Rumours At Court. Blythe Gifford

Chapter Three

      Valerie joined the Queen’s household in the Savoy Palace but as the days went on, she saw little of Constanza, or La Reina, as the Queen liked to be called. Lent had begun and the woman spent most of her days either on her knees in her chapel or on her back in her bed.

      Of Castile’s ‘King’, Valerie saw nothing at all. Lancaster settled a generous sum on his wife, so the Queen could run her household as befitted her rank.

      And then started coming the gifts.

      Week upon week, the Clerk of the Wardrobe would arrive at the door with another treasure for the Queen of Castile and deliver it into Valerie’s careful hands. Cloth of gold. Circlets set with emeralds and rubies. Loose pearls by the handfuls. Pearls enough to fill buckets. Pearls to be made into buttons, sewed on dresses, sprinkled on adornments for her hair.

      Wealth such as Valerie had never imagined, placed in her care. And she would take each offering to the Queen, telling her it was another gift, a mark of respect from her husband. And each time, the woman turned her head away, muttering.

      ‘El único regalo que quiero es Castilla.’

      Valerie had learned enough words by now to know her meaning.

      The only gift I want is Castile.

      Her faint connection to Castile had touched the Queen, but it had no such effect on the ladies surrounding her, who were less than pleased to have another Inglésa added to the household. Not only did the Castilian women not speak the language, they had no interest in learning anything of England and, as a result, Valerie heard neither news nor rumour from the court.

      She and Lady Katherine, both ignored, clung to each other’s company. The Queen’s ladies did not invite them to gather for music or needlework and if the English ladies entered the room, the Castilians hovered close to the Queen as if to protect her from danger.

      ‘Do they think I plan to steal her child?’ Katherine muttered one evening as they sat together in their rooms by the fire. ‘I have my own children to mind.’

      Valerie flinched. Perhaps the Castilians had seen the hunger in her own eyes, for it became evident, as February’s days grew longer, that the Queen was with child. Shapeless gowns and cloaks had masked her condition when she arrived, but in the privacy of her quarters, it was plain to see.

      And Valerie, whose womb had never held a babe, was seized by sinful envy.

      God had made both Constanza and Katherine fruitful. Where were the children of her womb? Had God forsaken her? Or would things be different with another man?

      ‘The Queen and her ladies are alone in a strange country,’ she said. She would feel the same, she was certain, if she were ever exiled and sent to an alien land. ‘I’m sure that is the source of their fear. Not us.’

      ‘I have seen little fear in that woman,’ Katherine muttered.

      Valerie could not disagree. When La Reina did rise from her bed, she was straight-spined and clear-eyed and the orders she issued about the ceremonies of her exiled court showed that she had no doubt of her title and position, here or in Castile.

      ‘But her ladies all seem angry,’ Valerie said. Despite all her smiles and attempts to appease them, there had been nary a nod in return. ‘What if she complains to the Duke of our care?’

      Katherine smiled, serene. ‘Do not worry. He knows.’

      As if he knew Katherine so deeply that... Not a thought to be followed. ‘You served his first wife. He knows your worth. He knows nothing of me.’

      Katherine laid light fingers on her arm. ‘I will not let that woman undermine you.’

      Perhaps, Valerie thought. But this Castilian court in exile was all that stood between her and a new husband. If the Queen decided to be rid of her, there would be no recourse.

      A knock on the door. A page entered. ‘The Queen commands your presence, Lady Valerie.’

      She rose, uncertain whether to rejoice or be afraid.

      ‘Here. Let me.’ Katherine tucked a stray hair back beneath her wimple. ‘Now you look lovely. Go. See what the woman wants.’

      Valerie followed the page to the Queen’s quarters.

      Constanza, La Reina, sat in a throne-like chair, wearing a headpiece unlike any Valerie had seen in the English court. It hugged her head, with beading draped around, and came to an upward point in the middle of the forehead. It hid her hair, but made her eyes look huge.

      Her priest, who served as her interpreter, was at her side.

      Valerie curtsied and stood, waiting. Whispers.

      ‘You are a widow,’ the man said, finally.

      She touched the wimple. ‘Sí, Your Grace. My husband died in the service of your husband.’

      More whispers, then the priest spoke again. ‘La Reina still mourns her father. She understands your pain.’

      Valerie bowed her head and murmured her thanks, while sending a silent prayer that the Queen would never, truly, understand how she felt about her husband’s death.

      A silence, then. Awkward.

      The Queen was struggling to hold herself erect, though it was evident that carrying the heir was not easy for her. Valerie had heard her complaints ranged from bleeding in her gums to rawness of the throat and stomach. And, now, in the same room with her, Valerie could smell that someone had broken wind.

      ‘I have not properly congratulated Your Grace,’ she said, hurriedly. ‘That you are to become a mother.’

      The Queen smiled, an expression more joyful than Valerie had ever seen from her. No, it was beyond joy. Near heavenly bliss.

      The priest translated her words. ‘Yes, praise God. When we return to Castile, it will be with a son. My father will be avenged.’

      ‘Dormit in pace,’ Valerie muttered, with bowed head. The Castilian King had been murdered by his half-brother, who now held the throne that should have gone to Constanza.

      Suddenly, the Queen touched Valerie’s head and gave quick instructions to the priest who spoke again. ‘La Reina will have a hundred masses said for the soul of your husband.’

      ‘A hundred?’ Valerie had paid the four pence for her husband’s death mass and, truth to tell, she wondered whether the sum could have been better used paying a labourer to repair the roof of the barn.

      Quickly, she prayed to be forgiven for such a wicked thought. The man would need prayers if he were to move beyond Purgatory to rest in peace, though she suspected he would find many kindred souls there, waiting for purification before they could go to Heaven.

      She dipped in reverence and bowed her head again. ‘Her Grace’s generosity is beyond measure.’ For one hundred masses, she could have bought a horse and chariot. ‘If there is any service I can render her, I will gladly do so.’

      A smile touched the woman’s lips, even before the translation was complete. Perhaps she knew more of the language than she admitted. Or, more likely, the posture of deference and gratitude was the same in her country as here.

      Murmurs, and then the translator spoke. ‘You have been patient to stay here. You must want to go home. She asks only that you continue to pray for victory in Castile. Rise. Go with God.’

      A dismissal.

      And the word home.

      She fought the swift desire to see her Kentish soil again. If only she could, truly, go home. Instead, she would be forced to submit to a new husband, an unknown terror, one who might be even worse than the last.

      But if the Queen had sensed her desire for home, she would have to convince her that she wanted nothing more than to continue in