Nicholas was about to reprimand the page’s imperiousness, but the boy’s flushed face and bulging eyes stopped the rebuke. He jumped up from his chair, weight on his good leg. “What is it? Is it the queen, the babe?”
The page bent over and gasped for breath, resting his hands on his thighs. “No, no, no! To the king, the king!”
“Show me,” Nicholas ordered.
As fast as the page’s short legs and his injured one could carry them, they raced to the hall, where they were brought to an abrupt halt by the stillness of the tableau before them. No one moved a muscle, captured like a page torn from an illuminated manuscript.
Several advisors and attendants stood staring aghast at the king. Henry, dressed in his customary black, sat motionless on the throne. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. His head tilted slightly to the left, as if listening with mild interest to something no one else could hear. Even the outspoken Margaret was frozen, a beringed hand held to her chest.
All gaped at the king, as if focusing their energies on him would encourage him to move or speak.
“What happened?” Nicholas asked.
“One minute he was fine. The next, as he is now,” explained the page.
He’d never seen anything like it. “Go find Hatclyf, the king’s physician.”
The boy ran off.
Several minutes later, after a brief look at the king, William Hatclyf proclaimed, “I’ve been called one of the most skilled in my field, but I can offer no immediate diagnosis.”
Those waiting had gathered into small, whispering groups.
“Maybe he was poisoned,” someone offered.
“Could it be the shock of losing all at Castillon?”
“Perhaps he has inherited the madness from his grandfather, Charles VI?” another suggested.
“No, no. Charles had frantic fits. This is different.” Hatclyf said. “Though I have never seen symptoms such as these, I believe it’s safe to move him to his chambers. Perhaps after purging him I’ll know more.”
Nicholas, Hatclyf and John Norris, an esquire of the household, carefully carried the king from the room.
Queen Margaret sank into a chair, hands over her bulging abdomen. Amice, worried that the shock of Henry’s illness might induce early labor, hurried to her side.
“I’m fine, fine,” Margaret breathed. “We needs wait. Maybe the king will recover soon….” She pushed herself to her feet and announced, “No one in this room is to discuss what they saw here.”
Hours later, the physician and John Norris returned to the queen. Hatclyf reported, “King Henry cannot speak, does not appear to understand when spoken to, nor do his eyes or expression reflect awareness.
“Your Grace, I am most sorry to report that I can find no cause for King Henry’s strange affliction.” He wrung his hands. “I suggest we send for my colleagues, John Arundel and John Faceby. Perhaps they’ll see something I do not, think of a treatment I have not.”
“Agreed. I also propose that the king be moved, if it won’t injure him further, to a larger holding, where he can rest more comfortably,” said Norris.
The royal household moved back to Westminster as quickly and quietly as possible. Margaret made her wishes known to a small group of the king’s advisors, including Nicholas.
“No one else is to know of his infirmity,” she told the group, gathered around a large table. “No one. Not the people of England, and certainly not Parliament. Henry has no heir of his body. Should something happen to this child….” She didn’t need to say more. Many babies failed to survive infancy. “If I have a son, he’ll need a regent, like Henry when he became king at nine months old. And how should the regent be chosen amidst squabbling similar to that of a generation ago?”
No one could meet her gaze.
Long days passed. Each member of the king’s and queen’s household moved about in silence, trying to look busy. Each prayed fervently that the king would recover and life could continue as normal. Few words were spoken, and those that were came as hushed whispers filled with uncertainty. Henry’s councilors met for hours on end, trying to come up with a feasible solution to a land without a king.
“Henry’s condition hasn’t changed. We can’t go on behaving as though he’ll miraculously recover,” said Norris.
“The Lancastrian position was precarious enough before he took ill,” a lord interrupted. “Our enemies can’t learn Henry is incapacitated.”
“We must decide who shall rule. And should Henry die, who will succeed.”
As murmurs buzzed about the room, Nicholas worried about his king, queen, and country. Yet part of him rejoiced. Surely no one would think about finding Amice another groom now.
Chapter 11
Amice had never been so miserable. Like everyone else, she was concerned about Henry’s condition, not only for Henry, Margaret and their unborn child, but because of what it meant politically and personally. How long would she be forced to linger at court, unable to plan? Cyril’s reports that all was well at Castle Rising made her miss home all the more.
Margaret’s pregnancy advanced along with concern that Henry would never recover. The more time that passed, the more she feared Margaret might yet select another groom for her. Every day was spent in turmoil, wondering if anything would happen, if York would find out about Henry’s ailment and try to take advantage of his indisposition, if Margaret would decide to send her ladies home. If.
Belinda delivered letters and parchment from York, Amice dutifully returned accurate copies. The latest batch had been to highly-ranked supporters, wondering why Henry had been absent of late. Knowing the reason, yet unwilling to go so far as to contribute information, heightened the war in her head between right and wrong. Her fear of discovery never abated.
She rarely saw Nicholas, who was constantly closeted with the council. When she did, lines of strain etched into his face discouraged her from conversation, from troubling him further with her concerns. He couldn’t be avoiding her, could he? His customary tan had faded, stress adding to his pallor, she was sure. Dark circles under his eyes attested to long hours of arguing with the council and getting nowhere.
