her, but a few remembered Castilian words would not make her fit company for royalty. She had wanted to return to the earth of Kent, not be stranded here in London.
Still, if it would delay the time when she must be sent to warm another man’s bed, at least for a while, she would do it. ‘Yes, I would be happy to be of help.’
The man’s scowl had not completely faded.
Now she must don the obedient smile, the one that made a man feel powerful and generous. ‘Of course, the choice is yours, my lord. I shall do as you wish and be grateful for your kind consideration.’ The words sounded wooden, even to her ears.
He smiled, finally, as if a servant had cleaned up after a guest who had clumsily dropped a goblet. ‘I am certain that Katherine will be glad of your help.’
‘As will the Queen, of course,’ Katherine added hastily.
And Valerie, who was certain of no such thing, dipped and murmured her thanks. Katherine put an arm around her shoulders and Valerie struggled to stay calm as Katherine led her away. A few more weeks, then, when she could move and speak without a husband’s approval. ‘Thank you,’ she said, when they were out of earshot. ‘I cannot yet bear...’
She shook her head and let the words go. She had said too much already.
‘Do not expect a long reprieve,’ Katherine said, patting her shoulder. ‘No later than spring, I would think.’
She looked at Katherine, unable to hide her dismay. In March, she had hoped to be weeding the earth around the quince tree. ‘Has he chosen your husband?’ She could not keep the bitter edge from her question. Katherine was also a widow. Surely she, too, would be given as a prize to some man.
‘No.’ Katherine looked away, a flush of colour on her cheeks. ‘The Duke has been kind to allow me to help his wife and with his children.’
‘I wish I could remain unmarried, as you are.’
‘Perhaps I shall marry again...some day.’ There was a strange yearning in the woman’s words.
Perhaps Valerie had been wrong. Perhaps Katherine had loved her husband deeply and longed for another union. ‘My marriage was not something I want to repeat.’ A difficult admission. One Valerie should not have made.
‘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
