Rumors at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  And still she gazed at him with an adoring, and utterly false, smile. ‘It is my duty to be anything you want me to be.’

  Duty. As if it were a shield to ward off whatever he said. Well, he had lifted duty. He knew the heft of it. ‘I want you to come to me with desire, not just duty.’

  He moved closer and put his hands on her bare shoulders, her flesh fire on his palms.

  She gasped. Let the bedclothes slip...

  Her breasts, small and white and tempting, again bare to his gaze, rising and falling quickly, as if she, too, were having trouble catching her breath. She did not lower her eyes this time, but met his, as if taking his measure.

  Or was she simply trying to be the woman he wanted her to be?

  Yet he could not subdue his body’s response. The weapon between his legs, ready for her, straight and hard, sent heat through his veins, crowding words from his brain. His hands roamed, gently, across her chest. The buds of her breasts springing to life.

  Yes. This.

  She was his wife. She was willing. He must be gentle with her. Then, she would believe...

  He leaned to kiss the curve of her neck, feeling the flutter of her pulse. Her desire, kindled. He was sure of it. If she could forget Scargill, if she could learn to trust him...

  Stroking her arm, her back, gently, slowly. Then, he sat beside her, softly, so she would not be startled, and put his arm behind her, tucking her close to his chest. She had closed her eyes, let her head drop closer to his shoulder. The sheets covered her lap, her arm across them as if to hold them in place, but her breasts, pale in the dark room, were open to his fingers, his lips.

  A sound from her throat. No words.

  And he wished he had learned one of the love poems to murmur in his lady’s ear.

  The bedclothes were tangled between them, still hiding her below the waist, but he let them be. Before he could take her beyond duty to desire, he must lull her into comfort.

  And then, she reached for him. Arms around his neck, fingers in his hair. Surely a kiss now...

  He took her lips. Pressed himself against her as if they could join from the kiss alone, felt her lips, eager, and then...

  She went slack in his arms, eyes squeezed shut, arms out, as if offering herself as a sacrifice to some vengeful heathen god.

  If he took her now, no matter how outwardly willing she seemed to lie beneath him, no matter how gentle he tried to be, they would never be able to start again. This would be what she expected of him. And of herself.

  Now he was the one to go slack.

  He tore himself away, struggling to breathe like a normal man, trying to keep his voice steady, so she would not fear he was angry.

  He was. But not with her.

  Adultery, it seemed, was the least of Scargill’s sins.

  He rose and stepped away. ‘I will not touch you tonight, my wife.’ Perhaps he could make sense of it in the morning. ‘Let us sleep.’

  She moved to the far side of the bed. He hesitated, unsure whether he could safely lie beside her, but he lay on top of the bed, his back to her, trying to keep a safe distance.

  Tired as he was, sleep did not come.

  Nothing will change, he had promised her. Promised something he knew nothing of and could not, truly, fulfil. They were married now. Everything had changed. He was just beginning to discover how.

  But he had also discovered, to his sorrow, that the one thing he wanted, wished desperately would change seemed to stubbornly remain the same.

  Her fear.

  * * *

  Valerie lay awake, stiff, hands clenched, forcing even breaths so that he would think her asleep. Would he touch her even so? Would he reach for her in the night, only half-awake, with no words, only growls and grunts, then pound against her until he was satisfied?

  That was the way it had been before.

  Or perhaps he would touch her gently again, coaxing her body into feelings she had never realised she could have.

  If not tonight, it would be tomorrow, or some night yet to come. And she would submit. Because she must, must, bear a child from this marriage.

  She had never expected anything more. And yet, when he pressed her tonight, probed for her feelings, he had almost made her see his dreams of chivalric love.

  Now she was acting the fool. In the poems of chivalry, the man and woman in love were never married, or at least, not to each other.

  Even if it were possible, even if there were couples whose marriage went beyond duty, she did not want such passion in her life, in her bed.

  For she would lose him. To war, capture, death. Even if he lived, even if the passion he wanted flared, it would not last. And when, like Scargill, he tired of her, the pain of watching him love another woman would be even worse.

  What do you want?

  Easier to say what she did not want.

  She did not want to mourn when she lost him.

  * * *

  The sun woke him, the light coming through his closed eyes.

  Gil sat up, head and stomach still woozy from the night before. His wife, strange to use that word, stirred beside him, but did not wake.

  Or did not want him to think she did.

  He slipped out of bed and pulled on his tunic, not looking at her again.

  Morning had come and still, he had wanted to take her with more than his body. Wanted it in so many ways that he could not name them. But in between his dreams, he had made a decision.

  He would not touch her again. Not until she wanted him as well.

  He heard the rustle of the bedclothes and turned to see her sitting up, watching him.

  He had faced men wielding a sword, close enough to kill him, but faced with her eyes, her steady gaze, he was, for a moment, struck dumb.

  The sheet slipped, exposing the side of her breast. ‘Would you come to me this morning, husband?’

  At her question, his resolve was shaken, his body screaming yes. ‘No. Not now. Not like this.’

  Was she disappointed or relieved? He could not say and hated that he did not know.

