Rumors at Court

by Blythe Gifford

Want the boy? Without a child of her own, she would welcome one to foster. ‘Of course I do. If I had only known—’

  She bit her lip. Their troubles were not to be shared.

  But Cecily nodded, as if she already knew the truth. ‘We told him to speak with you. Taking in a boy, committing to his training as a page, a squire, a knight...this is not something Gil alone can do. So when he said no, we assumed...’

  And she would let that presumption stand. Gil’s self-doubts were not for her to share. ‘And I thought you thought I was not grand enough to teach the son of a countess.’

  They shared a laugh and Valerie felt a moment of connection with this woman. ‘Gil says you and your husband are very happy.’ Unsure whether she should have spoken so, but wondering whether there was something to be learned from this couple.

  Cecily’s smile was unexpectedly shy. ‘We are, but the journey to happiness was long. You see, my plans for my future and the King’s plans for me were very different.’

  Valerie had been young when these two had wed and knew little of their story. ‘You defied the King?’ This seemed as impossible as mounting a horse and riding to chevauchée. Certainly, she had never believed she could refuse Lancaster’s command to marry, though she had tried to delay it. ‘Did you and your husband agree on what should be done?’

  Again, her laughter. ‘No. We did not.’

  ‘Nor do we agree on...all things.’

  Cecily did not ask more. ‘And yet, telling the King of my desires was not the hardest part. The hardest part came before that. I had to change.’

  Valerie knew she had changed. But Gil? Would he? Could he? ‘How did you do it? What finally made you change?’

  ‘I faced a choice,’ she said. ‘The time came when I was not brave enough to let him go, but only brave enough to do what I must to keep him.’

  She made it sound simple. But this woman was rich and powerful, with land of her own. And Valerie could not tell Gil that he would lose her if he went to Castile.

  Or could she?

  The Countess must have seen the doubt in her eyes. ‘What is it you fear?’

  She started to answer with the things she had feared of old, but before she could open her mouth, she realised that she no longer feared her husband’s anger, for he had proven himself kind. Nor did she fear falling in love with him, for it was too late to prevent that.

  No, what she feared now was that if she told him she did not want a life in Castile, he would think she did not want a life with him. Why should she refuse Castile? Mayhap it was as wonderful as Gil believed. Maybe she would learn to love unending sun and courtyards dizzy with colour.

  But unless Gil made peace with his past, it would follow them all the way to Iberia. For contrary to what she had expected in this marriage, it was his past, not hers, that threatened to tear them apart.

  ‘What I fear,’ she said, ‘is the truth.’

  * * *

  During the days, Gil had left Losford to meet with Lancaster, working on final preparations. He had taken Denys with him, getting the boy accustomed to life at camp and to obeying him without question.

  Finally, King Edward arrived and boarded his ship. Tomorrow, he would turn over the Great Seal, naming his grandson as keeper of the realm in his absence. The ships, finally, would sail for France to relieve the siege at La Rochelle.

  On that final day, Gil walked with Valerie along the cliffs outside Losford and he showed her, in the distance, the boats, just up the coast, massing in preparation.

  ‘Why must you go?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’ Uncertain he had heard aright.

  ‘You say you must go. Why?’

  Now that the time was close, was she remembering what had happened the last time her husband went to war? ‘Because I am in service to My Lord of Spain.’

  ‘But you do not go to Spain, where you say you want to go, and still your life is his? To be put in jeopardy for any purpose he pleases?’

  ‘It is not like that.’ He heard his voice rising, a bad sign.

  They walked a while in silence, but when he said no more, she began again. ‘And when it is all over—what then?’

  ‘You know the answer. When we take Castile, I will have an office in the court of the King.’

  ‘An office.’ She said it as if she did not know what it meant.

  ‘Yes. Earl Marshal. Or even the High Constable.’ In Edward’s court, these positions were hereditary, not open to a man with Brewen blood. All would be different in Castile’s court. A new king could name any man he chose...

  ‘And what does the High Constable do?’

  He had not thought her an ignorant woman. ‘He commands all the royal armies.’

  ‘But when you have retaken the throne, there will be no need for fighting. Then what will you do each day?’

  What indeed? What did one do in the absence of war? There had been a few years of peace, nearly ten years ago, when they held the French hostages in England. Eager to prove himself, he did not enjoy that time. He might, he thought, feel different today. He would have a son to raise.

  ‘Even if there is no war, we must be vigilant, ready, so that no one will dare attack.’

  ‘And will you like that work?’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Will you get up each morning excited to what may come that day?’

  Her questions sounded simple, but they threw him off guard, forced him to put into words things that all men knew without saying. ‘It will not matter if I like it. It is my duty.’

  She stopped on the path, making him stop as well, and then she gathered his hands in hers. ‘Why is duty so important?’

  He opened his mouth, but the only word he could think to say was because...

  Because a man was judged by how well he fulfilled his duty. Because once he had proven himself, been accepted, become important, no one would question him, ever again.

  He met her eyes. ‘It is difficult to explain.’

