Wed by royal command!

Widow Valerie of Florham wants nothing more than to forget her abusive marriage and live peacefully at the mercy of no man. She’d never have dreamed of a liaison with handsome Sir Gil Wolford, but then comes a royal decree—they must wed!

Gil craves military conquest in Castile, far from his haunted past. Marriage to Lady Valerie is the last thing he should want, yet both have truths to hide from the rumormongers at court. They have no choice...and, once wed, the marriage bed changes everything!

You are cordially invited to Blythe Gifford’s

Royal Weddings

A hint of scandal this way comes!

Anne of Stamford, Lady Cecily and Lady Valerie serve the highest ladies in the land. And with their close proximity to the royal family they are privy to some of the greatest scandals the royal court has ever known!

As Anne, Cecily and Valerie’s worlds threaten to come crashing down three men enter their lives—dashing, gorgeous, and bringing with them more danger than ever before. Suddenly these three strong women must face a new challenge: resisting the power of seduction!

Follow Anne of Stamford’s story in

Secrets at Court

Read Cecily, Countess of Losford’s story in

Whispers at Court

Discover Lady Valerie of Florham’s story in

Rumours at Court

All available now!

Author Note

The monarchies of medieval Europe were a small, elite society. Kings and their families were expected to marry partners of similar stature, and such royal marriages were not expected to be love matches. They were arranged, like most medieval marriages, for reasons dynastic or financial, as heartless as a business transaction.

Even when countries were at war a marriage between royal families could create alliances, cement peace, or allow another ruler’s family the right to a distant throne.

But love has a way of interfering with such logical plans—for royals and for their subjects…

Rumours at Court

Blythe Gifford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, award-winning author BLYTHE GIFFORD started writing seriously after a corporate lay-off. Ten years later she became an overnight success when she sold her Romance Writers of America Golden Heart® finalist manuscript to Mills & Boon. Her books, set primarily in medieval England or early-Tudor Scotland, usually incorporate real historical events and characters. The Chicago Tribune has called her work ‘the perfect balance between history and romance’.

She loves to have visitors at blythegifford.com, facebook.com/BlytheGifford and Tweets at twitter.com/BlytheGifford.

Books by Blythe Gifford

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

Royal Weddings

Secrets at Court

Whispers at Court

Rumours at Court

The Brunson Clan

Return of the Border Warrior

Captive of the Border Lord

Taken by the Border Rebel

Linked by Character

A Yuletide Invitation ‘The Harlot’s Daughter’ In the Master’s Bed

Stand-Alone Novels

The Knave and the Maiden

Innocence Unveiled

His Border Bride

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.

For my editor, Linda Fildew, whose constant patience and support has made this journey possible.

Acknowledgement

Many, many thanks to author Deborah Kinnard, who dropped everything to double-check my Spanish translations.

I owe you, friend!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Royal Weddings

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgment

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Author’s Afterword

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

London—February 9th, 1372

Despite the cold, it seemed all of London had turned out to gawk at the Queen and to see the Duke of Lancaster, or ‘My Lord of Spain’ as he now preferred, stand before them for the first time as King of Castile.

Sir Gilbert Wolford stood beside the man as he prepared to welcome his new wife, the titular Queen of Castile, to his grand palace on the Thames. A sense of unease threatened the triumph of the day. This was a celebration, yes, but of a battle far from won.

The English Parliament had accepted Lancaster, the son of England’s King, as the rightful Lord of Castile. Many Castilians, including the current King, disagreed.

But some day, Gil would return to the Iberian plains at Lancaster’s side. This time, he would not stop until they stood, triumphant, in the Palace of Alcázar. The token he had carried since their first attempt weighed heavily in his pocket—his promise to himself.

Gil spared a glance for the ladies gathered to greet the Queen. Lady Valerie, Scargill’s widow, stood among them. She had just come to court and they had not met, but she had been pointed out to him from afar, easy to find in her widow’s wimple, covered as completely as a nun.

He had a last duty to perform for her dead husband.

One he would rather avoid.

In Castile, Gil had been known by the enemy as El Lobo, The Wolf, because he would kill to protect his men. But no man could save them all. Not in war. He had not been able to save Scargill and now the man’s widow must bear the price.

The procession stopped before the palace. The event had been arranged as if the Queen were newly come, as if she and her husband had never met. In truth, they had married on the Continent months before so as to lose no time in creating an heir.

A son.

Gil resisted regret. At thirty, he had no wife, no son and no prospect of either. Nor would he until he could leave this island and his family’s past well and truly behind. El Lobo was a byname more flattering than the ones they called his family here in England.

The Queen’s litter was carried up the stairs, lurching from side to side until it reached the landing where the Duke stood. Then it was lowered and Constanza, the Queen, stepped out to approach her husband.

Accustomed to the heat of the Spanish plains, neither the Queen nor her retinue had arrived with cloaks to fight the British cold. Wearing borrowed mantles, unmatched and ill fitting, they looked every bit the court in exile.

Yet the Queen without a kingdom did not act humbled. Her husband John of Gaunt might be Duke of Lancaster and son of the English King, but he could call himself King of Castile only because she was his wife. It was her father, her blood that carried the right to rule.

Now, within sight of her husband, she nodded to an attendant who removed the cloak.

Behind him, the women of the household gasped.

The Queen’s red-velvet gown, bright as blood, drew every eye. She stepped towards her husband, slowly, with only slight deference. A mere inclination of the head. Barely a bend to the knee. Proud, young. At seventeen, little more than half her husband’s age.

Comely enough, Gil supposed. But no woman would ever replace the man’s dead Duchess. With her, he had found not only a dynastic partner, he had found love of the kind the troubadours celebrated. Could a man expect that twice?

Gil did not expect it at all.

And yet, in his dreams, he imagined standing in the peaceful gardens of Alcázar with a woman who gazed at him, eyes full of love...

Only a dream. Now was not the time for a wife, who, like the Lady Valerie, might too soon become a widow. Before he took a bride, he would be a new man in a new place, miles and years away from his tainted past.

He brought his mind back to the present day and passed to the Duke the velvet sack which held the wedding gift to Constanza. With two hands and proper ceremony, Lancaster presented his offering, but instead of taking it, she left him with arms outstretched, not reaching for it.

A slight so obvious that, instead of murmurs, the air carried only shocked silence.

Gil hoped she had hesitated for fear her fingers were too cold to hold it safely.

Finally, she nodded to the man next to her. With one hand, he grasped the bottom of the bag while, with the other, he pushed it aside to reveal a gold cup, carved like a rose, covered with a lid featuring a dove in flight.

It was one of the most beautiful creations of a man’s hand that Gil had ever seen.

But the lady did not smile to see it. Instead, she waved it away to be cared for by one of her attendants.

Gil gritted his teeth, frowning. The woman should be more grateful. If the Duke had not come to her rescue, she and her sister would still be homeless, orphaned exiles in France. Only with her husband’s help did she have any hope of regaining the life and title she had been born to.

