Gil wanted, needed, change. If he married now, he would have no home to offer but the one he had fled. ‘But surely this marriage can wait until we regain Castile?’
‘I said things would not change,’ Lancaster said, ‘but changes will come, Gil, as they do to all men, whether you want them or not.’ Memories and regret, both stamped on the Duke’s face. ‘Which is why your marriage must be now.’ The words, final. Allowing no more debate.
He swallowed. ‘Is she...willing?’
The Duke looked baffled. ‘She is a woman. She will do as I bid.’
And so must Gil. In truth, the decision belonged neither fully to him nor to her. True, either of them could protest at the church door, but the church ruled life after death. Lancaster, Monseigneur d’Espagne, ruled their lives on earth, hers as well as his. Their relationship with their lord was a complex series of agreements and promises, many written on parchment, others written on the heart, but all bonds made of honour, strong as iron. Vows not to be broken.
Not if Gil was to be the man he wanted to be.
But his true question lay answered. Will she have me? Will she take a Brewen?
He asked a different way. ‘Her family...will they consent?’
‘She has no family left. And no children from Scargill, so none to compete with the ones you will give her.’
He nodded, silent, understanding why the Duke had thought her a good match. No family left. No one to object.
‘She told me,’ Gil began, ‘that one of her ancestors had served Eleanor of Castile.’
‘Yes,’ the Duke said. ‘Her family has no stain through all those generations.’
He gritted his teeth. An awkward acknowledgement. He needed a spotless reputation from a wife more than he needed worldly wealth.
Assuming his agreement, the Duke continued. ‘Her dowry is the parcel of land given to the family years ago, but it is part of Scargill’s holdings now and he died with debts. I will arrange a dowry payment for her instead of passing on the land.’
Because a duke could do such things.
‘Does she know? Of your decision?’
The Duke smiled. ‘I thought you should bring her the good news.’
He wondered whether she would find it so. ‘I leave for Losford tomorrow. When I get back—’
‘No. Now. Before you go.’
He sighed. Maybe fortune would smile on him, he thought, as he bowed and left the room. Maybe, as opinionated as she was, she would say no.
* * *
‘Sir Gilbert asks that you come to him.’
Valerie looked around the room. The page’s whisper had reached only her ear. The Queen was resting and her other ladies, as always, were ignoring Valerie with deliberate purpose.
She would not be missed.
She put down her hated needlework and followed the boy to the outer room, struggling to stifle the heat in her cheeks at the memory of their last meeting. Her every encounter with Sir Gilbert had been unpleasant. What could send him to her again? Did he think to warn her against spreading suspicious tales about Lady Katherine and My Lord of Spain? No need. Idle chatter would only hurt both Katherine and the Queen.
The grim set of his lips did not reassure her. The Wolf of Castile they had called him. He looked the part today. Whatever message he bore, the tidings must not be good.
What was that legend?
If a wolf sees a man before the man sees the wolf, the man will lose his voice. If the man sees the wolf first, the wolf can no longer be fierce.
Then surely he must have seen her first.
She stopped before him and he bowed, briefly. ‘I must speak to you alone. Let us walk.’
She gave the page a wave of dismissal and followed Sir Gilbert into the corridor. His stride was longer than hers and she near ran, trying to keep up, but still she lagged behind.
He turned to look finally, still frowning.
She stopped, still a length behind him, and mirrored his glare. ‘My steps are shorter than yours.’
A flicker crossed his face, as if her words had shamed him.
Again, she had been forward, speaking as if she had the right to counter him. Would he shout? Raise his hand to her? No. He did not have a husband’s rights. She was safe.
He waved towards a window alcove with a stone seat. ‘Then sit.’
She did. The hallway, far from the nearest fireplace, was empty and the stone was cold even through the wool of her gown.
He did not sit, but towered over her, broad shoulders blocking the draught from the window, looking more fearsome than ever. She braved meeting his eyes again, but this time, she sensed none of the fire that had sparked between them before.
This time, he eyed her as if she were an opponent on the field.
She wanted to avert her gaze—to study the cloud-filled sky and assess when the rain would come—to look anywhere but into his critical eyes. But she willed herself to face him, calmly, waiting.
He began without preamble. ‘The Duke thinks I ought to marry you.’ Words spare, blunt. And totally void of feeling.
Yet they left her as shocked as if he had run a sword through her. All hope for a life of independence, even the few weeks’ reprieve she had tried to grasp, all gone. She clawed for words. ‘But I am serving the Queen.’ As if that might truly save her. ‘She asked that I stay—’
‘You will continue to do so as long as she wishes.’
Only until Easter, La Reina had said. And there could be no wedding until Lent was over. But then? She would indeed be at a man’s mercy again.
She paused, letting her mind settle. She must not assume the worst. They were gathering men and ships to return to Castile. This man had other obligations and no time to settle into a new household. ‘So we will be betrothed. For some time.’
‘No.’ His face was grim, as if he took no more joy in this marriage than she did. ‘Before I sail for Castile.’
And yet, she had heard nothing of when that might be. Did she have weeks? Days? Only hours of freedom left? ‘When? When is this marriage to take place?’
How many more days of her own did she have?
‘A few weeks. The war is close upon us.’
Obvious the man had not married before. He knew nothing of all that lay ahead. ‘But banns must be read, the union announced—’
‘Lancaster will see to that.’
‘I
