No, Amice would want to know. This news was too good to keep to herself for another minute. Belinda carefully eased open the heavy wood door, fortunately unlocked, hoping it wouldn’t squeak. She tiptoed into the small outer chamber.
What she saw stole her breath. She clapped her hands over her open mouth but couldn’t stop the tears that rushed to her eyes.
There, dimly lit by the dwindling fire, lay Amice and Nicholas, nestled in the high bed. Belinda blinked several times, as though she’d see something different.
The two were entwined like clinging vines. The bedcovers dangled off the side of the bed, revealing that their legs were entangled too. As if their combined warmth made quilts unnecessary.
Belinda closed her eyes, spilling tears down her cheeks and onto her dark cloak. Nicholas had never held her like that while they slept. In fact, most of the time he’d left shortly afterward, rarely indulging in cozy, sleepy aftermath.
Her worst nightmare had come true.
She’d waited for him so patiently, for so long, but he’d turned elsewhere. Almost as bad, Amice, who acted like a friend, hadn’t told Belinda of her feelings for Nicholas.
They’d pay for hurting her. But she’d have to act with care. Nicholas wouldn’t return to her otherwise.
She knew what she had to do.
Even if she was discovered, even if she couldn’t get him back, keeping them from each other would be far better than knowing they were together. Knowing they’d continue to spend time together, perhaps even make their feelings known and get permission to wed, made her nauseous. Causing them pain might alleviate some of her own.
Amazing how quickly a friend could become an enemy.
Chapter 16
Nicholas held his breath, fighting for control. It was true. Amice was secretly consorting with Yorkists. He wouldn’t have believed it if he weren’t watching her do so.
If he hadn’t found the note slipped under his door. By the postern gate, there you will see. Amice cannot be trusted, so trust in me.
Who’d want to incriminate Amice? At first he’d ignored the missive, tossing it onto his carved table, thinking it some far-fetched courtier’s game. But as he washed and dressed, the scrap of parchment seemed to call to him cannot be trusted, cannot be trusted.
Finally, with a sigh, instead of heading to the stables for his morning visit with Merlin, he’d hurried to the designated destination. He’d berated himself every step of the way for allowing an anonymous note to sprout seeds of doubt, for succumbing to its advice, but he went nonetheless.
No. He was being thorough. In a few moments, he’d laugh at his own stupidity.
He was laughing, but in bitterness and disbelief that he’d foolishly trusted Amice. There she stood with a young man, a messenger or fellow spy, her traitorous face partially hidden beneath the hood of a fustian cape. In her hand, the hand he’d brought to his own lips and kissed, she held a letter. He could see the seal was York’s. She said something, shaking her head. The man took the document, nodded and left. Looking around with a frown, as if she could feel his gaze on her, Amice carefully made her way back inside.
Nicholas’s empty stomach roiled. How could she do this, after all they’d shared? How long had this been going on? He’d given her his trust, opened his heart as with no other woman.
After their interlude in the dusty chamber, he’d wanted her all the more. Last night had reinforced his love for her. Back in his room after sharing wonderful lovemaking, such closeness, he’d allowed himself the luxury of enjoying his good fortune.
That’s what made this morning’s note all the more compelling. More fool he. That a woman he so cared for could seemingly reveal her heart to him, look him straight in the eye, hold him close, all the while betraying and violating everything he represented. Smile sweetly in the dark and slap him in the face in the light. Had he been blinded by her beauty, his need for her?
He froze, contemplating a new possibility. What if she’d never cared for him at all? What if luring him in was part of her plan? Maybe part of her assignment was to procure information. If he was happy spending time with her, he’d be less likely to suspect her interest in his knowledge of the king. Could she be that mercenary? Was she capable of masking her deceit with feigned, yet convincing, feelings?
But she’d pushed him away after her imprisonment. Had he been a far greater fool to renew their friendship, thinking he’d seen longing in her gaze? Last night, she’d said she had something important to tell him. He’d brushed off serious talk in favor of romance. Why hadn’t he listened? Had she been about to reveal the truth, or baste her secrets with lies?
Even in the heat of battle he’d never experienced such turmoil. On the field, things were clear. Defend yourself and kill any enemies standing in your way. Fight for what you believed in and knew to be right. Live or die by the grace of God.
If he followed that logic now, he’d have to turn in to the privy council the woman he thought he loved, thought he knew. Nicholas was the king’s man, obligated to punish wrongdoing and any hint of treason. He’d have to tell the council she’d used her position in the queen’s household to pass information to the duke. York was protector now, but as hard as he tried to give Amice the benefit of the doubt, he couldn’t think of any reason why she’d need to meet in secret with his messenger. And why she hadn’t breathed a word about whatever she was doing.
On the other hand, who knew of Amice’s activities and wanted to cause trouble for her by leaving him a note?
He realized he’d been standing in the bushes while his thoughts swirled and he struggled with unfamiliar indecision. As he strode into the morning light, he knew he had to investigate, to talk to Amice before he acted rashly. Before he did something that couldn’t be undone.