The Queen motioned to one of her counsellors, a heavy-set Castilian priest with a wide forehead, who stepped forward and began to speak.

‘La Reina asks me to say she is happy to greet her husband, Monseigneur d’Espagne.’

Halting English, Gil thought, but better than that of the Queen, who, he understood, spoke little but Castilian.

‘Tell Her Grace,’ John said, looking at Constanza, ‘that I welcome her to London.’

Another whispered conference. The woman’s lips thinned and she spoke sharply to the priest.

He cleared his throat and faced his ‘King’ again.

‘La Reina says that she hopes her stay here is brief. She expects you to return to her homeland and restore her throne before the year is out. Until she goes home to Castile, she asks that I give you all assistance to administer the state and plan for battle.’

Now, it was the smile of the Duke, ‘My Lord of Spain’, that turned thin and hard.

Gil’s expression mirrored his lord’s. Yes, Lancaster was King because he had married the Queen, but he was the King. And the King, not some Castilian priest, would be the one to select his military advisers. Gil expected to be among them.

‘Thank the Queen for me,’ Lancaster said. ‘I welcome your help.’

Only a courtesy, Gil thought, holding back a protest as the Queen’s younger sister and other members of her retinue hurried towards the warmth of Lancaster’s palace. The Duke could not refuse a wife’s request, no matter how rude, before a crowd. Nothing had changed. When the time came for war, he would rely on Gil and his other long-time companions.

As they turned to follow the women, he put the worry aside. He had another duty today.

The ladies of the court clustered around the doors, waiting to enter, and he looked for the Lady Valerie, pausing to study her, as he would assess the terrain before beginning an assault.

At first glance, he saw nothing remarkable. Swathed in her wimple and weeds, facing away from him, she was shorter than the other women. Was she fair or dark? Were her features pleasant to look on? Had her husband smiled when he came to her bed?

A gust of wind found her cloak. She reached to battle it, stopping his inappropriate imaginings. He should not think thus of the widow of one of his men.

She knew of her husband’s death, of course. That had happened months ago and she had been informed, so she would not first hear the news from him. For that, he was grateful.

But the ragged scrap of white silk that the man had tucked against his heart—that, at least, deserved to find its home again.

The wind subsided. She looked up and he caught a glimpse of her face. The woman had sad, dark eyes. Perhaps the return of the token her husband had cherished would give her comfort.

* * *

The English and Castilian ladies were shepherded into the palace and then to the Hall side by side, close enough for Valerie to hear the foreign chatter. She could not follow all the words, but the lilt of the language, the faint scent of Castilian soap, seemed familiar.

Perhaps her blood remembered these things. Blood that had come from another Castilian woman exiled to England, generations ago. Like Constanza, Queen of Castile, she, too, had been taken from her home and sent to a distant place.

Valerie touched the brooch of copper and enamel on her gown, a reminder of her long-dead relative. She must hold her head high amidst the unfamiliar trappings of court. Soon enough, she would be allowed to return to the earth of her home and her garden, slumbering now in winter.

The Queen reached the front of the Hall and turned to face the room. Valerie squinted, trying to see her clearly. She was fair, even sallow. Were her eyes blue? Too far to see, but her nose looked longish for the fashion, her figure tall and sturdy.

Her looks, in truth, were unimportant. Her gift to her husband was her country, not her beauty. And a woman, even a royal one, had no more choices than any other woman. She must marry for reasons of state, no matter what her heart. And if she wanted to be Queen in fact instead of just in name, this woman needed a man both willing and wealthy enough to fight for her kingdom.

Suddenly, the Queen touched a hand to her belly and the curtain of women around her closed tightly.

Were the rumours true? The Queen had arrived in England months ago, but had stayed in the country, some said because of the early ills of being with child.

The Duke—Valerie could still not think of him as a king—would have wasted no time getting an heir on her. They both needed to prove they could produce another generation to sit on Castile’s throne, so that might be the reason the woman did not look her best. All would be forgiven if she bore a son.

Something Valerie had failed to do.

‘She looks so young,’ Lady Katherine, next to her, whispered.

Valerie murmured something that might be mistaken for assent. The Queen was nearly Valerie’s own age and only a few years younger than Lady Katherine. Katherine, too, was newly widowed and had three children of her own. She might be feeling the length of her life.

Though she mourns her husband no more than I do mine.

She could not say how she knew. They had met only recently and never spoken of it, but Valerie felt certain that they both recited the requisite prayers for the loss of a husband while secretly revelling in their new freedom.

The line of ladies shielding the Queen parted. The Queen had settled into a chair at the front of the hall beside the Duke. Her sister came to stand beside her and the procession of lords and ladies shuffled into line to be presented.

Valerie, following Katherine, was surprised and honoured that she had been invited to this ceremony. Her husband had been a knight, but a lowly one. Lady Katherine’s husband had been the same, but she was here because she took care of the Duke’s children by his first wife. Now, she would move into his second wife’s household, a strong link to what the Queen needed to know about England and, perhaps, even about her husband.

As Valerie was presented to at least a dozen of the Queen’s ladies, she was called upon to do little beyond nod politely. The Queen’s people smiled, silent, not attempting the unfamiliar tongue.

Even the Queen remained impassive in the face of all the introductions. Surely the poor woman had absorbed nothing about the strangers paraded before her.

Then, Valerie heard her name called and knelt before the Queen. A flurry of conversation, the Duke, speaking to the interpreter, who then spoke to the Queen.

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. Always cold...

She let go, quickly. So did he. ‘I’m sure you are a good commander and did all you could. Now, please. I must...’

She could not say more. She only knew she must flee this man and all the certainty he brought. Even she could see that the well-worn scrap of cloth was silk, a costly material. Had she been a high-born woman? Or had he bought her something precious and rare? Either way, it had been sacrificed so that he could carry a reminder of this woman into battle.

Searching the hall for a familiar face, she returned to Lady Katherine’s side, hoping there would be no questions about what The Wolf had wanted of her.

But her companion’s attention was on the Duke, who was leaving the dais as the final presentations had been made. She murmured a greeting to Valerie, but did not turn her head, her gaze on the man with something like longing. She looked at him as if...

Valerie shook off the thought. Just because she knew the truth about her husband, she was seeing adultery all around her. No doubt it was there. All men looked for passion outside the marriage bed. A wife must expect no more than duty. She had not expected fidelity from Scargill, but she had never thought to have his infidelities displayed openly to all.

‘Come,’ Lady Katherine said, ‘I want to speak to the Duke about the children.’ A pause and blush. ‘I mean,’ she said, with a lift of her chin, ‘to Monseigneur d’Espagne.’

My Lord of Spain. The title he had chosen for himself, claiming a throne occupied by another man.

