‘Not unless he changes his behaviour towards her, no.’ Cecily seemed to be avoiding her gaze.
‘Pah!’ Katharine gave a snort of contempt. ‘How many opportunities does the fool need?’
Mathilde sucked in a breath. To call the King a fool was treason, but Katharine looked unrepentant.
‘Tell me, girl, what do you know about Roger Mortimer? Do you know who he is?’
Mortimer? She searched her memory, surprised by the apparent change of subject. There was something familiar about the name. She’d heard her father speak of him once...
‘Yes!’ She sat up straighter, pleased to find something she did know. ‘Roger Mortimer of Wigmore! He was imprisoned for rebelling against the King when—’
She stopped mid-sentence. If she remembered correctly, Mortimer was one of the Marcher lords and the stronghold of the Mortimer family was Ludlow Castle and...
Henry Wright of Ludlow.
The truth dawned as if a candle had suddenly flared to life in front of her eyes. ‘He was the man who visited the Queen in secret!’
‘Very good.’
‘But I thought he was sentenced to execution. Did the King pardon him?’
‘Ha!’ Katharine threw her head back scornfully. ‘He escaped. He found himself an accomplice, drugged his guards, climbed a chimney, scaled a rope ladder and then rowed away to safety. Mortimer escaped from the Tower, the very bastion of royal power, humiliating the King in the process. Believe me, he’ll never be pardoned now. That’s why he’s in exile.’
‘But then why did he come here?’ Mathilde drew her brows together, feeling hopelessly confused all over again. Why would the Queen meet secretly with a traitor? And what did that make Henry Wright, the man she’d been talking to, who she’d almost been excited to see, just that morning?
‘Can’t you guess?’ Katharine leaned closer as if she were trying to gauge her every reaction.
Mathilde shook her head, unwilling to try. Any answer seemed tantamount to treason, but the intensity of Katharine’s expression demanded one. A memory of the way Isabella had smiled at Mortimer flitted into her mind before she pushed it quickly away again. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Good!’ Cecily placed an arm around her shoulders. ‘Our place is to serve the Queen, not to question her behaviour. We ought not to have opinions about it.’
‘But we do, don’t we?’ Katharine’s eyes flashed belligerently.
Cecily squeezed Mathilde tighter as if she still wished to protect her, though she didn’t interrupt as Katharine started speaking again.
‘The Queen believes that the time has come for her to make a stand.’
‘Against the King?’ Mathilde was so shocked that for a moment she thought she must have misheard. ‘With a traitor?’
‘Mortimer’s only a traitor because he stood up against Hugh le Despenser, the King’s favourite.’ Katharine’s tone made it clear where her own sympathies lay. ‘In most English eyes, that makes him a hero.’
‘But what kind of stand? What does she plan to do?’
‘Nothing’s certain yet, but once her son lands on French soil, Isabella has a weapon.’
‘A weapon?’ Mathilde heard the tremor in her own voice. ‘How can a twelve-year-old boy be used as a weapon?’
‘Because Prince Edward is the heir to the English throne, someone she can use as a figurehead to challenge her husband and reclaim her rightful position.’ Katharine laughed, though it sounded more like a cackle. ‘The King has agreed to send her exactly what she needs to defy him and he has no idea. Oh, we’ll be going home eventually, but as for the manner of it, that remains to be seen.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Keep moving!’ Lady Berthe whispered viciously into Mathilde’s ear, making her wince, though it still didn’t help. She couldn’t help but falter at the sight of the immense crowd gathered in the great hall that evening, like a brightly coloured, swarming hive of bees, more people than she’d seen gathered together in one place in her life. She had a sudden fear of being crushed, but fortunately the Master of Ceremonies announced the Queen at that moment and the mass of people fell away, opening a path up between them. It was no wonder. Isabella was resplendent, dressed in a pale silver-blue gown with a pearl-encrusted headdress and a long, shimmering silk train, looking like a mermaid or some other mythical creature.
Mathilde followed behind, for the first time not feeling utterly out of place in the Queen’s retinue. As promised, Lady Cecily had adjusted one of her own surcoats to fit and the open sides, revealing the tightly cinched waist of her kirtle beneath, encircled by a red girdle, made her feel older and more sophisticated. She was even aware of a few admiring male glances as she walked, though she had no inclination, or any idea how, to respond.
The French King stepped forward as his sister Isabella approached the dais, his golden hair and bejewelled tunic making the resemblance between them more striking than ever. They were truly a gilded pair, these heirs of Philip the Fair and Joan of Navarre, Mathilde thought, allowing her gaze to wander past them and along the high table, past a row of elaborately dressed French nobles and courtiers before settling finally upon Henry Wright.
She felt a jolt as if Lady Berthe had just jabbed a malicious elbow into her ribs, her body turning hot and cold at the same moment. That is, her skin felt too hot, but her limbs appeared to have frozen. He was standing beside the chair of one of the nobles, as if he’d just been engaged in conversation, but what was he doing there, mingling with the court so openly? If what Katharine had told her earlier was true, then he was one of Mortimer’s men and a traitor, too, or as good as, but unlike the first or even second time they’d met he was making no attempt to conceal himself now. There was nothing remotely secret about his position just a few feet from the French King and English Queen, looking dark and inscrutable and alert, as if he were noticing every detail of the scene before him.
