‘She’s very nice really.’
‘Yes, she probably is,’ Katharine conceded. ‘I’m just a grumpy old woman, but I can’t bear to watch Mortimer swanning around either. He acts as if he’s the monarch here. Did you see him eat from the King’s plate last night?’
‘Yes.’ Mathilde furrowed her brow. The sight had caused a stir all through the court, though nobody had dared to make any objection. She’d kept her eyes on her own plate afterwards, reluctant to acknowledge the look of smug satisfaction on the Queen’s face.
‘And do you notice that he’s Arthur while Edward is only Sir Lionel?’ Katharine shook her head despairingly. ‘Whoever heard of Sir Lionel anyway?’
‘He was a cousin of Sir Lancelot’s.’
‘A cousin? Pah! I hear that Mortimer’s even had a round table built for the occasion. A table where all men are equal, including himself and the King. The man’s as subtle as a rock.’ She sighed. ‘But there it is. There’s nothing we can do about it, except pretend to have sore knees and go for a nap.’ She gave Mathilde a nudge. ‘I thought you might be glad to escape for a while, too.’
‘I am, thank you.’
‘You haven’t been yourself since we came back from Scotland.’
‘Haven’t I?’
‘No, and you haven’t left our rooms at night or been near Henry Wright for a long while either. Have the two of you fallen out?’
‘Something like that.’ Mathilde half turned her head away. It had been months since Henry had told her their marriage was over, months in which every glimpse of him had left her feeling utterly wretched and the pain showed no sign of abating. As much as she tried not to think about him any more, it was impossible not to, yet she couldn’t speak of him either. She hadn’t even been able to bring herself to tell Katharine what had happened, as if saying the words out loud would make their separation more horribly real than it already was.
‘Ah. Well, you don’t have to tell me anything, but when you’re ready—who’s that?’
‘Mmm?’ Mathilde looked around as Katharine gestured ahead with her other hand. A man was walking towards them, dressed in armour as if he were about to take part in the tournament, though his head was uncovered, revealing a swathe of dark auburn hair, glistening with copper lights in the sunshine.
‘Oh.’ She stopped walking. ‘Oh, no.’
‘What?’ Katharine gave her a sharp look. ‘Why Oh, no?’
‘Because it’s Edmund, Cecily’s son.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper as he came closer. ‘Her eldest.’
‘Lady Mathilde?’ He hailed her from a few feet away. ‘What good fortune to meet you again.’
‘Indeed.’ She bowed her head, unable to curtsy with Katharine’s hand gripping so tightly on to her arm. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘Excuse me.’ Katharine mumbled. ‘I need to go and lie down.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She let her go with a reassuring smile. ‘I’ll follow shortly.’
‘Is your friend unwell?’ Edmund looked concerned as Katharine hurried away. ‘Does she need any help?’
‘She has trouble with her knee sometimes, but she’ll be all right, I’m sure.’ She forced a smile to change the subject. ‘Are you taking part in the tournament?’
‘Yes. Very soon, in fact, but I saw you and...’ he cleared his throat, his expression suddenly bashful ‘...I thought perhaps you might grant me the honour of carrying your favour?’
‘My—oh!’ She felt heat spread across her cheeks in surprise. No man had ever asked for her favour in a tournament before. She might have been flattered if she hadn’t felt so guilty, as if she were betraying her marriage vows and misleading Edmund, too. She didn’t want to mislead him. Under other circumstances, she might have found him quite attractive, but there was only one man she would ever look at in that way.
‘Unless you’ve already given it to another?’ His skin was looking flushed, too, she noticed, the tips of his ears almost matching the shade of his hair.
‘No, I just didn’t expect... Here.’ She reached into her purse and drew out a small linen handkerchief. ‘Will this be sufficient?’
‘Perfectly.’ He gave a relieved-looking smile and bowed. ‘I’m truly honoured, my lady. And you still wear my mother’s brooch, I see?’