But that fact was firmly ignored today. Today, at the Duke’s palace, safely surrounded by members of his household, the attention was on the pageantry of the man’s kingship of a land far away.

As they approached, Lancaster’s smile was all for Katherine. Valerie was invisible in her wake.

‘How are you?’ And then, noticing Valerie, his tone shifted. ‘And how are the children?’

‘The girls are biddable and even tempered. And young Henry thinks he is ready to be a knight though he is barely five.’

Lancaster chuckled. ‘He lacks patience.’ The lack did not seem to disturb his father.

Katherine turned to Valerie. ‘You know Lady Valerie.’

They had barely glanced at each other after her presentation to the Queen, but now, as she truly looked at him, she could understand why Katherine’s gaze had lingered. Strong, tall, a warrior, yes, but a man one might trust in peace as well. Perhaps he would make a good king for those people in far-off Castile.

‘Your husband was a brave man,’ he said.

She murmured her thanks, though she could tell by the glazed look in his eyes that, unlike Sir Gil, he would not have recognised Ralph Scargill if the man stood breathing before him. Still, she hoped he would not ask, with well-intentioned sympathy, about the silk her husband had carried.

He did not. ‘The Queen smiled when she met you,’ the Duke continued. ‘There are few here that she...likes.’

Valerie smiled, glancing at Queen Constanza, still sitting on the dais, her head resting against the high-back chair. Her eyes were closed. Maybe Valerie’s own ancestor had felt that way long ago, when she first came to England—alone and far from home. ‘Perhaps my connection to her country was a comfort, Your Grace.’

‘What word do you hear from your steward?’ Lancaster was, apparently, done with the topic of his wife.

Now Valerie smiled, thinking of Florham. Home. The one corner of the world that was her own. ‘All was well when I left.’ How soon could she return? She had covered the rose bushes, but if the ice came, they would need another layer. ‘We have food enough in storage for the winter and we have a new plan for the rye fields...’

His gaze drifted and she bit her tongue. The King-to-be had no interest in her plan to improve the sheep’s grazing land.

‘You will not need to worry about such things much longer. It is time I chose a new husband for you.’

Forgetting all, she gripped his arm. ‘But I only learned of my husband’s death a few months ago. I need no help with the land.’ She stumbled over words, trying to make it right with the Duke. ‘By the time the quince tree buds, I had hoped—’

There was stunned shock on his face and on Lady Katherine’s.

She let go of his arm and lowered her eyes. How quickly she had forgotten. She could not speak so to any man, least of all to this one.

‘What, exactly, had you hoped?’ the Duke said, his smile turning sour.

‘I had hoped, my lord, to have a year to mourn.’ A year of freedom, to be left in peace in her beloved garden, beyond a man’s beck and call.

But as she looked at Lancaster’s face, it dawned on her, as it should have done when she first heard of her husband’s death: he had been promised forty marks per year in war, twenty marks per year in peace. For life.

And that life was now over.

His expression gentled. ‘I understand your sorrow, Lady Valerie, but you have no children.’

‘Of course, yes, I know,’ she murmured. And she did. She must be given to a new husband, a new protector, a new man to be endured. And some day, no doubt, she would find evidence of a new malkin defiling her bed.

At least the land was her own, beyond a husband’s reach.

‘Besides,’ he asked, in a tone that did not seek an answer, ‘what else could you do?’

‘Perhaps, my lord, I had thought...’ She paused, not knowing how the sentence would end. She could not tell him what she really wanted. My Lord of Spain cared nothing for her garden.

But he had mentioned his Queen. Perhaps that...

‘I had thought,’ she said, ‘that I might be of service to the Queen. For a time.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Service?’ Lancaster asked. ‘In what way?’

How could she answer? Certainly the Queen did not need a lady gardener in her retinue. Valerie turned to Lady Katherine and raised her brows, an appeal for help.

‘I might be of help to Lady Katherine.’ The woman had his children and her own to manage, as well as her duty to the Queen.

He waved his hand, a gesture of dismissal. ‘The Queen has a bevy of her own ladies from Castile.’

Valerie put a hand on Katherine’s arm and squeezed. ‘That is certainly true, but none of them can help her learn of England. Certainly Lady Katherine will do that, but I thought my connection to her country would be a comfort. And Lady Katherine will be so busy with the children...’

Please. Would Katherine understand her plea? Could she sway the Duke?

She could only pray that another woman would understand her meaning.

‘What a good idea, my lord,’ Katherine said, patting Valerie’s hand and turning her smile on Lancaster. ‘Lady Valerie could be another companion to the Queen as she adjusts to life here. And perhaps help me with your children as well.’

Valerie nodded, hiding her dismay. She knew less of children than of the court. The Queen’s momentary approval had warmed her, but a few remembered Castilian words would not make her fit company for royalty. She had wanted to return to the earth of Kent, not be stranded here in London.

Still, if it would delay the time when she must be sent to warm another man’s bed, at least for a while, she would do it. ‘Yes, I would be happy to be of help.’

The man’s scowl had not completely faded.

Now she must don the obedient smile, the one that made a man feel powerful and generous. ‘Of course, the choice is yours, my lord. I shall do as you wish and be grateful for your kind consideration.’ The words sounded wooden, even to her ears.

He smiled, finally, as if a servant had cleaned up after a guest who had clumsily dropped a goblet. ‘I am certain that Katherine will be glad of your help.’

‘As will the Queen, of course,’ Katherine added hastily.

And Valerie, who was certain of no such thing, dipped and murmured her thanks. Katherine put an arm around her shoulders and Valerie struggled to stay calm as Katherine led her away. A few more weeks, then, when she could move and speak without a husband’s approval. ‘Thank you,’ she said, when they were out of earshot. ‘I cannot yet bear...’

She shook her head and let the words go. She had said too much already.

‘Do not expect a long reprieve,’ Katherine said, patting her shoulder. ‘No later than spring, I would think.’

She looked at Katherine, unable to hide her dismay. In March, she had hoped to be weeding the earth around the quince tree. ‘Has he chosen your husband?’ She could not keep the bitter edge from her question. Katherine was also a widow. Surely she, too, would be given as a prize to some man.

‘No.’ Katherine looked away, a flush of colour on her cheeks. ‘The Duke has been kind to allow me to help his wife and with his children.’

‘I wish I could remain unmarried, as you are.’

‘Perhaps I shall marry again...some day.’ There was a strange yearning in the woman’s words.

Perhaps Valerie had been wrong. Perhaps Katherine had loved her husband deeply and longed for another union. ‘My marriage was not something I want to repeat.’ A difficult admission. One Valerie should not have made.

‘All are not so. The Duke and the Lady Blanche loved each other very much.’ Wistful. As if such a thing where possible.

One marriage out of how many? More than the waves on the sea. She shook her head. ‘I have not seen a marriage like that.’ Certainly not between her own mother and any of her husbands.

And yet, a woman had no other choice. She could marry herself to God or to a man. For some widows, wealthy ones, a husband’s death could mean a new life of independence. She would not be one of them.

