Blythe Gifford - Rumours At Court

Behind him, the women of the household gasped.

The Queen’s red-velvet gown, bright as blood, drew every eye. She stepped towards her husband, slowly, with only slight deference. A mere inclination of the head. Barely a bend to the knee. Proud, young. At seventeen, little more than half her husband’s age.

Comely enough, Gil supposed. But no woman would ever replace the man’s dead Duchess. With her, he had found not only a dynastic partner, he had found love of the kind the troubadours celebrated. Could a man expect that twice?

Gil did not expect it at all.

And yet, in his dreams, he imagined standing in the peaceful gardens of Alcázar with a woman who gazed at him, eyes full of love...

Only a dream. Now was not the time for a wife, who, like the Lady Valerie, might too soon become a widow. Before he took a bride, he would be a new man in a new place, miles and years away from his tainted past.

He brought his mind back to the present day and passed to the Duke the velvet sack which held the wedding gift to Constanza. With two hands and proper ceremony, Lancaster presented his offering, but instead of taking it, she left him with arms outstretched, not reaching for it.

A slight so obvious that, instead of murmurs, the air carried only shocked silence.

Gil hoped she had hesitated for fear her fingers were too cold to hold it safely.

Finally, she nodded to the man next to her. With one hand, he grasped the bottom of the bag while, with the other, he pushed it aside to reveal a gold cup, carved like a rose, covered with a lid featuring a dove in flight.

It was one of the most beautiful creations of a man’s hand that Gil had ever seen.

But the lady did not smile to see it. Instead, she waved it away to be cared for by one of her attendants.

Gil gritted his teeth, frowning. The woman should be more grateful. If the Duke had not come to her rescue, she and her sister would still be homeless, orphaned exiles in France. Only with her husband’s help did she have any hope of regaining the life and title she had been born to.

The Queen motioned to one of her counsellors, a heavy-set Castilian priest with a wide forehead, who stepped forward and began to speak.

‘La Reina asks me to say she is happy to greet her husband, Monseigneur d’Espagne.’

Halting English, Gil thought, but better than that of the Queen, who, he understood, spoke little but Castilian.

‘Tell Her Grace,’ John said, looking at Constanza, ‘that I welcome her to London.’

Another whispered conference. The woman’s lips thinned and she spoke sharply to the priest.

He cleared his throat and faced his ‘King’ again.

‘La Reina says that she hopes her stay here is brief. She expects you to return to her homeland and restore her throne before the year is out. Until she goes home to Castile, she asks that I give you all assistance to administer the state and plan for battle.’

Now, it was the smile of the Duke, ‘My Lord of Spain’, that turned thin and hard.

Gil’s expression mirrored his lord’s. Yes, Lancaster was King because he had married the Queen, but he was the King. And the King, not some Castilian priest, would be the one to select his military advisers. Gil expected to be among them.

‘Thank the Queen for me,’ Lancaster said. ‘I welcome your help.’

Only a courtesy, Gil thought, holding back a protest as the Queen’s younger sister and other members of her retinue hurried towards the warmth of Lancaster’s palace. The Duke could not refuse a wife’s request, no matter how rude, before a crowd. Nothing had changed. When the time came for war, he would rely on Gil and his other long-time companions.

As they turned to follow the women, he put the worry aside. He had another duty today.

The ladies of the court clustered around the doors, waiting to enter, and he looked for the Lady Valerie, pausing to study her, as he would assess the terrain before beginning an assault.

At first glance, he saw nothing remarkable. Swathed in her wimple and weeds, facing away from him, she was shorter than the other women. Was she fair or dark? Were her features pleasant to look on? Had her husband smiled when he came to her bed?

A gust of wind found her cloak. She reached to battle it, stopping his inappropriate imaginings. He should not think thus of the widow of one of his men.

She knew of her husband’s death, of course. That had happened months ago and she had been informed, so she would not first hear the news from him. For that, he was grateful.

But the ragged scrap of white silk that the man had tucked against his heart—that, at least, deserved to find its home again.

The wind subsided. She looked up and he caught a glimpse of her face. The woman had sad, dark eyes. Perhaps the return of the token her husband had cherished would give her comfort.

* * *

The English and Castilian ladies were shepherded into the palace and then to the Hall side by side, close enough for Valerie to hear the foreign chatter. She could not follow all the words, but the lilt of the language, the faint scent of Castilian soap, seemed familiar.

Perhaps her blood remembered these things. Blood that had come from another Castilian woman exiled to England, generations ago. Like Constanza, Queen of Castile, she, too, had been taken from her home and sent to a distant place.

Valerie touched the brooch of copper and enamel on her gown, a reminder of her long-dead relative. She must hold her head high amidst the unfamiliar trappings of court. Soon enough, she would be allowed to return to the earth of her home and her garden, slumbering now in winter.

The Queen reached the front of the Hall and turned to face the room. Valerie squinted, trying to see her clearly. She was fair, even sallow. Were her eyes blue? Too far to see, but her nose looked longish for the fashion, her figure tall and sturdy.

Her looks, in truth, were unimportant. Her gift to her husband was her country, not her beauty. And a woman, even a royal one, had no more choices than any other woman. She must marry for reasons of state, no matter what her heart. And if she wanted to be Queen in fact instead of just in name, this woman needed a man both willing and wealthy enough to fight for her kingdom.

Suddenly, the Queen touched a hand to her belly and the curtain of women around her closed tightly.

Were the rumours true? The Queen had arrived in England months ago, but had stayed in the country, some said because of the early ills of being with child.

The Duke—Valerie could still not think of him as a king—would have wasted no time getting an heir on her. They both needed to prove they could produce another generation to sit on Castile’s throne, so that might be the reason the woman did not look her best. All would be forgiven if she bore a son.

Something Valerie had failed to do.

‘She looks so young,’ Lady Katherine, next to her, whispered.

Valerie murmured something that might be mistaken for assent. The Queen was nearly Valerie’s own age and only a few years younger than Lady Katherine. Katherine, too, was newly widowed and had three children of her own. She might be feeling the length of her life.

Though she mourns her husband no more than I do mine.

She could not say how she knew. They had met only recently and never spoken of it, but Valerie felt certain that they both recited the requisite prayers for the loss of a husband while secretly revelling in their new freedom.

The line of ladies shielding the Queen parted. The Queen had settled into a chair at the front of the hall beside the Duke. Her sister came to stand beside her and the procession of lords and ladies shuffled into line to be presented.

Valerie, following Katherine, was surprised and honoured that she had been invited to this ceremony. Her husband had been a knight, but a lowly one. Lady Katherine’s husband had been the same, but she was here because she took care of the Duke’s children by his first wife. Now, she would move into his second wife’s household, a strong link to what the Queen needed to know about England and, perhaps, even about her husband.