  The false smile he had come to despise. ‘Tonight, then. Or when you will.’

  He took the risk, then, of leaning closer to her. ‘Not today, or tonight, or any time at all until you can tell me in truth that you want me in your bed.’

  She blinked.

  Was there desperation when she faced him? ‘When, then? And how? Am I so hateful to look on?’

  ‘No!’ He was doing this all wrong.

  ‘Do you not wish to enjoy the pleasures allowed us? Even the church says that coupling to create children is no sin. Can we not...?’

  He pulled her to him. ‘We can.’ What a dullard he was. No good with women. He had little to offer right now beyond his seed. Did she think he would not even give her that? ‘But not like this.’

  ‘If we do not lie together, our marriage is not valid.’

  ‘Then you can have it annulled and be the free woman you wanted to be.’ Even he could see her pain at that idea. What man would think to wed her then? But wasn’t that what she had wanted?

  She pulled away. ‘You said you wanted me to speak truth. You know that without...consummation, we have no hope for the child that we both want.’

  Blunt words. He counted the days. Perhaps four weeks, no more than six until he sailed. Time enough to get her with child. Just not time enough to know whether he had succeeded.

  ‘Not now, not yet, not until...’ Until what? What perfection was he waiting for? Hers?

  His?

  ‘But we have no time!’ She gripped his hands, tightly enough to bruise. ‘Tonight. A few nights. Then you will be gone and, unless we share a bed, there will be no son!’

  The son he had told her he wanted above
all things. But he wanted something more now. A woman who loved him. Not for his protection or because he could give her a child. One who loved him for himself. Even if he was a Brewen.

  ‘Then there will be no son.’ He pulled himself away and stood. ‘The King will announce my expedition to Castile this morning. We must gather in the Hall. Dress, and come quickly.’

  And he left the room, not waiting to hear her protest.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Then there will be no son.

  Silent as if he had slapped her, Valerie stared at the closed door. Nothing left. Nothing she could do.

  No son.

  No protection. Nothing.

  She had tried all that she knew, tried to bend herself to his will and she had, again, failed. Again, she could be left alone and helpless, with no child to protect her from being handed to the next man of the King’s choosing.

  What could she do now? Only try, again, to please him. And pray she would succeed.

  * * *

  As Gil descended the stairs, he met Lancaster, who greeted him with a smile and a slap on the shoulder. ‘Late abed with your bride, I see.’

  Said with a grin. As if he knew what happened in a man’s marriage bed.

  Well, he need not know what happened in mine. ‘Yes, my lord.’ An attempt to laugh. He hoped it sounded sincere.

  ‘And did she like the gift you chose for her?’

  Gift.

  Too late he remembered the beautiful cup the Queen had disdained and the plaything that Isabel had twirled last night. These were things a wife should expect from her husband.

  ‘Gift?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have not thought of it.’ No surprise, then, that she would not welcome him with loving looks. He had done nothing to woo her, not even presenting her with a token of their union.

  ‘You must give her something.’ Lancaster frowned. ‘Perhaps in my possessions...’

  ‘No!’ Words well meaning, but insulting to his pride. ‘The responsibility is mine.’

  The Duke nodded, his mind on things to come. ‘We gather within the hour. My father will speak.’

  ‘We will be there,’ he said, wondering that King Edward would be the one to proclaim their expedition instead of My Lord of Spain. He had no time to ponder why. His mind should be on what he might say to the men, as soon as he heard the words.

  Castile! And Sir Gilbert will lead us to victory!

  Instead, he was thinking of a way to remedy his failings as a husband.

  A carved cup, a jewelled brooch, a necklace to rival her gift from the Queen—those things took time he did not have. What could he give her today? This week? Before he sailed with the fleet?

  Nothing more than a promise.

  ‘Husband?’ Above him on the stairs, she paused. Properly garbed as his wife, her hair was again hidden beneath a veil, visible to no man but him. The power of possession and responsibility shook him. She was his now. Her future, her happiness, all in his hands.

  Hands all but empty.

  Alcázar’s stone weighed heavy in his pocket. Castile. Castile must be his gift.

  ‘Come,’ he said, as she joined him. ‘We have a few minutes before we must be in the Hall.’

  He led her outside, no time to find a proper time or place, to a shaded corner of the courtyard, where she stood, expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

  He reached into his pouch and gripped the stone, its jagged edges painful on his palm. ‘As your husband, I would give you a wedding gift.’

  ‘Gift?’ There was surprise on her face. Had she not thought he knew enough to give her a token? Well, he had done nothing to make her think otherwise.

  He pulled the stone from his pouch, but as he did, it broke in two.

  He cupped both hands together, trying to save the pieces, and when he opened them, one rested in each palm. He lifted one hand, so she would take a broken half. ‘I promise you our future.’

  She lifted the broken piece and stared at the white, blue, orange and green pattern. ‘Your stone,’ she whispered. ‘From the garden at Alcázar.’

  ‘Where we will start again. Together.’

  For she, as much as he, needed to leave the past behind and start afresh.