She had the land, yes, the earth that had been handed down since that long-ago woman came from Castile: that, at least, would always be hers. It might even have been enough that she could have been left alone, to tend her roses and her quince tree. The very thought was a glimpse of freedom.

Instead, she would be given to a new gaoler whose every whim she would be forced to obey. She knew that. Had always known it. Yet just for a moment, she had hoped for a different life. ‘But you have found another path—’

Katherine touched her arm. ‘Do not seek to trade your life for mine. There are things you do not know.’

She dropped her arm and turned away, and Valerie wondered of the things she did not know. Well, she would allow Katherine her secrets. There were things she, too, did not wish to share.

But why should Katherine be left free with her children when she—?

Ah. Of course. It was because of the children. Katherine had three children. Valerie had none, so she must be given to yet another man. She must take him to her bed, over and over, until his seed took root and she carried his child.

What if she failed again?

* * *

Snatching the discarded silk from the floor, Gil wondered what Scargill had been thinking of, as his life slipped away. Of the battles in Gascony? Of the woman who last warmed his bed?

Or had he been praying to God to forgive the wrongs he had done to the wife he had left behind?

Gil tucked the silk scrap into his tunic. He would drop it in the rubble later.

Now, he looked around the Hall. A waste of time, all the trappings of this fantastical court. A fraud and a distraction for a man who should be worried about holding the land instead of the title.

He has taken a bride who has made him a king. But he still must take the throne.

John, Duke of Lancaster, King of Castile, Monseigneur d’Espagne, was tall and strong and handsome, as if he were King in fact. At thirty-two, barely older than Gil, the man was in his very prime. No man in England, perhaps no man in Christendom, had more personal wealth.

But this man was the son of Edward, King of England, so nothing short of kingship could ever be enough.

Had he been the first son, the English throne would have been his, but his father the King had spawned many worthy sons, so to grasp the throne he desired, Lancaster had been forced to look beyond the island.

Gil shared the man’s hunger to leave England. Castile was his answer, too, the place he could prove himself the man he wanted to be.

But tonight, instead of organising his invasion plan, Lancaster was wandering the hall, King of Castile only because he had married the dead King’s daughter.

It would take a war, not just a marriage, to win the throne.

Gil hung back, reluctant to interrupt Lancaster’s conversation with the Ladies Katherine and Valerie, but when they stepped away, he came to Lancaster’s side. His gaze followed the small woman, cloaked in black. Had she mentioned that he had flaunted her husband’s indiscretion in her face?

‘She should be married,’ Gil said, vaguely feeling as if were his fault that she was a widow and betrayed. Perhaps her marriage would assuage his lingering guilt.

‘But she is indispensable with my children,’ John said, gazing after the two women. ‘I cannot spare her.’

Both women were widows, of course, but he had spoken of only one of them. ‘I was speaking of the Lady Valerie.’

The words seem to break the man’s trance. ‘Ah, yes. I’ve asked her to join the Queen’s household for a time.’

Gil frowned. He wanted to see no more of this woman. He wanted to be rid of her and the reminder of his failures.

‘Besides,’ Lancaster continued, ‘she seemed less than eager at the thought of a new husband.’

For some reason, that irritated Gil, too. Surely it was not because she mourned the first one?. ‘What does she think to do? Go to a nunnery?’ Perhaps it was the wimple that made him think of that. He had the sudden urge to rip it off and see her hair flow free. What colour would it be? Looking into her dark eyes, he had not even noticed the brows above them.

‘She seemed to want to tend to her rye crop,’ the Duke said, with an amused smile.

Gil shook his head and shared his lord’s smile. Well, she was in no position to refuse a new husband, even if he treated her no better than the last one. She would marry the man Lancaster chose and it would be none of his concern.

The war, however, was. ‘The invasion, Your Grace.’ The title due a king still strange on his tongue. ‘Men and ships should be ready by summer. I recommend we land in Portugal and march into Castile from there.’

An attack from an allied country instead of a direct assault would ease their way, avoiding a battle until the men and horses had landed and were ready to fight. Gil had been a strong advocate for Portugal. If Lancaster chose his plan, surely he would also name Gil to lead the men.

‘Pembroke argues for Navarre,’ Lancaster said. ‘And others for Galicia.’

‘Portugal’s King sees the pretender as an immediate threat. He should be willing to support us.’

‘Until we hear from the ambassador, we cannot be certain,’ Lancaster said. He leaned closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘And my father the King has plans as well.’

‘To return to France?’ Vast swathes of the country once firmly in their grasp were splintered and they were on the brink of losing the land that had spawned a line of kings three hundred years old.

He nodded. ‘But speak of it to no one now.’

Gil nodded, but held his tongue. The last time he had seen the King, who had once been the greatest warrior in Christendom, the man had seemed tired and weak. But if he was now well enough to conduct a campaign...

Well, Castile, not France, was Gil’s responsibility. ‘For our own campaign, then, I will proceed.’ Money, men, ships to move them must be ready before summer, the season for war. ‘Plymouth is the port best positioned, so I will direct the ships to gather there and—’

‘Mi Señor y Rey. A word.’

The Castilian priest, with no more respect than to interrupt his ‘King’ at conversation.

Gil waited for the Duke to dismiss him.

That was not what happened. ‘Yes, Gutierrez, what is it?’

‘You should issue a proclamation immediately to announce that you have assumed the title of King. A statement that will challenge the man who pretends to the throne. I can, of course, draft such a document, but I require an office from which I can assist you and La Reina in conducting affairs of state.’

‘Ask my steward to find you proper quarters and whatever assistance you need to do so.’ All Lancaster’s attention was on the trappings of kingship again, as if it were a relief to deal with a fanciful kingdom instead of a real war. ‘I’ll sign and issue it as soon as it is ready.’

‘And to do that, Monseigneur, we must create a seal. The arms of Castile, combined with your own leopards and lilies, perhaps.’

A genuine smile. One of the few Gil had seen from the Duke all day. ‘Yes. I like that.’

Documents. Signatures. Seals. The country would be taken by men, not by proclamations. Yet here was Lancaster, chattering with this Castilian about the design of a royal seal.

‘Your Grace?’ Gil called. ‘The invasion plan?’

A wave of the hand, but the man did not turn. ‘Tomorrow, yes.’

He watched Lancaster and the Castilian walk away, and when they paused for the Duke to present the priest to Lady Katherine, Lady Valerie stepped away, standing beyond their circle.

Yet she was the one who drew Gil’s gaze. Surrounded by the colour and noise and bustle of the hall, in her plain garb and wimple, she was still, calm, almost frozen, like one of the statues of the Virgin Mary.

Thinking of her lost husband? Or of the woman who had last loved him?

The dirty silk burned like an ember against his chest.

Abruptly, he left the Hall and walked outside. The winter air would clear his head.

