Secrets at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  ‘Then why go at all?’

  She made no quick retort this time and, in the silence, his suspicions resurfaced. Was there something more to this journey than she had said?

  Finally, she blinked, as if waking from a distant vision. ‘I have not been away from Lady Joan in more than fifteen years.’

  A startling thought. The royal household was constantly on the move. By the time he was ready to return from Canterbury, the King would have moved on to Clarendon or Brockenhurst or Carisbrooke. Individual members of the household might stay behind or go before. For Anne to have never been separated from her lady in so long was more than unusual.

  He could not imagine that kind of constancy. But her affliction, of course, made any travel monumental, best undertaken with a cart to move her. Travelling with Lady Joan, they could ride together in safety and comfort.

  For her to come on this journey, on horseback, accompanied by only a few knights and squires and a maid, must take more courage than he had appreciated. ‘Will you miss her?’

  She smiled. ‘I’ll have time to discover that, won’t I?’

  And he saw no fear in her eyes. Only a yearning that rekindled the twinge of weakness he had felt in his chest more than once when he looked at her.

  He struggled to reclaim his stern face, searched for curt words.

  Oh, a quick kiss with a smiling maiden was a harmless diversion when he was stuck in the New Forest for three days. They had shared some barbed words and some laughter, but he had always known he would move on.

  Yet now, when he was ready to leave, here she was. And here she would be, day after day, on the road beside him.

  And what was worse, was that he was not certain he minded.

  * * *

  Anne had journeyed on horseback before, but never for so long a ride, day after day. Roads were rutted, carts slow and uncomfortable, and sometimes, she and her lady had been carried in the comfort of a litter, cushioned with pillows and shielded from wind and sun.

  There would be no such respite now.

  Simply to stay on the horse took all her strength. Her right foot could not rest in the stirrup, so she clenched her thighs, as tightly as she could, hoping with every mile that she would not slide off and be trampled. The horse, sensing her tension, seemed to fight her, making every step a struggle.

  By afternoon, her muscles shook with pain.

  Yet she felt happy enough to sing.

  Though she had imagined, in the moments before sleep, journeying to the far corners of the world, seeing sights too strange to be imagined, she knew it to be a dream. Only in the circle of her lady’s protection could she live safely. In lucid, waking moments, she could not conceive of leaving Lady Joan’s side.

  Yet here she was, on a lovely summer day, so far away she could not hear or see or even be summoned by the Countess. And instead of fear, exhilaration pulsed through her. She took in the wonderful scent of flowers, first those of bright yellow, then some of vivid blue, and the rise and fall of the grasslands at the edge of the forest. Perhaps they would ride near enough to the water that she would get a glimpse.

  Happiness—all the result of a freedom she had never known. Because now, today, she could pretend she was the person she wanted to be, one who could travel unencumbered. That was the reason. Not Sir Nicholas Lovayne.

  His horse inched ahead of her time after time and he kept looking over his shoulder as if to make sure she still kept her seat.

  Abruptly, he rode closer, as if he had recognised her thought. They had not spoken since she had mounted, a process made easy with his help. He had a way of lifting her so gracefully that it was no longer a struggle to get on the horse.

  ‘Is it comfortable for you?’ he said. ‘To ride? Should we stop to rest?’

  Kind of him to ask. He had not seemed so generous this morning. And even if she had to tie herself to the horse, she would not succumb. ‘You said it yourself. We have no time. Besides, isn’t a pilgrim supposed to suffer?’ She smiled, as if to assure him she did not.

  She hoped he did not see her grit her teeth.

  ‘Come. Let us rest and eat.’

  He gave quick orders to those with them and his squire Eustace scurried to set up a blanket while Agatha, the serving girl Lady Joan had lent her, unpacked a cold meal by the stream. They travelled lightly, escorted by only two knights and their squires.

