Well, he thought, with a sense of surprise, there was a priest who had never received a decent burial.
* * *
It was mid-September before Valerie arrived at the Castle of the Weeping Winds. The steward, surprised to see her again, nevertheless greeted her as the lady of the manor, bowing, listening, even when she gave him specific instructions on the care of the bean crop.
Truth to tell, he seemed relieved to share the burden.
Ah, how things could change, when little between Valerie and her husband was actually different. On the surface at least, she was his wife and this house, this land, was her own.
Autumn was the time to plant roses, but she had no cuttings, no way to start anew. Instead, when she was not working on matters of the estate, she wandered the grounds, learning the earth and the light and listening for a song in the winds.
But knowing what lay buried beneath the dirt by the south wall, she stayed on the edge of the spot, averting her eyes, silently crossing herself against the sacrilege, learning, in those weeks, some of what had driven her husband to leave this place.
She was surprised to discover a medlar tree. Not her beloved quince, but from the same family. A sign, perhaps. Different plants, unfamiliar flowers, might spring from this earth. And even from the earth of Castile. She, like Gil, must make peace with the land of her childhood. She must be brave enough to leave her home behind, while he must have the courage to return to his.
She counted the days until the brownish fruit might be picked. October? November?
Would Gil be home by then?
The weeks passed and she heard no word from the sea. Had they landed in triumph? Marched across France to restore England’s glory? Or had these ships, too, been set afire and sunk beneath the waters?
Without news she clung to the comfort of the rhythms of the earth, and the new place she had been planted, hoping that new life would come, as it always did, in the spring.
And hoping that Gil, too, would return.
* * *
For weeks, King Edward held on to hope, certain the winds would change, but by mid-October, the fleet had travelled no further from their original port than men could have ridden in four days on horseback.
Winter was coming. The season for war had passed.
The King, hurling curses on the French, abandoned the effort. The ships returned to Sandwich. Thousands of dispirited soldiers disembarked, Gil and Denys among them.
Still, Lancaster would speak of war and new plans and all that must be accomplished before the spring when they could sail again. ‘We will return to France and cut through the countryside as we have before. If my brother’s health has returned, he, too, can join in the battle.’
Words said more as prayer than fact. Gil suspected that neither the ageing King nor his sickly eldest son was fit to lead an army again. Lancaster must know that, too, even if he did not want to say it aloud.
‘And with Portugal’s help, attacking from the west, we will reach Seville before midsummer.’
How many times had Gil heard such plans, even made such plans suspecting they were mad, yet holding back criticism as he chased Lancaster’s dream, having made it his own?
And as he listened to Lancaster again spinning ideas into the air, the truth crept in upon him. They might never retake the throne.
And he no longer cared.
But could his wife be truly content to stay in England?
I want to sleep in truth, he had told her. Yet he had not even known the truth. He had not been a brave man, striving for a worthy goal, but a coward, running from a patch of earth.
He thought, somehow, that she had recognised that, even when he had not.
Without waiting for Lancaster to finish, Gil rose. ‘You are my liege and I owe you my service, but not today. Today I am going home.’
He turned his back and left the room without waiting for an answer.
Outside, in the courtyard, Denys smiled to be on solid ground. He had recovered with all the energy of a seven-year-old boy, playing at a swordfight with another page while he waited. And when he saw Gil, he ran up, full of smiles for what would come next. ‘Where do we go now?’
‘Home.’
Disappointment thrust out the boy’s lower lip. Gil put a hand on his head. ‘Not your home, Denys. At least, not for long.’ He must gather Valerie and thereby give Cecily and Marc a brief glimpse of their son again. ‘My home.’
Joy returned to his face. ‘Are we going to the Castle of the Weeping Winds?’
‘Yes.’
Home to see if he still had a home.
Chapter Nineteen
Valerie spent the waning days of autumn preparing the earth, covering the plants and praying that the winter would be kind and the spring early.
The steward had become her enthusiastic partner. Despite her initial impression, he was neither lazy nor slovenly, but after years of the master’s deliberate neglect, he had become discouraged. And so the harvest, for the first time in years, was a celebration, blessed by the presence of the new lady in the Hall.
And when the cold settled in, they developed new plans for the fields and the castle, and he even listened to her extravagant hopes for a tunnel vine arbour.
Of the expedition, she heard no word at all. Had they landed? Did he live or was she again a widow?
One hope did die. Her monthly had come again. The seed Gil had planted had not taken root. There would be no babe.
And as the days became shorter and darker, she faced alone the fear that she might never be able to fulfil this one, ultimate, duty of a woman and a wife and give her husband the child they both so desperately wanted.
Finally, word came, a messenger sent from the Duke’s nearby holdings. The expedition had failed. Not gloriously, not defeated in honourable combat, nor even disastrously as the previous ships, but simply frustrated by the contrary forces of nature, beaten down like a garden, pummelled by hail in midsummer.
Neither men nor ships were lost, but there was no word from her husband as the weeks went on. She counted days and miles. First, he would have gone to Losford and discovered she had flouted his desires. Then what? Had his duties kept him away? Or did he truly hate this land so much that he would abandon her along with it?
