Rumors at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  ‘Alcázar has tiled courtyards and ponds with fish of gold and trees with fruit like the sun.’

  She could create none of that. And he knew it. ‘I had roses in Kent,’ she said, quickly, ‘and a quince tree that Eleanor brought with her from Castile...’ No longer hers. None of it. ‘Perhaps I can get a cutting from someone else’s garden—’

  ‘No. There will be no gardens here.’

  No hope then. Both of them to be denied their dearest wishes.

  They walked in silence and she let the shades of green comfort her. Even without a gardener’s hand, there were sparks of colour, a few flowers too stubborn to die. At the edge of a stand of trees, she saw tall stalks of purple foxglove, reaching as high as her waist, waving in the breeze until she thought the bell-shaped blossoms would ring.

  ‘See there?’ she said, pointing. ‘We do not need golden fish. The flowers on your own land are as pretty as any in Castile.’

  He looked where she pointed, but instead of a smile, the waving wall of purple made him frown. ‘Not pretty,’ he said, staring at them. ‘Poisonous.’

  And when they returned, he told the steward to cut them all to the ground.

  * * *

  It was when they ran short of salt and the splintered shutters let the rain into the bedchamber that Gil was forced to admit his wife might be right.

  The first nights had been only Gil and his wife and the wonder of discovery. The days, he barely noticed, though she tugged him into exploration of the keep and lands, showing him places he had not seen in years.

  Lancaster had been right to chide him for neglect.

  So, reluctantly, he began to review the status of his holdings and agreed that Valerie should continue the work while he sailed with the King. He did not want his child born here, but if a babe was to come, he would be back in time for those decisions.

  So over the next week, he worked tirelessly with the steward to repair the worst of the damage so that she could have some comfort.

  In the meantime, Valerie focused on the land. Lancaster had laughed about her interest in the rye crop, but when she started asking pointed questions of the steward, Gil was impressed instead of amused.

  He knew she loved flowers, but he discovered she had an aptitude for other growing things as well. The steward and some of the villeins were wary of her, true, but Gil made it clear they were to support her ideas. She spoke of beans and peas and why the yields were so poor and she asked whether barley for brewing might be a better choice for the south field.

  In short, her conversation was as baffling to him as talk of men and weapons were to her.

  He had never had an interest in such things. The Brewen men were warriors, not farmers. To Gil, the very earth the castle sat on seemed poisoned. But as he watched Valerie plan, he found himself wondering whether more fruitful land might have prevented his uncles from turning to robbery.

  And worse.

  Strange to be in the castle again. He had been away so long that his memories had supplanted what stood before him. And now, days and nights with his bride were building new memories, ones he would want to think about in the coming months.

  And so he tried to put the past aside, for a time, as he had asked her to do, layering new memories on top of the old.

  Time and earth had covered most of them.

  God willing, they would remain truly buried.

  * * *

  The days turned to August. Valerie had one night more, perhaps two, with her husband before she lost him to Lancaster, to war, to his dreams of glory. He would leave for London, where Katherine would join him, then they would ride on to the coast while Valerie would remain here, praying for a child.

  She wanted a child in a way she never had before. Not just for herself or for her protection, but for him, so that he would know that his blood could create something wonderful. Then, perhaps, he would be truly able to overcome the past.

  Perhaps he would even want to give a son the birthright of his land.

  On that last summer day, while Gil supervised the mending of the courtyard well, she wandered beyond the walls, thinking of where she might situate a garden.

  He was convinced they would not be here long enough, but he was going to allow her to stay, at least for a while. And so, she had begun to dream of a garden again.

  No need to tell Gil her plans. She was not ready to begin, but only assess the earth. To judge what she might work with.

  Outside the south wall, she paced off a small area, liking the way the sun fell on this side, and dreamt of another quince tree, that might, given years, blossom here. Her child might play in its shade some summer day like this one.

  She had found a rake, missing some teeth, and a too-small trowel, and began digging in the earth, for the delight of it alone, for it was not a time for planting. A few mushrooms had sprouted, unfamiliar shapes, so she did not know whether they were safe to eat. The dirt seemed mounded here, as if the plot might have been used before, and she started raking the grass from the top, then, kneeling, dug with the trowel.

  And hit something hard.

  A rock, no doubt. She might have to pull up several so that the earth could be prepared for seed. But the edge of the trowel slipped, as if there were a small rock, then hit something else. Maybe a pile of them?

  She stood and picked up the rake again, alternately scraping and digging, trying to see what was there.

  And when she cleared less than a foot of earth away, she saw, clearly, there were no rocks.

  She had uncovered bones. Human bones.

  * * *

  Sunset was hours away when they finished repairing the shutters, but Gil was already wondering whether he might retire to the bedchamber with his wife unnoticed.

  One more night.

  If he had only himself to get to Dover, he might have tarried longer, but he had promised to escort Lady Katherine, which meant a longer journey and slower travel than with the men alone.

  One more night with his wife.