‘Oh, yes. I miss Lady Cecily a great deal. We all do.’
‘So do I and my brothers. Even though we didn’t see her often during those last years. It’s not—Lady Mathilde?’ He frowned as she gasped suddenly. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘No.’ She swallowed, quickly turning her eyes away from the sight of Henry standing outside one of the tournament tents, staring in their direction. Like Edmund, he was dressed in armour, though without any helmet, giving her a clear view of his scowling face. ‘But I should go. I wish you luck today.’
‘Thank you.’ Edmund reached for her hand before she could move away, pressing a kiss against the backs of her knuckles. ‘I only hope that I win for your sake.’
* * *
‘Mathilde?’ Henry saw her start and then stiffen as he called out her name. He’d had to run to catch up with her before she reached the royal tent, resisting the urge to throw a fist into the face of Edmund d’Abernon on the way, and now his insides were churning with guilt and jealousy.
‘Yes?’ She turned around promptly enough, though her expression was guarded. ‘What is it?’
‘We need to talk.’
‘I’m in a hurry.’
‘It’s important.’ He took a step closer when she opened her mouth to protest. ‘Please, Mathilde.’
‘Very well, then.’ She straightened her spine and folded her hands in front of her as if she wanted to create a barrier between them, the reluctant look on her face making his gut clench. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Not here. Somewhere more private.’
‘No!’ Her eyes flashed with anger and something like panic. ‘Whatever it is, you can tell me now. Quickly, too. Katharine needs me and the Queen’s expecting me back.’
‘And we can’t disappoint Isabella, can we?’ He instantly regretted the sarcasm as her lips pursed.
‘If it’s about Queen Philippa expecting a baby, then she’s already heard the news.’
‘It’s not about that.’ He shook his head, tempted to add something about Philippa’s pregnancy meaning that Isabella couldn’t prevent her coronation for much longer and then thinking better of it.
‘Then what is it?’ She was beginning to sound impatient.
‘It’s about your father.’
‘Oh!’ She swayed slightly, lifting a hand to her chest as if to brace herself. ‘What about him?’
‘I received a message from your brother this morning. After what we discovered in York I thought that it might be wiser for him to send messages straight to me, though of course, that was before...’ He let his voice trail away and cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid the news isn’t good. He says that your father collapsed and died suddenly two weeks ago.’
‘No...’ Her face crumpled as if she were holding back a cry.
‘It was peaceful. He wasn’t in any pain.’
‘No...’
‘Mathilde...’ He started to lift a hand, aching to wrap his arms around her, then stopped himself. He daren’t take the risk. If he took her in his arms, he wouldn’t want to let go again and if they were seen together... He curled his fingers into fists. It wasn’t his place to offer her comfort any more.
‘I haven’t seen him in four years.’ Her voice shook with anguish. ‘But I still thought that we might be reconciled one day. I thought that maybe there was a chance I could explain everything to him and that he would understand why I didn’t come home. I hoped for it.’ She tipped her head back, blinking rapidly. ‘He died thinking badly of me.’
‘He shouldn’t have.’
&n
bsp; ‘But he must have done!’ Her voice broke.
‘You only did what you thought was right.’
She narrowed her eyes, their expression bitter. ‘You say that now, but you thought I was wrong, too. You tried to dissuade me against serving Isabella from the start.’
He bent his head, unable to deny it. ‘Do you wish me to send a message back to your brother?’
‘No, I’ll do it myself.’
‘As you wish. I’m sorry, Mathilde. If there’s anything else I can do—’
‘There isn’t.’ She spun on her heel and walked away, leaving him standing alone, listening to the distant sound of cheering from the tournament field, reminding himself that letting her go was for the best.
* * *
Mathilde rushed into the Queen’s private tent, dropping on to one of the couches and curling her knees up to her chest, hugging them tight as she lay with her face to the cushions, willing the world to stop for a few hours and leave her alone with her grief.