Struggling to stem piercing anger and burying his hurt as deep as it would go, he approached Amice in the solar. She looked up with a questioning smile, pen in hand, beautiful as usual in a simple, high-waisted gown of red wool. They rarely spoke in front of others, to lessen any gossip or suspicion about their friendship, which had again blossomed into so much more. They’d thought to protect Amice’s reputation. He wanted to laugh at the irony. Protect her from him discovering she was a spy?
He searched for a sign that she was hiding something, that she had forbidden knowledge. To his surprise, he saw nothing suspicious in those clear green eyes, only warm welcome. Either she wasn’t doing anything wrong or didn’t think she was.
Her expression changed to concern. “Nicholas, what’s the matter? I thought we’d agreed to wait a few days before being alone again, to avoid gossip?”
He’d pry the truth out of her. If she truly loved him, she’d be honest. And then they could deal with it somehow, couldn’t they? If she lied, he’d have to hate her as he hated all liars.
Clenching his fists behind his back, he struggled to keep the strain from his voice. “So what have you done thus far on this fine day?”
What could’ve happened in the few hours since he’d been with her to so change his mood? A thrill passed through Amice as she remembered their night together, the passion his caresses had aroused, followed by such glorious release. Would their lovemaking continue to improve, or had they reached their pinnacle? She couldn’t wait to find out. The new feelings he awakened in her needed further exploration.
Her cheeks blushed anew. The feelings he awakened in her couldn’t be explored further. He wasn’t her husband.
She put her pen down slowly, her gaze on the vellum, stalling. Did he somehow know of her early morning encounter?
She’d been sound asleep, exhausted from the joys of lovemaking and staying up so late with Nicholas, when a knock and fervent whisper had woken her. Robert claimed a man had told him he must fetch her straightaway to the postern gate. Though surprised by such a secretive request from an unknown source, she’d gone, thinking perhaps Nicholas needed to meet with her.
Surprise changed to suspicion when a cloaked man she didn�
��t recognize stated the Duke of York had sent him. Never had anyone but Belinda brought word from York. Amice had replied that if York had reason to communicate with her, he could do so in public. Now that he was protector, he didn’t have to resort to clandestine deliveries. She’d handed the note back without reading it and returned to the castle.
As she neared her room, her hand had flown to her mouth in shock. What had she done? Told a stranger she supported York simply because he wore the duke’s livery. Was the messenger true, or a spy sent to lure a confession from her?
If she told Nicholas of the incident, he’d ask why York’s messenger would send for her at all. She’d have to tell him she’d been working for York’s cause for months. He’d feel betrayed because she had aided what had been, and could be again, the opposition to his own cause. Of course she hadn’t done so to hurt or deceive him, but to support her own beliefs and do what she could to help her people by helping them to a better ruler.
What was she to do now? She couldn’t lie, yet she couldn’t tell the truth. Never had she felt so torn in two. Either way, she felt certain Nicholas’s opinion of her would worsen.
She heard her mother say, “You’re too honest for your own good. Someday that tongue of yours will get you in trouble.”
Amice knew she could do nothing but tell the truth as she knew it. Better to deal with the consequences of honesty than suffer the reprimands of her conscience. How could she sleep knowing she’d outwardly lied to anyone? Well, except someone like Harry. She wouldn’t lie to the man she loved.
Nicholas’s concern had deepened to a frown. Her prolonged silence wasn’t helping the situation. She proudly met his gaze.
“This morning Robert told me a man had to speak with me. The man said he was the Duke of York’s messenger. I told the supposed messenger that if the duke wished to communicate with me he could do so publicly, not through a secret missive at dawn. I gave him back the message.”
Perhaps he’d ask the wrong questions, and through omission she could hide her recent past. Wasn’t that just as dishonest as a lie? She’d intended to tell him last night, but he’d put her off. Now that the topic had come up, she couldn’t prevaricate. She had to find a way to ease the blow.
“What would York’s messenger want with you in the first place? Have any contacted you before today?” Never had she seen Nicholas so intense. His voice was low, his words measured.
“Yes.” There was nothing else she could say. Her heart beat so rapidly she feared it would explode. She studied a scratch in the table top.
“Why?”
“Because I was doing what little I could to aid York’s cause.” Her voice came out a whisper, despite her esteem for her efforts.
As wrenchingly painful as it would be, she’d rather lose Nicholas than hold him with an omission or a partial untruth. Than live with secrets between them.
Was her work more important to her than Nicholas? Real contributions she could make to the cause she believed in to help her country, or real love for a man she couldn’t marry, with whom she could only garner stolen moments now and again?
Yet how could one say to the most important man in her life, to her lover, “By the bye, today I wrote a poem criticizing the king you serve and his queen. It was posted everywhere, and people will talk.”
“Why?” he repeated.
“You know why, you just choose not to admit it.” Anger heated her from within.
Several ladies passed through the solar, heads bent close. She was surprised their headdresses didn’t tangle and trip them.
When they’d gone, she said, “You know I come from Norfolk, where York has always been favored. You know I think he should be king, that Henry wasn’t strong enough to provide what our country needs even when he was well. And now…he’s been ill for so many months. Our king can’t even talk, much less make decisions. York, with his vast wealth and power, would be a better ruler. He suggests reforms I think we need, including reducing Somerset’s power and creating a council with more power. And his heritage through Edward III’s second son puts him closer to the throne than Henry, who is descended from the third son.” She stood and walked around the table.
