Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 1 of 2

by Virginia Heath

  Mathilde stopped just outside the door, seized with the sudden instinct to retreat as the Queen’s guest pulled his hood back and strode purposefully into the apartment. The younger man followed, glancing over his shoulder as if to weigh her reaction, but there was no mockery in his eyes now. On the contrary, he looked almost sympathetic, his pale gaze darker and full of shadows, as if he regretted making her accompany them, after all. His expression told her that he’d seen the Queen’s smile, too, only perhaps, unlike her, he knew what it meant.

  ‘My thanks for the escort.’ He spoke as if he’d really needed her help to find the way, holding the lantern out in such a manner that there was no risk of their fingers touching again. ‘Don’t get lost on the way back.’

  She nodded, although she didn’t answer. Instead she turned on her heel and walked away, resolving to forget that the last few moments had ever happened. As for her handsome tormentor, she never wanted to see him again in her life.

  * * *

  Henry watched as the girl retreated along the corridor, the lantern in her hand casting a faint glow of light around her slender figure and adding fiery red lights to her long, chestnut-coloured hair. He’d been suspicious of her at first—it was his job to be wary—but he’d swiftly concluded that those beautiful brown eyes—surely the biggest he’d ever seen?—were incapable of duplicity. In a court full of intrigue and ambition, there was something refreshingly clear and honest about them. They were luminous, without any hint of cynicism or calculation. He’d liked them. He’d liked her. It wasn’t often that he trusted people, and never at first acquaintance, but if she’d been putting on an air of innocence then it was the best act he’d ever seen.

  He’d been unable to resist teasing her, although in his defence he hadn’t expected her to take his words so seriously. Most ladies of the court wouldn’t have. Most would have teased him back, fluttering their eyelashes and sliding their hands to their hips for good measure. But then most wouldn’t have been dressed in such old-fashioned garments either, looking as if they’d just emerged from some country backwater instead of the Queen’s household. Who was she? And why would Isabella trust someone so young and obviously inexperienced? The girl had looked genuinely shocked by the sight of the Queen’s smile for his master, as if she hadn’t known what to make of it. As if she wished she hadn’t seen it at all. Which she wouldn’t have if he hadn’t cajoled her into accompanying them.

  Still, he was being punished for that mistake now. He could have stayed behind in their rooms, enjoying a well-earned nap after the long ride from Hainault, but instead he’d seized the opportunity of walking alongside the girl and now he was stuck here, discreetly trying to ignore the reunion taking place behind him.

  He went to stand by a window, grimacing at the sight of sunshine illuminating the tops of the lime trees outside. Of course it would stop raining now that they’d finally arrived, after eight long hours in the saddle feeling like drowned rats.

  ‘No sign of the Queen’s brother.’ Fitz, one of the Flemish bodyguards, came to stand beside him, speaking in an undertone. ‘Our French King has made himself scarce, eh?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s been delayed.’ Henry murmured noncommittally.

  ‘Or perhaps he didn’t want to interrupt a tryst?’ Fitz smirked. ‘How long will we be staying this time?’

  ‘Not long. A day at the most.’

  ‘You know there are still rumours despite all this secrecy.’ Fitz jerked his head as a door closed on the other side of the room. ‘She plays a dangerous game, your Queen. The English King will hear of his wife’s behaviour sooner or later.’

  ‘Probably.’ Henry turned his face back to the window with a shrug. No doubt Edward would hear, but he still wouldn’t believe it. That was his problem, never believing that anyone would dare to disobey him. Despite an almost successful rebellion against him, despite years of disquiet and unrest, despite all of the evidence staring him in the face, he would never believe it, expecting everyone to obey his rule no matter how badly he treated them, nor how greedily he behaved or how many promises he broke.

  It was a kind of blindness, that lack of imagination. It would be his downfall. Sooner rather than later if his own master, not to mention the Queen, had their way. Then perhaps England would be a fairer country, a place where a man—any man—could earn position and fortune through ability and hard work instead of simply birthright, where even an illegitimate bastard like him could become someone of consequence.