No sooner had the thought entered her head than his eyes locked with hers, a lightning flash of blue darting across the room and making the air between them seem to pulse and crackle with tension. She caught her breath as one of his eyebrows lifted, but she refused to look away. She had the strange impression that if she looked for long enough then she would be able to tell whether he was friend or foe. She wasn’t sure which she preferred, or what those definitions even meant any more, but she held on to his gaze without blinking, determined to get to the truth, until his lips curved suddenly and he winked.
Quickly, she twisted her face to the side, as he’d surely known that she would, her cheeks aflame with mortification. She didn’t like what his wink implied and she was afraid that someone else might have noticed and got the wrong impression. To her relief, however, the Master of Ceremonies saved her again, announcing the meal and allowing her to take a seat along one of the six rows of trestle tables, thankfully on the opposite side of the room to Henry Wright. From there, she made a point of not looking in his direction again, focusing all of her attention on the entertainers who played lutes and harps and sang tunes while they ate.
* * *
It was a lengthy meal, as befitted the occasion. Mathilde counted off each of the twenty-four courses in turn, thinking that she would never get used to the way they ate at court. At home, three courses was a great feast. Here, it would have been considered an outrage. If only she could have saved some of the food and sent it home to her family. Dicun in particular ate like a horse and yet was still never full after a meal...
She paused with a piece of marchpane halfway to her lips, the thought bringing with it a rush of homesickness so strong that she felt almost winded, her heart hammering hard against her ribcage and her breath emerging in short, erratic bursts, ones that made it impossible to speak, yet she seemed powerless to do anything about it. There were actual tears welling in her eyes and, to her horror, she felt one start to roll down her cheek. Suddenly, in the mid
st of hundreds of faces, she felt utterly lost and alone, as if she were watching the banquet from inside a bubble, there and not there, a living phantom at the feast.
Chest heaving, she stood up and made her way around the edge of the hall. She knew that she ought not to leave, not without the Queen’s permission, and that Lady Berthe would scold her for it later, but she had to get away before she did something even more embarrassing.
Mercifully, nobody stopped her as she rushed out into a stairwell away from prying eyes. There was a small window there, the shutters open to let cooling air into the hall, and she pushed her face up towards it, drawing in deep lungfuls until her heartbeat gradually returned to normal. Then she turned around, sagging back against the cold stone of the wall and chiding herself for ingratitude. She ought to feel honoured to be there, not as if she wanted to collapse in a heap and start sobbing.
‘Are you following me now, lady?’
She jumped, knowing the identity of the speaker even before she lifted her head, though she still hoped she was mistaken. She wasn’t. Henry Wright was sitting on one of the steps before her, half hidden in the shadows, one arm draped casually over a knee as if he hadn’t a care in the world. She hadn’t noticed him there when she’d entered, although she hadn’t heard footsteps behind her either. In truth, she didn’t know which one of them had followed the other, but either way she didn’t want to see him. She wanted to be alone.
‘Of course not!’ She thrust her jaw out, blinking rapidly to clear the moisture from her eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’ His tone shifted, turning to one of concern as he stood up and moved closer.
‘Nothing.’ She brushed a hand over her face. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘The same as you, I imagine. Enjoying a respite from the festivities.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’ She scowled, vaguely surprised by her own rudeness. She was never rude to anyone, but he seemed to bring out the worst in her. ‘What are you doing back at court?’
‘Does that mean you’re not pleased to see me?’ His gaze travelled over her face. ‘No, don’t answer that. I can see that you’re not.’ He placed a hand over his heart as if he were genuinely hurt. ‘You wound me, lady. I was only going to offer an ear. I’m happy to listen if you need to talk?’
Mathilde stared at him incredulously. How could he think that she’d trust him, a stranger, not to mention a possible, probable, traitor, with her innermost thoughts and feelings? And yet, for some inexplicable reason, she did, the words bursting from her lips before she could stop them.
‘I miss my home.’
‘You don’t like the French court?’
‘It’s not that. It’s a beautiful place and I know that I’m lucky to be here. I never expected to see London, let alone Paris, but...’ She felt tears prick her eyes again. ‘I still miss my home. It’s getting easier, but I don’t belong here.’
‘True.’ He nodded and she bristled, instantly and unreasonably offended. It was one thing for her to say it, but he didn’t need to agree quite so readily. She didn’t feel older or sophisticated any more. She felt foolish and naive and too far from home.
‘I didn’t say that it was a bad thing,’ he added, correctly interpreting her expression.
‘It feels like one.’ She drew herself upwards, smoothing a hand over her stomach and then pulling it away again when she saw his eyes follow the movement. ‘You didn’t answer my question. Why are you back at court?’
‘Because I was sent here.’
‘Who by?’
He laughed softly, his teeth flashing white in the half-darkness. ‘I don’t even know your name, lady. If you expect me to trust you with such details, then we ought to be properly introduced first.’
She lifted her chin. ‘It ought to be enough that the Queen trusts me.’
