Chapter One
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 his squire, Eustace. The boy had hardened on this journey.
He was not the only one. ‘Yes?’
‘Your things are packed. All is ready.’
There was a question at the end of the sentence. ‘Except?’
‘Except your horse.’
He sighed. Horses were meant for land, not water.
Without a word, he left the sharp, bracing air of the deck and descended to the cramped, smelly bowels of the ship.
No wonder the horse was ill. If he had been confined to this cesspool, he would be, too.
The horse’s head hung low, nearly touching the floor. Unable to throw out the contents of his belly as a man would do, the poor beast could only stand, miserable, shedding tears and sweat like rain.
Nicholas stroked his neck and the animal, barely able to lift his head, seemed to open his eyes and blink in gratitude.
No. He would not ride this horse today. The final miles of this journey stretched before him, as difficult as all the rest had been.
But the Edwards, both King and Prince, would have no patience for excuses. Princes and popes need only speak a thing for it to happen, expecting mere mortals such as Nicholas Lovayne to create the needed miracles.
And time after time, he did. He made certain there was always an alternate route, always another choice, always one more way the goal might be reached, never exhausting the possibilities until the deed was done.
There was pride in that.
But his other horse had succumbed on this journey, so he would find another way.
Leaving his squire to unload, Nicholas disembarked and was greeted by the warden of the Cinque Ports. He, too, had ridden with the Prince in France, though Nicholas did not know him well. It did not matter. Men who had