  She was nowhere to be found in the castle, but someone said she had gone beyond the walls and he followed, a strange sense of unease riding his shoulder. And when he turned the corner to the south side of the castle, he knew why.

  She had uncovered all he had hoped would stay hidden. From her. From himself.

  For she was staring down at the buried remains of Father Richard Brewen, the long-dead priest of Gadby Parish.

  * * *

  His wife looked up at him, eyes wide and dark.

  ‘There was no stone. I did not know it was a grave.’

  Crossing herself to ward off evil.

  ‘It was not marked.’ They had tried to hide it, so that no one would know, ever, what was there. How could he have been such a fool as to think the past would stay safely buried?

  No, he had known the truth would come to light. He had just hoped...

  She swallowed and stepped back, as if trying not to tread on the body. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘My uncle.’

  ‘One of the Brewens?’ Her tone, now, full of dread, as if she were beginning to suspect what that might mean.

  He nodded. ‘And a priest.’

  * * *

  Valerie dared to look back at the bones. A priest, buried in a hidden grave. She clenched a fist against her fears. It had been easy to forgive the past when it was safely out of sight, but in all his confessions, her husband had said nothing of this.

  She raised her eyes to his. ‘He did not die of old age.’

  ‘No.’ His expression, bleak. ‘He was poisoned at his sister’s table. And until now, I have been the only person alive who knew.’

  Finally, she understood. Arrogant, she had dismissed his feelings, but now she saw the evidence in the earth and she, too, felt the crush of
fear, the need to escape the family’s sins. Every time he came home, every time he even thought of it, he faced a terrible secret.

  A sister, killing a brother. A woman, killing a priest. And the murderer: his mother. What man would not want to leave it buried for ever?

  He grabbed the trowel and started throwing the dirt back on top of the bones. ‘I did not know where they had put him. The story was that he had visited and left late in the evening. No one ever saw him again.’

  ‘Except you.’ Without thinking, she picked up the rake to help him cover the bones again. How long had they lain undiscovered? ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘At the time of the Pestilence. One more death, even that of a priest...’ He shrugged. ‘No one questioned it.’

  ‘But you were a child.’ Twenty years ago at least. He could have been no more than six. Children did not always understand what they saw. ‘You might be mistaken.’

  He paused. ‘I saw them that night, carrying the body out of the castle.’ Gazing into the distance, as if seeing it all once more. And then, he picked up the trowel again. ‘They sent me away after that, to Losford’s service. And before I left, my mother told me to leave all I knew of the Brewens behind. I did not see her alive again.’

  ‘But why?’ All the woman’s other brothers, outlaws. And yet, she would kill a priest. ‘Why this man?’

  ‘Because he was the one controlling all the rest. He was the Brewen directing the entire band.’

  Fighting against corrupt churchmen, he had told her, when first he’d shared the tale. Perhaps there was some truth in that.

  Gil patted down the earth and rose, reaching for some fallen branches, and threw them across the spot, to hide it again.

  ‘I was wrong to come back, to think you could stay here.’ The look on his face brooked no argument. ‘We leave at daybreak.’ He hesitated, as if uncertain. ‘And Valerie, please—’

  ‘I will speak no more of this,’ she said, sad that he felt he must ask. ‘Ever.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was mid-August when Gil arrived at the coast with Valerie, Lady Katherine, and a small group of knights. It was a day of public prayers for the expedition.

  They would be needed.

  In the weeks Gil had been away, plans had changed again. Another French threat lay before them. The town of La Rochelle was under siege. The French and the Castilians had returned, blockading the port, trying to starve the residents into submission.

  And so, the King declared they would sail back to the scene of June’s defeat. This time, he vowed, it would be different. This time, they were prepared. Ships, men: enough to prove their might.

  But to relieve the siege, they must land in Brittany, so sailing must be again delayed as calls went out for the horses that had been ignored before since each knight must have at least three horses to wage a land campaign.

  King Edward had not yet arrived, but three thousand men and three thousand archers were gathering, along with pages, grooms and other attendants who could not be counted. They were to be put on nearly two hundred ships, manned by five thousand sailors, and led by the highest-ranking lords in the kingdom.

  Military camps spread around the port and beyond, spilling towards Dover, twelve miles away. Lancaster had arrived and set up a command tent. Lady Katherine joined him quickly while Gil and Valerie travelled on to Losford Castle, where he intended Valerie to stay while he was at war.

  They had spoken no more of the ghastly discovery during their journey. Although she had asked no further questions, neither had her timid manner returned, so it seemed the truth had not made her fear him. Instead, she had an air of deliberate calm, as if she was still processing the ghastly truth and trying to decide what she might do.

  The gates of Losford opened to them, more welcoming, it seemed, than his own home. Smiles. Introductions to his bride. But before all the greetings were complete, little Denys burst into the courtyard and ran up to him. ‘Are you here to take me now?’

  ‘Do not bother Sir Gilbert when he has barely crossed our threshold,’ Marc said. ‘We can discuss your fostering with him after he has had food and drink.’

