Rumours At Court

Searching the hall for a familiar face, she returned to Lady Katherine’s side, hoping there would be no questions about what The Wolf had wanted of her.

But her companion’s attention was on the Duke, who was leaving the dais as the final presentations had been made. She murmured a greeting to Valerie, but did not turn her head, her gaze on the man with something like longing. She looked at him as if...

Valerie shook off the thought. Just because she knew the truth about her husband, she was seeing adultery all around her. No doubt it was there. All men looked for passion outside the marriage bed. A wife must expect no more than duty. She had not expected fidelity from Scargill, but she had never thought to have his infidelities displayed openly to all.

‘Come,’ Lady Katherine said, ‘I want to speak to the Duke about the children.’ A pause and blush. ‘I mean,’ she said, with a lift of her chin, ‘to Monseigneur d’Espagne.’

My Lord of Spain. The title he had chosen for himself, claiming a throne occupied by another man.

But that fact was firmly ignored today. Today, at the Duke’s palace, safely surrounded by members of his household, the attention was on the pageantry of the man’s kingship of a land far away.

As they approached, Lancaster’s smile was all for Katherine. Valerie was invisible in her wake.

‘How are you?’ And then, noticing Valerie, his tone shifted. ‘And how are the children?’

‘The girls are biddable and even tempered. And young Henry thinks he is ready to be a knight though he is barely five.’

Lancaster chuckled. ‘He lacks patience.’ The lack did not seem to disturb his father.

Katherine turned to Valerie. ‘You know Lady Valerie.’

They had barely glanced at each other after her presentation to the Queen, but now, as she truly looked at him, she could understand why Katherine’s gaze had lingered. Strong, tall, a warrior, yes, but a man one might trust in peace as well. Perhaps he would make a good king for those people in far-off Castile.

‘Your husband was a brave man,’ he said.

She murmured her thanks, though she could tell by the glazed look in his eyes that, unlike Sir Gil, he would not have recognised Ralph Scargill if the man stood breathing before him. Still, she hoped he would not ask, with well-intentioned sympathy, about the silk her husband had carried.

He did not. ‘The Queen smiled when she met you,’ the Duke continued. ‘There are few here that she...likes.’

Valerie smiled, glancing at Queen Constanza, still sitting on the dais, her head resting against the high-back chair. Her eyes were closed. Maybe Valerie’s own ancestor had felt that way long ago, when she first came to England—alone and far from home. ‘Perhaps my connection to her country was a comfort, Your Grace.’

‘What word do you hear from your steward?’ Lancaster was, apparently, done with the topic of his wife.

Now Valerie smiled, thinking of Florham. Home. The one corner of the world that was her own. ‘All was well when I left.’ How soon could she return? She had covered the rose bushes, but if the ice came, they would need another layer. ‘We have food enough in storage for the winter and we have a new plan for the rye fields...’

His gaze drifted and she bit her tongue. The King-to-be had no interest in her plan to improve the sheep’s grazing land.

‘You will not need to worry about such things much longer. It is time I chose a new husband for you.’

Forgetting all, she gripped his arm. ‘But I only learned of my husband’s death a few months ago. I need no help with the land.’ She stumbled over words, trying to make it right with the Duke. ‘By the time the quince tree buds, I had hoped—’

There was stunned shock on his face and on Lady Katherine’s.

She let go of his arm and lowered her eyes. How quickly she had forgotten. She could not speak so to any man, least of all to this one.

‘What, exactly, had you hoped?’ the Duke said, his smile turning sour.

‘I had hoped, my lord, to have a year to mourn.’ A year of freedom, to be left in peace in her beloved garden, beyond a man’s beck and call.

But as she looked at Lancaster’s face, it dawned on her, as it should have done when she first heard of her husband’s death: he had been promised forty marks per year in war, twenty marks per year in peace. For life.

And that life was now over.

His expression gentled. ‘I understand your sorrow, Lady Valerie, but you have no children.’

‘Of course, yes, I know,’ she murmured. And she did. She must be given to a new husband, a new protector, a new man to be endured. And some day, no doubt, she would find evidence of a new malkin defiling her bed.

At least the land was her own, beyond a husband’s reach.

