Rumours At Court. Blythe Gifford

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 see.’ And now she did. No arguments to be made. No way to delay. The decision had been made. Once again, control had left her hands and been given to men. She fixed a smile on her lips, met his eyes with the appropriate expression and mumbled the words he must have expected from the first. ‘I am honoured, of course, and will try in every way to please you.’

      The compliment brought a moment of confusion to his face, a touch of doubt to his gaze. ‘Does that mean yes? That you will marry me?’

      She wanted to scream no to this man she barely knew. Was he cruel or kind? Had he wealth or only his armour?

      And yet, all that mattered less now than what he knew.

      He knew of her humiliation. He knew that her husband had betrayed her with another woman. Seen the crumpled evidence of her failure as a wife.

      Suddenly, knowing she would have to please a husband again, the familiar fears returned. Would he, like Scargill, think her breasts too small and her hips too thin? Would he, too, grow to hate the sound of her voice and tell her to shut her mouth?

      And even though she must expect that this man, too, would seek another’s bed some day, the first time he came to her bed, he would already count her a failure. He already knew she had not been enough for her husband.

      And yet, he had asked. Does that mean yes? An awkward question, but surprisingly kind. As if pretending the choice were hers. It was not. For she had known one thing, always. No woman could refuse a marriage.

      And so, with head high and lips pressed firmly into a smile, she nodded. ‘Yes. I will marry you.’

      I will marry you. Words enough to satisfy canon law. That would allow her to call him husband.

      He let out a breath, as if with her assent, the hardest part had passed. ‘Then we are betrothed.’ Yet that look of uncertainty lingered on his face, as if the Wolf had become a Lamb. ‘Have you nothing more to say?’

      She coughed, to cover the laughter that threatened to bubble over. A woman did not laugh at her husband. Not if she wished a smooth existence. But this man seemed full of contradictions, by turn stern, angry, kind and even, for a moment, as uncertain of the future as she.

      There were questions she should ask, important ones about her land and his family, where they would marry, where they would live. But the answers barely mattered now. My Lord of Spain had decreed it. So it would be. All she could do was to bow her head, bite her tongue and submit to this man’s will. ‘What happens next?’

      ‘I have duties with my lord, as do you with the Queen. We will continue to fulfil them.’

      She nodded, as briefly as he, with a half-smile as if his answer pleased her. It was a partial, but perplexing reprieve. ‘But I am to meet your family, move my belongings, settle into your holdings and establish a home...’ When she had married Scargill, there was a flurry of activity, settling details of property and management of the holdings, making room for him in the home that had been hers...

      All to be ready for the arrival of a baby that never came.

      ‘Nothing will change.’ He said those words as if they were a vow, then rose, as if the conversation was complete and everything settled.

      Nothing? It was evident that the man had never married, or he would know that everything was to change. Or, perhaps, it was true for him. Only Valerie would, once again, rearrange her life to accommodate a husband. And, if he had no home of his own, perhaps they would live at Florham, as she and Scargill had done. The very possibility was a comfort.

      ‘Is it my place to tell the Queen that I am to be wed?’ How were such things done? Her life had been tied to the earth, not to the court.

      He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is for My Lord of Spain to do. I do not know the way of such things.’

      ‘As you will, my lord.’

      He shrugged his shoulders, as if to throw off the title. ‘You must not call