The sun was low in the sky and daylight fading fast. Looking out over the darkening river, he tried to remember more of Lady Valerie’s husband. Gil had been a commander who prided himself on knowing his men, yet he had noticed nothing unusual about Scargill. Men in war satisfied their needs as they must.

He wondered who the woman had been. Not a noble woman, he was certain. Not a lady deserving of a knight’s devotion. One of the camp followers, probably. He could barely tell one from another except for the laundress who did his washing. But in the midst of war, strange things could move a man’s passions. Faced daily with death, a man might cling to a woman as a way to cling to life...

And a man’s wife never to know better.

The frigid air blunted the smell from the river and when he reached the edge of the quay, he pulled the dead man’s token from his tunic, as soiled and stained as the relationship itself. He held it over the water, then dropped it into the darkness. For a moment, the white fabric drifted like a feather. Then it hit the river and was sucked beneath the waves.

His duty was done. Never to be thought of again.

He turned back to enter the palace, feeling a moment’s sympathy for Lady Valerie. Better the Duke marry her quickly to a man who would get some children on her and make her forget.

He hoped her new husband would be kinder than her last.

Chapter Three

Valerie joined the Queen’s household in the Savoy Palace but as the days went on, she saw little of Constanza, or La Reina, as the Queen liked to be called. Lent had begun and the woman spent most of her days either on her knees in her chapel or on her back in her bed.

Of Castile’s ‘King’, Valerie saw nothing at all. Lancaster settled a generous sum on his wife, so the Queen could run her household as befitted her rank.

And then started coming the gifts.

Week upon week, the Clerk of the Wardrobe would arrive at the door with another treasure for the Queen of Castile and deliver it into Valerie’s careful hands. Cloth of gold. Circlets set with emeralds and rubies. Loose pearls by the handfuls. Pearls enough to fill buckets. Pearls to be made into buttons, sewed on dresses, sprinkled on adornments for her hair.

Wealth such as Valerie had never imagined, placed in her care. And she would take each offering to the Queen, telling her it was another gift, a mark of respect from her husband. And each time, the woman turned her head away, muttering.

‘El único regalo que quiero es Castilla.’

Valerie had learned enough words by now to know her meaning.

The only gift I want is Castile.

Her faint connection to Castile had touched the Queen, but it had no such effect on the ladies surrounding her, who were less than pleased to have another Inglésa added to the household. Not only did the Castilian women not speak the language, they had no interest in learning anything of England and, as a result, Valerie heard neither news nor rumour from the court.

She and Lady Katherine, both ignored, clung to each other’s company. The Queen’s ladies did not invite them to gather for music or needlework and if the English ladies entered the room, the Castilians hovered close to the Queen as if to protect her from danger.

‘Do they think I plan to steal her child?’ Katherine muttered one evening as they sat together in their rooms by the fire. ‘I have my own children to mind.’

Valerie flinched. Perhaps the Castilians had seen the hunger in her own eyes, for it became evident, as February’s days grew longer, that the Queen was with child. Shapeless gowns and cloaks had masked her condition when she arrived, but in the privacy of her quarters, it was plain to see.

And Valerie, whose womb had never held a babe, was seized by sinful envy.

God had made both Constanza and Katherine fruitful. Where were the children of her womb? Had God forsaken her? Or would things be different with another man?

‘The Queen and her ladies are alone in a strange country,’ she said. She would feel the same, she was certain, if she were ever exiled and sent to an alien land. ‘I’m sure that is the source of their fear. Not us.’

‘I have seen little fear in that woman,’ Katherine muttered.

Valerie could not disagree. When La Reina did rise from her bed, she was straight-spined and clear-eyed and the orders she issued about the ceremonies of her exiled court showed that she had no doubt of her title and position, here or in Castile.

‘But her ladies all seem angry,’ Valerie said. Despite all her smiles and attempts to appease them, there had been nary a nod in return. ‘What if she complains to the Duke of our care?’

Katherine smiled, serene. ‘Do not worry. He knows.’

As if he knew Katherine so deeply that... Not a thought to be followed. ‘You served his first wife. He knows your worth. He knows nothing of me.’

Katherine laid light fingers on her arm. ‘I will not let that woman undermine you.’

Perhaps, Valerie thought. But this Castilian court in exile was all that stood between her and a new husband. If the Queen decided to be rid of her, there would be no recourse.

A knock on the door. A page entered. ‘The Queen commands your presence, Lady Valerie.’

She rose, uncertain whether to rejoice or be afraid.

‘Here. Let me.’ Katherine tucked a stray hair back beneath her wimple. ‘Now you look lovely. Go. See what the woman wants.’

Valerie followed the page to the Queen’s quarters.

Constanza, La Reina, sat in a throne-like chair, wearing a headpiece unlike any Valerie had seen in the English court. It hugged her head, with beading draped around, and came to an upward point in the middle of the forehead. It hid her hair, but made her eyes look huge.

Her priest, who served as her interpreter, was at her side.

Valerie curtsied and stood, waiting. Whispers.

‘You are a widow,’ the man said, finally.

She touched the wimple. ‘Sí, Your Grace. My husband died in the service of your husband.’

More whispers, then the priest spoke again. ‘La Reina still mourns her father. She understands your pain.’

Valerie bowed her head and murmured her thanks, while sending a silent prayer that the Queen would never, truly, understand how she felt about her husband’s death.

A silence, then. Awkward.

The Queen was struggling to hold herself erect, though it was evident that carrying the heir was not easy for her. Valerie had heard her complaints ranged from bleeding in her gums to rawness of the throat and stomach. And, now, in the same room with her, Valerie could smell that someone had broken wind.

‘I have not properly congratulated Your Grace,’ she said, hurriedly. ‘That you are to become a mother.’

The Queen smiled, an expression more joyful than Valerie had ever seen from her. No, it was beyond joy. Near heavenly bliss.

The priest translated her words. ‘Yes, praise God. When we return to Castile, it will be with a son. My father will be avenged.’

‘Dormit in pace,’ Valerie muttered, with bowed head. The Castilian King had been murdered by his half-brother, who now held the throne that should have gone to Constanza.

Suddenly, the Queen touched Valerie’s head and gave quick instructions to the priest who spoke again. ‘La Reina will have a hundred masses said for the soul of your husband.’

‘A hundred?’ Valerie had paid the four pence for her husband’s death mass and, truth to tell, she wondered whether the sum could have been better used paying a labourer to repair the roof of the barn.

Quickly, she prayed to be forgiven for such a wicked thought. The man would need prayers if he were to move beyond Purgatory to rest in peace, though she suspected he would find many kindred souls there, waiting for purification before they could go to Heaven.

She dipped in reverence and bowed her head again. ‘Her Grace’s generosity is beyond measure.’ For one hundred masses, she could have bought a horse and chariot. ‘If there is any service I can render her, I will gladly do so.’