  A small brown-feathered dunnock landed on the ledge outside the window, its neat, unobtrusive appearance reminding him of the girl. His life was far too hectic and unsettled for him to spare much thought for women in general, but something about her intrigued him. Her face was perfectly clear in his memory. A pleasing one, round and lightly sun-bronzed, with a faint scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, but far too open, as if her eyes truly were the window into her soul. He wondered if she knew what she was involved in. He strongly suspected not. For her sake, he hoped the Queen didn’t use her as an intermediary again. For his own, he willed their paths to cross a second time and then...well then, at the very least, he’d find out her name.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Autumn 1325

  Mathilde was in the palace kitchens before Prime, collecting a bowl of stewed fruit for the Queen to break her fast. The task meant that she was up earlier than the other attendants, but she didn’t mind. The French palace was a busy place, filled with bustle and noise most of the time, but at dawn she could wander quietly through the courtyards, enjoying the scent of the herb gardens and the sweet, clean taste of the air. It was one of the few times in the day when she could enjoy a few moments of peace.

  She stopped in the middle of one courtyard and drew in a deep breath, letting the scents of lavender, thyme and rosemary fill her nostrils and transport her back to her home in Yorkshire. Such moments were bittersweet, though her life at court had improved immeasurably over the past few months. Isabella wasn’t cold and remote any longer, but treated her like a trusted, even valued, member of her inner circle. Homesick and heartsore though she still was on occasion, Mathilde no longer felt so alone.

  Alone. The word sent a prickle of awareness down her spine. She hadn’t noticed it at first, but now she could sense a pair of eyes watching her, though it took her a few moments to actually locate the source, standing only a few feet ahead, half-hidden behind one of the courtyard pillars, twining a stem of lavender idly between his fingertips.

  Her breath hitched in surprise. She recognised him immediately although four months had passed since their first and last meeting and there had been no sign of him and thankfully no more subterfuge since. She’d assumed that he’d left the French court, so what was he doing here again now? He looked almost exactly the same as she remembered, dressed in a plain dark tunic as if he were still trying to attract as little attention as possible, with his curly hair hanging in the same careless way over his forehead. Only his eyes were different. Warmer and less wintry, although it might have been—it surely was—a trick of the light.

  ‘I thought it was you.’ He smiled and advanced towards her with the slow yet deliberate steps of a cat. ‘The Queen’s mysterious ring bearer. Can we be friends yet, lady, or are you still afraid I might bite?’

  ‘No!’ She turned sharply towards a door on a different side of the courtyard. If she’d been remotely pleased to see him, to find that he remembered her, too, then she wasn’t any more. She certainly wasn’t going to stand there and let him mock her again.

  ‘Forgive me.’ His teasing tone dropped away as he fell into step alongside her. ‘We got off to a bad start. I was tired that day and my behaviour wasn’t what it ought to have been. I apologise.’

  ‘Very well.’ Her steps didn’t falter.

  ‘Very well?’ he echoed. ‘Does that mean you forgive me?’

  ‘We are instructed to forgi
ve and so I do.’ She threw him a swift sideways look. ‘That doesn’t mean we can be friends.’

  ‘Just tell me your name, then.’ He put a hand out to slow her down, but she veered away, curving her footsteps around him. ‘Mine’s Henry.’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’ She was as severe as she knew how to be, but he only laughed.

  ‘You’re finally learning court ways then? Good. I was afraid there was too much of the country in you when we last met.’

  She ignored everything her father had ever told her about manners and modest behaviour and glared over her shoulder, barely resisting the urge to make one of the unladylike gestures her brothers had taught her for good measure. His words were less an expression of concern than an insult, a way of saying that he’d found her ignorant and naive that day. Both of those things might have been true—they probably still were—but she preferred not to be reminded of the fact. She already stood out too much among the Queen’s more sophisticated ladies, like a goose in a flock of elegant swans.

  ‘Henry Wright!’ he called after her. ‘Of Ludlow!’

