Castles, Knights, and Chivalry: 4 Medieval Romance Novels

by Ruth Kaufman

  Amice was confused. “How did York find out I could write original material?”

  “Well, I told him, of course.” She leaned close, as if to share a confidence. “He mentioned that he sought a new writer, and I thought of you. Aren’t you pleased? If York approves, his men will distribute and post yours. Just think of how many will read your words. This is your chance to be a real writer.”

  Amice tapped her fingers on the desk. This would mean greater involvement in York’s affairs. Thus far, she had been more scribe than traitor, though others might not agree. Writing her own material in opposition to the throne would prove a greater risk. Yet having original work she believed in disseminated was one of her fondest dreams.

  Focus on what you can change.

  She couldn’t have Nicholas. She couldn’t go home. But she could have this.

  She could no longer walk the fine line separating king and duke. It was time to take a stand, though a cautious one. To do so, she’d have to trust Belinda even more.

  “I’ll do it. But no one else can know I’m the author. The poems must be anonymous.” It was enough for her to know her work was read. That she aided the cause in which she believed.

  She needed a new challenge, something to focus on. So she’d write some poems. Those she’d heard of and seen were full of lies and half-truths. But hers would be different. Hers would tell the truth.

  “Very well,” Belinda agreed with a sly smile, making Amice wonder how she planned to use this to her advantage. “How soon can you have the first one ready?”

  “I’ll work on it now. Though I’ve never tried poetry.” Amice indicated the examples Belinda had brought. “‘Ballad on the Death of the Duke of Suffolk,’” she read. “Return tomorrow afternoon. I’ll complete at least one by then.”

  Belinda left, still smiling.

  Amice picked up her quill, idly caressing the soft feather. Instead of rhymes about Edward or the king, Nicholas worked his way back into her thoughts. What would he do if he found out? Her involvement widened the gap between them. She didn’t know if even the power of love could build a bridge over it.

  She couldn’t gnaw on that now. York needed her help.

  She began to write.

  England’s babe, or is he yet

  Proof of someone else’s get?

  Just who is his mother sweet?

  Surely not our Marguerite.

  York laughed with what seemed like genuine enthusiasm as he read the final lines of the poem to the others in his great hall. All were finishing a sumptuous meal of suckling pig and cherry pottage.

  “Tiny daisies in his hair

  Do not mean he came from there.

  Perhaps we should ask the source

  Who’d tell lies of her own, of course.”

  After the laughter died down, he said, “Belinda, this is wonderful. To the point, yet with humor. No one can accuse us of lying with this one, either. Clever approach.

  “I had no idea you were so talented. Quite astute, to incorporate Margaret’s badge, the marguerite.”

  Belinda preened. Her gamble was paying off. Why shouldn’t she take the credit and increase her worth to York? Amice had requested anonymity, after all.

  She smiled her slow, cat-like smile. “The marguerite represents fidelity in love. I’m so pleased you like my words, milord.”

  “You can be sure I’ll have more work for you.”

  “I look forward to serving you,” she replied. “In any way I can.”

  Harry hoped he, the new scullion, appeared to be working diligently. Washing dishes, at his age and rank. The clatter of the kitchen made his head ache.

  “Are you trying to rub a hole in that? You’ve been here for hours…look at that pile yet undone,” the Steward of the Kitchen reprimanded.

  Harry bit back a sharp retort and plunged the platter into the barrel of water in front of him. “My pardon, sir!” He bowed his head to hide the non-subservient gleam in his eye.

  “I can find another to fill your place soon enough if you don’t work hard. Hmph.”

  The steward went back to supervising the cook’s preparation of the main meal of the day, featuring aigredouncy. The honey-glazed sliced chicken rolled in mustard, rosemary and pine nuts would follow a pastry tart filled with plum, quince, apple, pear, basil and rue. Not that he’d get to eat any of that fine fare. Not a lowly scullion such as he.

  Harry tossed a bowl into the water with a satisfying splash and grabbed another.

  “By marrying Amice I could get Edwin’s lands for my life, at least, if not for our children. Why wouldn’t she have me?”

  The bowl in his hand did not respond. “She’d never go against the Church, that’s why, because we share a forbidden bond of affinity. It pained me to lock her up, but how else could I persuade her? I trusted her when she agreed to marry me. But she betrayed me.”

  Freedom, even as a servant, was better than prison. “I took a horse, and followed Amice.”

  Did the drying cloth dare reproach him?

  “No, that wasn’t stealing. Amice’s property should be mine, too.”

  But how to get her to consent to wed? A forced marriage could be annulled.

  He’d heard of a drug that would dull the senses. If that drug worked, he could control her.

  The repetitive, lowly, backache-inducing labors of the only job he could get tested his mettle and his temper. It would be worth it. Soon.

  “I’ve only seen her once since I got here.” He closed his eyes. “Like a miracle…a vision in the early morning mist. The way she looked at Sir Nicholas by the stables….”

  That afternoon, he’d decided to surprise her. At first he was disappointed that she wasn’t in her room. Then he noticed a writing desk with a carved metal latch on a large coffer. Excited and afraid at the possibility of discovery, he opened the lid. He tried to read the pages, but could pick out only a few words. That she could write better than he!