She wanted to tell him she thought of him often, that she couldn’t put him from her mind, remembering his few kisses still made her yearn for more. That every time she saw him a rush of desire filled her. Even if she could bring herself to say the words, personal matters paled in importance to the king’s illness and political problems.
Finally, in early October, out of concern for Nicholas’s health and to escape the close atmosphere of the queen’s lying-in chamber, Amice wrapped herself in her wool cape and waited by the stables. She knew he rode or visited his horse each morning.
She had to talk with him.
Someone tugged on his sleeve as he came around the corner of the stables after feeding Merlin a few apples.
“Nicholas. You have to get some rest. I’ve been watching you….”
Amice. He was so tired he could barely convince his mouth to smile. In the early morning light, with the hood of her cloak outlining her face and a few curls wafting in the breeze, she’d never looked lovelier. Such a welcome sight. Though it seemed a lifetime ago, he recalled the feel of her lips on his, her soft body against his. And wanted to feel both again.
As glad as he was to see Amice, he still wasn’t ready to tell her the truth. The passage of time hadn’t eased his guilt over his role in William’s death, nor could he think of the right words to say.
He hadn’t told anyone, even Martin, the details of his escape from the Battle of Castillon. Memories still pounced upon him in the dark and chased him into his dreams. Night after night, he felt the shot pierce his thigh, heard thunderous cannon blasts and shouting as he and William argued, saw William’s lifeless brown eyes staring at the smoky sky before Nicholas closed them, his fingers leaving a trail of smeared blood on William’s face.
“Watching me, are you?”
Was it the brisk breeze tha
t tinged her cheeks pink?
“You look awful,” she said. “Have you been sleeping, eating? What is it you do in session all day? What can anyone do?”
“We’re trying to save our country by keeping it in the hands of its rightful rulers. Without our king’s guidance, we face an even more difficult task. Nothing like this has ever happened. We keep hoping a solution will surface. Concealing Henry’s condition from the world gets harder each day.”
“And if you or the other advisors take sick, what then?” Amice shivered and drew her cloak tight.
Nicholas avoided her question and the desire to take her in his arms and keep her warm. “How are you?”
“Well as I can be, helping Margaret. The baby should come any day now. Waiting for the baby coupled with waiting to see if Henry’s condition changes…. I want to go home, Nicholas. I don’t belong here anymore. Until the king recovers or someone else has authority and wherewithal to arrange marriages, I’m just an extra mouth to feed.”
“What’s one more in the midst of so many? Henry has over nine hundred on his staff now, from the chamberlain to his growing team of doctors to attendants paid to sit with him day and night lest there be a change in his condition.”
His shoulders tightened. He had to broach the painful subject of Castillon. If he didn’t, his nights might be haunted for the rest of his life. By the battle, and by Amice. For no matter how he tried to put her from his thoughts, no matter how he tried to focus with the others on a solution, somehow she found her way back in. Time apart hadn’t lessened his interest, though he’d hoped and prayed it would. Talking with her now, looking into her lovely green eyes, his need for her companionship bubbled to the surface from the depths of his soul.
“Amice, I’ve been keeping an eye on you as well, and meant to talk with you sooner. I’ve feared telling you of this, but I can’t continue as we have been. Now we see how short life can be, how quickly things can change. I could have died at Castillon, as…so many thousands did.” He took her hands, chilled by the autumn air. “Even in these times of trial, I can’t forget our kisses. How I wished we could do more. I don’t want you to wed another.”
Amice’s mouth fell open. “You’ve felt this way but waited all this time to say something?”
“Before my journey, before Henry fell ill, I was determined to do what was best for my king and the kingdom, no matter what I wanted for myself. But our defeat in France, the sudden onset and the persistence of Henry’s ailment show me I can’t keep waiting for my own desires to be met. Only God knows how much time we have.” Already Nicholas sensed his burden was lighter. Sharing his feelings, telling the truth, took less effort than keeping it all inside. “Who knows if Henry will recover, and if he does, whether the Lancasters will remain in power. If York and his followers gain control of England, will any of us be allowed to go free? They could seize all we own or put us to death.
“Our situation was delicate before. With Henry’s illness, it’s become so fragile it’s as if we’d tripped while carrying a basket of eggs. Our lives could crack apart.” A curl had dangled free of her hood. He twined it around his finger and was rewarded with a slight smile. Even that simple connection to her was better than none. “What does it matter what two people do when all of England is in an uproar?”
He continued, as if now that he’d started to speak words would spill until their source was spent. “I never thought I’d feel this way, never. We must take hold of whatever happiness we can, not knowing what the future will bring or if either of us even have one. I want to be with you, to enjoy you while I am able, before events beyond our control separate us.”
The need to hold her, to kiss her overwhelmed him. He’d been a fool to wait so long. He’d thought to protect her and himself, but instead had wasted precious, precious time.
“Yes. Oh, yes, that’s what I want, also.”
