Secrets at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  He knew that avoidance was only the mirror of desire, both weaknesses of the heart. But as the miles unrolled behind them, he told himself a different story. She had withheld the truth deliberately. It was no sin of omission, no accident. And it had nothing to do with her trust of him.

  She had concealed her part in the wedding for some other reason. Whatever that might be, it was reason enough for him to be suspicious.

  But he wanted no more mysteries to unravel. The Archbishop and the Pope were appeased. All that was to be done was to have a redundant ceremony so the Prince and his bride could be off to bed, Nicholas off to France and Anne off to...

  Well, he didn’t care.

  But now, even at Windsor’s gates, carts of building stone stretched between here and the journey’s end, forcing him to ride around them to gain entrance.

  Windsor itself he barely recognised. The new entrance with massive stone turrets had been completed in the spring, before he left for France, along with lodgings opposite the chapel, where he would, no doubt, find a bed. In the months he had been away, it seemed that the French peace payments had transformed into men and stone.

  Workmen swarmed the castle grounds. Blocks of white, brown and green stone littered the yard, along with stacks of wood. The smell of the iron worker’s charcoal hung in the air. Strong walls, looking more like a church than a fortress, were rising on the north side of the upper bailey.

  Sparing a moment’s sympathy for the man taking charge of it all, he swung out of the saddle and handed the reins to Eustace. He was done with all that, he reminded himself, as he went to help Anne off her horse for the last time.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, then rested her fingers on the leather straps that had held her steady for the days and miles past. ‘May I keep it?’

  He waved a hand in agreement. What use did he have for a leather harness designed for her comfort?

  ‘Will I see you again?’ she asked, as Agatha called over a servant to unload their horses.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ If God had been merciful, the ransom for his hostage would be waiting for him, money enough for him to buy the second warhorse he needed, some arms for Eustace, and then book passage to France. From there, he would find the Great Company, and lose himself in the fighting. ‘I’ll leave as soon as I can.’

  ‘Then God keep you safe on your journey.’ She took a deep breath and let it go, as if she were letting him go, as well, and then turned to confer with Agatha about what rooms would be theirs.

  The King and Queen had not yet returned to Windsor, but Edward and Joan had moved their households here to begin planning for the expected wedding. Until the new palace was finished, the royal family was housed in the round tower perched on a hill in the centre of the Windsor grounds.

  Nicholas turned to the tower, but the Prince had not waited for him to be officially announced; he had rather appeared beside him, out of breath as if he had run all the way.

  Hope and worry met in his eyes. ‘Well?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nicholas had the sudden urge to put his arm around Edward’s shoulder in reassurance. ‘All is well.’

  The Prince roared in delight and sent servants scurrying to find wine and the Lady Joan as they mounted the stairs back to Edward’s rooms in the tower.

  So easy for two fighting men, he thought, as they left the keep behind them. So difficult for Anne, who would struggle with stick and stair.

  He looked behind him, hoping he would not see her on her knees again, but Edward would not let him pause until they reached his rooms and red wine filled their silver goblets.

  ‘To Sir Nicholas Lovayne,’ Edward said, lifting the cup. ‘Who has made it possible for me to reach heaven on earth.’

  Nicholas’s pride, usually hidden, broke into a smile. No, he might not have noticed the coloured windows of Canterbury’s Cathedral, but he had served his sovereign and the Prince as well, or better, than any man could have. ‘How soon?’ the Prince asked. ‘When can we wed again?’

  ‘A few weeks. No more.’

  Edward’s smile dimmed. ‘So long? I cannot wait to have my bride back in my bed.’

  A bold statement about a future Queen, Nicholas thought, though he suspected she shared the sentiment. Weak fools, both of them, to be driven by such want. An unwelcome reminder of his own weakness.

  What had Anne called it?

  Bliss. But what man, even a Prince, was given heaven on earth?

  ‘No more than two months,’ he said. But long enough. By then, if he were fortunate, he would be across the Channel and have joined forces with the company of mercenaries, doing exactly what he longed to do. ‘Did the ransom arrive?’

  ‘No,’ Edward said, wiping his wine-soaked moustache on his sleeve. ‘And so, my friend, you cannot leave me yet. You must witness the wedding you made possible. But you will receive something from me. Small enough thanks for my happiness.’

  The sum he named was generous. It would keep his hostage fed and his gaoler paid until the payment came from France.

  ‘And so, my friend, until then, enjoy the hunt, the gaming and even a diversion with the ladies.’

  There was only one lady that came to his mind. The very one he wanted to forget.

  The Prince called for his hunt master, already turning his attention away from the wedding and all the difficulties Nicholas had conquered to make it possible.

  It was done. Finished. His work complete.

  So why did he still wonder?

  ‘Edward, was there someone else there that night?’

  The Prince was listening with half an ear. ‘What night?’

  ‘When you and Joan wed?’

  A sudden look. He had the man’s attention. ‘Why?’

  He shook his head. ‘Anne said that she had been there.’

  ‘To the wedding? Does it matter?’ The question, direct as a hawk, hung in the air.

  ‘No.’ It made no difference at all. Not to anything or anyone but Nicholas. ‘I was just...surprised.’

