Castles, Knights, and Chivalry: 4 Medieval Romance Novels

by Ruth Kaufman

  He’d read her thoughts. Their gazes met, but Amice made no reply. They’d barely exchanged two words since leaving Castle Rising. What more could they say?

  Nicholas signaled the party to stop. Amice was glad for the respite; she’d never ridden for such an extended period. She waddled into the trees lining the road, eager to stretch her aching legs and back. To be alone, if only for a moment.

  Sitting on a wide, slightly damp oak tree stump, she inhaled woodsy air. A bird flitted from branch to branch as he sang a cheerful tune. How lucky the bird was, to be free to fly wherever he wanted, whenever the impulse struck. Why did women have to be told where to go and when?

  The uncertainty of the life awaiting her in London made her head pound. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the peaceful forest sounds, from several different birdcalls to the slight, sibilant rustle of breezes whisking through the trees. Was that a brook in the distance? Peaceful, relaxing sounds to ease her soul.

  Then came heavy footsteps, crushing twigs and leaves in their path.

  Nicholas, his blue eyes dark, glared down at her. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you? That I wouldn’t notice you and your horse were gone? Where did you think to hide?” he demanded.

  She stood. “I wasn’t running away. As you said, where would I go? I but sought a few minutes to myself. I tied my horse with the others.”

  “She’s not there now,” he said. “We’ve been searching for you.”

  A flush stained Amice’s cheeks. “I’m sorry for the trouble. I just needed—”

  “Next time, let me know,” he ordered abruptly, offering her his hand to help her over the bracken.

  The caring Nicholas was gone, the stern commander in his place. But his hand was strong and warm, sending a tingle up her arm.

  How would she stop caring about him? Wanting to be with him?

  Nicholas couldn’t speak another word until his breathing slowed. He, the calm one, had nearly panicked when Ginelle informed him Amice was missing. Unfortunately, it wasn’t only the disruption of his duty to escort her safely to court that ailed him, but the cold fear of Amice alone and in danger. Without him to protect her, like she’d be as soon as they reached the king. He’d be there, but no longer charged with her care. How long would he miss his role? Miss her?

  As they rode, Nicholas thought of all they’d left behind. Though he’d spent mere months at Castle Rising, he saw it as home. Never had he felt so comfortable, so much a part of life. Where else had he belonged? Not the manor house outside London, where his mother lived. Not at court, which rarely stayed long at any single holding, partly because the king wanted to be among his people and partly because feeding so many courtiers sapped surrounding flocks and fields.

  Thus continued his roaming lifestyle until he was ordered to Castle Rising. There he’d found the home he’d not known he wanted until he experienced it. Of course, he admitted reluctantly, Amice was a large part of that. She helped make Castle Rising thrive, for him and for the other residents. Just when they were settling into a challenging yet pleasant routine, it was taken away.

  Nothing good lasted. His father died when Nicholas was eleven. Then plague took his brother at the castle where he fostered. Nicholas had loved them both. His overbearing mother was no consolation. He’d hated leaving his younger sister Margaret with his mother, but he knew he couldn’t remain at Greystone or take her with him. He’d avoided seeking an intelligent, interesting woman for whom he might come to care, only to wed her and endure the slow, painful deterioration of their relationship. Or her death.

  Until now. Amice had slipped into the cage containing his heart forged of memories of constant quarreling and loss. Seemingly without any effort, as though it was meant to be. Yet here they were, arriving at court, where he’d have no part in her life. Instead, he’d see her wed another. More proof that caring for someone yielded more pain than pleasure.

  Amice interrupted his thoughts. “What is life like with the king? I’d know something of what’s in store. I should have asked sooner. I admit, I didn’t want to. It would’ve made the inevitable more real.”

  How to explain the crowds, the conniving, the strictures? “To start with, hundreds of people serve him. I’d say about two hundred fifty have designated functions. There are clerks, valets and grooms, who are considered below stairs. Above stairs are chaplains, jewel house officers, the keeper of the wardrobe, esquires of the household and such. They work in shifts,” he explained. “Margaret has her own staff. There are always numerous visitors and petitioners in attendance. There isn’t room for everyone, so many buy or lease homes near the king’s various castles.”