She had disobeyed him, directly, thinking they understood each other well enough now that he could accept that. Had she been wrong?
And then, one day, in the pale, watery sunlight of a November noon, she saw a man on a horse.
Too far to see his face, but she did not need to. Even from a distance, she recognised the way he held his shoulders. And wrapped around his neck, fluttering behind him like a banner, was her white-silk tippet.
Eager, she ran out of the gate, thinking when he saw her he would hurry, but he did not urge the horse to gallop, or even trot. Was he so reluctant to return?
Then as he came closer, she saw he did not ride alone, but led a horse-drawn cart, with little Denys sitting on the seat, hands on the reins.
She wanted to run to Gil, wrap him in her arms and not let him go, but she did not know his mind, so she sent men out to help him and in the bustle of a watched arrival, they embraced awkwardly.
‘The boy is tired,’ he said, lifting him off the seat. Indeed, he fell asleep in Gil’s arms and they handed him to the servants to prepare a bed.
As Gil let go, his gaze went to her belly, looking for a sign. She shook her head.
‘We will try again,’ he whispered, flashing that magical smile that meant the trying was no hardship.
She looked away, her eyes on the cart, trying to hide a blush. The cart was piled with chests and weapons, and something sticking up that looked suspiciously like a branch.
‘You wanted to create our own corner of Alcázar,’ he began. ‘An
d you told me these had come from Castile.’
Astonishment and tears mingled as two strong men picked up two hemp-covered bundles from the cart and laid them at her feet. She looked down at the familiar earth of Kent and she recognised one of her rose bushes, now bare of flowers, bundled up with a sack of dirt, and transported halfway across England.
And beside it, a cutting from the quince tree.
She laughed, giddy. ‘How did you get these?’
‘I persuaded the new owner to part with them. And...’ he pulled her favourite trowel from the cart ‘...something else I thought you might want.’
She reached for it, recognising the dirt still clinging to the edges. Such a commonplace thing. To see it, no one would know what a treasure he had given her.
But Gil did.
She blinked back tears as she took it from him. Gil was not crying. His smile, now broad and gentle, showed her that he understood, exactly, what it meant to her.
He pulled her closer and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. ‘I love you.’ A whisper. Only for her ears.
And as her tears spilled over, she flashed him a smile, magical, as promising as the ones he had shared. A smile that said, Tonight, when we are alone, I will show you how much I love you, too.
* * *
The next day, Valerie proudly guided him through the castle, then they walked much of the land, side by side, and he marvelled at all she had done. He complimented her on the larder, full and ready for winter, and he was interested, or pretended to be, in her plans to plant wheat where the beans had grown in past years.
But as they approached the site of the priest’s bones, his steps slowed.
She took his hand, threading her fingers with his. She had disobeyed his wishes, forcing him to return to this place he hated, convinced he must make peace with his past.
How arrogant it seemed now, to insist that he unearth the most haunted part of his past. She glanced at him, trying to gauge his mood, but held her tongue.
Only a few months since they had dug up the ground and covered it again, but the mushrooms had returned. Dead leaves had drifted over the spot. A cold winter? A wet spring? All would be hidden again.
The earth was resilient.
And he stood, in the sunny spot where the secret lay buried, and stared at it for a long time.
‘An outlaw,’ he said, finally, clearing his throat to let the words free, ‘should not be buried in consecrated ground.’
She waited, hoping he would say more. Could he ever be at home here, knowing the past lay close beneath his feet?
‘Perhaps we should just let him stay buried here.’ And then he looked at her. ‘I think you said this would be a good spot for a garden.’
She wrapped his arm in hers, tightly. ‘Yes. Yes, it would.’ New growing things to cover the vestiges of the past. ‘A quince tree here—’ she pointed ‘—and an arbour of roses against the wall. We can build a lattice. And later, perhaps a bench...’
Extravagant plans already. She glanced at him, wondering whether he would approve.
And saw him draw a familiar, battered stone from his pocket and hold it in his palm.
Castile. Still.
Then she, too, must make her peace. And learn the flowers of a sunnier clime.
She reached for her matching piece and held it next to his. Worn and broken, the two no longer fitted perfectly together, but the pattern of the tile was still clear.
‘Lancaster will try again for the throne,’ he said. ‘There will be another expedition to Castile.’
The hard reality of the stone he carried. ‘And you will go.’ There could not be a question. It was his duty.
He nodded. ‘But I think now, if you agree, that I will not want to stay.’
If she agreed. But she did not want to force her desires on him, any more than she had wanted to be forced into his. ‘But it is everything you have ever wanted...’
‘You have taught me to want something else. You. This. Can this be enough for you?’
He had asked for truth and she had been a coward. ‘I was afraid to tell you before. I do not, I have never longed for Castile.’
A moment of confusion. ‘But you are Castilian.’
‘My ancestor was. But she came more than one hundred years ago! I can have no more than a drop of Castilian blood in my veins.’
‘But you were so angry, when the invasion was cancelled.’