  She kept walking despite her surprise. Just Henry Wright, without any title? Perhaps he wasn’t of particularly noble birth then, perhaps even less than she was, though she refused to gratify him by showing an interest. She didn’t want to be seen talking to him alone either, especially when the castle was so quiet. To a stray observer it might look like a tryst and she knew that the Queen would be displeased if she heard of it.

  She hurried back to Isabella’s rooms, almost spilling the fruit in her haste, to find her mistress already sitting up against her pillows, her golden hair tumbling in lustrous, shining waves about her shoulders.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ Isabella smiled a welcome and Mathilde felt her spirits lift immediately. She was no longer taken aback by the Queen’s smiles. Over the past few months they’d become more and more frequent, so that now the only surprise was that she bestowed them on someone like her. The Queen didn’t seem to care where she came from, nor that her accent, according to Lady Berthe, was that of a northern peasant. No matter what she herself might have witnessed, or what the spies said—and they muttered more and more the longer they stayed in France—Mathilde refused to think any ill of her.

  ‘It’s a beautiful morning, is it not?’ Isabella gestured towards her open window shutters.

  ‘It is, Your Grace.’ She passed her the bowl on a tray. ‘Mild, too. I forgot to take my mantle, but I hardly felt any chill.’

  She clamped her mouth shut abruptly, realising that a simple yes would have sufficed, but Isabella only heaved a satisfied-sounding sigh.

  ‘A propitious day, then. My son will be preparing to sail from England and I must make ready to meet him.’ Her expression turned thoughtful. ‘Perhaps you need a new mantle? Something special so that you will not forget it again.’

  Mathilde dropped her gaze quickly. Being scrutinised by someone so beautiful was hard, making her feel even more ordinary.

  ‘Red will become you, I think.’ Isabella nodded with conviction before waving a hand at Lady Berthe. ‘Give her my red cloak with the velvet hood.’

  ‘Your Grace?’ Mathilde lifted her hands in protest. ‘I could not...’

  ‘You can when your Queen commands it.’ Isabella’s tone wasn’t threatening, but her words were final none the less. ‘Berthe will have to remove the ermine, of course, but it should suit you very well. You deserve a gift and I need all of my ladies to look their best.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Mathilde bowed her head, suspecting that her cheeks were already a similar colour to the cloak, recognising the words as a veiled reference to her wardrobe, to the old linen kirtles and woollen gowns that had once belonged to her mother. They were the best that her father had been able to provide, but they were hopelessly old-fashioned by now and threadbare in places despite all her mending.

  ‘I shall wear red this morning, too, for good fortune.’ Isabella’s perfect cheekbones rounded with a smile that made her more impossibly beautiful than ever. ‘This is an important time for me, Mathilde. We all need to make ready.’

  * * *

  Lady Cecily gave her the cloak later that afternoon, presumably because Lady Berthe couldn’t bring herself to hand over something so fine to a person like her, Mathilde thought, although she was too pleased with the gift to care. She could have spent hours simply rubbing her cheek lovingly against the fabric. The woollen exterior was lined with velvet, ten times more luxurious than anything she’d ever worn before in her life.

  ‘I have a green surcoat you can borrow this evening, too, if you like?’ Cecily offered, leading her into a side chamber away from the spies. Her manner had also thawed considerably over the summer months, so much so that now Mathilde regarded both her and Katharine as friends. Family even, like a pair of older aunts. ‘We’re of a similar height so it should only need a few adjustments and the Queen has put aside some linen for you to make a few new dresses, too.’ She squeezed her arm sympathetically. ‘She does not mean it as an insult, rather as a gift for your service.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mathilde smiled, torn between gratitude and embarrassment.

  ‘Was this your mother’s?’ Cecily gestured at the gown she was currently wearing. ‘I remember the style.’

  ‘Yes. It was one of her favourites, but she has no more use for it.’ She coughed and smoothed her hand awkwardly over the skirts. That was all she could say, all she could ever say about her mother. Sometimes she wished that she could speak about her more, but even after six years her feelings were too raw, like a festering wound that refused to heal. Sometimes she thought it had scabbed over, but then the scar came away and the pain and guilt were still as fresh and searing as ever.