  Page by page, he’d ripped her writings into tiny squares. After piling the scraps in the desk, he hurried back to the kitchen. When Amice was his, she wouldn’t have time to write.

  Despite all his plans, nothing had changed for the better. Soon he’d be back in a corner of the king’s kitchen with his pile of filthy bowls.

  He’d work harder. He had to succeed.

  Chapter 15

  January 1454

  Today the queen would show the prince to the king, whose condition hadn’t changed.

  Margaret held her head high. She wore a robe with the verse of a psalm embroidered around the hem. A shimmering gold net headdress completely hid her pale blond hair. Her ruby wedding ring gleamed on her finger.

  Amice knew Margaret and her supporters had delayed the event as long as possible, praying fervently that Henry would recover, would recognize Edward as his son and heir as tradition required and put the rumors to rest.

  All waited in breathless anticipation as Henry was brought in, supported by two men. He couldn’t bear his own weight. Amice hid her shock at his wasted appearance. Jewels flashed as nobles whispered amongst themselves.

  The Duke of Buckingham stepped forward to present the prince to the king. Henry had been placed in a large chair, padded with colorful cushions. His head listed slightly to the side, resting on an embroidery of the Holy Mother. His eyes were cast down.

  Obviously the purges, unusual ointments and potions administered by the physicians had failed. Bright red and blue velvet and brocade robes, colors he wouldn’t have chosen himself, served to make his pallor more obvious. He was so thin his bony knees poked at the velvet and brocade robes he wore. For some reason, they had even shaved his head, now covered with a black felt hat studded with jewels.

  Unexpected tears gathered. She didn’t have to think Henry was a good king to feel sorry for the man.

  “Your Grace, may I present your son, Prince Edward of Westminster, soon to be made Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester. I, and those here today, ask your bl
essing,” the duke said.

  There was no response.

  “King Henry, the sixth of that name, I present your son, the prince, Edward.” The duke tried again, as if more volume could guarantee a result.

  A collective gasp sounded as Henry’s lids flickered. Had he glanced at the baby? But he didn’t speak or move.

  Each held his or her breath, hoping or not hoping that the king would do something. Anything. Slowly each exhaled as the king remained exactly as he had been.

  Margaret said, “Let me try.” Sweat beaded on her forehead, though the room was cool. She scooped her son from the duke’s arms. “My lord, I beseech you to recognize your son and mine, your heir, Prince Edward.”

  Once more all waited breathlessly. Still nothing. Slowly, silently, they left the king to the continuing, unsuccessful ministrations of his physicians.

  Margaret’s despair was clear to all.

  What would the privy council do now?

  “Amice!” Nicholas hissed. “Here!”

  His heartbeat sped as she glanced both ways down the hall to ensure that no one was watching. She hastened toward the room he’d poked his head out of.

  He reached for her the instant she passed through the door. She sneezed. And sneezed again. They stood in a barely furnished room so dusty it looked as though no one had been inside for years. Faded curtains partially covered the windows, letting in a few stripes of light.

  “Bless you,” he said. “It may be dusty, but it’s private as one can be in this castle. I’ve been hoping to get you alone for days. Despite our last conversation, I’ve missed you. How do you fare?”

  “Well, now that I’m with you,” she confessed.

  Nicholas agreed. That was the annoying truth. Her smile, being close to her, were welcome as the sun on her fields after a storm.

  “How did you know I’d come this way?”

  “I didn’t. I waited when I could, knowing you’d eventually need more parchment or ink. I had to see you.”

  “I’ve wanted to see you, too. But what’s the point? I can’t think of any way to change our situation for the better.”

  “Neither can I. Yet.”

  “Seeing you, being with you like this, is so…bittersweet. It’s harder than I’d thought.”

  Nicholas cupped her face with his hands. “So beautiful.” He bent toward her. “I couldn’t stay away.” His mouth closed over hers. She sighed into him, returning his kiss like a thirsty traveler given water.

  He slid one arm beneath her knees without breaking the kiss, and carried her to a padded bench. He sat with her on his lap.

  “Can you feel how I want you?” He slid his hand into her low neckline to caress her.

  “Yes.” Her head fell back against his shoulder. “Yes.”

  “I’ll come to you tonight.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I want you now. Here.” She rose, then undid her belt and slid off her overgown. She removed her mesh headdress and shook her hair free. “Tell me how to please you.”

  “Ah, Amice,” he breathed. He removed his boots and hose. His tunic fell to his knees, concealing evidence of his desire. “Come to me.” He sat again, holding his arms to her. “Sit upon me.”

  He helped her straddle him, pulling up her gown and pushing his velvet out of the way until no fabric separated them. Hot flesh met hot flesh, soft and wet met hard.

  Amice guided him inside her. Slowly, slowly she moved her hips. She moaned, settling into a measured, sensual cadence. She grasped his shoulders and dropped her head onto his shoulder, sending her hair spilling down his back. Need built within, but he wouldn’t give in to the urgency, savoring each sensation.

