Rumours At Court. Blythe Gifford

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Descended from one who came to England with Eleanor of Castile, wife of the first Edward.

      Ah, it was her ancestor who had brought her here, the woman who had served that other foreign Queen nearly a hundred years ago.

      Finally, the Queen understood and nodded. ‘Habla la lengua de sus antepasados?’

      Now she was the one who struggled to understand. Speak? Did she speak...?

      She was a widow now. She could speak aloud, even to a queen, without looking over her shoulder for her husband’s permission. And yet, the language of Castile was as foreign to her as hers was to the Queen.

      She shook her head. ‘Only enough to say Bienvenida.’ That meant welcome. At least, she thought it did.

      It was enough to make the Queen smile. ‘Gracias.’ She stretched out a hand, touching the brooch with reverent fingers, then spoke to her interpreter.

      ‘La Reina wishes to know, is the brooch you wear hers?’

      Valerie smiled. ‘Yes, Your Grace. It, too, came from Castile.’ The Queen, the story went, had been generous to her ladies.

      Nodding, this Queen cleared her throat and spoke, each word careful and distinct. ‘We to meet again.’

      The words touched her like a benediction. ‘I hope so, Your Grace.’

      Valerie paused to kneel before the Duke—no, the King—barely looking at him as she hugged the Queen’s words close to her heart.

      When she rose, still smiling, and turned away, it was to come face to face with the knight she had seen earlier at the Duke’s right hand. Dark, ragged brows shielded pale blue eyes. His nose and cheeks were sharply carved. He looked to be a man, like her husband, more at home in battle than in the Hall.

      She nodded, courteous. Waiting.

      ‘Lady Valerie, I am Sir Gilbert Wolford.’

      Her momentary glow faded. ‘The man they call The Wolf.’

      The one who had commanded her husband to his death.

      * * *

      When Lady Valerie turned to meet his eyes, for a moment he could not speak.

      Now he could see her plainly. Fair skin. Dark eyes that changed expression when she knew him for who he was. Was it his family history or his reputation in battle that erased both smile and sadness? No matter. Now, he faced a strong, impenetrable shield, through which he could glimpse no emotion at all. Until then, he would have judged her a woman who needed protection. Now, he thought she would have been an asset on the battlefield. ‘Some have called me that,’ he answered, finally.

      An awkward silence. ‘What do you want of me?’ she said, finally.

      The time had come. ‘Your husband served in my company.’

      She glanced down at the floor. ‘I know.’ Had her sadness returned? Would there be tears?

      He hurried to speak. ‘Then you know that the siege was broken by that attack. That his death was not in vain.’

      ‘That is a comfort, surely.’ Her tone suggested otherwise.

      ‘He was a worthy fighter. His death was a blow.’

      Now her gaze met his again. Her shield had not slipped. ‘More so to me.’

      Ah, then she blamed him for the man’s death. She had the right. ‘Men die in war, no matter what we do.’ War was not what those at home imagined. It was not...glorious.

      He pulled the stained, crumpled silk from his tunic. ‘Your husband was carrying this when he died. I thought to return it to you so you would know he treasured the thought of his wife.’ He waved it in her direction. A poor, limp thing, even more wrinkled and dirty now than it had been when he took it from the man’s body.

      She did not reach for it. Instead, she recoiled, as if it were a live thing with teeth.

      He shook his outstretched hand, wishing to free himself of it. ‘Do you not want it back?’

      ‘Back?’ The word, barely a whisper. Then, she lifted that hard, impenetrable gaze and met his eyes again. ‘It was never mine.’

       Chapter Two

      Valerie closed her eyes, blocking the sight of the muddy, wrinkled piece of cloth. It was proof, proof again, of how little she had mattered to her husband.

      Sir Ralph Scargill had sailed away to war in the springtime. Another spring came and went. She had not missed him. Though she knew the war was going badly, no one bothered to report details to a knight’s wife and he was not a man to send home tender words.

      So it was only a few months ago, when the Duke returned and her husband did not, that she knew the whole of it. Or thought she did.

      For now, this man, the one they called The Wolf, stood before her with furrowed brow and an outstretched hand, holding silk that had touched the flesh of an unknown woman who had, no doubt, lain with her husband.

      Had she, too, had to hide her bruises?

      Even if that were true, he must have cared for this woman to carry a reminder of her into battle. He had never asked Valerie for a token.

      And she had never offered one.

      But the man before her, a hardened warrior, blinked to hear the truth. ‘I thought...’

      She felt a twinge of regret. Poor man. He had only tried to comfort a grieving widow, not knowing she had never grieved.

      A frown touched his brows and she saw compassion in his eyes. Around them, people had stopped to look.

      She turned away, abruptly, and heard the murmur of conversation again. Bad enough to have seen the man’s shock. She did not want to face his pity. Or anyone else’s.

      ‘Wait.’ The word low and urgent. His fingers circled her wrist, a touch at once hard and hot.

      Reluctantly, she looked back. ‘Why?’ The scrap of silk, discarded, now lay crumpled at his feet. She resisted the urge to step on it.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

      Sorry for her, he meant. Sorry he had embarrassed the poor, wronged widow.

      A smile to appease him. A man must never be made to feel uncomfortable. ‘What my husband did was not unusual.’ Though usually not spoken aloud. ‘And not your fault.’

      ‘Forcing the knowledge on you was. I supposed at the truth and rode ahead. A mistake a commander should never make.’

      She covered his hand with hers, intending to lift it from her arm. Instead, her palm lingered, tempted by the warmth of his skin.

      Her husband’s hands had been cold. СКАЧАТЬ