Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 1 of 2

by Virginia Heath

  It was hard enough waiting for news these days. As far as he knew, Mathilde was still in Scotland, serving a queen whose abuse of power she stubbornly refused to acknowledge. Even after she’d learned about Isabella’s withholding of her messages, something he’d suspected from the start, she still refused to see it. At least the court would be returning to London soon, but what then? Their situation hadn’t changed since York. No matter how much he pleaded, she still wouldn’t leave the Queen. Which meant more waiting and spying for him, more propping up Mortimer and spying on innocent men who didn’t deserve it. Unless he did something about it. Which was why he was there.

  ‘You came.’ Nicholas de la Beuvriere greeted him outside the front door, taking his reins as he dismounted.

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘Me? No. Some of the others? Perhaps.’ Nicholas grinned. ‘But they don’t know you like I do.’

  ‘You know me?’

  ‘Better than they do anyway.’

  Henry laughed reluctantly. ‘Then how do you know I’m not a Mortimer spy?’

  ‘You are a Mortimer spy, but I think you’ve become a reluctant one. I think that you’re stuck in his service, supporting a regime you don’t believe in, being forced to find evidence against men you have sympathy for. And I think that today you’re here as Henry Wright, loyal citizen to the King. How does that sound?’

  ‘Like you think too much.’ Henry glanced up at the house again. There was a female face peering from one of the upper windows—the new Queen Philippa, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  ‘I have a lot of time to think these days.’ Nicholas rolled his eyes. ‘The King and Queen are newlyweds. It gives the rest of us plenty of opportunity to wander around the grounds.’

  ‘Ah.’ The pang of jealousy felt more like a stab now. ‘They’re happy together, then?’

  ‘It seems so. Unlike you and your lady, I think?’

  Henry gave him a sharp look. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Just that she’s a long way away. That can’t be easy.’

  ‘No. It isn’t.’ He rubbed a hand over his chin. ‘Maybe you do know me a little.’

  ‘I believe that you’re a good man who wants to do what’s right.’

  ‘And what’s right is to depose Mortimer?’

  Nicholas lifted his eyebrows. ‘You speak plainly.’

  ‘Given the choice, I prefer to. I’m a spy by profession, not inclination. We might as well get straight to the point.’

  ‘Fair enough. Yes. The King thinks that it’s time.’

  ‘And you want me to join you because Mortimer trusts me and that could be useful?’

  To his credit, Nicholas didn’t try to deny it. ‘Yes. He needs to be stopped.’

  ‘If it were any other man, I’d agree, but tell me, is it right for me to betray my own blood? Someone who might even be my own father?’

  ‘Ah.’ Nicholas’s shoulders rose and then fell again. ‘That I don’t know.’

  ‘Neither do I, but whether he’s a tyrant or not, I’m the one who has to live with myself afterwards. So...’ He clenched his jaw. ‘How many men do you have?’

  ‘Just a handful. It’s safer that way. It would be impossible to gather an army without Mortimer finding out so we need to capture him instead. On top of which, the King wants as little bloodshed as possible.’ Nicholas paused. ‘Though of course that makes it all the more dangerous.’

  Henry froze, tempted to turn around and leave again, but aware that he couldn’t escape a choice for ever. All he knew was that he couldn’t carry on as he was any longer, standing back and pretending that his actions didn’t have consequences. The choice was no longer between his own blood and a corrupt king. It was between blood and a worthy successor, between tyranny and what was right. Lines were already being drawn. He wished that he could stay on the same side as Mathilde, but she would never see the Queen for who she really was. And maybe that was for the best. He would never risk her safety by involving her in a plot against Mortimer and Isabella. She was far safer not knowing, in not being associated with him either. Which meant that if he joined the King, then there was only one course of action he could take in regard to her. One that he hadn’t yet had the heart to acknowledge.

  ‘Will you come inside?’ Nicholas gestured towards the door.

  ‘Yes, but I’m not committing to anything, not yet.’

  ‘I know. You’re here as the King’s guest, that’s all.’

  He took a step towards the door, heaving a sigh as he went. ‘Do you really think it makes any difference who’s on the throne? We already replaced one tyrant with another. Maybe that’s just the way of power. Edward might turn out the same way.’

  ‘Perhaps, but at least the authority will be his and not stolen. He’s the King by birth and by right.’

  ‘Then why the rush?’ Henry frowned, thinking of the words Mathilde had said to him. ‘He’ll be old enough to rule on his own soon enough.’

  ‘Will he? Tell me honestly, Wright. You know Isabella and Mortimer as well as anyone. Do you really think they’ll surrender power and let him rule on his own without a fight?’

  Henry glanced sideways, looking his companion in the eye before shaking his head. ‘No. No, they won’t.’

