by Ruth Kaufman
Learning that Henry didn’t want to be king surprised Amice. Yet given the myriad problems he faced, such as France wanting its sovereignty, the arguing among his own advisors Nicholas had told her about, and Richard, Duke of York’s claim that he was the rightful king, combined with the pressure of weighty decisions, Amice couldn’t blame him. She strained to get another glimpse of the queen, whom she knew to be near her own age, and at last with child for the first time after seven years of marriage.
Henry had been the wrong one to approach. Maybe Margaret would help her.
The seemingly endless meal was almost over. Amice nibbled on a piece of bread, not as soft or flavorful as Castle Rising’s, making her miss home and Maia all the more. She surveyed the other guests. Most wore black, brown, or another subdued color. Why was she one of the only people garbed in a bright shade?
As they rose to leave, Queen Margaret motioned to her. “Lady Winfield, it’s most obvious you haven’t been informed of my husband’s preference for somber dress.” Her accent revealed her French heritage.
Amice grew hot with embarrassment, but held her head high despite chagrin that the first words the queen spoke to her weren’t of welcome but disdain.
“Henry dislikes colorful garments, and as you can see, most accede to his wishes. Once at a Christmas play, women were brought to dance before the king. Though it was the fashion, so much of their flesh was exposed that the king left the room. In future, please keep in mind that the king is quite modest and offended by such displays as you make with your gown.”
The whispers hadn’t been mere musings about the new arrival. They’d all been laughing at her. The maid who’d advised her on her choice of gown had known this would happen.
A painful way to learn a lesson. She’d be more careful whom she trusted in the future.
“As to your marital situation, do not anticipate assistance from me. We need you to make this marriage,” Margaret informed her. “Your wishes have no import.”
Worse and worse. Neither Margaret nor Henry cared to reconsider their choice of husband. This unpleasant beginning to her court visit didn’t bode well for things to come.
But Amice refused to be a pawn manipulated by king and queen. Somehow she’d find a way to make her own moves.
Near the other end of the hall, Belinda Carlisle observed the high table as best she could between bustling servers and pages blocking her view. When she saw Nicholas, her slow smile was quickly replaced by a frown. She couldn’t bear to watch his cheerful banter with the beautiful new arrival. Who was she to be so highly seated?
Envy sliced sharper than a sword. He hadn’t even let her know he’d returned to court.
After Belinda’s third husband set her aside, she’d sought out Nicholas, an exceedingly handsome favorite of the king, who gave her access to lords and ladies she wanted to know. Many a woman wished to claim him. The prospect of capturing a prize in the face of competition encouraged her to try harder.
She’d thought Nicholas easy prey; he was a man. But Nicholas spent time with her on his terms, not hers. Nor had he professed to have any feelings for her. Still, she enjoyed the pride she felt attending court functions on his arm, the envious looks from other women, questions about his prowess to which she offered only enough information to keep them asking more. The lack of a suitable replacement kept her from complaining too often.
She was only twenty-five, so perhaps there was still time to ensnare him completely. Perhaps she hadn’t tried hard enough, been bold enough.
Her smile returned as an idea came to her. How she adored having a plan.
Nicholas sighed as he entered his quarters. His head ached from the noisy hall and the strain of making polite conversation. Sitting next to Amice, ever aware of their impending separation, unnerved him. She’d looked so lovely despite concern and uncertainty about her situation. He’d wanted to ease her fears and bring a genuine smile to her face. To be alone with her and make her his.
He paced in the narrow antechamber. I don’t want her to marry someone else. He’d found the one woman who might change his distaste for marriage. He’d come to care for her, respect her. Desire her.
Why can’t I speak the truth to Henry? Why can’t I ask for her?
He answered his own questions. “Because Henry needs her marriage to benefit England, not his friend.”
The strength of his feelings for Amice weighed on him, but he didn’t know how to rid himself of them. Wanting what couldn’t be.
A noise from the next room broke his train of thought. Silently he unsheathed his dagger and stepped toward the door, wishing he were wearing his sword, now propped next to the bed. He looked into the bedroom, lit by a fire.
Someone was in his bed.
As he drew near, he heard a stifled giggle. Belinda’s blond head appeared from under the covers.
Nicholas jammed his dagger back into its sheath. “Belinda. What are you doing here? Do you think to cause some kind of scandal to force me to wed you?”
Her smile didn’t waver. “I wanted to welcome you home. You’ve been away so long,” she answered, as she slowly drew back the covers, revealing her nakedness.
Not even a stirring of interest.
Her audacity in coming uninvited to his rooms irked him. And he hoped she hadn’t overheard his musings. If anyone had seen her, he’d have to find a way to extricate himself from that quagmire. And if word got to Amice….
“I was going to tell you this tomorrow, but since you’re here….” He had to be blunt. No vague phrases that could be misinterpreted. “Whatever we had is over. I never made you any promises. I’m sorry if you believed something would come of it.”
She jumped out of bed, seemingly unconscious of the cold floor or her nakedness. Her smile changed to a snarl. “Is there someone else? That new woman? What can she offer that I can’t?”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“I know you want someone you can’t have,” Belinda said. “Why bother with whoever she is when you can be with me?”