  Amice stayed silent for once, as if trying to imagine her place amidst the mass of people he described.

  He knew she’d hate the bustling court where she’d oft be told what to do. And it was unlikely she’d feel welcomed or at home, the way he had at Castle Rising.

  He had no way to soften the blow.

  Westminster Palace stood on the north bank of the River Thames, a cluster of buildings more imposing and grander than Amice had imagined. As they neared the arched entrance, a young page wearing the king’s livery approached and demanded their names. When they presented the king’s letter, the boy snapped his fingers. Nicholas’s men and their horses were escorted away.

  “The king expects you to join him for the evening meal,” the page announced as he led Amice, Nicholas, Ginelle and Robert through the many corridors.

  Numerous people hurried and scurried every which way as if on missions to complete the most important of tasks. At last they stopped, in front of a door that to Amice looked no different from many of the others. She had no idea how to make her way back to the entrance or how she would find anything.

  “Your rooms are here, my lady,” the page said, bowing slightly. “I shall call for you in three hours.”

  With each step away from all she knew and loved, she found it harder to breathe in the musty air. There was too much to absorb at once, the vast palace, so many new people, her upcoming meeting with the king. The revealing of her groom’s identity. Add to that how she already missed being at Castle Rising. With Nicholas. She felt as if several stone had been added to her weight.

  Without further ado, the page turned and walked on. Nicholas didn’t follow. The boy turned and impatiently tapped his dark red leather-booted foot on the stone floor.

  Nicholas said, “I know the way. That will be all.”

  “I was told to bring you straightaway to the king and I will,” the boy retorted defiantly.

  “You’re new here.”

  The boy nodded. “Yes, I’m Lucan, of Gloucester.”

  “Then I’ll forgive your behavior. You don’t know me?”

  The boy’s widening eyes revealed the first stirrings of fear.

  “You’ll soon learn. I caution you to mind your station before you open your mouth and get into trouble,” Nicholas advised.

  Lucan had the grace to turn red. “I await your convenience, my lord.”

  Robert, peeking out from behind Amice, giggled at Lucan’s discomfort, and received a scathing glare in return. Nicholas guided Amice a few steps away from the others.

  “I must go to the king,” he began. “If you need anything, send Robert to me and I will come. Don’t send a note. It could end up in the wrong hands. Remember that the simplest, most innocent message can be misconstrued. Gossip flourishes here, and most are quick to judge. I wish you well.” He drew in a breath, as if he wished to say more.

  Amice hoped for words of kindness, to hear that he’d miss her. But he left with Lucan and disappeared around a corner.

  Her heart sank. Tears of frustration threatened. Nicholas was gone. Who knew when or if they’d regain the closeness they’d shared? His presence had been her only comfort, but now she was alone in a place so foreign to her it could just as well be another country as the king’s castle. No longer did she have the responsibility or authority she so appreciated. Instea
d, she was at the mercy of another, and expected to meekly do as ordered. A prisoner, albeit in an appealing, large cell.

  At least Nicholas had said he’d come to her if needed. She didn’t want to need him in that way.

  She looked at Ginelle and Robert, who seemed as uncomfortable as she. Well, at least these two are left to me.

  As Ginelle unpacked, Amice inspected her new chambers. A tiny sitting room led to a chamber with a bed wider and larger than her own, hung with cream wool curtains heavily embroidered with colorful leaves and flowers. Several tall windows overlooked a manicured courtyard, beyond which she could see a knot garden and a forest. She looked forward to walking the grounds, one thing to take pleasure in, at least. The windows’ red glass borders lent the room a rosy glow in the afternoon sun. A tiny maid’s room completed the quarters.

  Where was Robert to sleep? She’d worry about that later. She needed to wash away the dust of the road, refresh after her journey and prepare for her dinner with the king.

  “Ginelle, please find someone to fetch water for a bath.” She opened a chest and took out a comb.

