Blythe Gifford - Rumours At Court

‘All are not so. The Duke and the Lady Blanche loved each other very much.’ Wistful. As if such a thing where possible.

One marriage out of how many? More than the waves on the sea. She shook her head. ‘I have not seen a marriage like that.’ Certainly not between her own mother and any of her husbands.

And yet, a woman had no other choice. She could marry herself to God or to a man. For some widows, wealthy ones, a husband’s death could mean a new life of independence. She would not be one of them.

She had the land, yes, the earth that had been handed down since that long-ago woman came from Castile: that, at least, would always be hers. It might even have been enough that she could have been left alone, to tend her roses and her quince tree. The very thought was a glimpse of freedom.

Instead, she would be given to a new gaoler whose every whim she would be forced to obey. She knew that. Had always known it. Yet just for a moment, she had hoped for a different life. ‘But you have found another path—’

Katherine touched her arm. ‘Do not seek to trade your life for mine. There are things you do not know.’

She dropped her arm and turned away, and Valerie wondered of the things she did not know. Well, she would allow Katherine her secrets. There were things she, too, did not wish to share.

But why should Katherine be left free with her children when she—?

Ah. Of course. It was because of the children. Katherine had three children. Valerie had none, so she must be given to yet another man. She must take him to her bed, over and over, until his seed took root and she carried his child.

What if she failed again?

* * *

Snatching the discarded silk from the floor, Gil wondered what Scargill had been thinking of, as his life slipped away. Of the battles in Gascony? Of the woman who last warmed his bed?

Or had he been praying to God to forgive the wrongs he had done to the wife he had left behind?

Gil tucked the silk scrap into his tunic. He would drop it in the rubble later.

Now, he looked around the Hall. A waste of time, all the trappings of this fantastical court. A fraud and a distraction for a man who should be worried about holding the land instead of the title.

He has taken a bride who has made him a king. But he still must take the throne.

John, Duke of Lancaster, King of Castile, Monseigneur d’Espagne, was tall and strong and handsome, as if he were King in fact. At thirty-two, barely older than Gil, the man was in his very prime. No man in England, perhaps no man in Christendom, had more personal wealth.

But this man was the son of Edward, King of England, so nothing short of kingship could ever be enough.

Had he been the first son, the English throne would have been his, but his father the King had spawned many worthy sons, so to grasp the throne he desired, Lancaster had been forced to look beyond the island.

Gil shared the man’s hunger to leave England. Castile was his answer, too, the place he could prove himself the man he wanted to be.

But tonight, instead of organising his invasion plan, Lancaster was wandering the hall, King of Castile only because he had married the dead King’s daughter.

It would take a war, not just a marriage, to win the throne.

Gil hung back, reluctant to interrupt Lancaster’s conversation with the Ladies Katherine and Valerie, but when they stepped away, he came to Lancaster’s side. His gaze followed the small woman, cloaked in black. Had she mentioned that he had flaunted her husband’s indiscretion in her face?

‘She should be married,’ Gil said, vaguely feeling as if were his fault that she was a widow and betrayed. Perhaps her marriage would assuage his lingering guilt.

‘But she is indispensable with my children,’ John said, gazing after the two women. ‘I cannot spare her.’

Both women were widows, of course, but he had spoken of only one of them. ‘I was speaking of the Lady Valerie.’

The words seem to break the man’s trance. ‘Ah, yes. I’ve asked her to join the Queen’s household for a time.’

Gil frowned. He wanted to see no more of this woman. He wanted to be rid of her and the reminder of his failures.

‘Besides,’ Lancaster continued, ‘she seemed less than eager at the thought of a new husband.’

For some reason, that irritated Gil, too. Surely it was not because she mourned the first one?. ‘What does she think to do? Go to a nunnery?’ Perhaps it was the wimple that made him think of that. He had the sudden urge to rip it off and see her hair flow free. What colour would it be? Looking into her dark eyes, he had not even noticed the brows above them.

‘She seemed to want to tend to her rye crop,’ the Duke said, with an amused smile.

Gil shook his head and shared his lord’s smile. Well, she was in no position to refuse a new husband, even if he treated her no better than the last one. She would marry the man Lancaster chose and it would be none of his concern.

The war, however, was. ‘The invasion, Your Grace.’ The title due a king still strange on his tongue. ‘Men and ships should be ready by summer. I recommend we land in Portugal and march into Castile from there.’

An attack from an allied country instead of a direct assault would ease their way, avoiding a battle until the men and horses had landed and were ready to fight. Gil had been a strong advocate for Portugal. If Lancaster chose his plan, surely he would also name Gil to lead the men.

‘Pembroke argues for Navarre,’ Lancaster said. ‘And others for Galicia.’

‘Portugal’s King sees the pretender as an immediate threat. He should be willing to support us.’

‘Until we hear from the ambassador, we cannot be certain,’ Lancaster said. He leaned closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘And my father the King has plans as well.’

‘To return to France?’ Vast swathes of the country once firmly in their grasp were splintered and they were on the brink of losing the land that had spawned a line of kings three hundred years old.

He nodded. ‘But speak of it to no one now.’

Gil nodded, but held his tongue. The last time he had seen the King, who had once been the greatest warrior in Christendom, the man had seemed tired and weak. But if he was now well enough to conduct a campaign...

Well, Castile, not France, was Gil’s responsibility. ‘For our own campaign, then, I will proceed.’ Money, men, ships to move them must be ready before summer, the season for war. ‘Plymouth is the port best positioned, so I will direct the ships to gather there and—’

‘Mi Señor y Rey. A word.’

The Castilian priest, with no more respect than to interrupt his ‘King’ at conversation.

Gil waited for the Duke to dismiss him.

That was not what happened. ‘Yes, Gutierrez, what is it?’

‘You should issue a proclamation immediately to announce that you have assumed the title of King. A statement that will challenge the man who pretends to the throne. I can, of course, draft such a document, but I require an office from which I can assist you and La Reina in conducting affairs of state.’

‘Ask my steward to find you proper quarters and whatever assistance you need to do so.’ All Lancaster’s attention was on the trappings of kingship again, as if it were a relief to deal with a fanciful kingdom instead of a real war. ‘I’ll sign and issue it as soon as it is ready.’

‘And to do that, Monseigneur, we must create a seal. The arms of Castile, combined with your own leopards and lilies, perhaps.’

A genuine smile. One of the few Gil had seen from the Duke all day. ‘Yes. I like that.’

Documents. Signatures. Seals. The country would be taken by men, not by proclamations. Yet here was Lancaster, chattering with this Castilian about the design of a royal seal.