  ‘If it does not matter, do not think of it again.’ The Prince’s smile returned. ‘She was there, I guess. I saw only Joan.’

  ‘Why did Lady Joan bring her?’

  ‘She said we should have a witness. That a witness would be important.’

  It had been important to one of Joan’s weddings. But not to this one. Not to her wedding to the Prince. ‘It isn’t necessary,’ Nicholas said, taking a sip of wine, the silver cup cold on his lips. ‘It is not even customary.’

  ‘Well, who knows why a woman does anything? A fantasy of hers, perhaps. Women love to chatter. She and the girl are close.’

  Close, yes, but not equals. Joan would share no confidences with Anne. Or would she?

  Had she?

  Or was he acting no more logically than a child, snubbed at play?

  Nicholas set the cup on the table and ran his finger idly around the rim instead of looking at the Prince to signal that his question was equally idle. ‘There was a witness at Lady Joan’s first clandestine marriage. The one to Holland.’ Now he would look. ‘Did you know that?’

  ‘I did not know. Neither do I care.’ His jolly humour had soured at the mention of another husband. ‘The only wedding of Joan’s that interests me is the one that joins her to me’

  ‘Lady Joan would remember. Maybe I’ll ask her.’

  ‘You will not.’ The Prince drained his cup and slammed it on the table. ‘I want her thinking of our wedding. Not any other. Don’t make a river of a raindrop.’

  Was he? What difference did it make now? It was only an absent detail, nothing more. And he had let himself growl over it as if he were a hungry dog, upsetting the Prince in the process.

  He smiled. ‘You’re right. I’m accustomed to having the steer of every situation.’ Including his fe
elings. Instead, he had pouted like a grumpy child, deprived of a sweet. Anne must have thought him mad.

  ‘A good hunt will clear your head,’ the Prince said. ‘I will wager you that I get the first kill.’

  He needed something more than that. He needed to prove he could speak to Anne of Stamford without foolish feelings getting in the way. And he would. Eventually.

  * * *

  Both Anne and the Prince had reassured Lady Joan that all was well, so, after a brief expression of disappointment in St Thomas for his failure to deliver a miracle, the bride-to-be plunged into wedding preparations, which began the next morning with a discussion of music.

  ‘I would prefer,’ Lady Joan began, ‘to have the Queen’s minstrels play at the feast.’

  ‘Not Edward’s?’ The Prince, the King and the Queen each had their own musicians. ‘Or the King’s?’ Anne was fond of the music of the King’s trumpeters and drummers. It made her feel strong.

  ‘They are good, of course.’ Apologising, as if her preference might insult one of the Edwards, even though neither was within earshot. ‘The King’s harp player I like very much. But the others’ music is more...’ She sighed. ‘It sounds as if they are playing for men going to battle.’

  Anne refrained from stating that that was, of course, one of their primary jobs. She wondered whether Nicholas had been forced to worry about dented trumpets on the battlefield.

  She wondered why she was still thinking of him.

  She had begun, foolishly, to dream, if not to hope. He had been kind. More kind than anyone she had known. More than kind when she remembered the kiss...

  I’m not sorry.

  No. A man would never be sorry for taking a kiss. It meant nothing.

  A lie. It had meant more than either of them wanted it to mean. It meant even more that her confession had angered him. Meant so much that he had spent all the days since at a distance. And for that, strangely, she was grateful. She had already said too much. Another kiss, another touch, the two of them alone with a bed...

  She would not have been able to resist.

  All was behind her now. He was gone. Her life would be as it had always been.

  All would be as it must.

  A knock on the door. The court tailor and a cloth merchant scurried in. Bowing, the man started to spread out his wares.

  ‘This silk from Italy would make a lovely wedding gown,’ he began, pulling out a length as long as his arm. ‘It would favour your eyes.’

  Anne put down her work to gaze at the colour. Deeper blue than Lady Joan’s eyes. Deeper even than the sky. More like the coloured glass of the cathedral. Yet blue signified purity. Not exactly the best reminder of Lady Joan’s marital history.

  She met her lady’s glance and shook her head.

  The merchant did not hesitate. ‘Or here, the marbryn.’

  Lady Joan dismissed it with a raised brow. ‘Last Yuletide we wore that.’

  He put the multi-coloured fabric aside. The Queen would be sorry. She had liked that one.

  ‘Now this...’ He pulled out a shimmering fabric.

  Anne blinked. It was like looking at the sun sparkling on a necklace of gold.

  ‘Yes,’ her lady said. ‘The cloth of gold. Have you enough for my gown and a mantle?’

  The merchant closed his eyes and touched his fingers. Then he finished counting, he smiled. ‘Forty ells, I think. Yes.’

  ‘What about for surcoats for the minstrels?’

  The man’s eyes widened and he swallowed. ‘How many minstrels, my lady?’

  Agatha crept back into the room and handed Anne her scissors, a reminder of who, and what, she was.

  ‘Were they not where I said?’ Anne whispered, as the dressmaker and the cloth merchant conferred. She had sent the girl to retrieve them near an hour before.