  As if it had been settled. As if they truly wanted to entrust him with their son.

  Too late, he remembered they had expected him to ask Valerie about taking in Denys. But he had thought that merely a nicety, spoken to spare his feelings in front of the boy. He had thought that by now, they would have settled on someone else.

  Someone more worthy.

  Denys, crestfallen, dropped his head. His mother reached for him, pulling him against her skirts.

  ‘I know he must go,’ Cecily said to Valerie, ‘but he is still so young. And to go directly to war...’ Her hand tightened on the child’s shoulder.

  ‘If you do not think he can go to sea, I can take him back to Leicester with me to begin his training.’ This was Valerie’s voice.

  All eyes turned to her.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said, quietly, ‘to speak to my wife.’

  They stepped out of earshot. Cecily put a hand on Marc’s shoulder and they both turned away, as if they were not listening. Denys made no such pretence.

  Gil frowned at Valerie, feeling his temper flare. ‘Taking another woman’s son will not bring you your own,’ he said, shar and under his breath.

  Her face crumbled at the hurtful words. Then, her calm expression returned, but with a new resolve he had not seen before. ‘No. Only you can do that.’

  He flinched at the blow. One he deserved. ‘You cannot take him there. We will never return. Not now.’

  ‘Return? You bring the place with you, carrying it on your back like a boulder that only you can see.’

  The meek-tongued woman who had cowered at his every word was gone.

  ‘You do not know the whole of it. When I was here in March, he was not so eager. Even Cecily hesitates to let him go with me. It is not your place to force him.’

  ‘Force him? He cannot wait to go to war. And my offer would allow the boy to leave home without being in harm’s way. Cecily might be content with that, though Denys will not. He would much rather sail with Sir Gilbert Wolford than languish in Leicestershire.’ She paused and smiled. ‘I suspect you were much like him when you came to Losford.’

  When he came to Losford... He was younger than this boy, carrying the secret of his dead uncle, with everything to prove, most of all to himself. He owed Cecily’s father everything. Cecily herself had been like a sister to him. How could he deny her anything? And even Marc—

  He glanced at them. He could not read their faces.

  Such a small boy to be sent away, not just to be fostered, but on a ship about to sail into war. He looked at Valerie, for a moment helpless. He had asked her for honesty. He could not complain when she gave it to him. ‘You will not return, but stay here with Cecily. If his parents are willing, I will take the boy.’

  He walked back to Cecily and Marc. ‘So what have you decided?’ Marc said.

  ‘If you are certain it is what you want, he can come with me.’

  Marc, enveloping him in a quick hug. Cecily, nodding while fighting tears. She had been born a countess. She knew what must be done.

  Marc looked at his son. ‘Do you want to go on the boat with Sir Gilbert? Are you ready?’

  ‘A boat?’ This time, there was no eagerness on the boy’s face.

  So it was as he had feared. Faced with the choice, the boy had lost his excitement.

  Gil crouched before him, to look him in the eye. ‘That’s right, Denys.’ The old doubts, still strong. ‘We must cross the sea to get to war. Are you sure?’ He would do Denys no favours by forcing him to follow a Brewen. The boy would be happier with some other knight.

  Denys studied him, silent.

  Gil rose. ‘His ans
wer is clear. You should find someone else. Someone who—’

  ‘Yes!’ The boy’s voice, loud and resolute. ‘I go to pack my things!’ And he marched out of the courtyard, as if to battle.

  ‘How soon?’ Cecily said, her eyes following him.

  ‘A fortnight, I think,’ Gil said. ‘Little more.’

  In two weeks’ time, he would be at war for who knew how long, with no certainty that he would even return. Later, the thought weighed on him as he led Valerie to the room Cecily had given them.

  He needed no directions.

  ‘You seem at home here,’ she said.

  More at home than in your actual home, she meant.

  And with the comforts Cecily and Marc had created here, Valerie would be more comfortable than in his crumbling castle. ‘It’s the first place in which I thought I might be more than a Brewen.’

  And, though he did not say, where he discovered why he would need to be.

  ‘You are more than your name. You’ve a lifetime of honourable achievement all your own.’

  He smiled. ‘And you are a woman who is more than the meek wren you pretended to be. But tonight, I want to speak no more of any of these things. Tonight, I want to sleep on a well-stuffed mattress beside my wife.’

  Pink touched her cheeks. They had a few more nights before he left. He intended to make the most of them.

  * * *

  One morning, the Countess—Valerie could not yet think of her as Cecily—invited her to tour the castle and grounds. Valerie listened, nodding, impressed with the size and strength and beauty of Losford, and waiting for the Countess to reveal the reason she had arranged for a private conversation.

  ‘Gil told me of your husband’s death. I am sorry.’

  Valerie murmured something expected. Gil had his secrets; she had hers.

  ‘And I thank you,’ Cecily continued, ‘for being willing to accept Denys. We asked Gil months ago, but when we did not hear, we thought, perhaps, you did not want the boy.’