Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year. Кэрол Мортимер
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‘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 feelings. 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