turn the questions back at him than let him question her.
‘Besides,’ she began, ‘for every woman who wants to wed, there must be a man. Few men choose as you have.’
She let the statement dangle, hoping he would offer more of his reasons. Had a woman wronged him? Did he mourn a lost wife? Perhaps he had taken a vow.
‘Few men have seen women’s full deceit as I have.’
Words harsh as a blow. She must have gasped.
She parted her lips to argue. I am not like that. I am not like those others you have known.
But, of course, she was. And to protest would only make the lie grow fat.
He rose and held out his hand. ‘If you are rested, we can return.’
She took his hand, needing his help to rise, but let go as quickly as she could, dreading the moment when he would have to help her on to the horse’s back.
It was always an awkward thing, mounting. Difficult as it was, she preferred to do it by herself so that no one would see her. First, she would have to lead the gentle horse up to a tree stump or a rock. Then she would step on it and position herself carefully so that she could reach the stirrup with her left foot. Finally, she would pull herself up, the right foot dragging behind her, and use her remaining strength to swing her right leg over the palfrey’s croup without hitting the horse.
It was all so difficult and unsightly that, were it not for the joy of riding, she would not do it at all. But once she was mounted, she could move, almost as freely as others did. For that, she would bear the pain.
But for him to see her...
The horse, well trained, ambled over to the log on her signal. If she asked, politely, would Nicholas look away and spare her the embarrassment?
She took a breath to ask him, but before she could speak he lifted her up, close enough to the saddle that she could find her seat, then it was easy to pull her right leg into position and settle in the saddle.
All done so quickly that she had no time to worry about how she looked. And so smoothly that their bodies did not linger together long enough to allow temptation again.
‘I thank you.’ Words she hated to say, yet he deserved them.
A quick glance, as if he were as unaccustomed to receiving thanks as she was to giving them.
‘You are kind to say so,’ he said, solemn as if she had taken an oath.
‘Usually, no one...’ She let the words trail off. She had been helped by servants, pages, or even squires on occasion, but never by a gentleman.
He studied her with eyes that seemed to look deeper than she wanted.
‘Let us go,’ he said, finally, mounting his own horse. ‘And hear the King’s tales of how he killed the stag.’
No. She was not invisible to this man. And that made him even more dangerous.
They returned to the lodge and Anne retreated to the chamber next to her lady’s, glad of a chance to rest her leg until the hunting party returned and Lady Joan called for her.
Her lady had a maid, of course, to help her out of her garments, but to Anne fell the honour of combing her lady’s hair.
Thus their days would end, with Anne allowed to sit behind her lady, a concession to Anne’s condition. Then, as Anne combed the long, blonde locks, first with the thick side of the comb, Lady Joan would chatter of her day’s delights. Once in a while, she would ask Anne what she had observed of this lady or that knight.
No, Anne could not run or walk, but she could watch and listen. And that, in and of itself, was a talent.
So Anne would talk and Joan would listen—one of the few times she did listen—and tuck each bit of information away, only to pull it out later, to use as one might offer a treat to a dog to lure him to her lap. Or, she might express a similar opinion, one she already knew the hearer held. At that, the man—and it was almost always a man—would be delighted and think her the most wonderful woman and one who understood him completely.
Lady Joan soon returned to the lodge, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from the hunt. She sat down in front of the mirror and Anne placed herself behind her, ready to start combing her mistress’s hair.
‘Did you enjoy the hunt, my lady?’
She lifted her shoulders. ‘I do it because Edward likes it. He shot the stag so his father owes him for the wager they made. And so, a happy day.’
‘A joyful day indeed, my lady.’ Words by rote.
Joan glanced back over her shoulder, pulling her heavy hair out of Anne’s hand. ‘And your hunt? What more have you learned of Sir Nicholas?’
That was the reason, the only reason, that she had ridden beside Nicholas today. So she could answer that question.
‘He has no lady, so he needs no gift for her.’ And he was not likely to have one, if she judged him right. ‘He holds a French hostage and he plans to return to fighting when he has discharged his duty to the Prince.’
And he kissed me.
But her lady must not know about the kiss.
Lady Joan nodded, absently, and turned forward. ‘The King’s messenger returned.’
Anne picked up the comb again and let loose a breath, slowly, so as not to betray her relief. Her lady was satisfied. There would be no more questions about Sir Nicholas tonight. ‘So soon? I thought it would take near a fortnight to travel to Canterbury and back.’
‘He did not go so far. He met some travellers who reported there is no pestilence between here and there.’
‘So when will Sir Nicholas leave? Tomorrow?’ She prayed it would be so. Every minute that she shared a roof with the man seemed a threat.
‘I think so. Edward said he would go, too, but I don’t want him to. No reason for him to risk the plague. Sir Nicholas steered the Pope to our side. He can certainly handle the Archbishop.’ She looked back at Anne with an assessing eye and smiled. ‘Come. Let me comb your hair.’
‘It is my task to comb yours, my lady.’ Uneasy, to be treated with such kindness from Lady Joan.
‘Ah, but you are ever so patient with my little foibles. Come. Turn around.’
So Anne pulled a few blonde strands from the teeth on the side of the comb made for thick hair and discarded them, then handed the comb to Lady Joan. ‘You’ll need use only the thin side, my lady.’
An uneasy feeling at first, to have her lady at her back, where Anne could not read her every expression. Yet the gentle tug, the soft hands, the few moments of peace spun around her, as if Joan’s calming presence itself touched her head and shoulders. As long as she stayed close, she was wrapped in Joan’s world,
