories. She had angered him with her awkward attempt to interest him in another woman. He would come to her when he willed, if he came at all.
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