The Harlot’s Daughter. Blythe Gifford

man, this man could resist everything she offered. This man could ruin it all.

      She slipped the hood over her head and hurried back to her room, knocking cautiously before entering.

      She opened the door to the scent of lovemaking. The smell tugged at her. What would that be like, to share such closeness?

      She shut the door behind her. Dangerous. It would be dangerous.

      Agnes sprawled under the covers, tears streaking her rounded cheeks.

      Had Agnes’s sad lesson come so soon? ‘What’s the matter?’

      ‘His wife comes tomorrow.’

      She had wondered where the Duchess was while all the King’s favourites were gathered at Windsor. Perhaps she had stayed home to avoid humiliation. ‘She travels on Christmas day?’ The rumours must have driven her to protect herself. No wonder the urgency to bed him one more time. Surely, Agnes would see him no more after his wife arrived.

      Agnes shrugged her answer, speechless in the face of disaster. She folded a little white piece of cloth and blew her nose.

      Solay sat on the side of the bed and patted her arm. ‘It’s all right. Everything will work out,’ she said, without sincerity. Such naïveté could only lead to pain. What had the silly goose expected? That he would leave his wife for his mistress?

      Agnes sat up in bed, sniffing back the tears. ‘I know. You’re right. I must be patient.’ She squeezed Solay’s hands. ‘Thank you. You’re a true friend.’

      She blinked. She had known few women and never one who had called her friend. Women did not like her, as a rule.

      Agnes blew her nose again and tried to smile. ‘Now, tell me—how was the disguising? It was beautiful, no?’

      ‘Oh, yes. The King clapped loudly.’

      ‘No one recognised you?’

      She turned away as she folded the wrinkled linen hood and slipped out of the shift. ‘Nothing has changed.’ Based on what Justin had said, the Duke and Agnes had no secrets left. ‘Tell me, Agnes. What do you know of Lord Justin Lamont?’

      Agnes’s smile slipped into a frown. ‘He’s a terrible man. He’s the one who led Parliament to impeach the King’s Chancellor.’

      Solay shuddered. Worse than a man of law, worse than a Council member. He was a man who would manoeuvre Parliament to destroy those closest to the King, just as her mother’s enemies had done. ‘So he truly is the King’s foe.’

      Agnes leaned forward. ‘They want to attack my dear Duke as well,’ she whispered, as if afraid someone might hear, ‘but they do not dare. He is the King’s right arm.’

      Agnes had let slip her lover’s identity. The poor girl truly believed he was safe, but in times such as these, no one was safe. Still, if Agnes trusted her, perhaps Solay could glean something useful. ‘Lord Justin does the Council’s legal work?’

      Agnes snuggled back under the covers with a pout. ‘I suppose. Who knows how any man spends his time when not with a woman? Documents, diplomacy, bookkeeping.’ She shrugged, as if it were unimportant.

      Solay stared, stunned. Her mother had taught her that the work of the King was the work of the world. While feminine arts gave them diversion, money and power, law and war ruled the earth. How could Agnes not care about those things?

      ‘But that’s not what you really want to know,’ Agnes continued, with a catlike smile. ‘I saw him watch you with hunger during the Christmas feast. You want to know what kind of man he is.’

      ‘He is the King’s enemy.’ And mine. ‘That is all I need to know.’

      ‘But not all you want to know. He’s handsome, isn’t he? Many women think so, but he has refused them all.’ Agnes tilted her head. ‘I heard he was to be wed, many years ago, and the girl died.’

      ‘So he mourns still?’ Somehow, he did not seem like a man who pined for a dead love.

      ‘He has no interest in marriage.’

      ‘His family allows it?’ He was certainly nine and twenty. The family must want an heir.

      ‘He is a second son. His brother has many children. But beware, Solay. He and the Lords Appellant would destroy the King.’

      Should Justin demand more than kisses for his silence, how could she refuse? ‘He does not tempt me. I am only trying to learn who’s who.’

      ‘Good. I saw you with the Earl of Redmon. He might make a good husband. His wife died on Michaelmas and he has three children who need tending. He might not be too particular. I mean…’ A blush spread over her cheekbones. ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘It’s all right.’ There would be no marriage for Solay. She had nothing to offer a husband but her body, unless the mere taste of royalty might titillate a man. ‘I am not thinking of a husband.’ Her hopes lay with a grant from the King, not with a group of lords with temporary power, and if she were to please the King, she must produce a horoscope and a poem.

      ‘Tell me, Agnes, who is the King’s favourite poet?’

      Chapter Four

      As the Lord of Misrule pranced around the table two days after Christmas, Justin felt no Yuletide spirit.

      Across the room, Solay laughed gaily at something John Gower the poet said.

      Justin was not laughing.

      He sank his teeth into the roast boar. At least the King had bowed to convention and put a whole pig on the spit for the Yule feasts. Usually, the meat at table was spiced, sugared, and so shredded you could eat it with a spoon.

      Robert, Duke of Hibernia, had left the King’s side to wander the room and now stood laughing with Solay. That man alone was enough to make him scowl. He was so close to the King that he seemed to fancy that he, too, was royal.

      And judging by her wide-eyed attention to him, Solay knew it as well.

      He heard her husky laugh again.

      Just like her mother, she would lie and cheat and use anyone to get what she wanted. He had avoided her for the past two days, but, mistrustful of her motives, had watched her from afar.

      Be honest with yourself, Lamont. This has nothing to do with your distrust of her. You just can’t keep your eyes off the woman.

      How had he let himself be gulled into holding her lies? Now her falsehoods tainted him, too, and, instead of thanks, she accused him of some subversive purpose. He should expose her and have her expelled from court.

      But then he would remember the pain in her eyes.

      He was ever the fool for a woman in pain.

      More than a fool, for the pain he thought he saw was probably as false as her offered kisses.

      Gloucester joined him, swilling wine from his goblet. ‘Your eyes are ever upon the Lady Solay.’

      ‘Her eyes have turned on every man in the room.’ Most had leered at her as long as she’d let them. ‘I even saw her talking to you.’

      Gloucester smiled. ‘She has her mother’s talent for pleasing powerful men, but if she seeks a husband, she’ll be hard pressed to find one who will have her.’ He lifted his goblet in a parting toast and laughed, moving on down the hall.

      Husband. Startled, Justin looked for her in the crowd. She was smiling at the Earl of Redmon, a recent widower as a result of his third wife’s fall down the stairs. Why had he never thought of marriage for her? A husband would do her more good than a grant, if he came with enough property and a willingness to take on Alys of Weston as a mother-in-law.

      And the right husband would not require the Council’s approval. Only the King’s.

      He looked to the dais.