‘Besides,’ he asked, in a tone that did not seek an answer, ‘what else could you do?’

‘Perhaps, my lord, I had thought...’ She paused, not knowing how the sentence would end. She could not tell him what she really wanted. My Lord of Spain cared nothing for her garden.

But he had mentioned his Queen. Perhaps that...

‘I had thought,’ she said, ‘that I might be of service to the Queen. For a time.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Service?’ Lancaster asked. ‘In what way?’

How could she answer? Certainly the Queen did not need a lady gardener in her retinue. Valerie turned to Lady Katherine and raised her brows, an appeal for help.

‘I might be of help to Lady Katherine.’ The woman had his children and her own to manage, as well as her duty to the Queen.

He waved his hand, a gesture of dismissal. ‘The Queen has a bevy of her own ladies from Castile.’

Valerie put a hand on Katherine’s arm and squeezed. ‘That is certainly true, but none of them can help her learn of England. Certainly Lady Katherine will do that, but I thought my connection to her country would be a comfort. And Lady Katherine will be so busy with the children...’

Please. Would Katherine understand her plea? Could she sway the Duke?

She could only pray that another woman would understand her meaning.

‘What a good idea, my lord,’ Katherine said, patting Valerie’s hand and turning her smile on Lancaster. ‘Lady Valerie could be another companion to the Queen as she adjusts to life here. And perhaps help me with your children as well.’

Valerie nodded, hiding her dismay. She knew less of children than of the court. The Queen’s momentary approval had warmed her, but a few remembered Castilian words would not make her fit company for royalty. She had wanted to return to the earth of Kent, not be stranded here in London.

Still, if it would delay the time when she must be sent to warm another man’s bed, at least for a while, she would do it. ‘Yes, I would be happy to be of help.’

The man’s scowl had not completely faded.

Now she must don the obedient smile, the one that made a man feel powerful and generous. ‘Of course, the choice is yours, my lord. I shall do as you wish and be grateful for your kind consideration.’ The words sounded wooden, even to her ears.

He smiled, finally, as if a servant had cleaned up after a guest who had clumsily dropped a goblet. ‘I am certain that Katherine will be glad of your help.’

‘As will the Queen, of course,’ Katherine added hastily.

And Valerie, who was certain of no such thing, dipped and murmured her thanks. Katherine put an arm around her shoulders and Valerie struggled to stay calm as Katherine led her away. A few more weeks, then, when she could move and speak without a husband’s approval. ‘Thank you,’ she said, when they were out of earshot. ‘I cannot yet bear...’

She shook her head and let the words go. She had said too much already.

‘Do not expect a long reprieve,’ Katherine said, patting her shoulder. ‘No later than spring, I would think.’

She looked at Katherine, unable to hide her dismay. In March, she had hoped to be weeding the earth around the quince tree. ‘Has he chosen your husband?’ She could not keep the bitter edge from her question. Katherine was also a widow. Surely she, too, would be given as a prize to some man.

‘No.’ Katherine looked away, a flush of colour on her cheeks. ‘The Duke has been kind to allow me to help his wife and with his children.’

‘I wish I could remain unmarried, as you are.’

‘Perhaps I shall marry again...some day.’ There was a strange yearning in the woman’s words.

Perhaps Valerie had been wrong. Perhaps Katherine had loved her husband deeply and longed for another union. ‘My marriage was not something I want to repeat.’ A difficult admission. One Valerie should not have made.

‘All are not so. The Duke and the Lady Blanche loved each other very much.’ Wistful. As if such a thing where possible.

One marriage out of how many? More than the waves on the sea. She shook her head. ‘I have not seen a marriage like that.’ Certainly not between her own mother and any of her husbands.

And yet, a woman had no other choice. She could marry herself to God or to a man. For some widows, wealthy ones, a husband’s death could mean a new life of independence. She would not be one of them.

She had the land, yes, the earth that had been handed down since that long-ago woman came from Castile: that, at least, would always be hers. It might even have been enough that she could have been left alone, to tend her roses and her quince tree. The very thought was a glimpse of freedom.