A smile touched the woman’s lips, even before the translation was complete. Perhaps she knew more of the language than she admitted. Or, more likely, the posture of deference and gratitude was the same in her country as here.

Murmurs, and then the translator spoke. ‘You have been patient to stay here. You must want to go home. She asks only that you continue to pray for victory in Castile. Rise. Go with God.’

A dismissal.

And the word home.

She fought the swift desire to see her Kentish soil again. If only she could, truly, go home. Instead, she would be forced to submit to a new husband, an unknown terror, one who might be even worse than the last.

But if the Queen had sensed her desire for home, she would have to convince her that she wanted nothing more than to continue in her service. ‘Your Grace, I had hoped to serve you, at least until the child is born.’ Spoken in haste. When was the child due?

The translator frowned. ‘La Reina has many ladies.’

‘Yet none but Lady Katherine and myself know the court and the language.’

Constanza flinched as if she had just tasted a bitter fruit. ‘Me gusta. Esta mejor,’ she said, looking directly at Valerie.

This one, better. She meant Valerie.

Ah. So there was something about Katherine the Queen did not like. Perhaps she feared Katherine’s loyalty lay more with Lancaster than with her. Whatever the reason, deference to the Queen’s wants might help her meet her own.

She touched her ancestor’s brooch. A reminder. ‘As you know, Your Grace, I carry the blood of Castile.’ Or, so she had been told. In truth, after a hundred years and multiple generations, the amount of Castilian blood she carried would run out if she pricked her finger. ‘I would be honoured to serve La Reina as she unites again the two great nations of Castile and England.’

She waited, silent, as the words were translated. A frown, a furrowed brow would mean she was held in no more favour than Lady Katherine.

The Queen studied her. Valerie kept her eyes wide and a hopeful smile on her lips.

Finally, the Queen nodded, then muttered a few words.

‘Hasta unas semanas,’ the priest said. ‘Until Easter. And then, we will see.’

Only a few weeks. Well, she was grateful for even a brief reprieve. ‘I will strive to serve Your Grace in all things.’

And the things most important to Constanza now were her child and her country. Well, those things would now become important to Valerie.

It was either that, or it would be some nameless husband who would decide what was important and what was not. At least Valerie could understand the longing for a child. And for home.

She bowed her thanks and left, wondering again who Lancaster would choose to be her husband, when, for some reason, Sir Gil’s face flashed across her memory, full of shock when he discovered Scargill had been false and he realised that the scrap of silk was not hers. The stern look in his light blue eyes had turned into one she might almost have called compassion.

Surprising, that a seasoned man of war would expect such virtue from one of his men. More surprising that he might think that she would expect it from a husband.

Because for all the protestations of chivalry, marriage was an exchange, with no more passion than the purchase of flour in the marketplace. It was true for the Queen of Castile, and true for Valerie of Florham.

She knew that, even if Sir Gilbert Wolford did not.

* * *

Not until March, when Lancaster sent Gil to summon the Lady Katherine from the Queen’s quarters, did he give himself permission to think of Lady Valerie again.

He had rarely seen her over the past few weeks. The palace was large, the Queen’s retinue kept to themselves and he was more interested in finding ships to carry the men across the Channel than in the Scargill widow.

And yet, she had lingered in his thoughts. Had the Duke selected her new husband? He found himself hoping Lancaster would choose a nobler man than Scargill.

Although he had come to the Queen’s quarters to summon the Lady Katherine, it was Valerie who caught his attention when he entered the chambers. She was sitting quietly in a corner of the room, still swathed in the black of mourning, with her eyes downcast. There was something small and neat and held back about her, as if she was trying not to take up too much space.

‘Ladies.’ He bowed, hoping Valerie would raise her eyes. ‘My Lord of Spain asks the Lady Katherine to come to him with word of his children.’

Lady Katherine smiled when he said it, bright as sunlight. ‘Of course.’ She rose and hurried from the room, not waiting for him to escort her, leaving him alone with Lady Valerie.

And silence.

He should have left as well. There was no reason to stay. But her stubborn refusal to look at him seemed a challenge. Had someone told her of his past? Or was she still blaming him for her husband’s death?

The chatter and whistle of a black-and-white bird, caged in a sunny corner of the room, shattered the stillness.

She lifted her head, abruptly, and when her eyes met his, he glimpsed again how much she hid, though he could not say what it was. Anger? Fear?

She stood, abruptly, and tried to brush past him to reach the door.

‘Wait.’ His hand on her arm again.

She looked down at his hold, as if uncertain whether it was an assault or a caress, and when she lifted her gaze to his again, she had shielded all emotion. ‘Why? Do you bring a command for me, as well?’

Anger, then. At him.

He let go of her arm. What had possessed him to grab her like that? It was as if his family’s blood could never be truly conquered, despite all his years of struggle.

He stepped back. ‘Your husband’s spouse breach...it was not my doing.’ And yet, he felt responsible.

She shrugged. ‘It is the way of all men, all marriages.’

‘No. Not all. Lancaster’s marriage to the Lady Blanche...’ He let the sentence fade. The Duke’s devotion to his first wife was the stuff of legend. Fodder for Chaucer’s verse.

‘So I have been told.’ A sigh, then. ‘But this marriage...’ She shrugged.

Yes, the Duke had a new wife now. One to whom he did not seem so devoted.

And then, a gasp. She touched her fingers to her lips, as if to take the words back. ‘I did not mean to suggest that My Lord of Spain, that he...’ She looked beyond him, in the direction that Lady Katherine had gone, and then met his eyes.

Wordlessly, they asked each other the same question. Was it... Could it be...? Had Lady Katherine been summoned because...?

‘No, of course not,’ he said. An idea not to be thought. Not to be suggested.

Neither looked away, now. Neither spoke. And before he could stop his thoughts, a spark leapt between them. His breath came faster, his pulse beat more quickly. He was lost, now, in her wide-open, brown eyes. No longer was he thinking of what the Duke might do, but of himself and Valerie, together—

She blinked, then backed away and circled the room, as if trying to escape what had just passed between them. ‘I only meant,’ she said, not looking his way, ‘that His Grace has been busy and we have not seen him here in the Queen’s quarters.’

He, too, tried to fill the air with denials, both spoken and silent. ‘And the Queen has not emerged from her rooms.’

‘Because she is with child,’ Valerie answered, still pacing. The magpie flapped its wings and began to chatter, as if to join the conversation. ‘It is difficult for her.’

‘Yes, that is true.’ Gil nodded, surprised that his tongue could still form words. ‘He knows she needs rest.’

Now that Valerie was safely beyond his reach and no longer gazing into his eyes, he could think clearly. The bird’s chirp filled the quiet air, sounding too much like laughter. Gil’s unwanted surge of desire ebbed, replaced by a safer emotion: resentment. How could she suggest that his lord behaved as anything less than the epitome of chivalry? ‘He has sent her gifts,’ he protested. ‘Jewellery.’