  She stared at the rock in her hand, not looking up. A broken stone, disappointing, no doubt.

  He folded her fingers over the coloured tile. ‘Hold this piece. The other will come with me to Castile. When I reach the palace, I will send for you and they will be reunited. I shall pursue this unto death, even as I would strive to reach Heaven.’

  He kissed her, gently, to seal his pledge. And when he broke the kiss and looked at her again, her eyes, large and dark, seemed to promise a future without end.

  She looked down at the stone in her hand and back at him. ‘I have nothing to give you.’

  ‘A son,’ he said. After he gave her Castile, surely then... ‘When you are ready, you will give me a son.’

  Gil led her back into the Hall as she slipped the stone into the pouch hanging from her girdle.

  The time had come for the King’s proclamation, anointing Gil as commander so that he could realise the promise of the stone.

  Flanked by his two sons, Edward and John, the King stood at the front of the Hall. Even from a distance, Gil could see the King had aged, his energy faded. He must be saving what was left for war. And his mistress.

  A herald called for quiet.

  King Edward stood to speak. He and his sons would sail within a month in the largest fleet ever seen. No one, not the French nor the Castilians, alone or together, would dare threaten England’s ships or shores again. England would be master of the sea once more.

  A roar filled the hall. Edward had not led men into battle himself for years. His very presence promised victory.

  And yet, Gil felt a sense of unease. He knew the difficulties of finding so many ships. And the King had said nothing of the expedition to Castile.

  But when Lancaster rose, Gil stifled a smile. It must be left for My Lord of Spain to speak of Castile.

  Gil knew he should wait until he heard his name spoken aloud, but he could not stop the pride that lifted his courage and swelled his chest.

  ‘Today,’ My Lord of Spain began, ‘I call on all those pledged to me to follow my father, to report to Sandwich in a month’s time for service at sea.’

  At sea.

  The fleet he had gathered to take them to Spain would be at the King’s command.

  At sea. There would be no invasion.

  No Castilla.

  Gil did not move, no longer certain that he breathed.

  As the men raised their voices to pledge their allegiance, Valerie whispered in his ear, ‘How can Monseigneur d’Espagne reach his throne if he stays at sea?’

  ‘He cannot,’ he said, surprised he could speak so calmly. His heart, his mind, his tongue, cleaved one from the other, yet each could still work.

  He had been promised he would be at the King’s right hand. He’d thought that meant his counsel would be honoured. All of it had been an illusion. His plans, Lancaster’s...at the end King Edward alone ruled their course.

  ‘Will you go to Castile after that?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’ A month’s time. They would sail in August, already later than hoped. Soon would come the autumn winds, then winter, no season for war. ‘Not this year.’

  She clutched the Queen’s gold cross, as if clinging to the ground it held. ‘When will you go?’

  Her question seemed an accusation. Already, the promise he had made impossible to keep. ‘Perhaps in the spring.’ Words of hope. He no longer knew Lancaster’s mind.

  ‘I was angry,’ she said softly, as all around them, men cheered at the challenge to come, ‘that La Reina was not
invited to witness the marriage of her sister.’ Then, she looked back at him, sadness in her eyes. ‘Now, I thank God she is spared the knowledge of this betrayal for a few days longer.’

  Remind them of their duty, the Queen had told him. She had seen, more clearly than he.

  * * *

  Later that morning, after the toasts had been given, the decision irrevocable, Lancaster was ready to ride to the hunt, leaving lesser men scrambling to change the plans, move the ships to new ports and ready the men the King had commanded.

  Lancaster had asked Gil to join him. It was to be a celebration, an escape before the rigours of war. But Gil had no heart for it now.

  ‘Wait here,’ he told Valerie and approached his lord, as men and horses milled in the courtyard, wondering what words to use. He would fight as commanded, of course. But beyond that...? ‘My lord, I will meet you on the coast. I must...’

  What must he do? Mourn. He must mourn in peace.

  Understanding mixed with longing on Lancaster’s face. ‘My father...needed me. Castile must wait.’ His hand rested on the saddle, as if eager to mount his horse and leave. ‘I promise you. Our time will come.’

  Gil was sick of promises. But he nodded, as if he believed. ‘Someone should take word to the Queen.’ This, he thought, this he could do. For Valerie and for himself.

  ‘Yes. If you would. And take Lady Katherine back to Hertford. I would be grateful.’

  Still numb, Gil nodded. It would take only a few days. Then what would he do in the weeks before they sailed? ‘I will see you on the coast.’

  Lancaster mounted, then paused before he rode on. ‘When you come to the coast, bring Lady Katherine with you. I would see...my children before I sail.’ Looking down from his perch on the horse, the man was quiet for a moment. ‘Where do you go now? Home?’

  Gil had no home and nowhere to go except to a wife he had already disappointed.

  And he had nothing to offer her except a broken stone.

  * * *

  Wait here, her husband had commanded.

  And so Valerie waited, as the room emptied until only the echoes of the men’s cheers remained. Cups had been raised to the success of the coming expedition and they did not seem to care where they went, or who they fought.