‘Because of La Reina. She and I...’ She did not know how to explain. ‘She wanted to go home. I understood that.’ They had shared the pain of being kept apart from the land that was theirs. ‘But my home is with you now. No matter where you choose.’
‘Here. I choose here. With you.’
She took the stone from his hand and crouched close to the earth. ‘When the garden is done, we will place our stones in it.’ She tucked them on top of the dirt. ‘Side by side.’
A smile. Relaxed. Genuine. ‘That will be all of Castile we ever need.’
Epilogue
Yuletide, 1372
Bertram Blount, steward of Wolford’s Castle of the Laughing Winds, surveyed the Great Hall with pride.
The castle’s name was not the only thing that had changed since the master’s wife had come home. For the first time since Bertram had been steward, Yuletide was being celebrated with feasting. The stables were filled with the horses of visiting guests, minstrels strolled the Hall and the smell of roast boar filled the air.
His time here did not stretch back far enough to know the history behind the sadness that had gripped the place, though he had heard rumours. Tonight, the old ones, those who could remember the Brewen years, shook their heads and clucked their tongues.
You can never foresee, they said in whispers, what miracles God may work.
Certainly, he thought, Lady Valerie was among them.
She was calm, steady, but forceful as well. A woman, he thought, who had lived through some hard lessons and learned from them. And the master himself? Whatever sadness had touched him was largely gone. Once, twice, Bertram had seen the man look mournful, so he directed the cook to refrain from adding mushrooms to the stew. Everyone knew they could bring on melancholy.
But usually, Sir Gil was content. And when he looked at his wife, well, you seldom saw such a smile on a man unless he was in the bedchamber and...
Well, not to be mentioned in company. Surprising the lady was not yet with child, though little Denys was a handful.
The doorkeeper approached. ‘A visitor,’ he whispered. ‘A monk, seeking shelter.’
‘Let him enter. I’ll inform the master.’
* * *
‘Stay here,’ Gil whispered to his wife, as he rose to follow the steward. ‘I’ll see to him.’ Strange, for a monk to be wandering alone at Yuletide.
‘Make him welcome,’ his wife said. ‘We’ve food aplenty if he is ready to break his fast.’
‘Perhaps he became lost,’ the steward said, as they walked to the small entry chamber by the gate.
But when Gil saw the monk, he knew the man was not lost. Though he had not seen him in more than twenty years, he recognised the pale blue eyes and the scar he had left on his brother’s cheek when a childish fist-fight got too serious.
‘Gilbert.’ The monk looked at him, as if witnessing an apparition. ‘So it is true. I had to come, to see for myself.’
‘Michael.’
‘Brother Michael now, but, yes.’
Gil said no more, but enfolded his brother in his arms and, for long minutes, neither moved nor spoke.
‘I thought the place abandoned,’ his brother said, when they finally separated to stare at each other again.
‘It was. Or that was my intention.’
He heard the rustle of skirts behin
d him as Valerie entered, looking from one to the other. He reached for her hand. ‘But something changed. Everything changed.’
The monk made the sign of the cross. ‘After all these years, God answered my prayers. He redeemed our family.’
Gil smiled. Some things, things his brother had been too young to know, were beyond redemption. But they had not been Gil’s sins. Nor Michael’s.
‘Valerie, this is my brother Michael.’
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Welcome home.’
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this story,
you won’t want to miss the other books
in Blythe Gifford’s
ROYAL WEDDINGS trilogy
SECRETS AT COURT
WHISPERS AT COURT
Author’s Afterword
In my two previous books, Secrets at Court and Whispers at Court, I explored royal matches made for love: the stuff of romance and—we hope—happily ever after.
This book shows the more typical scenario: royal marriages made solely for political/dynastic reasons.
Secrets at Court revolved around the marriage of Edward III’s first son, also Edward, and Whispers at Court centred on the marriage of his oldest daughter, Isabella.
John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, My Lord of Spain, was the third surviving son of King Edward III. Edmund, who married Constanza’s sister, was the fourth son. Lancaster had, by all accounts, been deeply in love with his first wife, Blanche, before she died, but he would never be King of England, so when he had the chance to marry the heir to the throne of Castile, he took it.
Katherine Swynford, too, is a real historical figure and her affair with John began about this time, according to the best accounts available. Their love story, immortalised in Anya Seton’s novel Katherine, continued for the rest of their lives. After Queen Constanza died Katherine and John were married and their four children were legitimised.
As always, I had to take a few liberties, streamline a few parts of the story and make my own decisions when historical reports were unclear or contradictory.
It was not only Castile, but Castile and Leon’s throne that John claimed. Katherine Swynford did care for John’s children from his first marriage, but the time she spent serving Constanza was probably much shorter than I have suggested here. She was probably not present at the birth of Catherine—the date of which is open to dispute—nor at the wedding of Isabel and Edmund. Indeed, her sister Philippa, who was married to the poet Geoffrey Chaucer, probably served La Reina for longer. And Chaucer’s poem, The Book of the Duchess, was written about Blanche, the Duchess of Lancaster, so loved by John, her husband.
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