At the word, Valerie’s steps halted. The bird fell silent, as if waiting for her to speak. Safely on the other side of the room, she finally raised her head and met his eyes again. ‘Do you think,’ she said, her words now soft, but deliberate, ‘that La Reina cares for pearls and gold?’

Remembering the disdain with which the Queen had set aside the gold cup presented to her, he suspected she did not. ‘What does she want?’

‘To go home.’ Her gaze turned towards the window, as if she, too, was drawn to that place. ‘Home.’

Home. Castile.

‘Lancaster wants the same.’ Of that, he could assure her. ‘As do I. We are gathering men and horses and ships, developing a plan to return.’

‘When?’ A simple word. A challenge.

The same one he had flung at the Duke. Instead of a decision, still they waited for the ambassadors to Portugal, and now, for the cardinals meeting with the Valois King.

‘War is not so simple.’ He spoke harshly, his own frustration sharp on his tongue. Simple on the field, yes, where a man must kill or be killed, but to get that far—well, that was straining his patience. The Duke had still made no commitment to a plan. Or to a leader.

‘Nor has it been simple for La Reina, yet she has done all he asked. She has wed him, given him her claim to the throne. Now, she carries an heir. When will he fulfil his vow to her?’ Spoken with as much passion as if she were the one wronged.

Easier, perhaps, for her to argue for what the Queen wanted, instead of her own desires. He understood that. He shared the sharp disappointment of the expedition’s delay, but he could not criticise his lord for what could not be controlled. ‘It takes time.’

Meaningless words for all he dare not say. King Edward, too, needed men and horses and ships to go to France. The Duke had the means to mount his own invasion, but still, Parliament would have its say...

Valerie raised her eyes heavenwards and shook her head. ‘Yet war is what you do. It is your life. Do not tell me you and Monseigneur d’Espagne do not know how it must be done.’

It was his life, his path to redemption. And yet, she spoke as if he were the greenest squire.

‘You state your judgements plainly, Lady Valerie.’ Was this the same woman who had lowered her eyes, afraid to speak? Here again was the warrior he had glimpsed when they first met. ‘You will find that no one is more diligent in duty than I. And no one, not even My Lord of Spain, is more dedicated to the cause of Castile.’

Suddenly, she became again a timid mouse with downcast eyes, biting her lip and looking down at the worn oak boards of the floor as if she were a servant who had spoken above her station. ‘Forgive me. It is not my place to say such things.’

‘Not unless you have commanded men in war.’ Yet he found himself as irritated by her sudden humility as by her criticism. Which was the real woman? ‘You know nothing of Castile.’

She lifted her head. ‘Little enough. But I have wondered about it. Always. What is it like?’ Neither anger nor fear in her voice, now. Only curiosity.

What is it like?

Five years past, and still, Castile was stamped on his soul. But when he thought of it, he thought not of the march over the snow-covered mountains, nor of the victory in springtime’s battle, nor even of Lancaster’s praise of him as a man ‘who cared not two cherries for death’.

He thought of the King’s Palace of Alcázar.

Queen Constanza’s father had not lived in a cramped, dark castle. Not for him a building constructed with blocks of cold stone, designed only to repulse the enemy in battle. Instead, the stone of Alcázar was carved into patterns as delicate as lattice work. The rooms opened into courtyards that dissolved into rooms again, until there seemed no difference between inside and out. Beneath a hot, bright blue sky, Gil had stood, surrounded by the sound of splashing fountains, calming even when you could not see them. Wherever he looked, every floor, wall and even ceiling was covered with designs that served no purpose other than to delight the eye. Red, white, blue, yellow—patterns so intricate his eye became dizzy trying to follow them.

There was nothing familiar. No reminder of home or England. And no secrets buried in the earth.

There was only peace. Peace he had thought never to find.

Peace he longed to feel again.

But what man noticed fountains or remarked on coloured tiles? It was the conquest that he should summon for her. The things El Lobo would remember.

For he had been sent to that place, to that palace, to collect the payment Castile’s King had promised. It never came. Finally, instead, the King handed his two daughters to the English to settle the debt.

He wondered whether Constanza had told Valerie that part of the tale. ‘It was freezing. Then boiling. And then the Prince fell ill.’

The Prince, Lancaster’s brother, heir to the English throne, had been felled by the flux. Near three years later, he had not recovered. Many wondered whether he ever would.

She blinked at his blunt words. ‘I had thought it a gentler land.’

‘Is that what the Queen tells you?’ No doubt the woman remembered home through the eyes of a child.

No doubt the Queen longed for Alcázar as well.

Valerie shook her head. ‘That was the story passed down through my family. That it was a country of warm sunshine and cloudless skies.’

‘Your family?’ Had he misunderstood? ‘I did not know you were Castilian.’

She shook her head. ‘Not really, but when Eleanor of Castile came to marry the first Edward, she brought her ladies with her, just as Constanza has done. Many of them married English knights, my ancestor among them. Her memories have floated down to me.’ Her gaze, distant, as if she could truly see a land she had never known.

Memories. As changeable as sunlight flickering on a stream. Except for the ones too strong and stubborn and dangerous to disappear.

‘Then you must long to see it in fact,’ he said. Perhaps they shared that desire.

She tilted her head, looking as if she had never thought of it before. ‘Until My Lord of Spain reclaims the throne, it matters not whether I would or no.’

Her words, no matter how gently spoken, seemed thrown like a gauntlet to challenge him.

It was true. All his longing meant nothing until English soldiers sailed for the Continent. Until then, his yearning to return to the solace of Alcázar was no more than a promise. ‘All of us who serve the Monseigneur d’Espagne know our duty. To him, to his Queen and to his heir. We will attain Castile. And hold it.’

No. It was more than a promise. It was a vow.

Chapter Four

When next he was summoned to Lancaster’s quarters, Gil again saw a warrior all energy and attention.

Now, today, finally. I will be chosen to lead the army of invasion.

For some reason, his first thought was to share the news with the Lady Valerie.

In fact, so certain was he that the time had come, he almost did not understand the words Lancaster actually spoke.

‘We need more ships—’ the Duke began.

‘More?’ The last time he had assessed the situation, they had ships and men in hand and were only awaiting word from the ambassadors about their route. ‘Why? Have the Portuguese refused an alliance?’ If so, they would need more ships for a frontal assault.

‘Not for Castile. My father the King is sending Pembroke to relieve the siege in France.’

King Edward, Lancaster’s father, was King of this island. His will came before all. Uneasy, Gil counted again the men pledged to war. ‘Do you intend to divert our men to his effort?’

‘No.’ A promise as unequivocal as Gil would have wanted. ‘Pembroke will take a small group with him and gold to recruit the rest when he lands in Brittany. From there, they will march through Aquitaine...’

Gil listened to the plans by habit, each word bitter in his ears. France had belonged to the Plantagenets before England. They could not let it be taken now.