  “But my lady, whom shall I ask?” Ginelle too seemed at a loss.

  Amice snapped the comb in two. “If I knew, I’d have told you.”

  “I wish we were at home!”

  “I’m sorry, Ginelle.” Amice knew she’d need more control over her emotions. She took a deep breath, then let it out. “I wish we were home, too.”

  Ginelle, wringing her hands, stepped cautiously into the corridor.

  A page leaned on the wall across from their door.

  “My lady wishes a bath,” Ginelle began nervously.

  “It shall be brought shortly.” The page hurried away.

  “Why couldn’t Nicholas—someone—have told us how things are done here,” Amice muttered while arranging gowns on the bed. “What am I to wear? Ginelle, see if you can find someone else to ask what one wears to meals.”

  Nicholas hadn’t included attire in his rendition of court life. She should’ve asked, either on the road or at home while there was time to have new gowns sewn, if needed. She’d been too busy worrying. Too busy resisting the idea of going to court in the first place. Too busy taking pleasure in Nicholas’s company.

  Ginelle left Amice to ponder her gowns.

  “I asked another page, who sent for a maid,” she reported.

  A few moments later, a knock sounded. Ginelle opened the door.

  “My lady, I am Adele. I was told you’re interested in the fashions of the day. Here, fine ladies such as yourself prefer bright, cheery colors,” the young, fresh-faced maid said. “If I may, I’ll help you select a gown.”

  Amice nodded her acceptance and gratefully accepted the bright blue silk overdress and low-cut kirtle the woman handed her. “Thank you.”

  The maid curtseyed and departed.

  Wearing the blue silk and her favorite amethysts, Amice was pacing furiously in the sitting room, heels clicking on the wood floors, when Lucan returned to escort her to dinner. They wove through corridor after corridor, her nerves tightening like balled yarn as the sound of many people talking in unison grew louder and louder. What was everyone doing?

  She’d envisioned an intimate dinner with the king and queen. Obviously there were many more guests than she’d expected.

  At last they reached a wide doorway. Amice took in the scene before her, surprise and confusion knotting her stomach. Everyone stood, heads bowed, in the midst of a rather extended grace.

  The page began making his way through the great hall, so vast it dwarfed Castle Rising’s. Long tables ran the length of the room, with a raised table across the back. To the right, a fireplace as tall as she barely contained a huge blaze, though it was warm outside and in. Finely woven tapestries of knights in battle covered several walls.

  The praying continued as Amice peered at the high table, trying to determine which man was King Henry, who she knew to be in his early thirties. A hint of excitement prickled. She was going to meet the king and queen of England.

  In front of the tallest chair stood a man dressed almost completely in black. Instead of tunics worn by most of the noblemen, Henry wore a long gown with a rolled hood, much like those common men wore in the towns they’d passed on the way to London. The bright gold cross dangling from his Lancastrian chain of “SS” links called attention to the solemnity of his clothing. His small crown had a border of tiny crosses instead of jewels.

  To his right stood a beautiful woman with large eyes and a rounded face in a rich, dark blue velvet gown, whom she assumed to be Queen Margaret. Her hair, reputed to be blond, was hidden beneath her headdress with an oval padded roll on top. To Henry’s left was the only empty seat she could see. Next to that she was relieved to see Nicholas.

  Immediately her tight shoulders relaxed. Her breath came easier. She’d never seen him so richly dressed, in black velvet with silver thread at the collar. A sense of contentment washed through her, cleansing as a spring rain. She forced her gaze from Nicholas to seek out the page. How had he disappeared so quickly? There he was, almost at the high table.

  The crowd sat, leaving her one of the few still standing except for servers carrying heaped platters hither and yon. Sensing many eyes upon her, she drew herself up regally and continued on, weaving gracefully around the tables. She knew she looked her best. The din quieted as Amice curtseyed to the king and queen. The sibilance of whispers rose above her pounding heart as the king raised her to her feet.

  “Welcome,” Henry said, his voice nasal and thin. He looked down his nose at her with what seemed to be great disdain. He opened his mouth as if to say something else but turned to address the other guests instead. “We welcome Lady Amice Winfield.”

