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.
‘Your Grace?’ Gil called. ‘The invasion plan?’
A wave of the hand, but the man did not turn. ‘Tomorrow, yes.’
He watched Lancaster and the Castilian walk away, and when they paused for the Duke to present the priest to Lady Katherine, Lady Valerie stepped away, standing beyond their circle.
Yet she was the one who drew Gil’s gaze. Surrounded by the colour and noise and bustle of the hall, in her plain garb and wimple, she was still, calm, almost frozen, like one of the statues of the Virgin Mary.
Thinking of her lost husband? Or of the woman who had last loved him?
The dirty silk burned like an ember against his chest.
Abruptly, he left the Hall and walked outside. The winter air would clear his head.
The sun was low in the sky and daylight fading fast. Looking out over the darkening river, he tried to remember more of Lady Valerie’s husband. Gil had been a commander who prided himself on knowing his men, yet he had noticed nothing unusual about Scargill. Men in war satisfied their needs as they must.
He wondered who the woman had been. Not a noble woman, he was certain. Not a lady deserving of a knight’s devotion. One of the camp followers, probably. He could barely tell one from another except for the laundress who did his washing. But in the midst of war, strange things could move a man’s passions. Faced daily with death, a man might cling to a woman as a way to cling to life...
And a man’s wife never to know better.
The frigid air blunted the smell from the river and when he reached the edge of the quay, he pulled the dead man’s token from his tunic, as soiled and stained as the relationship itself. He held it over the water, then dropped it into the darkness. For a moment, the white fabric drifted like a feather. Then it hit the river and was sucked beneath the waves.
His duty was done. Never to be thought of again.
He turned back to enter the palace, feeling a moment’s sympathy for Lady Valerie. Better the Duke marry her quickly to a man who would get some children on her and make her forget.
He hoped her new husband would be kinder than her last.
Valerie joined the Queen’s household in the Savoy Palace but as the days went on, she saw little of Constanza, or La Reina, as the Queen liked to be called. Lent had begun and the woman spent most of her days either on her knees in her chapel or on her back in her bed.
Of Castile’s ‘King’, Valerie saw nothing at all. Lancaster settled a generous sum on his wife, so the Queen could run her household as befitted her rank.
And then started coming the gifts.
Week upon week, the Clerk of the Wardrobe would arrive at the door with another treasure for the Queen of Castile and deliver it into Valerie’s careful hands. Cloth of gold. Circlets set with emeralds and rubies. Loose pearls by the handfuls. Pearls enough to fill buckets. Pearls to be made into buttons, sewed on dresses, sprinkled on adornments for her hair.
Wealth such as Valerie had never imagined, placed in her care. And she would take each offering to the Queen, telling her it was another gift, a mark of respect from her husband. And each time, the woman turned her head away, muttering.
‘El único regalo que quiero es Castilla.’
Valerie had learned enough words by now to know her meaning.
The only gift I want is Castile.
Her faint connection to Castile had touched the Queen, but it had no such effect on the ladies surrounding her, who were less than pleased to have another Inglésa added to the household. Not