It was too late. That one thought dominated her whole mind. She’d left it too late to reconcile with her father and now he was gone there was no way to put things right between them, no way to explain her loyalty to the Queen. And Henry had been the one to tell her... A sob tore from her throat. For a moment, when he’d called out her name, her foolish heart had given a small leap of excitement, as it always had in the past. She’d forced it down quickly, but just standing in front of him had caused a physical ache. And then when he’d given her the news...the sympathy on his face had made her even more miserable. Pathetically, she’d wanted him to touch her, to hold her close and tell her that everything would be all right. Now she felt as though nothing would be ever again.
‘What’s happened?’ She felt Katharine come to sit on the couch beside her.
‘It’s my father. I just got word...he’s dead.’
Katharine’s hand slid up to her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It happened two weeks ago. He’s been gone all this time and I never knew.’ She heaved herself upright, still hugging her knees. ‘He didn’t approve of me serving the Queen. Back in Paris, when it became obvious that she was defying the King, he sent messages telling me to leave her service and come home, but I never got them. It wouldn’t have made any difference, but I found out in York that other messages had gone astray, too.’
‘Ah. Isabella.’ Katharine looked unperturbed.
‘You knew?’ Mathilde opened her eyes wide.
‘No, but it doesn’t surprise me.’
‘How could she? It was my decision to make. She had no right to do it for me!’
‘She’s the Queen.’
‘Yes, but I thought she was a good one!’
‘Hush.’ Katharine lifted a finger to her lips. ‘You’re upset. Don’t say anything foolish.’
Mathilde gritted her teeth, the discomfort she’d felt in York growing stronger. What if she’d been wrong about Isabella? What if Henry had been right all along and she was not—had never been—the woman she’d thought? What if she’d only seen the mother figure she’d wanted to see? Then she would have given up Henry and her father, throwing away any chance of reconciliation, not to mention of love and happiness, all because of a promise to a woman who wasn’t worth it. And now...she pressed her face into her hands, a cold lump forming in her chest...now she was trapped as the Queen’s lady for ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Nottingham Castle
—autumn 1330
‘I’ve to go and fetch the King. Mortimer wants to speak with him,’ Katharine grumbled, hobbling out of the Queen’s withdrawing chamber with a hand pressed to the small of her back. ‘You know, there was a time when Isabella took account of my age.’
‘She wants you to go now?’ Mathilde looked up in surprise. ‘Isn’t it too late? He might have retired for the night already.’
‘No doubt they’ve thought of a few more questions.’
‘More? They’ve already spent the whole day interrogating his friends. Is that why they called Parliament here? So that they could interview everyone? Or do they really think something’s wrong this time?’
‘Who knows? Mortimer sees plots and conspiracy everywhere and Isabella’s become almost as bad. They’re like a pair of angry bees, flying about looking for someone to sting.’ Katharine threw a cautious look over her shoulder. ‘I remember before you came to court five years ago, before we left for France. The old King was just the same and look how that turned out.’
‘Mmm...’ Mathilde pursed her lips uncomfortably. ‘Well, surely you can at least send a page to fetch the King instead?’
‘They won’t trust one.’
‘Then let me go. You sit down and rest.’
‘Thank you.’ Katharine eased herself into a chair with a sigh. ‘I admit, I was hoping you’d say that.’
Mathilde left the room with a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. Katharine was right. Isabella and Mortimer had become more and more paranoid and demanding over the past few months, each of them seeming to spur the other on. All the good will they’d earned by deposing the old tyrant King had drained gradually but inexorably away, like a pot with a hole in its base, leaving behind nothing but resentment and fear. It was becoming harder and harder to defend the Queen’s behaviour, even to herself.