  But Nicholas arranged everything, a task much simpler, she was certain, than managing food and drink for hundreds of men, as he had in France. Still, with him, she was not a lady-in-waiting with an obligation to fetch or carry.

  He came to the near side of her horse, ready to lift her down and she braced herself against desire.

  His arms were strong and tight. Then her body pressed to his, close, close as lovers might be. But there was nothing beyond duty in his care of her. She knew that. He was the Prince’s man, she attached to Lady Joan. But somehow, away from the court, no longer surrounded, she felt as if they had escaped for a tryst.

  Her feet touched the uneven ground and she stumbled, leaning into him so she would not fall.

  ‘I have you.’ His voice was a rumble in his chest. ‘Don’t worry.’

  She closed her eyes, only to see a fantasy she had long forbidden herself.

  The picture of herself as an ordinary woman. One who might have a husband, even a lover. If she were that woman, would she choose this man? Surely she was attracted only because he was the one man who had come near enough to touch her.

  She raised her eyes, murmuring thanks, and was struck by him all over again.

  Tall and straight, yes. That she had known from the first. He was of a similar height to the King or the Prince. Unusual. Few men could look either Edward in the eye. Nicholas stood on equal ground.

  With her hands on his arms she could feel the strength that could swing a sword, yet his muscles, like so much about him, seemed hidden, used as a last resort instead of a first. Finely carved lips were a sharp contrast to a nose that looked as if it had lived through more than one battle. Taken together, he was an uneasy mix of diplomat and warrior.

  She raised her eyes to meet his, so deep set it was hard to see their colour or read his expression. Too late, she realised he was gazing back at her.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he said.

  ‘Your eyes.’ Too late to lie.

  He leaned back, near dropping her, but he did not look away. ‘And your conclusion?’

  Heat bloomed on her cheek and crept lower. Could he see her thoughts?

  No. Certainly not. And if he were strong enough to hold her gaze, she would not look away. ‘I thought your eyes were brown, but I was wrong. They are...’

  She narrowed her gaze. She had never been able to name the colour of his eyes. Green or brown in this light, then grey and gold when she looked again. Certainty elusive as a feather, lifted by the wind just out of reach, as hard to describe as the man himself.

  ‘Anne? What?’

  How long had she gazed into his eyes, as if she were attempting a seduction? ‘I do not know. Just when I am ready to say green or blue, I look again and all has changed.’

  Now, a smile in truth. ‘That has been helpful to me when I must bargain.’

  Ah, yes. Eyes that seemed to show a glimpse of his soul, but instead, only hid it. ‘What colour do you call them?’ A light and careless question. One that might be asked by a woman who could dance.

  He blinked, as if her question surprised him. ‘I cannot see my own eyes. Nor do I gaze at myself in a glass. Why do you want to know?’

  Because I want to know everything about you.

  For her lady’s sake alone, of course. But she could not say so. Better he think that she played at seduction, lightly, no more serious than the games ladies played with men after dinner in t
he Hall. Nothing that suggested there was any connection between this and his kiss...

  ‘Your mother, then. What colour did she call them?’

  Pain. Anger. Something more. And then, his gaze took hers again. ‘What colour would you call yours?’

  ‘Mine?’ She glanced at the looking glass as often as most, she supposed, but never deeply. ‘I don’t study my own eyes.’

  ‘Well, neither do I.’ The set of his lips told her he would say no more.

  She reached for her stick, an excuse to look away. To think. The others had already gathered on the blanket to share bread and cheese, but suddenly, the yards between here and there seemed impossibly long.

  She took two steps, three. Then her legs, shaking from a morning’s tight grip on the horse, refused to carry her further and she sank onto the remains of a broken stone wall.

  ‘Stay,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring something to you.’

  Relieved, she allowed him to fetch and carry for her. He returned with bread, cheese and ale. To Anne’s surprise, he sat beside her as she ate.

  ‘So you’ve been with Lady Joan fifteen years,’ he began.

