Blythe Gifford - The Harlot’s Daughter

She swallowed. Was it his question or his nearness that caused her to tremble? ‘I know more than most.’

Yet of the stars, like many things, she knew only the surface. By memorising the list of ascendants in her mother’s Book of Hours, she had gleaned enough to impress most people, but only enough to tantalise herself.

Thankfully, he let her go and leaned against the wall next to her. ‘You could not know what takes the University men years to learn.’

His dismissal rankled. ‘I had years.’ Years after they left court and her mother was busy with suits and counter-suits.

His dark eyes, lost in shadow, gave her no clue to his thoughts. ‘And did the stars give you the answers you sought?’

His question surprised her. She had studied the heavens because she had nothing else to do. She had studied hoping they might explain her life and give her hope for the future. ‘I am still searching for my answers, Lord Justin. Did you find yours in the law?’

He turned away from her question, so silent she could hear the lap of the river out of sight below the walls.

‘I was looking for justice,’ he said, finally.

‘On earth?’ She felt a moment’s sympathy for him. How disappointing his life must be. ‘You’d do better to look to the stars.’ The stars surely had given her this time alone with him. She should be speaking of light, charming things that might turn him into an ally. ‘Let me read yours. When were you born, Lord Justin?’

He frowned. ‘Do you think your feeble learning can discover the truth about me?’

She touched his unyielding arm with a playful hand. ‘My learning is good enough for the King.’

Her fingers burned on his sleeve. She swayed towards him.

He picked up her hand. All the heat between them flowed from his fingers and into her core. He held her a moment too long, then dropped her hand away from his arm.

‘The King cares more for flattery than truth.’ His voice was rough. ‘I would not believe a word you say.’

She waved her hand in the air, as if she had not wanted to touch him at all. As if his dismissal had not hurt her. ‘Yet you believe in justice on earth.’

‘Of course. That’s what the law is for.’

Was anyone so naïve? ‘And when the judges are wrong? What then?’

‘The condemned always claim they’ve been unjustly convicted.’

Fury warmed her blood. Parliament had given her mother no justice. ‘Even if the judgement is right, is there never forgiveness? Is there never mercy?’

‘Those are for God to dispense.’

‘Oh, so justice lives on earth, mercy in Heaven, and you happily sit in judgement confident that you are never wrong.’ She laughed without mirth.

‘You believe your mother should be exonerated.’

Surprised he recognised a meaning she had missed, she was silent. Better not to even acknowledge such a hope. Better not to picture her mother back at court and revered for the good she had done. ‘She was brought back to court before the year was out.’ Restored to her position beside the King for his last, painful year.

‘Not by Parliament.’

‘No, by the King himself. The Commons never had the right to judge her. And neither do you.’

‘It is you I judge. You’ve lied about your birth date. I suspect you are lying about why you are not abed. It seems truth means nothing to you.’

‘Truth?’ He talked of truth as if it were more valuable than bread. She held her tongue. She had already been too candid. If she angered him further, he would never keep her secret. ‘Perhaps each of us knows a different truth.’

‘There is only one truth, Lady Solay, but should you ever choose to speak it, I would scarce recognise it.’ His voice brimmed with disgust.

‘You do not recognise it now. My mother was a great helpmate to the King.’

He shook his head. ‘Even you can’t believe that.’ A yawn overtook him. ‘I’m going to bed. I leave you to your stars and your lies.’

‘Some day when I tell you the truth, you will believe it,’ she whispered to his fading footsteps.

Shivering and alone under a sky that seemed darker than before, she crossed her arms to keep from reaching for him as he descended the stairs.

Solay snatched only an hour of sleep after Mass, then spent the feast day watching Justin and wondering whether he planned to expose her lie. Finally, exhausted, she escaped for a nap as soon as the King left the Christmas feast.

Her respite was brief. Before dark, Lady Agnes bustled into the room, carrying a white robe and two bare branches. ‘Here’s my costume for the disguising.’ She held up the simple off-white shift and waved the branches over her head. ‘Will I not look like a hart?’

A knock relieved Solay of responding. Agnes would resemble a horned angel more than a white stag.

At the door, a page, garbed in a vaguely familiar livery of three gold crowns on a blue background, handed Agnes a note and ran. She read it, then, smiling, closed the door.

‘I need you to take my part in the disguising,’ she whispered.

‘I would be honoured,’ Solay told her, trying to place the page’s livery. How bold to ignore the King’s entertainment for a private tryst. Did lusting make one so mad?

‘Quick. We haven’t much time.’ Agnes helped Solay into the undyed gown, slipped a linen hood over her face, and tied the branches around her head.

‘Tell me what I must do.’ Beneath the hood, she squinted, trying to see out of the eye holes.

‘Just watch the others in white. Do as they do and at the end, curl up at the feet of the one who plays the King.’ Agnes stopped tugging on the robe and peered through the slits in the hood to meet Solay’s gaze. ‘They must think you are me.’

Behind the hood, Solay laughed. ‘I’m disguised and I’ve just come to court. Who will recognise me?’

‘Everyone saw you yesterday.’

Everyone watched in glee as the King humiliated her, Agnes meant. And then, of course, the men had come for a closer look.

But only Justin had really seen her.

Agnes squeezed Solay’s fingers. ‘Please. Do not remove your hood, no matter what. Too many know what part I was to take.’ Agnes opened the door a crack, looked both ways, then pushed Solay into the hall. ‘And thank you,’ she whispered, her round blue eyes full of gratitude.

Solay crept down the stairs to the Great Hall, fingers touching the cool stone wall for balance. The branches wobbled uncertainly at the back of her head. Anonymous beneath her white hood, she felt strangely free as she entered the Hall.

Until she saw Justin.

Head down, he huddled with three other men. He was not costumed, of course. This man refused to disguise himself or his feelings.

As she walked towards the masked group gathering at the end of the Hall, his gaze drifted from the conversation to follow her. Knowing he was watching, she realised that Agnes’s costume exposed her ankles and hung slack around her hips. She turned her back on him and touched her hood to make sure her hair was covered. A stray dark lock would betray her.

The King’s herald called for silence and she pulled her attention back to the tableau. Like a mirror, the scene reflected the King who observed it. A pretend King sat on a mock throne. Heavenly beings in blue surrounded him. Beasts of the field came to lie at his feet.

As she moved to her place, the court seemed as much of a façade as the play, beautiful on the surface, but concealing each player’s true nature. When she lay at the foot of the false throne and heard the applause, she wondered which player had donned Agnes’s lover’s garb.

‘Up. Now,’ someone behind her whispered.

Around her, players moved into the audience, pulling them into the scene. As she rose to follow, she glimpsed a deep blue robe through the slits in her hood. All around them, laughing men and women joined the pretty scene, posing like statues. Afraid to look up, she saw a hand, grasped it and pulled.