Margaret would gain some of Edwin’s properties and revenues, which England sorely needed but meant nothing to Amice. She’d never seen most of them. All she wanted was to live at and care for Castle Rising. Her personal peace of mind and the welfare of the villagers were all that mattered to her now.
“I see.” His face was hard. “I hope you feel better soon. Godspeed.”
He rose and walked out of her room, closing the door behind him.
“Farewell,” she whispered.
What had she done? She had sent away the man she loved. For his own good, so he wouldn’t fail his duty to Henry.
A few days ago, she wouldn’t have been able to leave him, the heart of her heart. Now, embittered by her unjust punishment, she could no longer succumb to feelings. Those who loved were weak, opening themselves to hurt and anguish. She was a woman with responsibilities, who no longer harbored fantasies of romance. She would depend on herself from now on.
The constant ache in her chest now was far worse than the pain of making the most of every stolen moment, of wondering when she might see him again…. How would she bear not seeing him?
As Chaucer had said in Troilus and Criseyde, “As tyme hem hurt, a tyme doth hem cure.” She had to believe that.
The next day, she felt well enough to spend some time writing. But she didn’t want to finish the letter due to York about why he hadn’t been called to attend council meetings. The stakes were getting higher and higher the longer Henry remained ill.
But after setting out her ink and quills, she opened the small chest which contained her manuscript. Reaching in to pull out the pages, she grasped hundreds of scraps instead. They slipped through her fingers. Someone had destroyed her work.
“No!” As tears splashed on the tiny, useless snippets, she noticed they were all of a size. Whoever had ripped the vellum had taken the time to tear countless hours of her labor into neat little squares. Who would do such a hateful thing? Who could invade her privacy, open her chests?
All the more reason to go home, away from gossip, rumor, and evil deeds. From the man she couldn’t have.
Even in those darkest of hours in the Tower, she’d held back all but a few tears. Now, it seemed as though a river surged from her eyes. She cried for every problem she faced, from her hopeless feelings for Nicholas, being away from Castle Rising, York against Lancaster, to the uncertainty of her future.
And the ruination of her writing. How would she find out? She’d only mentioned once to Nicholas that she wrote, but he wouldn’t do this. She wasn’t aware anyone else knew. How would she walk the halls, go to meals, without wondering if every glance, every smirk in her direction was the perpetrator? She shuddered.
Worse, if someone had discovered her personal writing, could they uncover her work for York?
Two days later, chaos reigned in the queen’s lying-in chamber. Fluttering matrons surrounded the queen, who gasped with her pains.
Amice had lost her chance to speak with Margaret. For now.
The midwife, tall, thin and grey haired, elbowed her way through the throng. Matrons offered bits of advice as she bent over her patient.
“Silence. Don’t you know loud noises can bother the baby? Where are the musicians I asked for? Where is the honey, the hot water?”
Various women jumped to do her bidding as she barked assignments.
Amice huddled in the back of the room. She’d attended to prove all was as it had been. She so wanted her own children. Nicholas’s children. No. She wouldn’t wish for a future that couldn’t be. But how to stop?
As the hours passed, Margaret grew increasingly restless and fretful. The women, tasks completed long ago, now waited silently. They wouldn’t allow themselves to even consider what would happen if the baby didn’t survive. Margaret’s pregnancy had been the only hope for months. England with an incapacitated king and no heir? A possibility too horrible to discuss. A land without a king. Just like the story of King Arthur, when he took ill after discovering Guinevere’s infidelity with Lancelot.
At last the babe was born. England had a prince.
After cutting the cord, the midwife held the baby high before clearing its nose and mouth. Cheers and laughter filled the room, squelched by the midwife’s loud “SSSSHHHHH!” She quickly bathed the boy. All watched in silence, as, following an ancient tradition, she rubbed the newborn’s palate with honey and wiped its tongue with hot water so it would grow up to be well spoken.
The godmother, Anne, duchess of Buckingham, stood ready to take the baby to be baptized. With the high rate of infant mortality, even seemingly healthy babies were baptized as soon as possible. As the midwife tended to Margaret, Anne led the procession.
Pages ran ahead to summon the godfather and the rest of the men. The ladies followed, eager to spread the joyful news. Church bells rang, a Te Deum was sung. Edward was wrapped in a mantle studded with pearls and precious stones with soft linen lining to protect his delicate skin.
Amice forced herself to focus on the baptism by Henry’s confessor and not meet Nicholas’s gaze. After the ceremony, all except the queen attended a feast held in his honor.
In the midst of the celebration, a page approached. With a summons from the queen. She could feel Nicholas watching her as she exited the hall, but didn’t look back.
On her way back to Margaret’s chamber, she wished she’d eaten something to quell her jumping stomach.
Her heart thudded in her chest. She curtseyed. “You sent for me, Your Grace?”
“How was the feast?” Queen Margaret sat in her bed, dressed in a fresh robe, propped amidst a pile of pillows. The room felt as oppressive and close as it had during the long childbirth.
Surely Margaret hadn’t summoned her, the day of her child’s long-awaited birth, for a rendition of the foodstuffs served. “Very joyous, Your Grace. And filled with good wishes for you and the prince.”