The delight on Amice’s face added a stone to the weight in Nicholas’s heart. He’d thought to spare her pain by staying apart, but had caused her more instead.
“There’s something else. I must tell you the rest, or whatever happens between us will be tainted. You may change your mind when you hear.”
“What could make me change my mind about being with you? I’ve wanted that since before we left Castle Rising.”
He wanted to smooth away the lines on her brow but knew his reply would only deepen them. “William died because of me.”
Amice gasped. “You bring up William’s death now, in the midst of telling me that I matter to you? That you want me. Are you saying you killed him?”
“No. Not exactly. But he died trying to rescue me.”
“What happened? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Amice gripped his arms so hard her nails dug into his skin. The wind blew off her hood and he replaced it. “Don’t leave anything out.”
His focus blurred, his inner vision returning as it so often did to that horrible day. “After my leg was hit, I couldn’t move quickly on my own. William wanted to help me leave the field. I tried to dissuade him, told him to press on alone, but he insisted. I would’ve died had he not saved me. The next cannon blast hit him in the head. Instead of me. If he hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t stayed, I’d probably be dead and he might still be alive.
“I couldn’t help but believe my feelings for you, my wish to be with you, somehow contributed to his death, that I didn’t try hard enough to send him away.”
Each word was as difficult to say as if it were a cart stuck in the mud and he the horse pulling it out. When he finished, she didn’t recoil. She didn’t burst into tears.
She hugged him, then took his hands. “How you must have suffered, to add this to your burdens.”
“Don’t you see? I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. I thought you’d blame me as I blame myself for being responsible for his death. I tried to forget about you. Now, as everything crumbles around us, I see my only salvation is in the truth.”
“How could you keep this secret for so long?” Amice asked. “I thought we meant more to each other. I thought I knew you. Obviously, I was mistaken. When we talked in the woods you let me think…. You preferred my not knowing to coping with my response.”
“It’s because I do care for you that I remained silent. How could I tell you that I, who wanted you for myself, who burned with jealousy seeing you merely talk to William, caused him to die?”
He reached inside his tunic and pulled out Amice’s necklace.
Amice’s hands shook as she accepted it. Her eyes filled with tears.
Would she hate him? Or would she forgive? His future depended on her response. But he felt free. He’d done the right thing. At last.
“How did you get this?” She traced each amethyst.
“As I was crawling away from William, I saw it on his neck. I’ve worn it ever since, afraid to give it back because I’d have to tell you how I obtained it.” And wearing the necklace had made him feel closer to her even as he burned with guilt.
Anger sparked in her eyes. “You didn’t trust me to believe you if you said his death wasn’t at your hand? How could you think such horrid thoughts, be so smitten with honor that you stayed away from me? You don’t know if you’d have been hit by that next cannon blast, not he.
“You worried all this time that I cared more for a man I barely knew, whom I didn’t ask to wed, than I cared for you. You, who befriended and helped me? For this, which was none of your doing, you avoided me for weeks. When we could have comforted each other, been there for each other. When I’m not bound to any man. Who knows how much time we have before we’re separated forever, before Queen Margaret finds me another betrothed?”
The flame of her righteous anger was so bright he thought she’d heat the cool air. Nicholas grasped her shoulders to draw her near, but she remained stiff. He willed his gaze to pierce her fury and any shred of practicality that remained. He wanted to be with her, she wanted to be with him. How could something so simple be so complicated?
At last Amice melted against him. His arms enfolded her, drawing her into his warmth, dispelling the early morning chill.
“Holding you feels so good. So right,” he said. “Ah, Amice, I have missed you.”
She looked up at him. Her lips parted. Under the eaves of the stables, he bent his head and kissed her. Their breath frosted in a white puff as their lips met, filling him with a yearning he hadn’t known possible. Her mouth, her tongue against his, so warm, so right.
At length, they parted.
“Well. That was…worth waiting for.” Her cheeks were pink and her lips an enticing red. From the cold? Embarrassment? Or desire? “I’m sorry you suffered guilt for so long. As to the other, I agree. There’s such distress here and strife elsewhere. I want to spend time with you, be with you. It’s as simple as that. No matter how long we have. Surely doing so can’t be wrong. Let’s find a way to meet each day.”
His hands slipped inside her cloak to encircle her waist, drawing her against him. She felt so soft, tasted so sweet, he wished he could make her his right now.
“We can’t spend too much time together in public. People will talk, and I don’t want word to reach the queen,” she said. “If you come to my room…we won’t be alone. But Ginelle sleeps soundly.”
“I’ll come to you tonight. No matter what demands may be made of me. Until then.” After a swift kiss, and a lingering touch on her face, he released her and walked toward the castle.
Despite the uncertainties to come, his heart felt lighter. And warmer.
Nicholas and Amice had been too caught up in each other to notice him lurking on the opposite side of the stables. Lovesick fools. The disgusting kiss—he wouldn’t think on that.
Harry pulled his black hood further over his face just in case Amice turned, then waited until she had made her way back to the castle before following her inside.
Getting here had been more difficult and taken much longer than he’d planned. But at last he’d found her.
At His Command-Historical Romance Version Page 13