Belinda had heard him. At least he hadn’t mentioned Amice’s name. She didn’t have enough information to use against him.
Slowly, she walked forward, offering herself, pressing herself against him. Her scent seemed sickeningly strong. “Don’t make me your enemy, Nicholas. You’ll be much better off with me as your friend.” She ran a hand over his shoulder and down his arm.
Ignoring her veiled threat, somewhat surprised that her lush body no longer enticed him, he said, “Belinda. There’s nothing between us, nor has there been. Just leave.”
He walked around her, picked her clothes up from where they were piled neatly on a chest in the corner and handed them to her.
A knock sounded at the outer door. “Get dressed,” he ordered. “And be quiet.”
Nicholas opened the door to find Robert. “My lord,” he began.
“What’s amiss? Has something happened?” He regretted his harsh tone, not wanting to frighten the boy.
“N-nothing, my lord. It’s just that…here.”
Nicholas took the proffered note with some dismay, remembering his earlier request that Amice not risk undue gossip should a note fall into the wrong hands. But he smiled as he read it. Amice was worried that her precious servant would be corrupted by staying in the page’s quarters. How quickly she learned the ways of court.
And how clever she was. By entrusting Robert to his care, she’d be able to send as many messages as she wanted without arousing curiosity.
“You may stay with me, for now. I’ll send for a pallet.”
Robert’s face lit up. “I’m much too old to stay with Ginelle and Lady Amice, or other boys. I want to learn to be a knight, just like you.”
Belinda chose that moment to saunter in. “Hello, young sir. Goodnight, Nicholas. I adored visiting with you. And look forward to our next meeting.”
She kissed him on the lips and trailed her hand down his body before Nicholas could stop her. She w
alked out, hips swaying seductively.
Robert’s mouth dropped open. The boy focused on a crack in the stone floor.
Nicholas resisted the urge to wipe his face on his sleeve. He leaned his forehead against the arched wooden door as he locked it, which he’d always do from now on.
He knew he didn’t have to explain anything to Robert, but wanted to. What did a boy of his age know of such things? Would he tell Amice what he’d seen? She wasn’t calculating enough to have sent Robert as a spy.
“Robert, I didn’t invite that woman here. She let herself in after the meal, and waited for me. I was sending her away when you arrived.”
Had he restored Robert’s trust?
Robert smiled. “I’m already learning from you. A good lesson, my lord. Send all uninvited women away posthaste.”
Nicholas sighed with relief. One cannonball dodged. Who knew how many more would be fired at him?
Chapter 6
Amice felt as though she were hauling a heavy cart up a steep hill. She couldn’t let go, but holding on strained her endurance more each day as she waited for word of her groom. She’d asked for details, but none were given. To leave her less time to protest? Each day she learned more of the routine of court, listened to countless conversations about people she’d met and some she hadn’t, walked in the gardens and flew hawks with the women. There was naught else for her to do but attend Margaret. No accounts to manage, no stores to order, no one seeking her guidance, no decisions to make beyond what to wear. She had asked for, but not been granted, a private audience with Margaret in a last, desperate hope to persuade the queen to her cause.
As predicted, though they were often in the same room, Amice and Nicholas hadn’t had the opportunity to speak privately. She knew he trained, hunted and was often closeted with the king and his advisors, but she wanted to talk to him. Be near him. Know his thoughts.
She wanted to scream.
Despite spending hours with the pen dangling from her fingers, hoping for inspiration, even writing was no longer a source of accomplishment or pleasure. Perhaps she’d left her muse at Castle Rising.
Though surrounded by throngs of people, loneliness pinched like a gown tied too tightly. Her thoughts often strayed to Nicholas, who’d seemed to settle in with ease. Had their time at Castle Rising meant anything to him, or was it a mere diversion until he could return to court, where he truly belonged and preferred to be?
Late that night, a boisterous storm kept her awake. Each clap of thunder made her jump and condensed her quarters into a tiny, suffocating box. She had to escape the constraining walls, even for a few moments. She doubted that women often wandered the halls alone at night, but she didn’t care.
As lightning flashed and thunder cracked, she wrapped a cloak around her. She made her way to the great hall, completely deserted at this hour. No servants made their beds on pallets, as they did in many castles. The spacious solitude calmed her, contrasting with the storm. Her peaceful side and rebellious nature warred with each other. She smiled at the comparison, the first smile she hadn’t had to force since her arrival.
Pulling a bench away from the wall, she sat, listening to rain splash against the windows and thunder roll across the sky. The roiling weather echoed the turmoil of her emotions.
Soft footsteps disturbed her thoughts. Can I never be alone? As she turned, a burst of lightning revealed a man. She gasped, thinking she’d seen Nicholas gazing out the far window.
How her imagination could play tricks on her.
The hall glowed with another series of lightning flashes as rain beat ever harder.
Nicholas was there, his face illuminated by brief brightness. He mustn’t have seen her in the shadows. His long, dark hair was loose, his expression hard. White light reflected harshly on the planes of his face, making him appear a wild warrior. What troubled him so?
