full support of the King and Queen. I know all was in order, I just need to find the pieces and put them together. The Prince said you have been with her for many years. Do you remember when Holland returned? Do you remember anything about that time?’
‘I...’ She swallowed. ‘I was not in the household during most of it. I was with my lady.’
Surprise on his face. ‘And where was she?’
‘In the tower.’
Some combination of shock, confusion and comprehension mingled in his expression. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Salisbury...locked her there.’
‘His own wife?’
‘Or was she the wife of Thomas Holland?’ Salisbury’s wife, yes, who now wanted to leave him, now that the strong warrior Holland had come back into her life. But Salisbury was young, knighted less than a year, still foolish and hot-headed. He thought if he kept her away from Holland, she’d forget the man.
As she had once before.
‘So did her counsel visit her there? To take her statement so he could represent her before the Pope?’
She shook her head. ‘Salisbury would not allow it. She was kept under guard...’ The memory of that year made her shudder. She had been her lady’s sole companion for months. It had nearly driven them both mad.
‘But the church requires that she testify, have counsel...’
She shrugged. She had said too much already. And she knew little of what had gone on beyond the tower walls while they waited together.
‘How long?’ His question, sharp. ‘How long did this go on?’
The time had seemed endless then. ‘I don’t remember. A year?’
‘But Salisbury let her speak, finally.’
‘Yes.’ She should have said nothing at all. To answer even one question would lead to more, to all the ones she must not answer.
‘Why? Did the Archbishop intervene? Or the King?’
To answer would tell him too much. The King, the Queen, Joan’s mother, all of them had supported Salisbury. But Holland, relentless, sent another plea to the Pope, and another and another... ‘Such matters are beyond the knowledge of a maiden.’
She must end this. Now.
So she pushed herself to her feet and Nicholas immediately rose, reaching out to steady her, and she at once craved and feared to have him so near again. Now she was beginning to understand the hunger that drew Edward and Joan, the hunger that ignored everything that stood between them, the hunger that meant they would do anything, anything, to be together.
‘And so, Sir Nicholas, I have reached Canterbury. While the Archbishop searches his files and his memory, may I visit the tomb of St Thomas?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. You will have your pilgrimage, Anne.’
The hopeless, dishonest pilgrimage that she did not want.
The road leading to the Cathedral stretched before them, lined with pilgrims. Very few walked. The rest crawled, hobbled, crept forward on their knees. It was as if the very ground moved.
Hoping. Every one of them hoping for a miracle.
Anne did not hope.
Nicholas, beside her, touched her arm, his support stronger than the crutch that held her upright. He nodded to the road ahead. ‘Do you want to...?’
‘Crawl?’ To get on hands and knees like a dog? Not in front of Nicholas. Not in front of anyone. ‘No. God allows me the grace to stand upright. I shall keep my head high.’
He lifted his arms, as if uncertain whether she needed, or wanted, his help. ‘What can I do?’
His question humbled her. Had anyone ever asked that of her? In that way? Not as if she must be pitied or hidden, but as if her wishes deserved to be honoured and her pain witnessed.
‘I would be grateful,’ she said, her voice as unsteady as her feet, ‘if you would walk beside me.’
He nodded. ‘I am no pilgrim, but I will see that you reach the shrine.’
Not because he cared, she told herself. Only because he was a man accustomed to making arrangements and solving problems. Still....
Together, they turned to the Cathedral. With Nicholas beside her she would approach the church door as if to seek blessing for a marriage.
Something she must never think.
A fraud, all of it. A pretence for her to be here at all. A diversion for today so he would ask no more questions, discover no more truths. Yet now that the great Cathedral rose before her, now that she forced herself to go through motions as if she were in a mystery play, it felt real. More real, more important than anything she had ever done.
And despite her refusal to hope, hope lifted her. Each step grew easier and gradually, the Cathedral loomed larger, as if it were a plant, growing taller before her eyes as it stretched toward the sun.
They walked not in respectful silence, but surrounded by noise—wailing, cries of pain, muttered prayers, and songs, songs that pilgrims sang so they would forget the miles passing beneath their feet.
And standing beside the road, even hawkers of souvenirs were yelling as if they were selling sweets in the market. ‘Badges! Take home a badge!’ The toothless pedlar waved a small, stamped tin emblem, the head of St Thomas Becket, wearing the mitre of his bishop’s office, all framed by finely made arches that must have been copied from the Cathedral itself.
Nicholas paused. ‘Let me buy one for you.’
‘Look,’ the man said, pulling out every sample of his wares. ‘I have the saint in a ship and this one here shows the tomb itself, with all the detail. You see? That’s beautiful work. And in this one they are killing the martyr, cutting off his head right in front of the altar.’
‘Which one do you like?’ Nicholas asked.
And suddenly, she wanted one, wanted something of her own that she could hold and look at and remember. One day, a handsome man stood by my side and cared what I thought.
The badge seller had laid out his collection on his left arm, marching up his sleeve from wrist to elbow.
She studied the riches, then pointed to St Thomas on horseback. ‘That one.’
‘To remind you that you rode all the way here.’
So quickly, he had understood. For some pilgrims, walking was penance, but she had conquered riding long distances.
‘Thank you.’ Hard words to say. She was weary of a lifetime of endless thanks. But she saw no pity in his
