Secrets at Court. Blythe Gifford
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will lie.
Could she? When she opened her mouth, would the words come out?
She would, because she must.
Because her whole life was a lie.
She reminded herself of that, after the evening meal, when she looked for Nicholas in the Hall. Her lady had asked that she befriend him and befriend him she would, ignoring the fact that the idea appealed to her for reasons her lady must not know.
As before, she saw him standing alone at the edge of the Hall, looking out over the dancers. She joined him, relieved he had not moved in the time it took for her to hobble to his side. He could easily escape her and she could not chase him around the Hall.
‘I hope you do not mind my company,’ she said, as she sank onto the bench and leaned against the stone wall. Her leg ached and she wished she could rub it.
‘I wonder why you seek mine,’ he said, in a sour tone. ‘I seem to do nothing but insult you.’
She felt heat in her cheeks. ‘Forgive me. I must be ever pleasant and positive with the Countess.’ She pulled her needlework out from its pouch and fumbled with the needle and thread. ‘Sometimes, I...’ She bit her tongue.
‘Tire of it?’
‘Do you not? Are there not times you want to say something the Prince would not wish to hear?’
He smiled, sheepishly.
So that had happened. Recently. ‘I can see that you have.’ She wondered what impolitic thing he had wanted to say. And whether it had been about her lady.
‘I’ll keep your secret,’ he said, the smile warmer now, ‘if you’ll keep mine.’
She had to return his grin and, for a moment, she felt as if they were partners instead of adversaries.
‘You have my promise,’ she said.
Relationships, promises, loyalties. In the end, that was all a King had. That was what allowed him to rule. That was what kept the world from falling utterly to dust and what kept Anne from starving alone.
Nicholas was loyal to Edward. He would find what Edward wanted him to find.
All would be as it must.
As she stitched, the noise of the after-supper entertainment rose. Singing, dancing, the tumbling and juggling echoed around the hall.
Old Robert the Fool rolled across the floor in a somersault, then jumped to his feet in front of them, tossing and catching five painted wooden balls. ‘And who is this new arrival come before us?’
‘A juggler like yourself,’ she answered, putting down the alms purse. ‘Sir Nicholas Lovayne.’
He turned to her with a frown.
She ignored him.
‘Ah,’ Old Robert said, both tongue and hands still moving, ‘this is the miracle worker I’ve heard of. The one who can make Eve into the Virgin Mary.’
Shamed, Anne flushed, silent. Fools had licence others did not, but it was a blatant reference to her lady. And not a flattering one. She hoped Joan would never hear of it.
‘Look lively, Sir Miracle Worker.’ The fool tossed a ball to Nicholas.
Astonished, she watched him catch it and throw it back and suddenly, they were juggling the five between them and Nicholas was smiling again.
When, finally, he missed a catch, he picked up the fallen ball and tossed it to Old Robert with ease. ‘I’m not your match, Fool.’
‘Ah, it depends on the game, doesn’t it?’ He winked at them and moved on.
She cleared her throat. ‘He has been with the King for many years. He assumes privileges.’
He shrugged. ‘A fool’s words are not worth repeating.’
Able to breathe again, she turned back to her stitching, watching Nicholas out of the corner of her eye.
Loyal to the Prince, he would spread no tales. And yet he sat alone while Edward the father and Edward the son cast bets on the throw of the die with other knights and nobles.
She met his eyes and nodded toward the laughing group in the corner. ‘You do not join them?’
He turned to follow her glance. ‘Life itself seems a game of chance. I do not actively seek uncertainty.’
‘You have spent years at war. There is no certainty there.’
‘More than you would think. We are certain to ride long days, certain to be hungry, certain to fight. I control all the things I can, but in the end, I am certain to either live or die.’
‘As God wills.’
‘Or the King. Or your lady.’
She must have stared for a moment, shocked at his words. Blasphemy, no doubt, but they reflected her own life, lived at the mercy of someone else.
‘Yet you return to France.’ She must keep him speaking of himself so he would not think of questioning her. ‘Why?’
A wisp of longing washed over his face. ‘To return to war.’
‘But the war is over.’ A truce was signed. French hostages crowded the court.
‘Is it?’ He looked down at her, brow raised, as if she were no wiser than a child, then shrugged. ‘There will be another. Somewhere.’
‘And you care not where you fight? Or why?’
‘Men fight for only one reason. To stay alive.’
‘You don’t want a home?’ A wife? ‘Here in England?’
He shook his head. ‘I would rather keep moving.’
Envy tasted bitter. ‘Will you not wed?’
‘Of course.’ His voice, hearty, but bitter. ‘To a wealthy widow.’
‘Ah.’ She swallowed, ashamed of the direction of her thoughts. Of course he would marry. He was tall and strong. His legs, long and straight, stretched out before him, a deliberate insult to her own. The old King, Longshanks, must have had limbs such as these. ‘Will she be here soon?’
‘She? Who?’
‘Your...’ She had a moment’s jealousy of the woman who would lie in his arms. ‘The widow.’ Someone for whom she could stitch an alms purse.
He shook his head, eyes downcast. ‘There is no widow. But that’s what every poor knight wants, is it not?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what a poor knight wants.’ She kept her eyes on her work, ashamed that she had asked. There would be no one for her. Ever. And asking embarrassing questions of a handsome knight would change nothing.
‘I answered rudely. Your question was an honest one. What this poor knight wants is the ransom for his French hostage.’
‘So you’ve a prisoner?’ Keep the talk of him. Do not let him ask questions about her or her lady.
He nodded. ‘The reward for all my months of fighting.’
She looked out over the Hall where some of the French hostages were exchanging lingering glances with the ladies. ‘Is he here?’
‘He’s safely locked up in London, dining at my expense.’
‘But you’ll be paid for that, with the ransom.’
‘The French have been slow with ransom payments.’
She nodded. That much she knew. ‘And while we wait for French livres, the hostages entertain themselves with food and wine and gambling.’
‘That we must pay for. I sometimes wonder whether it would be cheaper for the French to pay the ransom than