‘Perhaps it ought to be, but...’ He put his wrists together in a gesture that suggested his hands were tied and Mathilde narrowed her gaze, determined to prove that she wasn’t as naive as he assumed.
‘I know who you are.’
‘Because I told you.’
‘I know who you keep company with, too.’
That wiped the smile off his face. All trace of humour vanished in an instant, replaced by a hawklike intensity. ‘Is it common knowledge, then?’
‘No.’ Her sense of triumph was fleeting. There was a dangerous edge to his voice suddenly that made goose pimples rise on her skin. ‘Only a few of the Queen’s ladies know. The ones that she trusts.’
‘Good.’ His expression softened again, though there was still a watchful look in his eyes. ‘Then it seems we’re both of us conspirators.’
‘We are not!’ The accusation brought her anger back to the surface. No matter how dangerous he sounded, she wouldn’t be accused of treason. ‘I want no part in any conspiracy!’
‘It might be too late for that. Although if you feel so strongly about it, then it might be wise to leave the Queen’s service sooner rather than later. Go back to this home of yours.’
Go back? She felt her lips part in surprise. Even at her most homesick, she’d never seriously considered the possibility. No doubt it was what her father would want her to do under the circumstances, but once there, he’d only find some other way to be rid of her. In another household or a convent perhaps. No, there was no place for her at home any longer, whereas here, she was valued by the Queen of England herself. A wronged queen, according to Lady Cecily and Katharine, who only wanted to reclaim the position that was hers by marriage and in the name of her son, too! How could that really be treason? She knew what her father would say, that the King could do no wrong, but Isabella hadn’t actually done anything treasonous yet. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe it was all rumour and speculation. Maybe it would never become a question of sides. Or of treachery...
‘There are still ways to return to England if you want them.’ His eyes were roaming over her face, she realised, as if he were trying to read her thoughts.
‘No.’ She shook her head finally. ‘I don’t want to leave the Queen.’
‘Then you may not be able to avoid conspiracies. The future may be dangerous.’
She rolled her eyes before she could stop herself. He might be right, but she was tired of being spoken to like a child in need of instruction.
His response was to take another step closer, bracing his hands on the wall on either side of her shoulders until she was effectively trapped between them. ‘But perhaps you’d like a little danger, lady?’
She swallowed hard, regretting the eye-roll as the hubbub of voices from the hall seemed to fade into silence, as if the world had just contracted to the small space around them. He was too close for comfort now. Too close for decency as well, but there was only stone wall behind her and no way to escape the cage of his arms.
No part of him was touching her, but she could feel the heat of his chest emanating through his tunic and smell the faint whisper of wine on his breath. Her own was coming in short bursts again, too, as though she’d just sucked in all the air from the stairwell and couldn’t let it out again, as if she’d forgotten how to function normally, yet the sense of panic was different from before, almost like anticipation. Despite the fact that he was a traitor, her body was tingling in places she’d never conceived of tingles before, as if his fingers were sliding over her bare skin. She had the sudden, startling idea that she might want them to.
She licked her lips, intimidated, excited and curious all at the same time, her body trembling with the wantonness of her own thoughts. ‘I should go back before anyone misses me.’
‘Yes.’ His eyes darkened, the pupils swelling until the blue was barely visible. ‘You probably should.’
* * *
He should go, too, Henry told himself, his gaze drawn first to the slick of moisture left on her bottom lip by her tongue, then to the tiny flutter of
her pulse at the base of her throat. He should have slipped out the moment she’d entered the stairwell, but he’d been caught off guard for once, startled by her sudden appearance just when he’d been thinking about her, as if his desires had actually guided her towards him. Desires a man like him had no business having for any lady.
Despite their meeting in the courtyard that morning, he almost hadn’t recognised her when she’d first entered the hall, dressed like a cultivated lady of the court and not an innocent country girl any longer. Part of him had missed the country girl, the other part had found itself admiring the way her kirtle clung to the willowy curves of the body beneath. He’d thought about her surprisingly often over the past few months and now here she was, her and her curves, not to mention those luminous, big brown eyes, standing close enough to touch if she let him. Would she let him? His fingers were itching to do so, to slide along the ridge of her collarbone and up the narrow column of her throat, although it would undoubtedly be wiser not to. It wouldn’t do either of them any good to be seen talking together in private. Reputations were precarious things, for spies as well as for ladies.
‘Do you care for the Queen?’ It took all his self-control to drop his hands from the wall, wrenching his thoughts back to their conversation instead.
‘What?’ She blinked, looking glassy-eyed and disorientated for a few seconds. ‘Oh...yes. She’s been very kind to me.’
‘Only because it suits her. They’re all the same. Kings, queens, barons, earls. No matter whose side you’re on, never trust any of them completely. Loyalty is an admirable quality, but they wouldn’t hesitate to throw any of us to the hounds if necessary.’
She glanced past his shoulder towards the doorway, as if she were unnerved by his bluntness. ‘You’re not a noble, then?’
‘Sir Nobody of Nowhere, at your service, my lady.’ He smiled and made an exaggerated bow. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I don’t belong at court either.’
Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 51