As if he could feel her gaze on him, he looked up slowly, staring through the darkness. She felt his stare as though it was a tangible thing.
Her heart lightened. A few moments with him, stolen though they were, would make her feel better.
“Who’s there?” Nicholas’s voice sounded hollow to him in the empty hall, and was almost drowned out by a thunderclap.
Another flash revealed Amice. He hid his surprise, wondering if his thoughts had conjured her. He sat beside her on the bench as the thunder rolled.
“Well met, at this hour. What brings you out, and alone?”
“The storm, of course. I couldn’t sleep.” She drew her cloak tighter about her.
Her nearness tugged at him, drawing him nearer on the bench. He’d missed her company, missed her smile. Quelling a strong urge to take her in his arms, to feel her against him, he chose a safer course. “How do you find court?”
“It seems worlds away from Castle Rising. I have little to do, and miss my responsibilities. I haven’t even seen my cousin Cromwell, who’s off on some task for the king. Each day seems endless with waiting. The suspense…. I fear each page hurrying by is the one carrying the message that the chosen man has arrived. I wish I’d never come. I wish I could go home. There, are you satisfied?”
The bitterness in her voice shocked him. He’d thought her resigned to her fate, an honorable marriage to please both king and queen. Believing in her acceptance was the only thing that had made the past two weeks tolerable.
He started to speak, but his words were lost in a crash of thunder. Waiting until the noise quieted to a low rumble, he tried again. “The weather must be adding to your misery. When the sun shines, you’ll feel better.”
She shook her head, sending her curls flying, brushing his shirtsleeve. “No. I won’t.” After a long moment, she said, “Thank you. Are you happy to be back with the king?”
“’Tis my duty.”
“That’s not an answer.” Her eyes shone an eerie golden green, like a cat’s, in the short bursts of light. She sat quietly, perusing his face as lightning flickered, as if memorizing every inch.
He recalled their departure from Castle Rising, the stirring kiss they’d shared. His loins tightened. Of its own volition, his head moved toward hers, to build on that moment and make it new. She didn’t move, but accepted his mouth on hers as if she’d been waiting for it. Waves of warmth crashed with the thunder, driving the dampness of the night from him.
Only their lips touched, then their tongues. They explored each other’s mouths with deep, thirsting kisses.
Amice savored the taste of him, the pressure of his lips on hers. Sliding closer, until their chests met, they kissed in the flare of the storm. Delicious warmth centered on her chest, where he pressed against her.
How long she’d waited for this.
Her cloak slipped off her shoulders as he slid his arms around her. His muscles bunched as he pulled her closer. Only the thin gown separated them now. His tongue sought hers as his hands caressed her back. Warmth, desire, everywhere. She wanted more.
Having him so near was torture. A teasing, wonderful glimpse of what could never be.
“This will get us nowhere. I am not for you.” It took all of her willpower to push free of his embrace. She ran from the hall and back to her chamber, where tears burst forth with all the force of the storm.
She’d experienced the freedom of the hall only to return to her cage. Just as she had barely begun to enjoy Nicholas, only to be returned to the prospect of an unknown groom.
The only thing that brought Amice pleasure was the queen’s library. She’d never seen such a vast collection of books, available to anyone able to read.
Reverently she opened each volume to reveal treasures concealed by the decorated bindings. There were elaborately illuminated romances, various histories. As expected, she found a worn copy of Roman de la Rose, the long poem of courtly love written nearly two hundred years ago.
Two volumes that surprised her were written by Margaret’s father, René, king of Anjou. Then she came across a book that brought tears of delight to her
eyes. Queen Margaret had a copy of La Livre de la Cité des Dames, The Book of the City of Ladies, the very book she’d been yearning to read for years. She read the cherished tome as slowly as possible, in small sections, to savor every word.
Oh, to be able to write like Christine de Pizan. Most women didn’t talk of things Christine wrote about, leading Amice to believe she alone in had unusual ideas. But here they were, preserved on the pages. Women should be educated, could contribute beyond wifely duties. Christine wrote to avenge wrongs done to women throughout history.
The rustle of skirts interrupted her concentration. She almost dropped the precious book when she realized Queen Margaret stood before her.
Amice jumped to her feet, clutching The Book of the City of Ladies to her chest. She curtseyed. “Your Grace.”
“Are you fond of that book?” Margaret inquired in a tone requiring no answer. “My grandparents were among Christine de Pizan’s patrons. They gave it to me.”
Amice was pleased to find a subject she could discuss with her queen, one not as delicate or painful as her upcoming marriage. “Yes, Your Grace, I’ve longed to read this. She writes so cleverly and wisely.”
“I am particularly fond of her discussion of the queens and princesses of France.” She perused the shelves, her velvet-clad back to Amice. “I couldn’t sleep, and thought to find a book myself.”
“The volumes your father wrote are quite impressive,” Amice added. She desperately wanted the queen to accept her. Perhaps like her, even.
Margaret turned and smiled, the first time Amice had seen her do so. “Chivalry is his passion. He helped illustrate the tournament book.” Holding a volume of statutes under her arm, she studied Amice with a thoughtful expression. “Do you write as well as read?”
