How awkward to stand staring at one’s all-too-soon-to-be betrothed in the presence of a crowd including the king and queen.
Her tongue seemed stuck, so she was grateful when Lord William broke the silence. “My liege, how can I thank you for the gift of such a beauteous bride? With your permission, we take your leave to walk in the gardens, that we might become acquainted before I depart for France.”
His voice was pleasant enough, but not as rich or deep as Nicholas’s. She shook her head. How would she stop comparing the two?
The king nodded his approval. Amice barely heard the hushed congratulations as they walked from the chamber, side by side. They continued through the halls in silence, as if by unspoken agreement waiting to talk until they were alone. Outside, she barely appreciated the sunshine and pleasant breeze. He led her to a small carved bench nestled beneath a large oak tree.
What did one say to one’s just-met, soon-to-be groom, days before his departure for war? She knew nothing about him but his name and his father’s reputation. She could offer no words of caring or love.
A jeweled brooch winked from the brim of his hat. “I wanted to marry before I leave, in case….” He stopped. “I wanted you to be my wife, in case I fail to return. But the queen wouldn’t have such a rushed event. If I had the time, I would talk of your beauty, praise your hair, for isn’t that what women want to hear?
“Instead, I must bid you farewell to make ready for war. I didn’t know I’d be sent away so soon, or I’d have come to court earlier. But problems on my estates needed resolving.”
He smiled and took her hands. His were cool, his fingers short and thick, not long like…. “Have you no favor for your departing knight? No sweet kisses for your lord?” he asked with such tender gentleness that she smiled too.
She liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkled, noticed the rich brown of his eyes. But she preferred blue.
“Had I known, I’d have worn some pretty ribbons or gloves, but all I can give you now is this.” She pulled the necklace she always wore over her head. The slender chain sparkled. “It was my mother’s. This is a portrait of her. The border is pearls and amethysts. My favorite stone,” she added.
Her fingers itched to snatch the necklace back. She grabbed her skirts instead. What had she done? She’d offered her most precious possession to this man she barely knew. The man soon to be her betrothed. Had she loved him, the gift would have been her only means of sending part of herself. Parting with her only connection to her mother now seemed foolish.
She could tell by the way William carefully accepted the gift, the way his fingers lingered over the back of the pendant, that he knew its value.
He looked at Amice. “Your face will follow me to battle. I look forward to being your husband. But I cannot accept your most generous favor. Perhaps a scarf or veil? I can send my squire to fetch one, if you like,” William said.
His kind offer touched her. The time to take the necklace back had passed. “No, I want you to have this. It would please me to know it can bring comfort to someone else.” She pressed it into his palm. “Please. The necklace has brought me peace in difficult times.”
He nodded, understanding. “I’ll wear it always.” The chain just fit over his head, amethysts catching the light. “There. Until I return. For you and for the sons we shall have.”
Tears gathered. Henry had found her a good man. Was he with her now only to be taken away by this endless war? She could be a friend to him, at least. She raised her face, and he offered a gentle kiss. A kiss of peace. Not a kiss of love or desire.
“I must go, but will see you on the morrow. While I’m away, I’ll write when I can and tell you of France and of my dreams.”
“I will write as well.” She couldn’t promise to tell of her dreams. At the moment she wasn’t sure what they were, but she knew they didn’t involve him. And that made her feel guilty.
They stood and returned to the castle as silently as they had left it.
The next morning, Ginelle hovered like a delighted butterfly, oohing and aahing as she helped Amice dress. Amice’s heart and soul ached as she prepared for a ceremony she wished to share with Nicholas, not a near stranger.
The plighting of her troth, exchanging words of future consent such as “I will take you to be my husband” and signing contracts with a priest’s approval meant nothing, yet bound her like mortar to brick. The king’s and queen’s presence, an honor granted to few, felt more like jailors ensuring that their prisoner obeyed.
Amice wished she’d been brave enough to ask Nicholas if he’d agree to a clandestine marriage, in which they’d simply exchange their consent to wed each other. No priest was needed, no witnesses either, for the commitment to be valid. But she didn’t want a marriage the Church believed was a sin. If she had to be married, she wanted a real marriage, and with the right husband.
Her heart was heavy as a millstone. Here she stood in all her finery, signing binding papers with William and all she could think of was Nicholas. He stood at attention near the back of the church, staring straight ahead.
During the next few days, Amice felt obligated to spend as much time with William as he could spare. They walked in the gardens and sat together at meals, appearing to the court as if they were getting along rather well. If she’d never met Nicholas, she might have found some contentment with this man. Unfortunately, she knew she’d constantly compare the two. Nicholas would always prevail.
She often sensed his gaze on her but willed herself not to glance away from William, even for a second. Though she hungered to have any connection with Nicholas, she had to appear the devoted betrothed both for William and herself. He was a soldier on the eve of battle. No matter what she felt, she’d do her best to make his last moments with her pleasant ones.
She tried to care for William. But there was nothing in her heart for her betrothed beyond friendship. Nothing close to deep caring or love. Maybe they didn’t have enough time. Maybe it wasn’t possible to force feelings. He was an interesting companion, a pleasant person, but that was all. She didn’t yearn to be with him, didn’t crave his closeness, or think of him constantly. The touch of his hand didn’t make her insides melt or spark the faintest hint of desire.