  ‘Exactly. And by the time he’s old enough, it will be too late to stop them.’ Nicholas put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come. Let’s get you something to eat and then we can talk some more.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Westminster Palace, London

  —autumn 1328

  ‘I’m getting too old to travel.’ Katharine groaned as she dismounted in the palace courtyard. ‘I never want to sit on a horse again.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Mathilde agreed wholeheartedly. The journey to Scotland and back had been exhausting, both physically and emotionally. Riding through the borders had been particularly harrowing. There had been signs of destruction and suffering everywhere, the villages all scarred by violence, with houses in desperate need of repair and people in even more desperate need of food. The Scots had paid some reparations for the war, but no matter what anyone claimed, the peace treaty was a crushing humiliation for England. Isabella had agreed to relinquish the Stone of Scone, captured by the King’s grandfather Edward I thirty years before, and to give her seven-year-old daughter Joan in marriage to the young Scottish Prince David, both against the wishes of her son.

  At least the journey was finally over and they were back in London, Mathilde consoled herself as she followed the Queen through the bailey and into the palace. With any luck, Henry was close by, too. And if he was...she smiled to herself at the thought...it wouldn’t be long before he found her again.

  She’d barely taken two steps into the hall before she found him instead, clamping her lips together to stop herself from exclaiming aloud as her pulse immediately quickened. There he was, standing ready to greet Mortimer, as if she’d willed him into appearing, only somehow it was a different version of Henry from the one she remembered. As she looked, he caught her gaze and bent his head slightly, but his features looked all wrong. His eyes were ringed with shadows and he looked leaner and harder somehow, as if all the planes of his face had become more pronounced, his cheekbones standing out like blades sharpened on a whetstone.

  Anxiety gripped at her throat. Had he been sick? But, no, it was different from that, as if there were some invisible wall standing between them. Part of her wanted to run to him, to smooth her fingers over the line of his jaw and make it soft again, yet another part felt compelled to keep her distance.

  * * *

  The remainder of the day was unbearable. Mathilde caught several further glimpses of Henry talking with Mortimer, but as far as she could tell he never as much as glanced in her direction again and concern about what might have happened to him tore her nerves to shreds. By the time evening came, she didn’t even wait for th
e Queen’s other ladies to fall asleep, saying that she was going for a walk and then heading straight to their usual meeting place.

  It was empty.

  * * *

  Henry paused outside the door to the guest chamber, summoning the courage to go in. After one quick nod of acknowledgement, he’d spent most of the day trying not to look at Mathilde, not to think about what he had to do either, though he’d been aware of her every time they’d been in the same room, aware of the concerned look in those big brown eyes, too. His heart had ached at the sight, as if a fist had reached inside his chest and squeezed tight, but it was no use postponing the inevitable. He had to speak with her, had to do the right thing no matter how painful. The time when they might have run away together was past and, with it, all of his hopes for a happy and peaceful future. He’d committed to a new course, one that he needed to travel alone for her own safety.

  If it succeeded, then hopefully one day she would understand and forgive him, whereas if it failed, well, better that she thought the worst of him. Maybe then whatever happened wouldn’t hurt her too much. The situation was ironic in a bleak kind of way. Ever since his mother had left, he’d been afraid of being abandoned by someone he cared about and now he was the one doing the abandoning. Hard though it was to believe, the feeling was even worse.

  ‘Henry!’ Mathilde flew across the room before he was even over the threshold, flinging her arms around his waist and pressing her face to his chest. ‘I was starting to think you weren’t coming.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He gathered her against him, unable to resist holding her one last time.

  ‘I’ve been so worried.’ She tipped her head back, her eyes travelling anxiously over his face. ‘Have you been sick? You don’t look well.’

  He gave a ragged laugh. He’d caught a glimpse of his own reflection that morning and not well was an understatement. ‘Have I lost your favour then, lady?’

  ‘What?’ She blinked, her expression hurt. ‘No, of course not. Never.’

  ‘Forgive me. That was unfair. I’m tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Then come to bed.’ She smiled, but he didn’t respond, reaching for her wrists and peeling them away from his waist instead.

  ‘I cannot. Mathilde, we need to talk. Seriously. I need to know whether you’ve told anyone about us.’

  ‘That we’re married? Only Katharine and my sister, Hawise.’

  ‘And nobody else knows that we’re close?’

  ‘No-o.’

  ‘Good.’ He let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Her voice sounded more guarded now. ‘Henry, what’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s not so much wrong as...’ He took a deep breath. ‘I just think it would be better if we didn’t see each other any more.’

  ‘What?’ She sounded confused, as if he’d just made a joke she didn’t understand. ‘What do you mean? I’m your wife.’

  ‘Only two other people know that. And Nicholas knows that we meet, but that’s all. So as long as they all keep it a secret, nobody else need ever find out.’

  ‘Henry...’ Her eyes clouded, as if the spark in them had gone out. ‘Why are you saying this?’

  ‘Because it’s becoming too dangerous. Meeting was risky enough at the start, but who knows who’s watching us now? There are spies everywhere.’

  ‘Then we’ll be even more careful.’

  ‘It’s impossible. If the Queen found out that you were here, with me—’

  ‘Then I’ll tell her that we’re already married. I thought about it a lot while we were in Scotland and as long as I stay at court while she needs me, why shouldn’t we be married? She might be angry that I didn’t ask her permission before, but she can’t actually annul the wedding. Or better still, I could ask her permission now. And you could ask Mortimer. Then it could all be out in the open finally.’

