Blythe Gifford - The Harlot’s Daughter

As his footsteps faded, the image he had suggested tantalised her like the dawn at the edge of the day. Marriage. Someone to take care of her.

She pulled her cloak tighter and let the wind blow the fantasy away. Better to focus on pleasing the King with a pleasant poem and a pretty future.

But Justin’s suggestion tugged at her. Perhaps he had deliberately shown her the path to circumvent the Council.

If the King had no power to grant her family a living, he might find an alliance for her with a family that would not allow hers to starve.

And if the King were gracious enough to find her a husband, she would take whomever he gave, even if the man’s kisses did not make her burn.

As the sun rose to its pale peak on the last day of the year, Solay set aside the astrology tables in despair. She read no Latin, so she could understand none of the text. In a week, the Yuletide guests would be gone, and she with them unless she could create a story from the stars to please a King.

Before she wove a fiction, she had tried to decipher the truth, but the symbols in the chart the old astrologer had drawn blurred before her eyes.

She trusted no one for help except Agnes. When she had asked what ill omens the old astrologer had seen, Agnes’s already pale face turned white.

‘He said the King must give up his friendship with the Duke of Hibernia or the realm would be in danger.’

No wonder the man had been jailed.

Idly, she flipped through the tables of planets, wondering when Lord Justin Lamont had been born. He had the stubbornness of the Bull, but his blunt speech reminded her of the Archer. Perhaps one of them was the ascendant and the other…

Foolishness. She put the tables aside and turned to her real work. Her future lay in the hands of the King, not in the kisses of Justin Lamont.

She studied the King’s birth chart again. Some aspects didn’t match the temperament of the King she knew. Aggressive Aries was shown as his ascendant, yet he seemed the least warlike of kings.

The eleventh house was that of friends; the twelfth of enemies. Surely just a slight shift could move the Duke from one to the other.

A different time of birth would do it.

She turned pages with new energy. She would populate the chart as she wished and suggest it had changed because she used a different time of birth.

Smiling, she began to draw.

By late afternoon, she derived a chart that suited her purpose, and, it seemed, the King much better. A square formed the centre of the chart, Capricorn, his sun sign. Four triangles surrounded it, forming the four cardinal points as triangles from each side. Then, the additional eight houses formed another square around the first.

The shift clustered more planets in the house of friends, but it also described his character more accurately. From this one, she could spin a happy future for the King and, she hoped, for her family.

She hesitated. If it were dangerous to change her own time of birth, what would she risk to change the King’s?

Yet it was the only answer she had. At least she was sensible enough to tell him no bad news. No one was likely to know enough to dispute her conclusions and, if anyone did, she would laugh and say she was only a woman and not a real astrologer.

Justin’s mind wandered as the Court wasted the afternoon listening to bad verse penned by courtiers playing poet. The words flowed around him unheard. He had spent the last week telling himself that he was relieved that the kiss had meant nothing to Solay, though it galled him that she could swoon in his arms like a lover and then laugh. He should have expected nothing less. Even the woman’s body lied.

Across the room, she was fawning over Redmon again. Since he had told her to seek a husband, Justin judged every man she spoke to for the role. She would have few choices. The man must have money, not need it, for she would bring no dowry. He must be acceptable to the King, but not too important, for if he were, he would get a better bride.

She gave the Earl a dazzling smile as it came her turn to present. Then, she licked her full, lower lip, cleared her throat, glanced at Justin and started to read.

They call them men of law, an empty boast

They claim that law means justice

But justice comes quickest to him that pays the most.

His cheeks burned. Though no one looked his way as they laughed, he knew her words were directed towards him. Her poem told an amusing tale of a dishonest lawyer, brought to justice by a benevolent and pure King. The verse lacked polish, but it showed promise. The words were clever.

More than clever. Something about them seemed very familiar.

After the King applauded heartily and the afternoon’s entertainment ended, Justin sought her out. Her small triumph had touched her lips with an easy smile.

‘A pretty poem, Lady Solay,’ he said. ‘Did you suggest the subject to John Gower?’

Solay’s smile stiffened. ‘What makes you ask that?’

He did not dignify her lack of denial with an answer. ‘I did not think him a man to be swayed by kisses.’

She did not blush, which made him think she had not tried physical persuasion of the King’s favourite poet. Odd, he felt relieved.

‘The idea was his, not mine. He told me he was trying something new and if the King did not like the poem, Gower would put it aside. Since the King liked it very much, I dare say he will finish it and then tell the King and they will both think it a good joke.’

‘So now I must keep secrets for John Gower’s sake, not yours?’

Behind the pleading look in her eyes he saw the shadow of resentment. It must gall her to beg his co-operation. ‘You wouldn’t spoil the surprise, would you, just because the verse doesn’t flatter you?’

Shocked, he realised he had never even considered it. ‘It is Gower you wronged, not me. You sling borrowed barbs about lawyers, but you know nothing about me at all.’

‘I know you helped Parliament impeach the King’s Chancellor on imaginary charges.’

‘The charges were real.’

‘Not real enough, I see.’ She nodded towards the Earl of Suffolk, laughing with the King. ‘The man is with us today.’

He gritted his teeth. ‘The King released him. Not Parliament.’ Richard had imprisoned the man for a few weeks, then, as soon as Parliament had gone home, set him free as if Parliament had never ruled. As if the law meant nothing.

She lowered her voice to whisper. ‘You say you care about truth, but others say you care more about destroying those closest to the King.’

‘And you let others decide what you think.’

She didn’t answer, but turned to smile at Redmon across the room. The man smiled back, broadly, and she started to leave.

‘I hope you are not thinking of him as a husband.’

She kept searching the room, not meeting his eyes to answer. ‘When you suggested marriage you did not request approval of the choice. In fact, you told me only the King could decide.’

One of the young pups across the room winked at her, elbowing his companion, and she gave him a slow smile.

The boy’s grin grated on him. ‘That one is not looking on you as a wife,’ he growled.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I am a man.’

‘Well, the Earl of Redmon is.’ Behind the lilt in her voice he heard the edge of anger.

‘Did the stars tell you so?’

‘He was born under the sign of the goat. We should get along well enough.’

‘Did the stars also tell you that he is old and rich with wealth and sons and three dead wives? All he needs is someone to grace his bed. That should not be difficult for you.’

She gasped, but instead of satisfaction, he felt remorse. ‘You fault me for failing some standard of your own devising. What do you expect of me, Lord Justin?’