  ‘How did you know that?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Because this morning, you said you had not been away from her in so long.’

  How could she have been so foolish? She munched on her bite of bread longer than necessary, wondering how to turn the question away. On the blanket, Eustace and Agatha sat side by side, heads close together.

  ‘So,’ she said, briskly, brushing the crumbs off her fingers, ‘since neither of us can name the colour of our own eyes, you will tell me what colour mine are and I’ll tell you what colour yours are.’

  A diversion to keep him from asking questions about the past. She leaned toward him and stared into his eyes, opening hers wide, as if to give him a good look, then made her lashes flutter like bird’s wings.

  He tried to look stern, but chuckled instead. ‘I am surprised to hear you sound so light-hearted.’

  She had his attention. Now, she must keep it. ‘Oh, come now, Sir Knight. Have you never gazed deeply into a woman’s eyes?’ A question only meant to distract him. Not asked because she cared to know.

  He tamed the smile and gazed into her eyes, but with a serious, thoughtful expression that threatened no repeat of kisses. ‘Your eyes are grey. And...green, too.’

  Grey. Green. No poesy there.

  ‘And yours, now. Let me see.’ His eyes were hidden, somehow. Shadowed by a brow and eyelids that looked as if he were perpetually assessing you, so that you could not see him. ‘Yours are the blue-grey of a cloud, hiding the light of the moon.’

  He shook his head. ‘I have not seen you so...volage before.’

  She felt volage. As light and giddy as Agatha’s laughter, floating on the summer breeze, and she wasn’t sure whether she was acting so because she was away from the life she knew or because she was trying to distract him or because with him she felt...different. ‘Too much fresh air, perhaps. Or perhaps it is...’

  You.

  She bit her lip against the word.

  Meanwhile, there he was. Assessing her with a tilted head, a slight furrow between the strong, straight brows and pursed lips.

  She looked away. She lacked any skill with men. She should not have tried to be what she was not. ‘You look as if you are assessing a horse to see if it is worthy of being ridden by a King’s man.’ And then she felt her cheeks heat. Ridden. As a man might ride a maid... ‘I did not mean—’

  Worse, now. Suddenly, the cloud over his eyes shifted, as if the moon had been revealed, and she seemed to see clearly what he saw. Him. Her. Together. Looking at her the way she had seen men looking at women they desired. Men had not gazed at her that way.

  They had not gazed at her at all.

  And though she should not have, she turned back to meet his eyes again, hungry to glimpse that desire, if only for a moment. No, she would not have the bliss of the Prince and her lady, but just this taste...

  The clouds returned. ‘Neither did I.’ Cutting off the thought as thoroughly as she had tried to do.

  There was something behind the clouds, though. Something sharp and bright and clear that spoke of the distant lands he had travelled. Of sights, sounds, and scents she could not begin to understand.

  And would never see.

  He rose and held out a hand. ‘Come. We must ride again. I will arrange a harness to hold you, so you can ride more easily.’

  * * *

  After that, Nicholas kept his distance. He devised a belt and strap of rope and leather to keep her more secure. With that, she and the horse seemed to settle and he no longer had to look over his shoulder every moment in fear she had fallen to the road. He showed the other knights, even the squires, how to help her on and off the horse, but by the next day, he could no longer bear to watch their inept attempts. The men were clumsy with the fastenings as well as with her. If he did not step in, they would injure themselves and the horse as well as Anne.

  So he took responsibility again, although it put him close to her near a dozen times a day. The gestures had become easy for him, but he performed them with stiff arms, trying to keep her body away from his.

  And still he caught the scent of her hair, like some spicy forbidden fruit, hidden within a deep forest.

  When that happened, he would tense his arms and she would stiffen her spine and although they touched, it was as if a wall of pavise shields stood between them, strong enough to ward off a shower of enemy arrows.