  Agatha looked down, a tinge of pink on her cheek. ‘Yes.’

  Anne recognised that look. ‘Did something else delay you?’

  ‘I just stopped for a moment. I thought he would be leaving.’

  Oh, so did I, Anne thought. So did I. ‘Eustace, you mean?’

  She nodded, unable to contain a smile. ‘But he’s not. Not until the wedding is over.’

  Anne opened her mouth to warn the girl. She must not hope for things she could not have. The squire would be a knight some day, far above a serving girl. In the end, she would have nothing but a wounded heart and a pilgrim badge.

  Nothing more than Anne herself.

  So she returned to her stitches. She was not qualified to lecture on a lesson she had not learned. Her heart, too, had leapt with joy to think that Nicholas would be here for another day, week, even a month or more. She could only hope their paths would not cross.

  In fact, she would work to make certain they did not.

  * * *

  Nicholas was fortunate not to see Anne again for days. He needed time to think of the words, to steel himself to say a simple apology for being no more chivalrous than a boor.

  And to convince himself the reason for his rudeness was nothing more than fatigue or the phase of the moon.

  Even his speech to the King had not been rehearsed as carefully as this. He had said he was sorry to her, of course. But he had been sorry for what God, or life, or the world had done to her. Not for a regret of his own.

  And then, once he had found the words, he must find the opportunity. A time and place where he would not be overheard. Where his mea culpa would be received by the only person who deserved to hear it.

  In fact, it took several days before he could not only find the words, but the equilibrium with which to say them. Once he did, once he was ready and she did not appear, the resentment flickered again. She must be avoiding him. The thought was laughable, of course, and sent him on a new spiral of arguments with himself.

  So when he finally saw her, it was not at all as he had planned.

  He was as drunk as a sheep.

  The Prince had embarked on a full round of celebrations and Nicholas had been toasted and fêted and honoured day after day. Late one evening, he found himself lost, trying to work his way through the timber-framed building Edward had tucked inside the ancient stone of the Round Tower, clutching a candle and searching for his bed and a garderobe.

  But not in that order.

  So when a woman with a crutch rose out of the darkness before him, at first he thought he dreamt. ‘Anne?’ Would a vision in a dream answer?

  ‘Nicholas?’

  No dream, perhaps. He took another step and tripped, sprawling across the floor.

  The laughter—no, that was not what he would dream. It was Anne.

  He groped for the candle, but it had rolled away, flame extinguished. Gingerly, he moved his legs, his knee and hip as wounded as his pride.

  In the dark, he could hear her catch her breath, trying to douse her mirth. ‘I don’t think I could lift you,’ she began, ‘but I could lend you my crutch.’

  And at that, he had to laugh, too. No way to maintain dignity or present himself as a rational, logical man. No way to apologise in grave tones or explain away a momentary pique. The man who fixed things, solved problems, smoothed over all difficulties, could not even rise from the floor unaided.

  He sighed, his tongue loosened just enough by the wine he had drunk. ‘Ah, Anne. I had planned to apologise for behaving rudely on the way home from Canterbury, but you have just seen me at my worst. Accept my total humiliation as a token of my deep regret.’

  Thankfully, she did not laugh again, but lowered herself to the floor, relieving him of the need to struggle to his feet.

  Sitting next to her, wrapped in darkness, felt as private and intimate as in the confessional booth.

  ‘I accept,’ she whispered. ‘But you must pay a penance.’
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  ‘Will the aching head I am sure to have in the morning not be penance enough?’

  She must have shaken her head. ‘I revealed something of myself and you spurned me for it. Your punishment shall be to answer my questions.’

  So that you can scorn me? He had told her already of his greatest failure and she had said nothing, but she was a woman, and did not understand the demands of war. ‘Ask.’

  ‘First, where are you from?’

  Where are you from?

  Why did his lips freeze on the reply?

  He could barely summon an image of the countryside of his childhood. A marsh. A meadow. All things he had left to forget.

  ‘Lincolnshire. I was born in Lincolnshire.’ He pushed himself up from the floor. If he were to deal with the past, he must at least be sitting upright.

  ‘Is your family still there?’

  Family. Did he have such a thing? His mother had died before he could remember. There was nothing for him in Lincolnshire. Not then, and certainly not now.

  ‘My mother died. My father never left. He died two miles from the place he was born.’

  Not in Scotland or France. Not serving his King with the proud English longbow as he had dreamed. Instead, he died a tanner, permeated with the stink of animal skins. Trapped by his lust into marrying a woman who had presented herself as a chaste maiden instead of an experienced wench, already with child.

  Lust was not to be trusted, Nicholas had decided. Even his own.

  ‘So you have no one?’ There was surprise, concern in her voice.

  ‘No.’ No one he wanted to remember.

  His stepmother had preferred her own son to him. And Nicholas had allowed his feelings to rule him. He had kicked, screamed, disappeared for hours. He wanted nothing of home, nor they of him.

  He was no scholar, but his father sent him to the monks, who beat enough Latin into him that he could hold his own as an ambassador to His Holiness. But even then, the plan had been for him to sink into the same pit as his father, surrounded by urine and blood and dung and stale beer.