Blythe Gifford - Secrets at Court

‘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 to keep paying their expenses here.’

Something she had never considered. He was a man accustomed to thinking of the cost of things. Her lady never did, even after the bill was presented. ‘Yet you are a fortunate man,’ she said. ‘You have a hostage. He will bring you gold.’

‘Forgive my ingratitude.’ He looked abashed and she was sorry. ‘I must seem rude. I’m just ready to be quit of him and back to France.’

‘No! I like that you do not...hold your tongue.’ So few were so blunt. Fewer still would speak of movement without a downward glance at her poor leg. ‘I envy you your journey. I would love to see...so much.’

‘Have you not been out of England?’

‘Yes, of course. The Lady Joan was in France when her husband, Lord Holland, died.’ They had gone when her lady willed and returned when her lady willed. And all the while, unexplored horizons beckoned.

He looked at her, his glance too perceptive. ‘And when next she returns, you will, too.’

‘They speak of Aquitaine. A kingdom of his own for the Prince.’

He grunted and took a sip of claret.

Again, she waited in vain for him to speak. Finally, she tried again. ‘You do not approve?’

He looked at her, his expression more shock than sneer. ‘My opinion makes no difference.’

A feeling she well knew. ‘But you have been there.’

He nodded.

‘And would you return?’ He, a man who had travelled across France. He would know whether it was a place she would like.

‘There is no need. We subdued it.’

So clear that this man knew no life but war. ‘I mean, should we—I mean, should the Prince and my lady go, will it be a pleasant place to live?’

‘A flat land with rivers. Hard to defend. The bridges need to be rebuilt.’

No mention of whether the rivers were wide and blue or narrow and rushing. No word of green leaves or yellow flowers or whether the sun was warm or the wine sweeter near its own soil. ‘Can you speak of nothing but horses and supplies and fighting?’

His eyes cleared of memory and recognised her once more. ‘That’s why I was there.’

There with eyes focused not on the land, but on how they must move over it and what they must do to subdue it. ‘But I will not be there for war.’

‘The Prince will.’

‘But his wife will not. I hope there will be time to see other things.’

Quiet, but intent, he studied her. ‘What things? What things would you choose to see?’

She looked away, abashed by the perception of the question. If she were as tall and strong as he and free to choose her life, she would walk from here to Compostela to see the shrine of St James and from there to Rome, where the ancient stones of the Romans still stood. And beyond that lay Castile or Jerusalem or even Alexandria...

But those were dreams for someone else, not for a lame girl.

‘I go where my lady chooses.’ And was fortunate to do so. Fool. She had let the man turn questions on her and then been foolish enough to answer them.

She bowed her head over her needlework, grateful that the music and chatter had masked their words. She must turn the talk back to him before she said something else to regret. Dancers gathered before them on the floor as the minstrels lifted pipes and bows.

Turning back to Nicholas, she gave him her broadest smile. ‘Do you dance?’

* * *

Nicholas looked at Anne, uncertain what to say. Anything he said would be an insult to a woman who would never skip gaily through a circle dance.

‘There was little dancing in the midst of battle.’ It was the truth.

She looked up from her stitching and smiled, as if she realised the foolishness of the question. ‘Was there no respite from the fighting?’

‘The King made time for hawking.’ Which meant Nicholas had arranged for the care and feeding of the King’s favourite birds as well as of men.

‘Ah.’ She had a way of looking from her stitching to his face and back in a natural rhythm. ‘I have ridden after the falcons. Once. Or twice.’

She could ride, then. He had wondered.

His surprise must have shown plain on his face, for she answered it. ‘The falconer does most of the work.’

‘I did not think—’

‘I know what you thought.’ Her needle paused.

He, a man who cloaked his feelings from royalty, had allowed this woman to see his very thoughts. Dangerous.

Then, as if she had seen his dismay, she touched his hand with fingers straight and slender, some mad form of amends for her leg.

‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I try to ignore that which is perfectly obvious. You did nothing wrong.’

He wondered whether she had confessed so much to others. ‘You take your...situation...with remarkable calm.’

‘I have no choice. What else can I do?’

No choice. He shuddered. He had lived his life making sure that there were always choices, options, other paths to follow.

‘You could rail against your fate and insist on special treatment.’ He knew able-bodied warriors more peevish with less reason.

‘That would change nothing.’

He had no answer to that and the silence between them grew until, as the music ended, he realised her fingers still rested on the back of his hand. She saw them at the same moment and pulled them away, as if from a fire.

‘Will you join tomorrow’s hunt?’ Thoughtless words to cover the awkward moment. It was a deer hunt, demanding in a way that hawking was not.

And he was looking forward to it. He would ride as long and hard and fast as the running stag they chased. He would outride all the frustration of being stuck here because the King was overcautious.

Her fingers were busy with her needle again, the rhythm restored. ‘They have little patience with me on the hunt.’

‘Women ride.’ Some of them. ‘And there is no shame in lagging behind.’

‘Not as far behind as I do.’

Was her smile as wistful as he imagined? He supposed it would be a kind of death, to be left behind, trapped, while the rest of the court galloped off on a sunny summer day.

‘Come,’ he said, abruptly. He had seen slaughter enough in France. No need to witness the death of every deer. ‘I’ll ride beside you.’

Her needle shook, but her stitches did not pause. ‘Pity for the cripple?’

He grabbed her wrist, stopping her needle and forcing her to look at him. ‘No.’

She met his eyes, questioning, and he wondered what she saw there. In truth, he did not know why he had offered and more words would only make it worse.

Finally, she smiled, a slow, lovely thing. ‘I would like that.’

‘Tomorrow, then.’ He stood abruptly and with a curt bow escaped.