  He told himself she was nothing more than an obstacle in his path, like a river in flood or a muddy road that must be traversed in order to keep moving, then left behind. Dealing with her physical limitations on the journey was no more difficult than persuading a French baker to sell bread to the English enemy or finding a port near the fighting for the supply ships to dock. He had solved many more difficult challenges.

  But those problems had come and gone and troubled him no more while thoughts of Anne never fully left him. Beyond the fact that he must answer for her safety and comfort, some mixture of resentment and concern, edged with unwelcome desire, hovered, always close.

  Then, he would look at her and see her smile and that would make him happy, thinking he had somehow been responsible for it.

  It would take near ten days to reach Canterbury, longer than if all the riders were able bodied. Nicholas pushed to keep the pace, all the while watching Anne when she was not looking at him.

  Was she in pain? If so, she hid it well. Proud and stubborn. Determined not to slow them down.

  * * *

  They reached Winchester by the end of the second day. He sent his squire and the others to arrange rooms in the tavern while he took Anne to the Pilgrim’s Hall, in the shadow of the Cathedral.

  She would have little rest here, he thought, as she settled in, but at least she would be beneath a roof. Heavy wooden beams soared to an arched ceiling that seemed to imitate a cathedral. Yet there was none of the sanctuary’s peace or quiet. The open room was crowded with pilgrims and travellers scattered across the floor, each seeking the illusion of separate space.

  She would be safe here and he would be glad to leave her for the night. If she were beyond his sight, he would certainly be able to sleep with untroubled dreams.

  ‘You will be comfortable here,’ he said, already thinking of what he would do if she said no.

  ‘The court travels regularly,’ she said, her self-sufficiency as strong as a suit of armour, though weariness shadowed her eyes and weighed on her shoulders. ‘My serving girl is here. She can accompany me.’

  ‘Accompany you?’ Worry sharpened the words until they sounded like anger. ‘Where?’

  ‘I am going to Greyfriars Church.’

  ‘Why?’ He was tired. She mus
t be exhausted. ‘You agreed to forgo pilgrim duties.’

  Her eyes met his. ‘It is not part of my pilgrimage. The Earl of Kent is buried there. My lady asked that I visit his burial place.’

  ‘Lady Joan’s former husband? Was he not buried in France?’

  ‘Not he. Her brother.’

  ‘Brother?’ If she insisted, he could not let her walk the streets with only a maid for company. A new, difficult path stretched between here and his pint of ale. ‘Was he taken by the pestilence?’ No one had mentioned the death of a brother.

  She shook her head. ‘He died nine years ago. At twenty-two.’

  Twenty-two. Were the man still alive, he would be Nicholas’s age. ‘In war?’ Had he known the Earl? Marched or fought beside him? He tried to remember. That year had been a blur of truce and battle, back and forth between the Scots and the French. There had been so many marches, so many battles.

  ‘No. He just...died. Who knows how death takes some men?’

  He looked back at her, sharply. Was there more than loyalty in her devotion? ‘Were you...fond on him?’

  Wide eyes of shock. ‘He was married.’

  He did not bother to say how little that could mean. ‘But you knew him?’

  ‘Of course. He was Joan’s last living brother. When he died, the land and the title became hers.’

  That would not explain her loyalty. In his experience, women were not so selflessly devoted to others. Only to themselves. Still, if she’d had a fondness for a man once, it was her own secret and no concern of his. He had become fanciful. Her reasons mattered not. He only had to deal with the consequences.

  ‘Your devotion to your lady is admirable.’ His jealous response to a dead man was not.

  She grimaced, proof he had not fooled her. ‘Have you never been loyal to someone?’

  ‘To Edward and the King, of course.’ Yet his loyalty to the Prince and his father joined with duty, obligation and survival. It was not this emotional bond she seemed to have. It was beyond gratitude.

  ‘To no one else? Your family?’

  ‘My family was not worth such devotion.’ She had lived near all her life with her lady. He had left his own family behind years ago.