Blood Royal. Vanora Bennett

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ this was the end of Owain. He’d go … Her head drooped lower. And so would hope.

      What a fool she’d been. What a fool. She should have … She realised that what she should be thinking was that she should have avoided letting herself feel this for a man she couldn’t marry. He wasn’t royal. She shouldn’t have seen him as a man at all; only as a retainer. But all she actually felt was hot-cheeked shame that she’d been stupid enough to let Christine catch them.

      She’d been shaking – shaking with happiness. Just for that moment; drowning in honey.

      No, for weeks she’d been happy. Being with Owain was like being let out of prison. Other princes and princesses had a life at court – balls, and dresses, and expenses, and flirtations. But that hadn’t started for Catherine and Charles; and, even for those admitted to it, court life only seemed to exist, these days, in muted, miniature form, behind closed doors. The children had always seemed to live in great wastelands of silence: with only the warmth of their friendship with each other and with Christine to sustain them. Then, suddenly, Catherine had found a new friend she could talk frankly to. They’d found a way to talk to each other. It wasn’t just the kiss. If she didn’t see Owain again, they wouldn’t be able to talk together any more.

      It took her breath away. Her mind shied away from the thought that she might not see Owain again. She stared at the pommel in front of her and tried not to think. Her blood was racing.

      They were almost at Paris when the trees thinned and they came out into fields. Dusk was falling. A ghostly moon was rising in the luminous sky; the evening star nearby.

      She spurred her horse on. There’d be a moment, at least, before Christine caught on; caught up.

      He turned as she came level with him. His glance was strained and desperate.

      ‘Venus … your star,’ he murmured very quietly, and her heart turned over at the knowledge that they were both still playing the game of not disturbing Christine. His face, as he’d turned, had been so pale; so angry. But now, with her here, for one moment more, he was burning with the torturing fire of hope. ‘I don’t know what I can promise,’ he said. ‘But I’ll always …’

      He paused, looking for something he could do; something he could say. Into the silence came the sound of Christine, just behind, clicking her tired horse into life.

      Owain closed his eyes, put his hand on his temples, and composed his white face into skull-like immobility.

      Then, very suddenly, without looking back, he cantered off.

      Catherine saw the distant little figure by the Queen’s house start running as soon as he saw her horse. But she ignored it, and kicked the horse on into a trot, straight towards the royal stables. There’d be time enough to talk to Charles later. She needed to compose herself first; to stop feeling so crushed by guilt; to try and erase the memory of Christine’s wounded eyes, and Owain’s bent head, and the silence.

      But she heard Charles’ pounding footsteps go on racing towards her. He threw himself into her arms as soon as she had her feet on the ground.

      He buried himself in her, shaking. His face was hot and red and snotty. His eyes were swollen.

      ‘I told the Saracen to tell you I’d gone!’ she cried, lashing out with her tongue. ‘She knew!’

      That startled him. He looked up with wide eyes. ‘She did tell me,’ he snuffled, warily.

      ‘Then why are you crying?’ she hissed, still full of guilty fury.

      His eyes filled with tears again. He hadn’t been panicking because she was gone. He hadn’t expected her to shout at him when she got back, either. She’d got it all wrong.

      She took a deep breath and tried again. She put her arms round his shaking shoulders and rocked him to and fro while he cried himself out. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, over and over again. ‘I didn’t mean …’ When his sobs quietened, she said gently: ‘What happened, darling, tell me?’

      He fixed big, scared eyes on her. ‘I’ve got to get married!’ he cried.

      She stared back. ‘Who?’ she said, without expression.

      ‘Marie of Anjou,’ he whimpered, and his face puckered up again.

      Catherine could see why. Their ten-year-old cousin Marie was solemn and very grand; always too worried about spoiling her beautiful and expensive clothes to want to play. ‘Big-nose!’ Charles wailed. ‘I don’t even like her!’

      But Catherine could see why her mother would want this marriage. Marie’s father was one of the most important of the French princes who opposed the Duke of Burgundy. Known as the King of Sicily, Marie’s father was just back from years abroad, fighting over his various Italian land claims, to formally swear his loyalty to the princes allied, under the Count of Armagnac, against the common enemy, Burgundy. They’d need to keep him sweet with a good marriage (and what could be better than a marriage to the King’s youngest son?). The situation was more dangerous than ever. She’d heard the pilgrim gossip on the road. Louis had written to her cousin of Burgundy, denouncing the Queen for making wrongful arrests of his men – and inviting Burgundy and his army back to Paris to save him from his mother. There was more trouble brewing, for sure.

      Thinking aloud, she told Charles: ‘It’s not so bad … you might get to bring your bride here … we could be together still … and if you have to go to them, it’s only over the road to the Anjou hotel …’

      ‘No,’ he squealed, back in his panic, burrowing once more into her arms. ‘That’s the whole point! Mother says I’ll have to go away! Right after the betrothal! To her mother’s court! To Angers! I’ve been looking for you all day! But you weren’t here! There was no one to tell! There was no one to tell!’

      She clung to him, shocked; a child again too, feeling her brother’s warmth, committing it to memory. Angers was two days’ ride south-west. She’d never see Charles if he was there. She bitterly regretted leaving him alone here, now she was forced to imagine him gone for good. She didn’t want him to go. They were safe together. They were allies. They trusted each other; loved each other. There was no one else left. Owain would be gone too. There would be no one she could talk to. She shut her eyes.

      She didn’t want to be left behind, on her own.

       SEVEN

      Christine knew what Owain was going to say as soon as he walked into the scriptorium the next morning.

      Anastaise grinned cheerfully at him, about to make one of her jokes about students. Then she stopped. He had his own travelling clothes on, not Jean’s cast-offs. He had his pack on his arm.

      Christine stepped forward. She walked Owain to the window, away from Anastaise. She stared down at the burned-out house opposite. So many things had gone wrong here; it seemed the right place to hear this.

      ‘Thank you for all your kindness,’ Owain said, very formally. ‘But I think after all I shouldn’t take up that place you found me at the University.’

      She nodded. She’d known he would go.

      She’d sensed СКАЧАТЬ