  She squeezed his fingers. ‘Try.’

  What could he say? He needed that acknowledgement from other men that said he belonged. That he was admired. He had searched for it his whole life. From the Earl of Losford. From My Lord of Spain. Even from Marc de Marcel, who had unhorsed him at a tournament all those years ago.

  But that dream, the one he had been striving for, was even more important now. Now, he must prove himself so he could lay all at the feet of a woman he loved.

  ‘Because in Castile, I will no longer be a Brewen.’

  And the look in her eyes said he had disappointed her. ‘You will still be a Brewen,’ she said. ‘Perhaps, finally, you will no longer care.’

  He pulled his hand from hers and stroked her hair. ‘I want you to be proud of me.’

  ‘Oh, my husband, do you not know how proud of you I already am?’

  Reassurance. The duty of a wife. And yet her doubts were evident in her questions. He had promised her Castile and given her a broken stone. Even now, she had no home, sheltered by the Countess because when he took her to the Castle of the Weeping Winds, the past, the awful past that lurked in the very ground, had risen up to haunt him.

  ‘We have not had an easy marriage so far,’ he began. Now he was the one who gathered her hands in his. ‘But I know you share my dream. And I swear, I swear, I will not fail you. Nothing on earth is more important to me. Do you believe me?’

  Something in her face changed. He could not decipher her expression, but he sensed a determination such as he had seen in men about to ride into battle. ‘Yes. I do.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Valerie had known that those days at Losford were a reprieve, a respite from everything behind and all that was to come. She had even tried to pretend they would go on like this always.

  But
the end had come. He would leave tomorrow.

  The August night was warm, despite the breeze from the sea, and she waited for him in her room, having shed everything but her shift.

  Behind her, the sound of the door. She turned.

  Her husband, filling the frame. Blocking the light. She welcomed the flutter in her centre. Pulled the covers around her.

  He stepped across the threshold. ‘Tomorrow. My duty...’

  He did not finish, but she knew. His duty. To his lord. To his dream. Unbreakable.

  One did one’s duty for one’s lord because of obligation. Even fear.

  Her duty as a wife had been the same. Obligation. Fear. Expectation. But never desire. Never joy. Until him.

  The flutter, stronger now. She said nothing, but slipped off the bed and stood, letting the covers drop from her shoulders. Proud. Unafraid. No longer thinking of any man but this one.

  ‘Tonight,’ she said, ‘is not a night of duty.’

  No more words, then. He was with her in two strides, wrapping her in his arms. A kiss... Oh, a kiss.

  No wonder Cecily and Katherine were willing to defy kings and conventions for this.

  She did not fear his desire now, nor her own. Perhaps shared passion was needed to summon his seed, to make a child grow between them.

  If that was so, then this, their last night, would be the one.

  Now, in truth, she could give him her body and her love, but she could not, in the end, give him the truth.

  Gil had become Castile. His goal had become the reason, he believed, that he was worthy of her love.

  She could not send him to war rejecting what he fought for, because he would think she rejected him.

  * * *

  In the morning, he rose before dawn and dressed for war, while she put on a gown, the one that would grace his final image of her. The one he would remember until they met again.

  ‘Would you rather return to the Queen’s service?’ he asked, when he was ready. ‘I know Cecily will be glad to have you, but you might serve Castile, in my absence.’

  She shook her head. ‘If the Queen needs me, she will send word.’ She looked at him, then, trying to set his face in her mind so that she could bring it out in all the lonely days to come. ‘I have a gift for you.’

  He started to protest, but then she raised her hand. ‘I gave you no wedding present. You are going to war. We will not be together again—for a long time.’

  She extended her arm and let the tippet at the end of her sleeve dangle. It almost touched the floor. She untied it and laid it across his palm. ‘A scarf. A token.’

  Not of some nameless woman, but of her own.

  He closed his fingers over the white silk, tight as if he would never release it. ‘If I die, I vow to you the only scarf I carry will be yours.’

  The tears came quick and hot. Strange, that promise, but it meant more to her than their wedding vows. All this time, she thought she had wanted only a child. But he had wanted to give her something much more.

  No, this man was not the one her first husband was. In fact, he was a man much more dangerous.

  He was a man she would ache to lose.

  * * *

  They did not have another quiet moment before he left. Preparation was hurried, goodbyes rushed, Denys chattering with excitement and his parents fighting tears.

  Within an hour, they were gone.

  She stood with Marc and Cecily, watching the horses until she could see them no more.

  ‘It is late in the season,’ Lady Cecily said, frowning up at the sky as they turned back to the castle. ‘The winds are strong.’

  She said it with the assurance of a woman who had grown by the sea and knew its moods, just as Valerie knew the soil beneath her feet.

  ‘Will they be all right?’ Valerie said, as they turned away. Her husband, their son. So many dangers.

  ‘Only God can say.’

  I want you to be proud of me.

  She would not be prouder if he died. And if he did, would anyone notice a broken rock in his pocket and a soiled scarf near his chest? No doubt they would be tossed by the side of the road.

