for a royal at that time, and for centuries after.
This book and my next, WHISPERS AT COURT, are set in the world surrounding those weddings, where the real drama happens behind the scenes. For the bride of the Black Prince has secrets to keep—secrets her longtime companion Anne must be certain that Sir Nicholas Lovayne never discovers …
After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD started writing seriously after a corporate layoff. Ten years and one layoff later, she became an overnight success when she sold her Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist manuscript to Harlequin Mills & Boon®. Her books, set in Medieval England or early Tudor Scotland, usually feature a direct connection to historical royalty. The Chicago Tribune has called her work “the perfect balance between history and romance”. She lives and works along Chicago’s lakefront, and juggles writing with a consulting career.
She loves to have visitors at www.blythegifford.com and www.pinterest.com/BlytheGifford, “thumbs-up” at www.facebook.com/BlytheGifford, and “tweets” at www.twitter.com/BlytheGifford
To all those struggling to move beyond the past.
With thanks for the support of the Hermits and the Hussies, two of my favourite writing tribes.
Windsor Castle—late March, 1361
‘Come. Quickly.’ A whisper, urgent. Disturbing her dreams.
Anne felt a hand, squeezing her shoulder. She opened her eyes, blinking, to see the Countess holding a candle and leaning over her in the darkness.
Closing her eyes, Anne rolled onto her side. She only dreamt. Lady Joan would never rise in the dead of night. That was left to Anne.
Slender fingers pinched her cheek. ‘Are you awake, Anne?’
Suddenly, she was. Throwing back her bedclothes. Reaching for something to cover her feet. ‘What is it?’ Had the pestilence found them? Or perhaps the French? ‘What is the hour?’
Lady Joan waved a hand. ‘Dark.’ Then, she gripped Anne’s fingers and tugged. ‘Come. I need you.’
Anne tried to stand. Awkward, more out of balance than usual. She patted the sheets, searching for her walking stick.
‘Here.’ It was thrust into her hand. Then, the Countess, putting her impatience aside, offered a shoulder to help Anne rise.
Kindness from her lady, often when it was least expected. Or wanted.
Walking staff tucked snugly under her left arm, Anne hobbled through Windsor’s corridors, mindful that Lady Joan had put a finger to her lips to signal quiet and gestured for her to hurry. As if Anne had any control over either. Between stick and stairs, she could not hurry unless she wanted to tumble to the bottom and risk her only good leg in the process.
Lady Joan led her toward the royal quarters and into an echoing chapel, dark except for a candle, held by someone standing before the altar. A man, tall and strong.
Edward of Woodstock, eldest son of the King, Prince of England, smiling and looking nothing like the stern warrior she, nay, all England and France knew.
Lady Joan was beaming, too. No longer sparing a glance for Anne, she moved swiftly to join her hand with his. ‘Here. Now. With a witness.’
No. It could not be what she intended. But Lady Joan, of all people, knew what must be done and how important a witness would be.
The Prince took her candle and set them both on the trestle that served as an altar. Wavering flames cast shadows upwards on their faces, throwing the Prince’s nose and cheekbones into sharp relief and softening her lady’s rounded smile. Then they clasped hands, fingers tight, one on top of the other’s.
‘I, Edward, take thee, Joan, to be my wedded wife.’
Anne swallowed, speechless. Surely God must want her to speak, to prevent this sacrilege?
‘Thee to love and keep, as a man ought to love his wife...’
She freed her voice. ‘You mustn’t. You cannot! The King, you are too close...’
The Prince’s scowl stopped her speech. They knew the truth better than she. They shared a royal grandfather, a connection too close for the church to allow this marriage.
‘All will be as it must,’ Lady Joan said. ‘As soon as we have said the vows, we will send a petition to the Pope. He will set aside the impediment and then we will be wed in the church.’
‘But...’ Anne let the objections fade. The Countess believed it would be as easy as that. Logic, reason, all for naught. Lady Joan would do as she pleased and the world would accommodate her.
It had ever been thus.
The Prince withdrew his frown and faced his bride again. ‘...and thereto, I plight thee my troth.’
As if he knew exactly the words to say.
Ah, but her lady knew. Lady Joan knew exactly what must be done to make such a marriage valid.
Now, she heard her lady’s voice, the soft, seductive tone Anne knew too well. ‘I, Joan, take thee, Edward, to be my wedded husband...’
Intentions stated, clearly. Too late to protest now.
The chill of the midnight chapel sank into her bones. She would be the one. She would be the one who held the truth of Lady Joan’s clandestine marriage.
Again.
Within sight of the English coast—four months later
The waters of the channel pitched and rolled less than usual this day, if Nicholas’s stomach was any judge. The tide was with them. He would be ashore by midday and at Windsor Castle before week’s end, his duty discharged.
Free of responsibility.
He was weary of his duty. A moment unheeded and the horses you held in reserve would go lame, victuals would be lost, or hail would fall out of a spring sky, destroying food, armour, men and the decisive victory the King had sought for twenty years.
‘Sir?’
He turned from seeking the shoreline to look at