Instead, she would be given to a new gaoler whose every whim she would be forced to obey. She knew that. Had always known it. Yet just for a moment, she had hoped for a different life. ‘But you have found another path—’

Katherine touched her arm. ‘Do not seek to trade your life for mine. There are things you do not know.’

She dropped her arm and turned away, and Valerie wondered of the things she did not know. Well, she would allow Katherine her secrets. There were things she, too, did not wish to share.

But why should Katherine be left free with her children when she—?

Ah. Of course. It was because of the children. Katherine had three children. Valerie had none, so she must be given to yet another man. She must take him to her bed, over and over, until his seed took root and she carried his child.

What if she failed again?

* * *

Snatching the discarded silk from the floor, Gil wondered what Scargill had been thinking of, as his life slipped away. Of the battles in Gascony? Of the woman who last warmed his bed?

Or had he been praying to God to forgive the wrongs he had done to the wife he had left behind?

Gil tucked the silk scrap into his tunic. He would drop it in the rubble later.

Now, he looked around the Hall. A waste of time, all the trappings of this fantastical court. A fraud and a distraction for a man who should be worried about holding the land instead of the title.

He has taken a bride who has made him a king. But he still must take the throne.

John, Duke of Lancaster, King of Castile, Monseigneur d’Espagne, was tall and strong and handsome, as if he were King in fact. At thirty-two, barely older than Gil, the man was in his very prime. No man in England, perhaps no man in Christendom, had more personal wealth.

But this man was the son of Edward, King of England, so nothing short of kingship could ever be enough.

Had he been the first son, the English throne would have been his, but his father the King had spawned many worthy sons, so to grasp the throne he desired, Lancaster had been forced to look beyond the island.

Gil shared the man’s hunger to leave England. Castile was his answer, too, the place he could prove himself the man he wanted to be.

But tonight, instead of organising his invasion plan, Lancaster was wandering the hall, King of Castile only because he had married the dead King’s daughter.

It would take a war, not just a marriage, to win the throne.

Gil hung back, reluctant to interrupt Lancaster’s conversation with the Ladies Katherine and Valerie, but when they stepped away, he came to Lancaster’s side. His gaze followed the small woman, cloaked in black. Had she mentioned that he had flaunted her husband’s indiscretion in her face?

‘She should be married,’ Gil said, vaguely feeling as if were his fault that she was a widow and betrayed. Perhaps her marriage would assuage his lingering guilt.

‘But she is indispensable with my children,’ John said, gazing after the two women. ‘I cannot spare her.’

Both women were widows, of course, but he had spoken of only one of them. ‘I was speaking of the Lady Valerie.’

The words seem to break the man’s trance. ‘Ah, yes. I’ve asked her to join the Queen’s household for a time.’

Gil frowned. He wanted to see no more of this woman. He wanted to be rid of her and the reminder of his failures.

‘Besides,’ Lancaster continued, ‘she seemed less than eager at the thought of a new husband.’

For some reason, that irritated Gil, too. Surely it was not because she mourned the first one?. ‘What does she think to do? Go to a nunnery?’ Perhaps it was the wimple that made him think of that. He had the sudden urge to rip it off and see her hair flow free. What colour would it be? Looking into her dark eyes, he had not even noticed the brows above them.

‘She seemed to want to tend to her rye crop,’ the Duke said, with an amused smile.

Gil shook his head and shared his lord’s smile. Well, she was in no position to refuse a new husband, even if he treated her no better than the last one. She would marry the man Lancaster chose and it would be none of his concern.

The war, however, was. ‘The invasion, Your Grace.’ The title due a king still strange on his tongue. ‘Men and ships should be ready by summer. I recommend we land in Portugal and march into Castile from there.’

An attack from an allied country instead of a direct assault would ease their way, avoiding a battle until the men and horses had landed and were ready to fight. Gil had been a strong advocate for Portugal. If Lancaster chose his plan, surely he would also name Gil to lead the men.

‘Pembroke argues for Navarre,’ Lancaster said. ‘And others for Galicia.’

‘Portugal’s King sees the pretender as an immediate threat. He should be willing to support us.’

‘Until we hear from the ambassador, we cannot be certain,’ Lancaster said. He leaned closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘And my father the King has plans as well.’