“I can’t go to war. Nor do I have scores of men who serve me to fight in my stead. My mind is my sword, and when the opportunity to use it presented itself, I accepted. The chance to help England, which you’ve told me over and over is our duty, was too great to resist.”
She put a hand on his arm. “I wanted to bask in our time together. Because it could come to an end at any moment. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I thought about doing so a number of times. I’m sorry. Maybe I was selfish, but despite our differences, you know I truly care for you. Believe it or not, I’d summoned the nerve to tell you last night, but you didn’t want to listen. Can you understand?”
Amice’s answers worsened Nicholas’s foul mood, made fouler for having been so incredibly pleasant only a few hours before. He pushed himself away from the table and turned his back on her. Inhaling deeply, he tried to temper fury and disappointment. Trust drained from him like water from a cracked pitcher.
“What does it matter now?” Amice said. “York is protector of the realm, selected by Parliament. There need be no more secret messengers. His cause—being named heir, to serve—is just and has been recognized by all.”
He whirled to face her, flames of fury singeing his gut. “But he is not the king, nor can he be God’s anointed. He’s simply the most powerful, wealthiest man. Yes, with Henry ill we do need those qualities. But when Henry recovers, what will York do? If he rebels against the true king as he has before, what will you do? You can’t fight with your body, but your neck will dangle from the hangman’s noose as easily as any traitor’s.
“Ah, Amice, can’t you see I fear for you? Despite how much I care for you, how could I protect you if you defy the realm?”
“What if Henry never recovers?” she countered. “Months have passed with no change. How can you still believe? I must do what I think is right. My feelings for you don’t stop me from offering what contributions I can, though you may disagree with the choices I make. Can you accept that we disagree?”
Tears gathered, but she fought not to cry. “In the light of day, are we just too different? I’ve been truly happy during our times together, when nothing else matters but us. Happier, more whole, than I’ve ever been. Can our feelings for each other withstand the strain of being tugged in opposite directions?”
Nicholas closed his eyes and breathed deeply. As much as he wanted to heal the rift between them, it existed and wouldn’t be denied. “I don’t know, Amice. I still believe York wants to be king for himself and his heirs, not merely made heir until the prince is of age.”
“And I believe he wants what is best for England. We need someone who can rule.” She needed to tell him the rest, about the poems. “I also—”
Nicholas held up a hand to stop her flow of words. “I remain Henry’s sworn man. A member of the House of Lancaster. You support the House of York. In my view, that still makes us enemies. I can’t see it any other way. If you were a man, I’d not willingly consort with you. But you’re the woman I love.”
Amice’s heart lifted. Nicholas still loved her. How she cherished hearing those words. She started toward him with a joyous smile. Finally the time had come to remind him that she loved him, too. She reached for him, but he stepped back.
His blue eyes were dark and dull. “The woman I thought I loved. Now I’m not so certain.”
Amice stopped in her tracks. Following her heart had ruined everything.
Nicholas walked away. His broad back had never looked more forbidding. His heart had never been more unreachable.
Amice frantically sought words to call him back. But she couldn’t think of any. Her heart pounded, yet ached with despair. Never had she thought to hear such hostility in his voice, each word slicing her like the blade of a finely honed sword.
What could she say to make
things right? Would he want to repair the breach, too, before it grew too wide to mend? Was love strong enough to survive such dissension? He still didn’t know exactly what she’d done. If he knew, he might never forgive her. Had she been a fool to choose her country over a man she couldn’t have?
Amice packed up her writing materials. No more words would flow from her pen today.
She searched within for a positive thought. Perhaps Nicholas was only upset, and would return later with an apology. Couples often quarreled and forgave each other.
This was different. This wasn’t a squabble about the best way to run a manor or how much to spend on flour.
It went to the depths of their souls.
As he squirreled away coin after precious coin, Harry made discreet inquiries to locate an herbalist or apothecary in London. He’d heard that city was so crowded he’d go unnoticed. After much searching, he had a name. After much saving, he could finally afford his plan.
At last he made the trip to London. It was all he could do not to gape like a fool. More people, more buildings, more wares than he’d thought possible. He resisted the temptation to spend hard-earned coin on meat pies hawked by vendors, though his stomach rumbled at the smells. The sour stench of refuse turned his stomach the next moment.
He passed goldsmiths and cobblers, markets, taverns, inns, until his head spun. Finally, his destination on Aldrichgate Street was before him.
Behind a counter covered with bottles, pots and jars stood the tallest woman Harry had ever seen, barely visible in the dim light. Her hair was completely white, though she didn’t appear to be old. Wise silver eyes watched him approach.
“I hear there is a way to dull the senses,” he said. “You see, my wife raves all day. I cannot control her.” He hung his head for effect, trying to evoke the woman’s sympathy. “I love her, and couldn’t bear to put her aside. I just want to calm her. Can you help me?”
At His Command-Historical Romance Version Page 18
