Secrets at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  Some nights, no one was certain where Joan slept.

  She could see understanding dawn on his face. ‘And Holland was there?’

  ‘By late summer of the third year, I think. Mother told me, but it is hard to remember clearly.’

  ‘You were a babe.’

  ‘Nearly four by then. But it was clear...’ She looked down at her leg. ‘Mother had her hands full with me. The Queen had three of her own children with her. No one had much extra time to mind the Lady Joan.’

  ‘If she was twelve, she was a maiden of age, capable of taking care of herself,’ he said, with a cynical edge to the words. ‘But Holland was a fully fledged fighting man by then.’

  She nodded. ‘Six and twenty. And weary of the battle, I’m sure. They had a victory at sea, then a defeat on land. The King and his men were in Ghent, frustrated, short on funds and trapped. The King had to escape in the dark, leaving the Queen and the rest of us behind as hostages. No one knew when we might see home again.’

  She remembered none of it well. None of it except the fear.

  ‘And that was when...?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Men at war lack...control.’ The grim set of his lips told her he understood. ‘Did he even woo her?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he was dashing and had served as the King’s lieutenant in Brittany. No doubt he would have drawn a young maiden’s eye.’ But then, most men drew Lady Joan’s attention. Anne imagined it had always been so.

  ‘And she his?’

  She gripped her hands together. It was hard to talk of this part, particularly after she and Nicholas had just...

  ‘Mother told me that one night, she stumbled into a dark corner of the Abbey where they were staying and saw the two of them together and they were...’

  There was no question, her mother had told her later. No other explanation for what they were doing. He was fully plunged between her spread legs, her skin white in contrast to the dark wool hose he hadn’t bothered to remove. Joan looked up, horror on her face, trying to scramble away, begging forgiveness immediately.

  Thomas, being a man, took longer to come to his senses.

  She tried to explain. ‘But they had not, Thomas had not fully...’ She knew not how to describe something she had never experienced.

  Nicholas coughed and cleared his throat. ‘And then what?’

  She had wondered that, exactly, for years. But the Joan she knew always tried to please. First, perhaps, to please Anne’s mother. Then, to please Thomas Holland. ‘She apologised. She promised it would never happen again. But Mother said that Holland grabbed the girl’s hand, swore an oath that they were married and she matched it with her vow. “Wait for me,” he said. He said he would come for her. That they would be together.’

  Nicholas scoffed. ‘A man still in heat who had not released his seed? He would have promised anything.’

  She blushed. ‘My mother thought the same.’

  ‘And she told no one?’

  ‘Joan begged her not to, so Mother held her tongue. What else could she do? If she told the truth, it would only mean ruin for all.’ She lifted her eyes to his. ‘So, when Holland returned and Mother was asked, later, whether they had married, Joan gave her permission to tell.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ He looked...hurt. As if she had owed him the truth. ‘When you knew...?’

  ‘Knew what? I knew what my mother told me. I was not the witness. Yet I knew they were married. And that everything was as it had been said.’

  ‘Would you have told me if it weren’t?’

  She should never have said even this much. She had raised suspicions safely laid to rest, but with him, it had always been hard to lie.

  But she would. Even now, she would. All would be as it must. ‘Do you doubt it? You did what was asked. You are free to leave. To return to France, a man content.’

  Yet he did not look content. ‘And suddenly, after a lifetime, Joan wants to forget all this by putting you out of sight?’

  ‘You must understand. Lady Joan will be the Queen. No Queen has ever had such a history. It is still a...difficult matter.’

  ‘Difficult!’ He raised his brows and his voice. ‘I travelled to Avignon and Canterbury and back for this marriage. Don’t tell me how difficult it is.’

  She must throw him off. ‘What I mean is that some people... Memories are long...’ Did she look close to tears? Would he reach over and touch her, forgiving?

  She had learned too much from the Lady Joan.

  ‘You do not want to go.’ It was not a question.

  Too perceptive, Nicholas Lovayne. She looked away, too late, for he had already seen the truth. ‘No. I do not.’

  And she would soak up as many memories as she could before they locked her behind the walls.

  At the top of the stairs came a woman’s laughter, with a man’s. The sound of a kiss.

  Nicholas coughed and the laughter disappeared, back into the courtyard and the night.

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ he said then. ‘You could...’

  ‘I could what?’ She glanced down at her leg, invisible beneath her skirt. Here was the choice her mother had faced. What could such a child do? What would become of her when her family was gone and there was no one to care for her? Her mother had made the choice she thought would protect Anne and, until now, it had.

  She turned, lifting her face to his. ‘You must promise me something. You must do it for me. When you leave, when you go back to France and Italy and the rest of the world, look at it twice as hard. Look at it for yourself and then look at it for me. Look at every leaf and stone and bit of coloured glass and every wave. And know that I will think of you. That I am here, imagining all the wonders the world holds.’

  And praying that God would forgive her ingratitude for the mercy he had shown her. Her ingratitude in wanting things she was never meant to have.

