so, they would need more ships for a frontal assault.
‘Not for Castile. My father the King is sending Pembroke to relieve the siege in France.’
King Edward, Lancaster’s father, was King of this island. His will came before all. Uneasy, Gil counted again the men pledged to war. ‘Do you intend to divert our men to his effort?’
‘No.’ A promise as unequivocal as Gil would have wanted. ‘Pembroke will take a small group with him and gold to recruit the rest when he lands in Brittany. From there, they will march through Aquitaine...’
Gil listened to the plans by habit, each word bitter in his ears. France had belonged to the Plantagenets before England. They could not let it be taken now.
‘We await word from Portugal,’ Lancaster concluded. ‘So it will not delay our own expedition.’
Portugal’s silence, other forays diverting ships and energy—Gil was losing patience with all of it. But a commander must know when to advance and when to hold back. When they did reach Castile, his weeks of frustration would all be forgotten.
‘I will leave for Losford tomorrow,’ he said. Losford, guardian of the English coast, was the castle where he had learned to be a knight, all those years ago. In the harbour below, there must be some shipowners who would be glad of some extra coin to ferry men and horses across the Channel. For this effort, cogs, even smaller boats could be pressed into service. ‘I’ll send men to Sandwich and New Romney, too, and—’
A hand on his shoulder. ‘But something else, first.’
Again, his hope swelled. ‘Anything.’ At last. Captain of the Knights of Castile...
‘You must marry.’
‘What?’ He shook his head. He must have misheard. They had talked of war, not weddings.
But Lancaster’s words were firm. ‘Marry. You must marry.’
‘Of course, my lord.’ How could the man think of marriage when Castile lay in the balance? ‘Some day.’
‘Now.’
‘My lord—’ he began. Had the man gone mad? ‘Now is not the time—’
‘It must be now. Before...’ He let the word drift.
Before he took up arms again. Before death threatened.
‘My lord, marriage can wait.’
Lancaster shook his head. ‘You have waited longer than most men. You want a wife, do you not?’
He had never pondered it as a question. Marriage was not a choice. Every man married. But for him, marriage had been a long-deferred dream, not to be undertaken until his own accomplishments shone so brightly that they would make people forget the shadows that clung to the Brewen name of his mother’s people.
When he thought of it at all, he vaguely imagined a time when he was revered and honoured and living in Castile, where one day, he would look out and see a special glance, a special woman, one who could be as dear to him as the Duke’s first wife had been to him.
A foolish dream. But he was certain that when he was the man he wanted to be, the woman he wanted at his side would appear.
‘Yes, Your Grace, I do. When the time is right.’
‘And children? You want children?’
He wanted a son. Wanted with the same fierce longing that a starving man yearned for bread. ‘When we hold Castile, my lord.’ When he could return to the gardens of Alcázar, this time, as one who belonged there. ‘Then, gladly.’
The Duke shook his head. ‘You cannot wait. If anything happens to me, the Queen will bear my heir to sit on the throne. If we lose my brother, his son will sit on my father’s throne. If something happens to you...’
If something happens...
Death could come today. Tomorrow. By accident or disease. In France as easily as in Castile.
Lancaster had sired four sons. Only one still lived. He was a man who knew the shortness of life. Gil knew it, too, but he somehow believed he could hold death at bay until he had redeemed the Brewen name.
The Duke cleared his throat. ‘The leader I choose should think of the future.’
Was marriage, then, a condition of his appointment?
Gil swallowed. ‘Who?’ he said, finally, testing the thought. ‘Who would you have me marry?’
He had never actually devised the image of a wife. A son, with eyes the same pale blue as his own, he had imagined in detail so precise the boy might as well be real. But the woman who would warm his bed and wake up beside him day after day for all the years to come? He had not envisioned her at all.
Valerie’s face flashed before him. Why should he think of her now?
‘I have chosen,’ his lord said, ‘the Lady Valerie.’
Gil fought the quickening of his pulse. Had the man plucked her image from his mind?
But she was nothing he wanted in a wife. She shared his passion for Castile, perhaps, but from the words they had exchanged, he did not think they would suit. Stubborn, opinionated... He had thought to marry someone...different. Someone who would not remind him of his failures. ‘But we are in the midst of a war. The King wants ships. There is no time—’
‘There is time enough to bed her.’ A grim smile from the man who had bedded his wife somewhere between France and the English coast.
Now Gil’s blood swirled hot and his body surged in response, as if suddenly given permission. To know the colour of her hair, the feel of the skin of her shoulder beneath his fingers—that tempted him beyond reason. ‘But my duties to you, to Castile...’
Lancaster waved his hand. ‘None of that will change.’ And then, a wisp of memory clouded his face. ‘Mine didn’t. Not this time.’
But Gil wanted, needed, change. If he married now, he would have no home to offer but the one he had fled. ‘But surely this marriage can wait until we regain Castile?’
‘I said things would not change,’ Lancaster said, ‘but changes will come, Gil, as they do to all men, whether you want them or not.’ Memories and regret, both stamped on the Duke’s face. ‘Which is why your marriage must be now.’ The words, final. Allowing no more debate.
He swallowed. ‘Is she...willing?’
The Duke looked baffled. ‘She is a woman. She will do as I bid.’
And so must Gil. In truth, the decision belonged neither fully to him nor to her. True, either of them could protest at the church door, but the church ruled life after death. Lancaster, Monseigneur d’Espagne, ruled their lives on earth, hers as well as his. Their relationship with their lord was a complex series of agreements and promises, many written on parchment, others written on the heart, but all bonds made of honour, strong as iron. Vows not to be broken.
Not if