  Nicholas kissed her neck, and worked his way toward her mouth with a dozen more kisses. He ground out, “I can’t take much more of this. I want you with me…now, Amice, now….”

  “Patience, my lord,” was her soft reply. “I want this to last.”

  She took him deep, then moved away. Again and again. “Ah, yes. Just like this,” she whispered in his ear.

  “Can’t wait….” He grabbed her hips and pushed into her with a groan.

  The jolt of their bodies meeting broke his control. He soared into release as she found hers.

  Nicholas wrapped his arms around her. Her softness, her sweet scent permeated him. She combed his hair from his face and kissed him.

  They remained together for a few moments.

  “That was….” he began.

  “…amazing.” She smiled, climbing off him and reaching for her overgown.

  Nicholas dressed. They sat, and he took her hands. “Have you been writing?”

  “Yes. Writing and waiting with bated breath for the queen to tell me whether I can go home or if she’s going to decide to foist another husband on me. And you? What’s the latest news?”

  “The king’s council decided Henry’s failure to recognize his own son was the final straw. The council expanded the medications and treatments that could be tried on him. They can no longer pretend he’ll recover and are forced to admit something has to be done. The time has come to make changes all knew were necessary. The time has come. The council sent for the Duke of York.”

  Amice’s jaw dropped. Satisfaction washed over her, warm and welcome. She felt vindicated. She, a mere woman, had played a small part in this. She’d done the right thing for her country and for herself.

  Even better, now she’d be able to tell Nicholas all she’d done. “I’m glad. What do you think?”

  “I don’t have a vote. But Henry isn’t capable of being king now, nor is an infant prince. Someone with authority and the ability to control the factions must take charge. The long-postponed Parliament finally met. Margaret, as expected, declared that she wanted to be regent. York demanded the same.”

  “Surely I’d have heard about that.”

  Nicholas shifted slightly on the bench, turning toward her. “You would have, had a decision been reached. The question remains, who will take charge?”

  Such decisions were so far above her, yet all would be impacted. But she could think of nothing else except where she stood with him.

  Amice slid closer to Nicholas, catching a hint of his inviting herbal scent. “And what of us? Do you still care for me?”

  He took her hands again, warming them. How she’d missed his touch. The sound of his voice. The way he looked at her when he smiled. Just…him.

  “I’ve tried not to,” he said. “But, yes, I still do.”

  A rush of joy filled her. “I’m glad to hear that. What does this news mean for us? Have recent events cleared a path?”

  “Not until the queen or whoever is permitted to rule allows you to wed as you will. All we can have is a few moments now and again. That’s not enough for me, but at least it’s something. If you returned to Castle Rising, I’d never see you.”

  “I know.” That was one reason she hadn’t made additional efforts to be free of court. “I thought seeing you was worse, because every time we part a bit of me goes with you. But not seeing you at all hurts more.”

  She yearned for him when they were apart and ached for all they couldn’t have when they were together. How much longer could they go on like this?

  As before, almost all were abed when Nicholas stole silently through the halls toward Amice’s room. He’d been unable to sleep.

  He knocked softly on her door.

  The expression of joy that instantly lighted her face when she opened it assured him of his welcome. She looked stunning, her hair tumbling past her shoulders in wild curls.

  “Nicholas. Please, come in.” She took his hand and led him into her room. “I’m glad to see you, but what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

  “No.” He’d simply needed to see her, but found it hard to share the words. “I was thinking of you.” Her beautiful face made him more at ease. Gave his day more meaning and hope.

  They sat side by side on the window seat, in the moon’s
glow.

  “And I you.” She turned to face him, her expression serious. “Nicholas, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you…. Either the time didn’t seem right, or I just couldn’t bring myself to do so because I feared your reaction. But now that we’ve grown closer, I think you need to know. “

  He sighed and leaned his head against the blue velvet cushions. “Can the tale wait another day? I just want to hold you tonight. And kiss and touch you. Maybe we can play chess. For once, let’s not dwell on anything serious…not politics, the king, England’s future or ours. Can we do that, put our problems behind us and be in this moment?”

  “Very well.” Amice smiled, though he could tell by the look in her eyes that something yet troubled her. “I’d like that, too.”

  Nicholas opened his arms. She slid along the seat and nestled against his chest. As he held her close, and gently stroked her hair, he took a deep breath of her rose scent.

  And was shocked to find that being with her was all he needed. He hadn’t felt so content in months, since they left Castle Rising. He felt more at home in the king’s castle, with her, than ever before. Never had his heart filled with such warmth and tenderness. He imagined he could feel it creaking, expanding beyond the boundaries of his past.

  Could something that felt so wondrous be wrong? Was Amice a temptation to stray from his true path?

  He’d thought a woman he could truly care for rarer and harder to find than diamonds.

  He started. Amice looked at him questioningly but settled against him when he shook his head.

  He’d never stop loving her.

  Good news, at last. Belinda couldn’t wait to share her exciting information with Amice. York was to be named protector of the realm. They, women, had made a contribution in a world where men had most of the power. They need work in secret no longer, nor fear being discovered.