Amice refused to admit there’d never be more with William, refused to acknowledge Nicholas’s presence filling her heart. She’d simply await William’s return and try harder to love him. Try harder to forget Nicholas. It was her duty.
If she failed, her life would be miserable.
A week later, in his chamber, Nicholas couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t contain his frustration. He’d known Amice was the only woman for him since their kiss in the garden. Maybe before, but hadn’t wanted to accept it.
He’d not want another. Ever.
Such words didn’t come easily to him, even in his thoughts. So how could he say them aloud? He wanted to tell her that seeing her everywhere but not being able to spend time alone with her made him long for the closeness they’d shared at Castle Rising. He wanted her to know, yet he didn’t. Indecisiveness made him uncomfortable.
To Nicholas, Amice seemed happy…unless she was putting on an act to please Henry and Margaret. She gazed into William’s eyes, too often, he thought, and laughed too frequently. Had his friendship with Amice meant more to him than to her? No matter, now. She and William were betrothed. He was nothing but an erstwhile admirer who lacked the courage to express his feelings. As it should be, he had to admit.
The betrothal had nigh ripped his heart out. He hadn’t wanted to watch them together but couldn’t seem to stop himself, even going out of his way to find them and see what they were doing. He couldn’t bear the sight of their heads bent close. Worse was seeing William hold her hand. And the two of them together at meals made his stomach turn.
At least the almoner would be pleased, having more tasty scraps of capon with its sauce of blanched almonds and ginger or pieces of meat pie to offer the poor.
Amic
e was lost to him.
The morning William was to leave, several ladies cornered Amice after an early mass. Two Elizabeths, Lady Grey and Lady Roos, were the first to descend upon her. Their incessant chatter gave Amice a headache at the best of times, but today their words fell hard as a sledge hammer on a swage.
Lady Roos pulled at the chin strap supporting her tall headdress. “Tell us about your wedding gown, Amice. Will it be trimmed in fur or beads? How long will—”
“—your veil be?” Lady Grey continued without pause. “Have you chosen velvet for the gown, or brocade?”
The ladies seemed genuinely interested. Even in her tense mood, Amice didn’t want to snap that she hadn’t even begun to consider what she’d wear to a wedding she didn’t want or know when would occur. So she smiled her now customary false smile. She’d fit in while at court, no matter what.
“Lady Roos, perhaps you’ll help me choose by telling me what you wore at your wedding?”
Obviously flattered, Lady Roos launched into a tediously detailed explanation of her attire from bodice to hem, interspersed with lengthy observations from Lady Grey. This allowed Amice to nod politely at appropriate intervals while turning her thoughts elsewhere. She lost track somewhere between the description of the rings Lady Roos wore on her first and second fingers.
They followed her outside, still talking, as she went to bid Lord William farewell. The morning air was stagnant, the sky cloudless. She’d never seen so many people gathered in one place. All about her squires and commanders shouted orders as they took their places in the procession. Horses whinnied. The din made her head pound harder yet. If only she’d had time to seek out some wood betony or boil some heather.
Thankfully William had told her where his men would gather. As she handed him one of her scarves as a favor to decorate his armor, another knight caught her eye, one with broader shoulders and longer, darker hair. Just a few feet away sat Nicholas, atop a brown horse instead of Merlin. Her hand faltered. The blue and red scarf floated to the ground, delicate silver embroidery glistening in the sun.
She bent to retrieve it, sudden dizziness fogging her head. She braced herself against William’s horse, seeking reassurance in the familiar animal scent, the firm flank. Nicholas, going to France? Why hadn’t it occurred to her he’d be going, also? Why didn’t he tell her?
William reached for the scarf as she handed it up, looking down at her with a proud smile.
She was officially betrothed now. Nicholas wouldn’t encourage her to be unfaithful or try to tempt her. Had he told her he was leaving, what would she have done? Did he know she’d have wanted to spend time with him instead of William? To be in his arms, arms forbidden a woman betrothed?
Now, Nicholas wouldn’t even look her way. They were to part without even a shared glance. If he fell in battle, or if she went to live on William’s estate, this might be the last time she saw him. How could he leave without creating a final memory?
Hearts didn’t break, they were torn into pieces, like a condemned man being drawn, hanged and quartered.
“Farewell, my Amice,” William said.
“Farewell, Ni…William. God go with you.” Even as she spoke, Nicholas was on her mind. What sort of woman was she, to crave another with her betrothed beside her?
She waved as William mounted, then rode off with the others.
Nicholas guided his horse out of line and turned back.
He’s looking at me! He couldn’t leave without bidding me farewell.
Joy filled Amice, even at this moment of parting. How she wished she could offer him a favor. But her smile was only for him, and she knew he knew. She raised her hand to wave again, not to William but to Nicholas. If she’d known he was leaving…but she couldn’t send him off with her kisses.