‘To return to France?’ Vast swathes of the country once firmly in their grasp were splintered and they were on the brink of losing the land that had spawned a line of kings three hundred years old.

He nodded. ‘But speak of it to no one now.’

Gil nodded, but held his tongue. The last time he had seen the King, who had once been the greatest warrior in Christendom, the man had seemed tired and weak. But if he was now well enough to conduct a campaign...

Well, Castile, not France, was Gil’s responsibility. ‘For our own campaign, then, I will proceed.’ Money, men, ships to move them must be ready before summer, the season for war. ‘Plymouth is the port best positioned, so I will direct the ships to gather there and—’

‘Mi Señor y Rey. A word.’

The Castilian priest, with no more respect than to interrupt his ‘King’ at conversation.

Gil waited for the Duke to dismiss him.

That was not what happened. ‘Yes, Gutierrez, what is it?’

‘You should issue a proclamation immediately to announce that you have assumed the title of King. A statement that will challenge the man who pretends to the throne. I can, of course, draft such a document, but I require an office from which I can assist you and La Reina in conducting affairs of state.’

‘Ask my steward to find you proper quarters and whatever assistance you need to do so.’ All Lancaster’s attention was on the trappings of kingship again, as if it were a relief to deal with a fanciful kingdom instead of a real war. ‘I’ll sign and issue it as soon as it is ready.’

‘And to do that, Monseigneur, we must create a seal. The arms of Castile, combined with your own leopards and lilies, perhaps.’

A genuine smile. One of the few Gil had seen from the Duke all day. ‘Yes. I like that.’

Documents. Signatures. Seals. The country would be taken by men, not by proclamations. Yet here was Lancaster, chattering with this Castilian about the design of a royal seal.

‘Your Grace?’ Gil called. ‘The invasion plan?’

A wave of the hand, but the man did not turn. ‘Tomorrow, yes.’

He watched Lancaster and the Castilian walk away, and when they paused for the Duke to present the priest to Lady Katherine, Lady Valerie stepped away, standing beyond their circle.

Yet she was the one who drew Gil’s gaze. Surrounded by the colour and noise and bustle of the hall, in her plain garb and wimple, she was still, calm, almost frozen, like one of the statues of the Virgin Mary.

Thinking of her lost husband? Or of the woman who had last loved him?

The dirty silk burned like an ember against his chest.

Abruptly, he left the Hall and walked outside. The winter air would clear his head.

The sun was low in the sky and daylight fading fast. Looking out over the darkening river, he tried to remember more of Lady Valerie’s husband. Gil had been a commander who prided himself on knowing his men, yet he had noticed nothing unusual about Scargill. Men in war satisfied their needs as they must.

He wondered who the woman had been. Not a noble woman, he was certain. Not a lady deserving of a knight’s devotion. One of the camp followers, probably. He could barely tell one from another except for the laundress who did his washing. But in the midst of war, strange things could move a man’s passions. Faced daily with death, a man might cling to a woman as a way to cling to life...

And a man’s wife never to know better.

The frigid air blunted the smell from the river and when he reached the edge of the quay, he pulled the dead man’s token from his tunic, as soiled and stained as the relationship itself. He held it over the water, then dropped it into the darkness. For a moment, the white fabric drifted like a feather. Then it hit the river and was sucked beneath the waves.

His duty was done. Never to be thought of again.

He turned back to enter the palace, feeling a moment’s sympathy for Lady Valerie. Better the Duke marry her quickly to a man who would get some children on her and make her forget.

He hoped her new husband would be kinder than her last.

Chapter Three

Valerie joined the Queen’s household in the Savoy Palace but as the days went on, she saw little of Constanza, or La Reina, as the Queen liked to be called. Lent had begun and the woman spent most of her days either on her knees in her chapel or on her back in her bed.

Of Castile’s ‘King’, Valerie saw nothing at all. Lancaster settled a generous sum on his wife, so the Queen could run her household as befitted her rank.

And then started coming the gifts.

Week upon week, the Clerk of the Wardrobe would arrive at the door with another treasure for the Queen of Castile and deliver it into Valerie’s careful hands. Cloth of gold. Circlets set with emeralds and rubies. Loose pearls by the handfuls. Pearls enough to fill buckets. Pearls to be made into buttons, sewed on dresses, sprinkled on adornments for her hair.