  He reached for her hand. ‘Send a page when you are ready,’ he said. ‘I shall take the journey with you. I will see you safely there.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Anne pulled away. ‘No. You are kind, but I do not want to hold you back.’ She waved a hand. ‘France, Italy, Spain await you.’

  ‘And a small, stone building on the windswept edge of the kingdom awaits you. Let me take you there. And on the way, we will see something...something you want to see before...’

  Before she would see nothing more.

  But Nicholas was not so blunt as to say it. ‘What would it be?’ His question was eager. ‘Where can I take you?’

  She wanted to say nowhere. She wanted to say everywhere. She wanted to say the story had been a parting gift, even though she had lied to him.

  She had lied all her life, the weight of it as heavy as the dead weight of the foot she dragged behind her. And even if she were foolish enough to tell the truth and he were foolish enough to forgive her, it would not lift the weight of all those years of lies.

  And the more he did for her, the kinder he became, the heavier the weight of her lie.

  She shook her head. ‘You have delayed already. I know you want to go.’

  ‘No one is waiting for me. A few weeks won’t matter.’

  A few weeks. She had thought only tonight, but to have a few weeks... And so she succumbed to temptation. A few more weeks. A few more memories of Nicholas.

  ‘Pick something,’ he said, when she remained silent.

  She closed her eyes, imagining the whole kingdom and not knowing which piece to pick. What even lay between here and Holystone? The joy would be the discovery.

  ‘A cathedral,’ she said, finally.

  ‘But you just saw a cathedral. In Canterbury.’

  She smiled. Nicholas had not yet learned how to look at a cathedral. �
��Each one is different. Each is a miracle. Stone soaring to heaven. Coloured glass more beautiful than imaginings. Jewels. All created by man as a gift from the earth back to the God who created it.’

  He studied her and for a moment, she feared he could see it all. ‘A cathedral, then. Any particular one?’

  Oh, if she had the world and time, she would stop at each one. ‘Any one we find.’

  A few weeks more and then...

  She would not think beyond that.

  Nor of how she would say goodbye.

  * * *

  Thinking about it the next morning, Nicholas didn’t know why he had insisted that he take Anne to Holystone. He had finished his work. She had even given him the answer to the final, troubling mystery of the witness to Lady Joan’s first marriage to Holland. All was answered. All was in order.

  And if there had been kisses, they had been given freely. She had given him leave to go.

  Yet, he didn’t. Something held him back in a way he did not recognise and did not particularly like.

  Most of his life had been lived with his mind fully in control, guided by a clear purpose. Now, he found himself on a battlefield where body, heart and mind waged perpetual war.

  She had crept beneath his armour and he was perilously close to acting the fool for a woman, just as his father and the Prince had. He had already been foolish enough to delay his departure for weeks, all because he didn’t trust anyone else to properly care for her on her journey.

  His leavetaking of the Prince was brief and included Lady Joan. The two emerged from their chamber, finally, beaming, with barely a thought or a glance to spare for anyone besides each other.

  ‘You’ll be back to us before Yuletide, then?’ the Prince asked, when Nicholas had explained his journey.

  Nicholas nodded. ‘Well before.’ A month to get there and back, perhaps more, though as autumn stretched toward winter, travel would grow treacherous.

  ‘Then you will celebrate with us,’ the Prince said, with the smile of a man ready to establish a home. ‘At Berkhamsted.’

  Joan stepped forward, putting her fingers on Nicholas’s sleeve. An intimate little gesture, though it somehow seemed planned.

  When had he become so doubtful of a woman everyone else called beautiful and good? At the same time he had allowed himself to become emotional about Anne?

  ‘Thank you,’ Joan began, her voice pitched low, ‘for offering to take good care of my Anne. I think...after all these years...she is just weary. She needs a rest.’

  The words would have made sense, had he not known Anne as he did. She never rested. Her fingers worked, even when her legs did not. And when she did rest, her eyes were busy, drinking in every bit of what surrounded her, so that she could relive it later.

  And he wondered whether he had underestimated Lady Joan. Originally, he had thought her slightly empty-headed. Lovely, but without the capacity to understand and manage complexities. Now, he was not certain.

  He inclined his head, acknowledging her care. ‘I am certain you will miss her, my lady.’

  ‘Of course. We have been close for so many years.’

  ‘So I understand. When will she be coming back?’

  ‘Oh, not until she wants to. I will not pressure her.’

  Nothing suspicious in that answer, nor in her smile. Yet there was one way to test the truth of her. The risk was that she would be even more angry at Anne. But if he were right... ‘Since Flanders, wasn’t it?’

  Her eyes became like daggers. ‘Flanders?’

  ‘When she was but a babe. You must have cared for her when her mother was busy with the Queen’s children. Her mother was close to you, as well, wasn’t she?’

  The least bit of panic touched her eyes. ‘Ah, did Anne tell you that?’

  A warning. Enough for him to protect Anne. ‘I can’t remember. Perhaps it was something the Queen mentioned when I was preparing to visit His Holiness.’