The castle seemed oddly quiet that evening as she made her way towards the King’s rooms. Surprisingly so given that Mortimer had recently doubled the size of the garrison. For once, there had been no guards outside the Queen’s rooms as she’d left and now, even more surprisingly, there were none outside the King’s. No one answered her knock either. Perturbed, she threw a quick look up and down the corridor and then put her eye to the crack between the door and its frame, but as far as she could see, the apartment was completely empty, as if the occupants had all gone for a walk or some fresh air, unlikely as that seemed in the dark.
Frowning, she started back towards the Queen’s rooms and then slowed her steps to a stop. If she returned alone, then Isabella and Mortimer would want to know why and she had no good answer to give them. All she had was a feeling, a prickling sensation running up and down her spine that told her something wasn’t right. In which case, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to take a look around first...
She changed direction, making her way down one of the spiral stairwells that led to the great hall. There was a faint murmur of voices below and she peered cautiously around the corner, all of her nerves on alert, then clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a cry of horror at the sight that greeted her. The King was standing on one side of the fireplace with his secretary and two guards, next to a gaping black hole in the wall, some kind of secret entranceway by the look of it, from which were emerging a small group of men, each of them carrying weapons and wearing the same grim, determined expression. She counted each of them in turn. Six in total, including Henry.
Her heart seemed to slam to a halt and then start pounding rapidly again, so hard that she could feel it like a fist beating against her ribcage. Her thoughts seemed to be spinning, too, faster and faster, like a whirlwind inside her head, scrambling to make sense of the sight, although there was only one, inescapable conclusion. Isabella and Mortimer had been right. There was a plot and, if the expressions on the men’s faces were anything to judge by, it wasn’t simply to free the King from their control. It was to overthrow them, too, but what was Henry doing there? He was a Mortimer! How could he be plotting to overthrow his own blood?
Panicking, she turned and fled back up the stairwell and along the palace corridors, cold sweat pouring down her back. There were no guards to be seen anywhere, as if the plot were already far more advanced than she’d realised. It seemed that the keep had already been captured, or perhaps bribed, into silence. Which meant that only Mortimer and the Queen were left.
She hurtled through the door to the Queen’s roo
ms, sagging back against it with a hand to her chest. Between her thumping heartbeat and a new, high-pitched keening sound in her ears, she could hardly stand upright without support. She wanted to go somewhere and hide, but her duty was clear. She had to warn the Queen. She had to go and save her before the King and his accomplices arrived. And she had to do it right now.
Now. She repeated the word to herself, but her legs seemed unable to move as a series of other, panicked thoughts raced through her mind. If she raised the alarm now, then Mortimer would have time to barricade the Queen’s rooms and summon more guards from the bailey. There would be a fight and bloodshed. Henry could be hurt or worse and if he was captured then he would be executed for certain. No matter what had happened between them, how could she risk that? And what if he was doing the right thing for the country? She put her hands to her head as all the thoughts and suspicions and niggling worries she’d tried so hard to keep out of her mind for the past year seemed to converge all at once. If she warned the Queen, then she might destroy more than Henry. She might destroy any hope of the new King being able to sit on his own throne...
‘Mathilde?’ Katharine’s voice made her jump. ‘What on earth’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Where’s the King?’
‘He’s... I...’ she stuttered and then leapt forward, seized with a new sense of urgency. If there was one thing she was certain about, it was that she had to get Katharine away before anything happened. Despite all her acerbic comments about Isabella, the old woman was still loyal enough to put herself in the way of a sword for her, if necessary. ‘I felt unwell. Dizzy. Would you mind going to fetch the King, after all?’
‘You do look pale.’ Katharine eyed her with concern. ‘Perhaps you ought to go and lie down.’
‘Thank you. I’m sorry to...’ She bit her tongue. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Pah. I won’t be long.’
Mathilde sank down on to the settle with relief, trying to calm down and gather her wits as Katharine disappeared through the doorway. She was horribly aware of precious seconds passing by, but no matter which way she looked at it, she could save only one person she cared about. The choice was stark: Isabella or Henry, doing something or doing nothing.
Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 67