Wealth such as Valerie had never imagined, placed in her care. And she would take each offering to the Queen, telling her it was another gift, a mark of respect from her husband. And each time, the woman turned her head away, muttering.

‘El único regalo que quiero es Castilla.’

Valerie had learned enough words by now to know her meaning.

The only gift I want is Castile.

Her faint connection to Castile had touched the Queen, but it had no such effect on the ladies surrounding her, who were less than pleased to have another Inglésa added to the household. Not only did the Castilian women not speak the language, they had no interest in learning anything of England and, as a result, Valerie heard neither news nor rumour from the court.

She and Lady Katherine, both ignored, clung to each other’s company. The Queen’s ladies did not invite them to gather for music or needlework and if the English ladies entered the room, the Castilians hovered close to the Queen as if to protect her from danger.

‘Do they think I plan to steal her child?’ Katherine muttered one evening as they sat together in their rooms by the fire. ‘I have my own children to mind.’

Valerie flinched. Perhaps the Castilians had seen the hunger in her own eyes, for it became evident, as February’s days grew longer, that the Queen was with child. Shapeless gowns and cloaks had masked her condition when she arrived, but in the privacy of her quarters, it was plain to see.

And Valerie, whose womb had never held a babe, was seized by sinful envy.

God had made both Constanza and Katherine fruitful. Where were the children of her womb? Had God forsaken her? Or would things be different with another man?

‘The Queen and her ladies are alone in a strange country,’ she said. She would feel the same, she was certain, if she were ever exiled and sent to an alien land. ‘I’m sure that is the source of their fear. Not us.’

‘I have seen little fear in that woman,’ Katherine muttered.

Valerie could not disagree. When La Reina did rise from her bed, she was straight-spined and clear-eyed and the orders she issued about the ceremonies of her exiled court showed that she had no doubt of her title and position, here or in Castile.

‘But her ladies all seem angry,’ Valerie said. Despite all her smiles and attempts to appease them, there had been nary a nod in return. ‘What if she complains to the Duke of our care?’

Katherine smiled, serene. ‘Do not worry. He knows.’

As if he knew Katherine so deeply that... Not a thought to be followed. ‘You served his first wife. He knows your worth. He knows nothing of me.’

Katherine laid light fingers on her arm. ‘I will not let that woman undermine you.’

Perhaps, Valerie thought. But this Castilian court in exile was all that stood between her and a new husband. If the Queen decided to be rid of her, there would be no recourse.

A knock on the door. A page entered. ‘The Queen commands your presence, Lady Valerie.’

She rose, uncertain whether to rejoice or be afraid.

‘Here. Let me.’ Katherine tucked a stray hair back beneath her wimple. ‘Now you look lovely. Go. See what the woman wants.’

Valerie followed the page to the Queen’s quarters.

Constanza, La Reina, sat in a throne-like chair, wearing a headpiece unlike any Valerie had seen in the English court. It hugged her head, with beading draped around, and came to an upward point in the middle of the forehead. It hid her hair, but made her eyes look huge.

Her priest, who served as her interpreter, was at her side.

Valerie curtsied and stood, waiting. Whispers.

‘You are a widow,’ the man said, finally.

She touched the wimple. ‘Sí, Your Grace. My husband died in the service of your husband.’

More whispers, then the priest spoke again. ‘La Reina still mourns her father. She understands your pain.’

Valerie bowed her head and murmured her thanks, while sending a silent prayer that the Queen would never, truly, understand how she felt about her husband’s death.

A silence, then. Awkward.

The Queen was struggling to hold herself erect, though it was evident that carrying the heir was not easy for her. Valerie had heard her complaints ranged from bleeding in her gums to rawness of the throat and stomach. And, now, in the same room with her, Valerie could smell that someone had broken wind.

‘I have not properly congratulated Your Grace,’ she said, hurriedly. ‘That you are to become a mother.’

The Queen smiled, an expression more joyful than Valerie had ever seen from her. No, it was beyond joy. Near heavenly bliss.