  The whispers flourished with renewed vigor.

  “Come, sup with Us so we can get acquainted,” Henry said, indicating the vacant chair. With that, he turned to his food, as if already uninterested in the new arrival.

  Amice’s stomach was too squeezed to think of eating. She couldn’t stand the suspense another minute. Who was she to wed? When? As she drew breath to speak, Nicholas turned to her with a bright, clearly forced smile. So his court persona was yet another facet of him. Would she ever again see the Nicholas she had come to know, care for and already missed?

  “Whatever we discuss, keep smiling…as though we spoke of the venison or some such thing,” he said.

  “Where is he?” Amice demanded with an equally forced smile.

  “He’s expected very soon.” Nicholas took a bite of roasted eel in red wine.

  “Who did the king choose?” She picked up her small, chased silver eating knife, but the aroma of the sauce made her queasy.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “I tried to find out, but Henry wouldn’t reveal his name.”

  The servitor brought more wine.

  “When is someone going to tell me something?” she asked angrily. “This waiting, the not knowing, is worse than what will be. You can’t make plans without facts.” Recovering with a stiff smile, she changed the subject. “I’m glad to see you, a familiar, friendly face. But why are we seated here? And where is my cousin Cromwell?”

  Nicholas leaned close, whispering, “No matter what, smile.”

  Her eyes widened, but she did as he bid. Many had stopped eating and appeared to be avidly studying the events at the high table. Amice hoped their expressions were bland enough to mask the true nature of their conversation.

  “The question is, ‘When is your wedding?’” he said.

  He looked so handsome, with candlelight brightening his eyes. She needed his comfort, but how? He couldn’t even take her hand or even say too much lest a neighbor overhear.

  “When?” Her voice came out a whisper.

  “In three weeks. The king and queen plan to attend.”

  Her knife fell to the table and slid to the floor with a clatter. Henry turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

  Amice knew she blushed as a se
rver retrieved the utensil. Never had she felt so awkward, so unsure. In three weeks she’d wed a man she’d never met, whose name she didn’t yet know. How she wished to return to her satisfying life at Castle Rising. With Nicholas.

  Henry said, “We’re certain you will be pleased with our choice.”

  Amice clutched her jeweled goblet, her knuckles turning white as the stones dug into her palms.

  He continued smoothly, “We see no need to waste time in this matter. The wedding will be in three weeks.”

  She couldn’t resist a quick glance at Nicholas, but couldn’t read his expression. The man on his other side was leaning so far toward them that his hair dangled over Nicholas’s plate. Thankfully the king had spoken softly.

  Amice had no choice but to risk Henry’s wrath. This might be her only opportunity to protest the marriage. Her only audience with the king and queen. She’d never forgive herself if she meekly accepted her fate, though ordered by the king. She had to try to change it, though her arsenal of options was limited.

  “Your Grace, I am most honored that you think highly enough of me to select a husband for me and have made the effort to do so,” she began. “However, I would rather not wed.”

  Henry turned in his tall chair to peer more closely at her. He seemed curious, not angry. “What say you?”

  “I’m content to remain at Castle Rising, to continue managing it and the lands Edwin bequeathed me. I’ll gladly pay a fine for this privilege. Or perhaps I could make a generous contribution to Eton College, the school for poor scholars you established? I’ve heard how important education is to you, that you want students to learn both virtue and the sciences. Whatever amount you think appropriate….” She was babbling. Her courage faded faster than a winter sun at twilight.

  Henry looked sympathetic, even as he shook his head. “What the individual wants is not important, but what is good for England and our Lord. I didn’t ask to be king, as you didn’t ask to be wed. But I am anointed by right and must do as I see fit. That is my duty. Your duty is to marry, to strengthen an alliance. God almighty, the Lord of all, is compassionate and merciful.” Henry shifted in his chair, as if he found the discussion distasteful. He turned to Queen Margaret, who’d been trying to overhear the exchange. A frown marred her brow.