“I doubt ’twas as grand as befits a royal birth, but it was no doubt an improvement over recent fare.” Margaret stirred and grimaced. “Sit.” She indicated a stool near the bed.
When Amice complied, Margaret continued, “I called you here to discuss duty, which you clearly don’t understand. Your stubbornness is inexcusable. Who do you think you are? I thought to leave you to rot in the Tower, but was persuaded otherwise by your friends.
“I have a son, someone new to fight for. The people refuse to accept me as one of them though I’ve appealed to them time and again. They remain convinced that I think only of my native land, France.”
Amice twisted her fingers in her lap, then stopped because she didn’t want to seem nervous. She had no idea what she was expected to do or say.
“I want you to listen carefully. Due to my father’s sorry finances, I served as my own dowry.” Margaret sighed, clearly pained by the memory. “Which was a two-year truce between England and France. I had to wait nearly a year for the wedding. A wedding by proxy, where the Duke of Suffolk, my first English friend, stood in for Henry.
“Did you know Henry was once engaged to another woman?”
Amice couldn’t contain a gasp of surprise. She could see where this was going but couldn’t stop the queen from driving her point home. “No, Your Grace, I didn’t know.”
“His first betrothed, the Count of Armagnac’s daughter, would have brought significant wealth and two French provinces. Henry and his advisors decided he should marry me instead, convinced that my personality and relationship to the king of France were more important than money, no matter how sorely needed. Henry had to pawn his jewels and household plate to pay for the marriage and the coronation.
“I had to leave my country. The life I’d known and wanted. When my ship reached England, I was so sick Suffolk had to carry me to shore. I wondered if God had tried to send me a message through illness and horrid weather that I should return to France.”
Amice squirmed. Each word pounded her head like a hammer.
The queen stared at Amice for an intermina
ble moment. “Do you understand?”
“Your Grace, I….”
“Tell me why I bothered to divulge my private tale to you.”
Amice’s heart sank so hard she thought she could feel it land in her stomach. She knew, and the message ate holes of guilt in her soul the way moths devoured woolens. What reply wouldn’t make her seem spoiled and incredibly selfish? What reply would commend the queen’s sacrifices, yet free her from the need to make her own?
“I believe you want me to see that we don’t always get to choose our course,” she said. “That others have the power to choose the path we follow, even a queen’s, and we must make the best of whatever follows.”
“An excellent start. Go on.” Queen Margaret nodded.
She knew her cheeks burned. Hadn’t she suffered enough already? Her voice came out as a whisper. “And who am I to refuse to marry when those so far above me have had to endure so much?”
“Think on that. Now, what I need is a goodly amount of rest. You may go.”
Amice curtseyed and left, her heart heavy as lead.
Chapter 14
With a shake of his head, Nicholas ripped down another of the hateful poems impugning the prince’s birth that had been posted in many public places. His cadre of men roaming the streets couldn’t remove the missives fast enough to keep vicious gossip from flying through castles and countryside. As soon as he learned who was behind them, the queen would toss the culprits into the Tower and throw away the key.
As he passed the kitchen after leaving the stables, Nicholas overheard the cook talking with the ale supplier. The dark grey sky matched his mood.
“I hear tell it’s not Henry’s babe. The father be Somerset.” The supplier shook his bald head as he hauled a barrel off his cart.
“No, no, no.” The portly cook wiped his hands on his apron and leaned forward. “The real prince died in childbirth and they put some other brat in his place, so England would ’ave an heir.”
The alemonger unloaded another barrel. “Well, I was at St. Paul’s Cross when the Earl of Warwick spoke. He said Margaret’s adultery produced this baby, and he should know. Henry should have married one of his own. Nothing good comes of dealings with the French.”
Cook nodded. “Either way we’re ta ’ave some unknown bastard as heir to the throne. I doubt Parliament will stand for that.”
Nicholas could stand no more. Putting an end to one conversation wouldn’t stop the rumors, but he had to do what little he could.
Maybe the truth could become its own rumor.
“You there, what kind of talk is that?” he asked. “You know nothing of it. Margaret’s women witnessed the birth of the true prince.”
The alemonger must not have known who Nicholas was or he’d have remained silent. “Aw, they’d say whatever the queen told ’em to. They want to keep their places and their heads, don’t they? Who do you think be the father?”
The cook hastily turned back toward the kitchens without a farewell.
Nicholas sighed. If he couldn’t even convince one Englishman, how were they to persuade the whole country that Edward was the true prince, born of Henry and Margaret?
“They say the king refuses to recognize the baby.” The alemonger heaved a third barrel. “Wouldn’t even look at ’im! Can’t be the real prince, not if ’e be not known by the king himself.”
Nicholas wasn’t about to tell the man the king didn’t recognize anyone at all, and for that reason the baby hadn’t even been presented yet. Or that fears the king wouldn’t be able to fulfill the long-standing tradition of acknowledging the child as his own were very real. No official announcement of the king’s illness had been made.
“Be on your way. If I hear you spreading more tales, your position will be in danger,” Nicholas said.
The man seemed unconvinced, but moved on with his clattering cart of barrels.