  ‘No!’ He said the word more forcefully than he meant to. ‘We can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s too late.’ He cleared his throat, dredging up the words he needed to say, his feelings teetering on the edge of desperation now. ‘The truth is, I’ve had time to think as well and I’ve had enough. I asked you to choose and you chose the Queen.’

  Her lips seemed to go very pale, moving soundlessly for a few moments until she found her voice again. ‘But I explained why.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We should never have married. It was a mistake.’

  ‘You said...’

  ‘I never said that I loved you.’ The words sounded harsher than he’d intended, but he needed to make her believe them, needed her to leave with a convincingly broken heart.

  ‘That wasn’t what I was going to say.’ Her own voice sounded very small. ‘You said that you’d wait for me.’

  ‘I know.’ He clenched his jaw. ‘But I gave up.’

  ‘So you don’t want to see me any more? You expect me to just forget that you’re my husband?’ She lifted her chin, bringing her gaze level with his. ‘Is there someone else?’

  ‘No. It’s nothing like that, I swear it.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand. Why did you even marry me in the first place?’

  ‘Because you’re a lady.’ He hated himself for the words, hated the way they made her flinch, too. ‘It seemed a good step up for a man like me.’

  ‘I see.’ She held on to his gaze for the space of several painful heartbeats, her expression anguished, before it seemed to harden before his very eyes. ‘I still have the deeds to your manor.’

  ‘Keep them.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please. Just for the time being. Until...’ He couldn’t think of any way to end the sentence, only shaking his head.

  ‘Very well.’ There was a heavy silence. ‘Is that all you wanted to say?’

  ‘Yes.’ He turned back towards the door and then paused. ‘Trust me, Mathilde, it’s better this way.’

  ‘Trust you?’

  He winced at the scepticism in her voice. ‘Just remember, if you ever need help, if you’re ever in trouble, you can come to me.’

  ‘Just not as my husband.’

  ‘No, not as that, but as a friend. Or if anything happens to me, go to the King. He’ll take care of you.’

  ‘Why?’ Her gaze flickered suspiciously. ‘Why would anything happen to you?’

  ‘No reason, just if.’

  She jerked her chin up again. ‘Then I thank you for your concern, but the Queen will take care of me. I don’t need the King. Or you. Not any more.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Wigmore Castle, Herefordshire

  —summer 1329

  Mathilde lifted a hand to her face, discreetly attempting to stifle a yawn as she sat on a bench in the royal box, preparing herself for yet another day, the third in a row, of jousting. Or rather watching the jousting while trying her hardest to look interested and applauding, which was all she was generally called upon to do. Admittedly, the grand tournament was very impressive. Mortimer’s castle of Wigmore had been transformed into an Arthurian scene to celebrate the upcoming marriage of his daughter, the outer walls draped in brightly coloured banners and surrounded by more tents than she could count, but it was hard to summon much enthusiasm for another six hours of riders parading, charging and then coming to be praised by the Queen. Every noble family in England seemed to have been invited, which was probably the case. Mortimer and the Queen were holding their favourite kind of court, one worthy of Camelot in which they were supreme, dressed in matching golden robes as King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.

  ‘Isn’t it thrilling?’ Felicia Pemberton, the newest lady of the Queen’s household, came to sit down beside her, brimming with excitement. She was young, only fifteen years old, and pretty as a kitten, with honey-gold hair and large grey eyes that seemed permanently amazed by everything she saw
. No doubt that was the way she’d looked four years ago, Mathilde thought, before life at court had jaded her.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Katharine, on her other side, leaned forward with a grimace. ‘I understand that men need to practise for war, but why they think we want to watch it, I’ll never understand. We’ll be trapped here all day. Again. Endless hours watching men charge at each other like fools, as if we’ve nothing better to do.’

  ‘Oh...’ Felicia looked crestfallen. ‘But they’re so brave.’ She turned to Mathilde for confirmation. ‘Aren’t they?’

  ‘They are.’ Mathilde came to her rescue. ‘And it certainly all looks very fine.’

  ‘I just hope that nobody gets hurt.’ Felicia’s small brow wrinkled. ‘I can’t bear the sight of blood.’

  ‘Sweet Mercy.’ Katharine got to her feet abruptly. ‘It’s no good. I can’t stay here.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Mathilde looked up at her in concern. ‘Your knee?’

  ‘It’s too stiff to sit.’ Katharine hobbled forward to where the Queen was sitting, murmuring a few words in her ear before turning around with a wink.

  ‘Come with me.’ She held an arm out. ‘Help an old woman.’

  ‘Is your knee really so bad?’ Mathilde murmured as they walked slowly away from the royal tent, the sound of thundering hooves echoing behind them.

  ‘No more than usual,’ Katharine chuckled. ‘But it’s bad enough watching men compare the size of their lances without that girl talking nonsense.’