The Harlot’s Daughter. Blythe Gifford
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hesitated. If it were dangerous to change her own time of birth, what would she risk to change the King’s?
Yet it was the only answer she had. At least she was sensible enough to tell him no bad news. No one was likely to know enough to dispute her conclusions and, if anyone did, she would laugh and say she was only a woman and not a real astrologer.
Justin’s mind wandered as the Court wasted the afternoon listening to bad verse penned by courtiers playing poet. The words flowed around him unheard. He had spent the last week telling himself that he was relieved that the kiss had meant nothing to Solay, though it galled him that she could swoon in his arms like a lover and then laugh. He should have expected nothing less. Even the woman’s body lied.
Across the room, she was fawning over Redmon again. Since he had told her to seek a husband, Justin judged every man she spoke to for the role. She would have few choices. The man must have money, not need it, for she would bring no dowry. He must be acceptable to the King, but not too important, for if he were, he would get a better bride.
She gave the Earl a dazzling smile as it came her turn to present. Then, she licked her full, lower lip, cleared her throat, glanced at Justin and started to read.
They call them men of law, an empty boast
They claim that law means justice
But justice comes quickest to him that pays the most.
His cheeks burned. Though no one looked his way as they laughed, he knew her words were directed towards him. Her poem told an amusing tale of a dishonest lawyer, brought to justice by a benevolent and pure King. The verse lacked polish, but it showed promise. The words were clever.
More than clever. Something about them seemed very familiar.
After the King applauded heartily and the afternoon’s entertainment ended, Justin sought her out. Her small triumph had touched her lips with an easy smile.
‘A pretty poem, Lady Solay,’ he said. ‘Did you suggest the subject to John Gower?’
Solay’s smile stiffened. ‘What makes you ask that?’
He did not dignify her lack of denial with an answer. ‘I did not think him a man to be swayed by kisses.’
She did not blush, which made him think she had not tried physical persuasion of the King’s favourite poet. Odd, he felt relieved.
‘The idea was his, not mine. He told me he was trying something new and if the King did not like the poem, Gower would put it aside. Since the King liked it very much, I dare say he will finish it and then tell the King and they will both think it a good joke.’
‘So now I must keep secrets for John Gower’s sake, not yours?’
Behind the pleading look in her eyes he saw the shadow of resentment. It must gall her to beg his co-operation. ‘You wouldn’t spoil the surprise, would you, just because the verse doesn’t flatter you?’
Shocked, he realised he had never even considered it. ‘It is Gower you wronged, not me. You sling borrowed barbs about lawyers, but you know nothing about me at all.’
‘I know you helped Parliament impeach the King’s Chancellor on imaginary charges.’
‘The charges were real.’
‘Not real enough, I see.’ She nodded towards the Earl of Suffolk, laughing with the King. ‘The man is with us today.’
He gritted his teeth. ‘The King released him. Not Parliament.’ Richard had imprisoned the man for a few weeks, then, as soon as Parliament had gone home, set him free as if Parliament had never ruled. As if the law meant nothing.
She lowered her voice to whisper. ‘You say you care about truth, but others say you care more about destroying those closest to the King.’
‘And you let others decide what you think.’
She didn’t answer, but turned to smile at Redmon across the room. The man smiled back, broadly, and she started to leave.
‘I hope you are not thinking of him as a husband.’
She kept searching the room, not meeting his eyes to answer. ‘When you suggested marriage you did not request approval of the choice. In fact, you told me only the King could decide.’
One of the young pups across the room winked at her, elbowing his companion, and she gave him a slow smile.
The boy’s grin grated on him. ‘That one is not looking on you as a wife,’ he growled.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I am a man.’
‘Well, the Earl of Redmon is.’ Behind the lilt in her voice he heard the edge of anger.
‘Did the stars tell you so?’
‘He was born under the sign of the goat. We should get along well enough.’
‘Did the stars also tell you that he is old and rich with wealth and sons and three dead wives? All he needs is someone to grace his bed. That should not be difficult for you.’
She gasped, but instead of satisfaction, he felt remorse. ‘You fault me for failing some standard of your own devising. What do you expect of me, Lord Justin?’
‘Only what I expect of anyone. To be what you are.’
She dropped the smile and let him see her anger. ‘No, you expect me to be what you think my mother is.’ She turned to leave.
‘So each of us judges the other wrongly, is that what you think?’ He grabbed her hand, stopping her as if he had the right.
The shock was almost as great as touching her lips.
Both of them stared down at their clasped hands, her hand, cool in his, his large, blunt fingers, covering her pale skin.
And something alive moved through him, the feeling of kissing her all over again. Then, he had been in his cups. Easy to explain being set afire by a beautiful woman. But this…He had simply touched her hand and now stood transfixed, unable to—
‘Lord Justin, please.’
He looked up. This time, her slow, sultry smile was for him.
He dropped her hand. As she walked across the room to Redmon, he could swear she put an extra sway in her hips.
He smothered his body’s quick response. He was finished with this dangerous woman. Whether she married or not was none of his affair as long as she did not dip her hand into the King’s purse.
Justin and Gloucester approached the King’s solar shortly before noon on the last day of the Yuletide festivities. Their visit would be short and unpleasant, but at least Solay should be gone at the end of it.
‘Lamont? Did you hear me?’ Gloucester’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
‘Sorry,’ he answered. ‘What did you say?’
‘I’m going to throw this list in his face.’
Justin gathered his thoughts. It would fall to him to keep things civil when the royal tempers slipped loose.
As they entered, King Richard extended his hand, imperially as if it held a sceptre. ‘The list. Give it to me.’
Justin held out the list of grants to be enrolled on the Patent Rolls ‘with the assent of the Council’. ‘The Council has approved these four.’
The King glanced at the list. ‘Where are the rest? Where is Hibernia? Where is the woman?’
‘They have not been allowed,’ Justin said.
‘Not been allowed? It is the King who allows!’
‘Allowed?’ Now it was Gloucester who yelled. ‘You’ve allowed