Things were no better among Henry’s nobles. Margaret had possession of England’s heir. They couldn’t let her keep him for long, for that would give her too much power. They didn’t want her ruling through her son as regent.
Nicholas wished he and Amice could leave court behind and live in peace at Castle Rising. But the way events were progressing, he’d be fortunate if anything he desired came to pass.
Amice spent the week after Edward’s birth in a frenzy of activity waiting on the queen. She’d seen Nicholas in passing, but they hadn’t spoken. Each time, she pushed aside the ache in her heart. The ache of missing him and wanting to be with him, as much a part of her as the need to breathe. She couldn’t free herself of the longing. Whenever she had time, she threw herself into her writing with renewed vigor.
“Amice, you’ve been cooped up in here for hours,” Ginelle said as she entered the tiny sitting room. “It’s late. And freezing. You’ve forgotten to have firewood sent up again.” She carried a stack of freshly washed linens into the bedroom.
Amice stretched, easing her stiff back. She blew on her fingers and rubbed her hands together. “I don’t notice the time or cold when I write.”
Ginelle stood in the doorway. “When will you finish?”
“Soon. Fortunately, I remember enough of what was destroyed to recreate large portions. Rewriting helped me improve some sections. You’ll appreciate the chapter on recipes.” She re-inked her pen and began to write.
Amice wouldn’t discuss her other project with Ginelle—copying documents for York. Despite her recent resolve to focus on her own needs, she’d realized if the wrong group was in power, her properties and people would suffer. There might be heavier tithes, higher food costs or worse, the loss of many of her able-bodied men to war. So when Belinda appeared at her door with another assignment, she hadn’t refused as planned and had quickly delivered the letter she hadn’t wanted to finish.
Amice was glad she’d broken off her friendship with Nicholas. Glad he was out of her life. Yes, she was.
“You should get out more. You work for the queen, then sit here thinking about home and Sir Nicholas.” Ginelle crossed her arms.
Amice opened her mouth to reply.
“Don’t deny it.”
She couldn’t. She had to repair the tears imprisonment had made in her heart and soul.
“I’m worried about you. It’s as though you make your way through each day without really living it. When do you think Margaret will decide whether to choose another husband for you or accept your coin?”
Amice cringed. “I hope before the end of the forty days she, as a new mother, must spend in her chambers.”
If she had to wait until the churching ceremony scheduled for November 18, she wouldn’t be able to endure the uncertainty. The suspense.
“Have you spoken to Sir Nicholas?”
Amice walked to the window, looking down on the few who’d braved the cold. She didn’t know how to express her feelings, they made no sense. When she was with him, even just glancing at him in a crowded room, a life without him in it seemed impossible and unbearable. But if she could manage to stay away, she could relish her memories without worrying if each time together would be their last. Or feel guilt over keeping secret her work for York. She hadn’t lied to Nicholas, nor had she told him the whole truth.
“Nothing can come of it, were I free to choose.” How could she love someone so different? Despite her need for him, she wouldn’t want him to suffer or live less of a life than he dreamed. “He remains Henry’s man. I support York.”
More with each passing day. Henry had been incapacitated too long. To avoid civil war, the country needed a strong, decisive king. By birth, wealth and power, York was the logical choice. Yet the queen wanted her son to rule. But many a babe died in infancy. Even if he thrived, he’d need a regent, as his father had.
Being on opposite sides could result in disaster for her or Nicholas. At the moment, she was on the dangerous side. She could be imprisoned again, for good this time. If York prevailed, would he punish Henry’s staunch supporters?
&nbs
p; “It’s clear you care for each other.”
“So we do.” The thought of Nicholas confessing his feelings warmed her. “But how can what we share surmount our differences?” She shook her head.
“There you go again, gnawing over things you cannot change, things that may never come to pass. Mayhap you should devote your thoughts to things you can change.” Ginelle heaved a huge sigh. “If you wish to remain in here and sulk, that’s your choice. I can bring you a tray.”
Focus on the things you can change. Perhaps that was the solution.
“No, I’ll come down for the meal.” If Nicholas was there, at least she could see him. Maybe exchange a few words. Maybe arrange a time to meet, though the parting would be painful as ripping a dressing off a wound.
She forced herself to return to work, making an exact copy of the map Belinda had brought. The pen made scratching noises as she carefully outlined a road on the parchment. Amice didn’t know what the documents were for, nor did she want to. She was content, for the moment, to work alone, on the outskirts of York’s plans.
Belinda came to pick up the map and copy, her fair skin flushed pink and she bounced on her toes. “Amice, Amice! You won’t believe what York wants you to do now, right away. He wants you to write a poem.”
Amice paused in the midst of handing over the rolled parchments. “What?” she asked, incredulous. “York wants me to write one of those scandalous poems everyone is talking about?”
Belinda sat on the edge of Amice’s table and spread her brocade skirts with one long-fingered hand. “Yes. He gave me some examples. Quite shocking, this about Edward not being the true prince. And look at this one, ‘On Popular Discontent at Disasters in France.’”
Amice was confused. “How did York find out I could write original material?”
At His Command-Historical Romance Version Page 16