Amice cringed. There was someone who could bid Nicholas a public farewell. Belinda ran unashamedly after the departing knights, grabbed Nicholas’s arm and offered him a glove in an effort to mark him as hers in front of everyone. He accepted her favor, but didn’t kiss her, even as she tugged at his arm, Amice noted with satisfaction.
She let out her breath as the last of Henry’s men faded from sight. The waiting would begin. Again.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d counted on Nicholas just being there. Though their day-to-day contact was minimal, and the only real conversation they shared was in her daydreams, mere morsels were better than his absence, the nothingness of the present.
Far better than the fear that harm might befall him or William in battle.
Chapter 8
Harry awaited his daily repast of brown bread and cheese.
It had taken two weeks to get his stern-faced guard to speak through the small, barred opening in the door. Another to learn his name, as bland as the man’s appearance—John. Day after day he’d tried to convince John how time had shown him the error of his ways. To no avail.
There was another approach Harry itched to try. He’d only get one chance. Lying awake night after night, the squealing of rats setting his nerves on edge, he’d considered every possible outcome. The chance of failure was high.
Would today be the day he’d find the courage? It had to be, for he could take no more silence or endless hours of pacing that had worn out his leather boots.
John rapped on the door, the signal for Harry to stand against the far wall, hands behind his back. Humiliation burned his empty belly.
The key creaked in the lock. As soon as John began to open the door, Harry lunged. He flung the door wide and punched John in the gut as hard as he could.
“Oof.” The guard bent over, dropping the bowl of food.
Harry ran.
With so many men gone, the life of a queen’s lady became more tedious.
Unmotivated, Amice wrote only occasionally. Reading took concentration and focus she couldn’t muster. She spent most of her time waiting with the queen for word of the war. Her means of pleasure was long walks around the castle grounds. She’d discovered a gentle hill covered with soft grass and colorful meadow flowers that reminded her of Castle Rising. If she closed her eyes halfway, she could almost believe she was back at home.
One afternoon she sat near a rhododendron bush, trying to write. Her companion was a greyhound puppy, Galahad, a descendant of Nicholas’s first dog, Lancelot. Nicholas had placed the pup in Robert’s care. Robert had been thrilled by the responsibility, but had agreed that Amice could borrow him, just for the afternoon. Knowing the pup belonged to Nicholas made her feel closer to him, no matter how many miles away he was.
Staring morosely at the blank page, she inked her pen again.
A soft voice from the other side of the bush made her pause. Belinda. She peered through the leaves to see Belinda reading softly from a letter.
“Spread the rumor that Henry is ill. If we don’t receive word of this rumor in two weeks’ time, we’ll know you have failed. If you’re caught, you are on your own.”
Amice’s mouth dropped open. The lovely Belinda, a spy? For whom, and for what purpose and reward? Amice sat motionless, afraid of discovery. She didn’t dare breathe until she was certain Belinda had moved on.
Galahad, sensing an intruder on their solitude, began to bark. Amice closed his tiny jaws between her hands. Too late. Belinda’s head appeared over the flowering bush. Amice released Galahad and knocked over her ink, which spilled into the grass and on her skirts.
“What are you doing here?” Belinda’s light blue eyes flashed with anger.
Amice was annoyed to have her special spot invaded, and annoyed to have overheard Belinda. She didn’t want Belinda beholden to her, or to have the responsibility of deciding whether or not to keep her secret. More importantly, she still couldn’t get beyond the fact the blonde beauty wanted to marry Nicholas.
Instead of behaving as though she’d heard nothing, Amice said, “So you add spying to your list of questionable activities.”
Belinda’s fair skin turned bright red. “You are a spy your
self, hiding behind bushes, not making a sound.”
“I was here first.” She blotted some of the ink with her handkerchief. “You might as well tell me the whole story.”
Belinda rounded the bush, clutching her skirts. “I owe you nothing,” she hissed.
“Would you prefer I tell Margaret what I’ve heard?”
“You have no proof. She wouldn’t believe you,” Belinda retorted.
“She has no reason to doubt me. And as the letter you hold implies, the power of rumor must be great.”
Belinda opened her perfect mouth as if to speak, then shut it. “If I tell you, what will you do?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll go to Margaret straightaway if you don’t.” Perhaps she was starting to fit in at court after all.
Belinda paused, as if weighing her options. Glancing right and left, she joined Amice on her blanket. She tucked her skirts closer to her legs, avoiding the ink stains.
“All right. I’m helping the Duke of York.”
Amice couldn’t hide her surprise. How did one such as Belinda convince a noble such as the duke that she could be trusted? “And how did that come about?”
“I don’t need to tell you every detail.”
Amice liked the feeling of power being in the right place at the right time yielded. “I asked for, and will receive, the whole story, or off I go.” She rose to her knees, a trail of ink dripping down the side of her gown.
“Oh, very well. One day I happened upon his brother-in-law, the Earl of Salisbury. We had a conversation about the duke’s situation and the rightness of his cause. What could I do but offer my services?”
Amice frowned, doubtful Belinda would even consider a discussion about any matter more serious than the design of a new headdress or who might be dallying with whom, but she remained silent. She wrapped and unwrapped a curl around her finger.
At His Command-Historical Romance Version Page 10