  ‘I see.’ Cecily nodded with a look of understanding. ‘Well, perhaps I can do your hair tonight, too?’

  ‘I’m not sure...’ Mathilde touched a hand to her head self-consciously. She’d worn her hair in the same style every day for the past five years, in a single braid over one shoulder. ‘My father said that I ought to be modest.’

  ‘As you shall be, but modest does not mean always looking the same. You can wear ribbons at least. Green ones to match the gown—’

  ‘Red,’ Katharine interrupted from where she was sitting beside the fireplace sewing pearls on to a bodice. ‘The Queen’s right, she’ll suit red. It will make a nice contrast with the green.’

  ‘Maybe both?’ Cecily walked across to a small chest and started rummaging inside.

  Mathilde sat down on a coffer, excited by the idea of a new surcoat that evening, even a borrowed one. At home they’d never been able to afford pretty things and it was rumoured that the feast planned to celebrate the Queen’s departure for Boulogne, where she was travelling to greet her eldest son Edward, was going to be more spectacular than ever. Hopefully it would also signal the beginning of the end of their stay in France. Isabella had said that the Prince was coming to pay homage to Gascony on her husband’s behalf, but she’d still made no mention of returning to England afterwards and the uncertainty was making Mathilde even more homesick.

  ‘Lady Cecily...’ She took advantage of the relaxed mood to ask, ‘Do you think we’ll be going back to England again soon?’

  ‘Going back?’ Cecily’s hand wavered as she drew a length of ribbon from the chest. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But we’ve been here for six months now. Surely the Queen wishes to return to her husband?’

  ‘Some questions are better left unasked.’ Cecily closed the lid softly. ‘And some answers are better left unspoken.’

  Mathilde sighed inwardly. She’d turned eighteen over the summer, but everyone here still treated her like a child.

  ‘We should tell her.’ To her surprise, it was Katharine who interceded on her behalf. ‘Since she’s caught in this web with us now, too.’

  Web? Mathilde looked ar
ound the room, struck with a sudden image of the three of them all wrapped up together in silken spider’s threads.

  ‘We shouldn’t involve her.’

  Cecily’s voice was firm, but Katharine ignored her, putting her sewing aside and rising ominously to her feet. She was a proud-looking woman, grey-haired, gaunt and unswervingly severe.

  ‘Maybe we should let her decide whether or not she wants to know the truth?’

  Katharine fixed her with a hard stare and Mathilde hesitated, wondering if perhaps Cecily was right and she’d rather not know. The dangerous path she’d envisaged four months ago loomed before her again, dark and forbidding, only this time with a fork in it, a route of escape if she chose to take it.

  ‘Kat...’ Cecily attempted another warning, but Katharine only jerked her head in the direction of the Queen’s withdrawing chamber where the spies were all gathered.

  ‘Why not? We know that she isn’t one of them. She’s proved that she can keep her mouth shut. Now, which do you prefer, girl, truth or ignorance?’

  Mathilde straightened her spine. Put like that, there was only one answer. ‘I want the truth.’

  ‘Good. Then tell me, what do you think of a husband, a king, who delights in humiliating his wife, who gives away her fortune to his favourites, who ignores her wishes and threatens her very safety?’

  ‘Kat!’ Cecily’s tone was admonishing. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Stop what? She said she wanted to know.’

  ‘I do.’ Mathilde swallowed, determined to prove her worldliness, no matter how shocked she was by the words.

  ‘What Kat’s trying to say is that the King made the Queen’s life in England a misery,’ Cecily explained in a softer voice. ‘While she remains in France, she’s safe and treated with respect, even if we have to live with his spies.’

  ‘You mean the Queen doesn’t want to go back to England?’ Now she felt truly shocked. Frightened, too. England was her home, her country, but if Isabella didn’t go back then neither would she.