Secrets at Court. Blythe Gifford

pleading, as if one person were all the difference between Heaven and Earth.

      How could she answer now? Joan was mad. Playing with the laws of God and men as if she had the right. And suddenly, Anne wished fiercely she could do the same.

      Such choices did not exist for a cripple.

      ‘It is not for me to say, my lady.’

      Joan rose and gathered Anne’s fingers away from her needle, playing with them as she had when they were young. ‘But I want you to celebrate with me. With us.’

      Ah, yes. That was Joan. Still able to wind everyone she knew into a ball of yarn she could toss at will. So Anne sighed and hugged her, and said she was happy for her and all would be well, succumbing to Joan’s charm as everyone did. It was her particular gift, to draw love to herself as the sea drew the river.

      ‘It is settled, then,’ Joan said, all smiles again. ‘All will be as it must.’

      ‘Of course, my lady.’ Words by rote. A response as thoughtless as her lady’s watchwords.

      But her lady was not finished. ‘Have you seen him? The King’s ambassador, Sir Nicholas?’

      Anne’s heart sped at the memory. ‘From afar.’

      ‘So he has not seen you.’

      She shook her head, grateful he had been spared the sight of her stumbling as she stared after him.

      ‘Good. Then here is what you must do for me.’

      Anne put down her needlework and listened.

      An honour, of course, the life she lived. Many would envy a position at the court, surrounded by luxury. And yet, some days, it felt more like a dungeon, for she would never be allowed to leave her lady’s side.

      She knew too much.

      * * *

      Nicholas stood in an alcove on the edge of the Great Room of the largest of the King’s four lodges, watching Edward and Joan celebrate as if they were already wed in the eyes of God and his priests.

      All evening, men had come up to him, slapping him on the shoulder as if the battle were over and he had won a great victory.

      He had not. Not yet.

      A swig of claret did not help him swallow that truth, though Edward and Joan seemed to have no trouble ignoring it. Still, the Pope’s message had been private, not his to share. Nothing more than a formality. A few more weeks of inconvenience, then he’d find freedom.

      He scanned the room, impatient to be gone. The treaty with France was a year old, but Nicholas had spent little of it in England. King Edward now held the French King’s own sons as hostages and Nicholas had been one of those charged with the comings and goings of men and of gold.

      Now, instead of meeting the French in battle, King Edward, as chivalrous as Arthur, treated them as honoured guests instead of prisoners of war. He had even brought some of them to this forest hideaway to protect them from the pestilence.

      Well, a live hostage was worth gold. A dead one was worth nothing. And Nicholas’s own French hostage, securely held in a gaol in London, would be worth something.

      One day.

      The King had called for dancing and some of the French hostages had joined in, laughing and flirting with Princess Isabella, who was nearly the age of the Prince and unmarried. Strange, that such a wise ruler as Edward had not yet married off his oldest children. Unused assets, too long accustomed to living as they pleased, both of them were strong willed and open to mischief.

      Someone bumped into him, hard enough that his wine sloshed from the cup and splashed his last clean tunic. He turned, frowning, ready to call out to the clumsy knave.

      Instead, he saw a woman.

      Well, he did not see her exactly. The first thing he saw, he felt as it brushed over his hand, was her hair. Soft and red and smelling vaguely of spices.

      A surge of desire caught him off guard. It had been a long time since he had bedded a woman, or even thought of one.

      She had fallen and he swallowed the sharp retort he had planned and held out a hand to help her rise. ‘Watch yourself.’

      She looked up at him, eyes wide, then quickly looked down. ‘Forgive me.’

      Humble words. But not a humble tone.

      She raised her eyes again and he saw in their depths that she was accustomed to serving the rich. He knew that feeling and wondered who she waited on.

      ‘I am sorry,’ she said, in a tone that implied she had used the words many times. ‘Usually there is no one here and I can catch a moment of quiet.’

      ‘I spoke too harshly.’ Life at court demanded strength and courtesy in a different mix from the work of war and diplomacy.

      He grabbed her hand to help her up, ignoring the fire on his palm, thinking she would let go quickly.

      She did not.

      Her fingers remained in his, not lightly, as if she were attempting seduction, but heavily as if she would fall without his support.

      ‘Can you stand now?’ Eager to have his hand returned.

      Her eyes met his and did not look away this time. ‘If you hand me my stick.’

      Too late, he saw it. A crutch, fallen to the floor.

      He looked down at her skirt before he could stop himself, then forced his eyes to meet hers again.

      Hers had a weary expression, as if he were not the first curious person who had sought a glimpse of her defect. ‘It is a feeble foot and not much to look on.’

      He did not waste breath to deny where his gaze had fallen. ‘Lean against the wall. I’ll get your stick.’

      She did and he bent over, feeling strangely unbalanced, as if he might topple, too. The movement brought his hand and his cheek too close to her skirt and he caught himself wondering what lay beneath, not the foot she had spoken of, but the more womanly parts...

      Abruptly, he stood and handed the smooth, worn stick to her, straight armed, as if she might catch sight of his thoughts if he got too close.

      She reached for the staff, tucked it under her arm, then stretched her free hand to brush the stain on his tunic. ‘I will have this washed.’

      He grabbed her fingers and nearly threw her hand away from his chest. ‘No need.’ Ashamed, with his next breath, that he had done so. She would think it was because of her leg.

      It was not. It was because her fingers lit a fire within him. ‘Forgive my lack of chivalry.’ He had been too long at war and too little around women.

      She laughed then. A laugh devoid of mirth, yet it rolled through her with the deep reverberation of a bell.

      A bell calling him not to church, but to something much more earthly.

      When her laughter faded, she smiled. ‘I am not a woman accustomed to chivalry.’

      He studied her, puzzled. She would not have drawn his eye in a room. Hair the colour of fabric ill—dyed, as if it wanted to be red but had not the strength. An unremarkable face except for her eyes. Large, wide set, bold and stark, taking over her face, yet he could not name their colour. Blue? Grey?

      ‘What are you accustomed to?’ he asked.

      Not a serving woman. She was too well dressed and, despite his first impression, did not have the cowering demeanour of those of that station.

      ‘I am Anne of Stamford, lady-in-waiting to the Countess of Kent.’

      The Countess of Kent. Or, as she would soon be known, the Princess of Wales. The woman whose want of discretion had sent him to Avignon and back.

      ‘I am Sir Nicholas Lovayne.’ Though she had not shown the