  * * *

  ‘You were kind, Cecily, to offer to let me stay,’ she began a few days later, after they had watched the ships sail into the strait, then out of sight. ‘But I have decided to return to the Castle of the Weeping Winds.’

  Cecily studied her for a moment. ‘You have decided to be brave.’

  She shook her head. ‘I was not brave enough,’ she said. ‘I could not send him to war knowing that I believed in nothing he fought for. But when he returns, he must know. And I hope...’

  She hoped they could face the truth of his past together, just as they had joined to overcome hers.

  Until that day came, she had a garden to plan.

  * * *

  The fleet had sailed, finally, at the end of August, but they could not best the sea.

  Day after day, and then week after week, they battled contrary winds. Poor Denys, Gil discovered, was no sailor. Fortunately, there was little or nothing for the boy to do and Gil let him sleep below decks.

  In fact, few of the tempest-tossed men could enjoy even a minute of the time at sea. They could do little but cling to the rail and pray for calmer waters and calmer bellies.

  At dawn on the seventh day, the winds calmed and they made some progress eastwards through the Channel. The boy crept above decks with hollow cheeks, looking for all the world as if he had indulged in too much wine.

  ‘Come here. Sit by me.’

  Denys did, nearly falling over before he could lower himself with dignity. They sat in silence, watching the coast of England glide by.

  ‘Have we reached the sea?’ the boy said, finally.

  So soon, he must learn disappointment. ‘The winds have kept us within sight of England.’ The sea, La Rochelle, still miles, days away.

  Denys’s expression was puzzled, but he nodded, his head wobbling with fatigue. ‘I wish we could fly across the water.’

  ‘Here,’ Gil said. ‘Put your head on my shoulder.’

  Denys hesitated.

  ‘There is no shame in being a poor sailor,’ he said. ‘I have seen the King himself desert the deck when the sea turns loathsome.’

  The boy’s smile was wan, but at least he gave one. ‘I am no seaman, for all that I grew up in sight of the water.’ Denys shook his head. ‘I would rather face the enemy than the waves.’

  ‘Was that the reason?’ Gil remembered now how Denys had swung from excitement to reluctance. ‘The reason you hesitated when your father asked if you were ready to come with me?’

  Denys nodded, his head drooping on his neck. ‘I thought it would shame you. My sickness.’

  ‘Really? I thought it was...’ All this time, he had assumed. ‘I thought you wanted to be fostered with someone else.’

  A puzzled face. ‘But your family rode beside the King in France.’

  Gil opened his mouth to argue and then stopped. It was true. ‘Is that what they told you?’

  The seasickness was fading, the boy finally bright-eyed again. ‘And that you were trained by my grandsire.’

  ‘Did they say nothing of the Brewens? Of their...misdeeds?’ Rape, extortion, murder, things he could not mention in front of the child.

  The boy shrugged, as if it all meant nothing. ‘They were pardoned.’

  They were pardoned. And yet, Gil had not pardoned himself.

  ‘And I thought you didn’t want to serve with a Brewen.’ A strange admission to make to a child, but he had known what that meant when he was the age of Denys.

  ‘I wanted to serve with you. You did not do those things.’

  And, snuggled trustingly against Gil’s side, Denys
closed his eyes and slept.

  The ship continued rocking, but not as much as Gil’s world. The burden he had carried each day of his life? Nothing to this child.

  You did not do those things.

  And yet, as a child younger than this one, he had taken all the guilt unto himself, feeling as if the knowledge alone made him culpable for crimes he did not commit.

  Who could trust a seven-year-old to be wise?

  And yet, as the years went on, it would be this boy who would pass down the stories. Stories that, instead of becoming more vicious, would become more benign. One day, they would be tales that could be told at bedtime without bringing nightmares.

  And what had he done for all these years? Battled the past over and over again, as if by sheer force of will he could change it. And all the while, he was the only one on the field, clinging to a war that had faded from the memory of other men.

  But he had waited, holding back from marriage, from everything, waiting to be redeemed, all this time, thinking that Castile, and only that, would transform the past as well as the future. Castile was a vision, a grail, the culmination of a dream that would, finally, let him rest, let him say that is enough. Now, finally, I am worthy.

  Now, Castile was drifting beyond his grasp. Not this year. Next? What if he never reached it?

  What if he did?

  You will still be a Brewen. Perhaps, finally, you will no longer care.

  He thought he wanted to restore honour to the name. In fact, he wanted to banish it. Strike it from all history, particularly his own. Then, he had imagined, a woman would look at him and see a worthy knight, one who deserved her admiration and more.

  Her love.

  That was what he had waited for.

  He reached for the white-silk tippet Valerie had given him. Love was what he had. Now. If only he had seen it.

  The Channel winds, contrary, sent the silk flapping. He looked at the land again. Men on the shore on horseback could move more quickly than the ships against this wind. They would not reach La Rochelle in time. He knew it, even if the King did not.

  Stuffing the token back in his pouch, he smiled. And what if they never reached Castile? What then?