  ‘Well, all that is behind us now, isn’t it?’ She dusted his sleeve, as if there had been a speck of dirt on it.

  As easily as she was dusting Anne out of her life.

  Lady Joan turned back to the Prince. ‘If Nicholas is taking her north, you will not need to send any of your men, will you?’

  The Prince looked to Nicholas, who smiled.

  ‘I’m certain that my squire and her maid will be enough,’ he said, fiercely glad that Anne would have someone on this journey who cared about her.

  * * *

  So in the fullness of a cool, sunny, October day, Anne, firmly attached to her gentle jennet, rode north beside Nicholas, followed by Eustace and Agatha.

  She tried to inhale the vision so that she could remember it always. The piercing blue sky. Leaves of wild red and gold and brown. The air, sweet on her cheeks. The horse, warm and solid beneath her. None of this would she know again.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘To ride?’

  She nodded. It was not easy. It would never be easy. But the trip to Canterbury had built her muscles and her skills. And it would be the last time she would see any of this. For that, it was worth any pain.

  For that, and to steal these final, precious days with Nicholas.

  The King had given them leave to stay at his palaces on their way, so the end of the first day’s travel seemed little different than when she journeyed with the court, except that she did not spend her waking hours with an eye out for what the Lady Joan might want.

  As a result, she noticed that Nicholas’s squire and Agatha seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time within touching distance of each other. And when it was time for bed, Agatha appeared with rumpled hair and short of breath, a look Anne now recognised.

  ‘Agatha,’ she began, ‘you know that Eustace will be a knight soon.’

  The girl nodded. ‘Within the year, he hopes. As soon as he and Sir Nicholas join the Great Company and he can prove himself...’ Her words faded and she bit her lip, knowing she had revealed too much.

  My fault. Anne winced. Keeping not only Nicholas but his squire from their glory. And putting a simple young girl’s heart in harm’s way. ‘And you also know,’ she said, ‘that a knight will never wed a serving girl.’

  ‘Wed?’ She cocked her head. ‘I never thought so.’

  Now Anne felt as if she were the simple one, thinking that a man’s kiss would mean more than momentary pleasure. This girl had learned a lesson Anne had not. ‘So you don’t expect...’

  Agatha did not wait for her to find the word. ‘I don’t let tomorrow’s trouble sour today.’

  And hadn’t Anne done exactly that? She had taught Nicholas to see, to create something to remember, yet she had let her fears prevent her from relishing the days she had left.

  That would change.

  * * *

  So she asked him, the next morning, as the open road stretched before them, what cathedral they would see. She had travelled with the court, but had only a misty notion of place and direction. Only that Holystone would be far, far away.

  ‘Which one?’ Nicholas smiled. ‘Ely, Lincoln, York, Durham? All of them!’

  Laughter rolled through her, like a thunderstorm passing by in spring. ‘All of them?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we would be travelling until Yuletide.’ She would not have minded that. She would not have minded travelling beside him for ever. She let the moment, and the wish, fade. ‘You have postponed your life for me long enough. One. We will pick one cathedral.’

  He did not argue, but she wasn’t certain he agreed. ‘Ely is the first one. We will see Ely.’

  And she thought there was one more memory she would take from this journey.

  * * *

  They could not help but see Ely Cathedral, Nicholas thought, as they a
pproached the town a few days later.

  The Cathedral shimmered in the distance near half a day before they arrived. The land was flat here and the Cathedral’s tower taller than the trees on the horizon, almost like a ship, sailing over the marshy fens.

  They had travelled slowly. Nicholas had wanted to be certain they had lodgings each night so Anne would not have to sleep outdoors. She had complained of nothing, protesting that she could sleep anywhere, but there was another reason that he had not shared with her.

  It kept her more safely away from him.

  Kisses were one thing. But he wanted more than that now. Things he must not have.

  There was no castle near Ely, so he arranged for lodgings, making sure that Anne could sleep alone, and left Eustace and Agatha to unload so he and Anne could explore the church while there were no services.

  They entered the great doors and paused, looking down the great nave.

  ‘How does this compare to Chartres?’ Anne whispered, as if not to disturb God.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you saw it. You told me so when we were in Canterbury.’

  ‘I was there. I did not see it,’ he said, realising it was the truth. He had stood before it, walked inside it, even waited behind the King as the treaty was hammered out and signed, but he could no more summon up a vision of it than of any of the countless other buildings he had seen in France.

  ‘Show me Ely, Anne. Show me so I will know I was here.’

  ‘Just look,’ she said, as if impatient with a balky student. ‘How many towers has it?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Yes. Only one. Most churches have two.’

  He nodded. Something else he had seen without ever really seeing.

  ‘Now look, there.’ She pointed at the top of the arches lining the nave. ‘You see the carvings up there?’

  Not until she had shown them to them.

  ‘They are of the saint, Etheldreda.’

  He squinted to see the place where the columns met the arches. Had he ever noticed anything other than how many men could sleep in a castle’s hall and whether the list he had given matched the food delivered?