‘We await word from Portugal,’ Lancaster concluded. ‘So it will not delay our own expedition.’

Portugal’s silence, other forays diverting ships and energy—Gil was losing patience with all of it. But a commander must know when to advance and when to hold back. When they did reach Castile, his weeks of frustration would all be forgotten.

‘I will leave for Losford tomorrow,’ he said. Losford, guardian of the English coast, was the castle where he had learned to be a knight, all those years ago. In the harbour below, there must be some shipowners who would be glad of some extra coin to ferry men and horses across the Channel. For this effort, cogs, even smaller boats could be pressed into service. ‘I’ll send men to Sandwich and New Romney, too, and—’

A hand on his shoulder. ‘But something else, first.’

Again, his hope swelled. ‘Anything.’ At last. Captain of the Knights of Castile...

‘You must marry.’

‘What?’ He shook his head. He must have misheard. They had talked of war, not weddings.

But Lancaster’s words were firm. ‘Marry. You must marry.’

‘Of course, my lord.’ How could the man think of marriage when Castile lay in the balance? ‘Some day.’

‘Now.’

‘My lord—’ he began. Had the man gone mad? ‘Now is not the time—’

‘It must be now. Before...’ He let the word drift.

Before he took up arms again. Before death threatened.

‘My lord, marriage can wait.’

Lancaster shook his head. ‘You have waited longer than most men. You want a wife, do you not?’

He had never pondered it as a question. Marriage was not a choice. Every man married. But for him, marriage had been a long-deferred dream, not to be undertaken until his own accomplishments shone so brightly that they would make people forget the shadows that clung to the Brewen name of his mother’s people.

When he thought of it at all, he vaguely imagined a time when he was revered and honoured and living in Castile, where one day, he would look out and see a special glance, a special woman, one who could be as dear to him as the Duke’s first wife had been to him.

A foolish dream. But he was certain that when he was the man he wanted to be, the woman he wanted at his side would appear.

‘Yes, Your Grace, I do. When the time is right.’

‘And children? You want children?’

He wanted a son. Wanted with the same fierce longing that a starving man yearned for bread. ‘When we hold Castile, my lord.’ When he could return to the gardens of Alcázar, this time, as one who belonged there. ‘Then, gladly.’

The Duke shook his head. ‘You cannot wait. If anything happens to me, the Queen will bear my heir to sit on the throne. If we lose my brother, his son will sit on my father’s throne. If something happens to you...’

If something happens...

Death could come today. Tomorrow. By accident or disease. In France as easily as in Castile.

Lancaster had sired four sons. Only one still lived. He was a man who knew the shortness of life. Gil knew it, too, but he somehow believed he could hold death at bay until he had redeemed the Brewen name.

The Duke cleared his throat. ‘The leader I choose should think of the future.’

Was marriage, then, a condition of his appointment?

Gil swallowed. ‘Who?’ he said, finally, testing the thought. ‘Who would you have me marry?’

He had never actually devised the image of a wife. A son, with eyes the same pale blue as his own, he had imagined in detail so precise the boy might as well be real. But the woman who would warm his bed and wake up beside him day after day for all the years to come? He had not envisioned her at all.

Valerie’s face flashed before him. Why should he think of her now?

‘I have chosen,’ his lord said, ‘the Lady Valerie.’

Gil fought the quickening of his pulse. Had the man plucked her image from his mind?

But she was nothing he wanted in a wife. She shared his passion for Castile, perhaps, but from the words they had exchanged, he did not think they would suit. Stubborn, opinionated... He had thought to marry someone...different. Someone who would not remind him of his failures. ‘But we are in the midst of a war. The King wants ships. There is no time—’

‘There is time enough to bed her.’ A grim smile from the man who had bedded his wife somewhere between France and the English coast.

Now Gil’s blood swirled hot and his body surged in response, as if suddenly given permission. To know the colour of her hair, the feel of the skin of her shoulder beneath his fingers—that tempted him beyond reason. ‘But my duties to you, to Castile...’

Lancaster waved his hand. ‘None of that will change.’ And then, a wisp of memory clouded his face. ‘Mine didn’t. Not this time.’

But Gil wanted, needed, change. If he married now, he would have no home to offer but the one he had fled. ‘But surely this marriage can wait until we regain Castile?’

‘I said things would not change,’ Lancaster said, ‘but changes will come, Gil, as they do to all men, whether you want them or not.’ Memories and regret, both stamped on the Duke’s face. ‘Which is why your marriage must be now.’ The words, final. Allowing no more debate.

He swallowed. ‘Is she...willing?’

The Duke looked baffled. ‘She is a woman. She will do as I bid.’

And so must Gil. In truth, the decision belonged neither fully to him nor to her. True, either of them could protest at the church door, but the church ruled life after death. Lancaster, Monseigneur d’Espagne, ruled their lives on earth, hers as well as his. Their relationship with their lord was a complex series of agreements and promises, many written on parchment, others written on the heart, but all bonds made of honour, strong as iron. Vows not to be broken.

Not if Gil was to be the man he wanted to be.

But his true question lay answered. Will she have me? Will she take a Brewen?

He asked a different way. ‘Her family...will they consent?’

‘She has no family left. And no children from Scargill, so none to compete with the ones you will give her.’

He nodded, silent, understanding why the Duke had thought her a good match. No family left. No one to object.

‘She told me,’ Gil began, ‘that one of her ancestors had served Eleanor of Castile.’

‘Yes,’ the Duke said. ‘Her family has no stain through all those generations.’

He gritted his teeth. An awkward acknowledgement. He needed a spotless reputation from a wife more than he needed worldly wealth.

Assuming his agreement, the Duke continued. ‘Her dowry is the parcel of land given to the family years ago, but it is part of Scargill’s holdings now and he died with debts. I will arrange a dowry payment for her instead of passing on the land.’

Because a duke could do such things.

‘Does she know? Of your decision?’

The Duke smiled. ‘I thought you should bring her the good news.’

He wondered whether she would find it so. ‘I leave for Losford tomorrow. When I get back—’

‘No. Now. Before you go.’

He sighed. Maybe fortune would smile on him, he thought, as he bowed and left the room. Maybe, as opinionated as she was, she would say no.

* * *

‘Sir Gilbert asks that you come to him.’

Valerie looked around the room. The page’s whisper had reached only her ear. The Queen was resting and her other ladies, as always, were ignoring Valerie with deliberate purpose.

She would not be missed.

She put down her hated needlework and followed the boy to the outer room, struggling to stifle the heat in her cheeks at the memory of their last meeting. Her every encounter with Sir Gilbert had been unpleasant. What could send him to her again? Did he think to warn her against spreading suspicious tales about Lady Katherine and My Lord of Spain? No need. Idle chatter would only hurt both Katherine and the Queen.

The grim set of his lips did not reassure her. The Wolf of Castile they had called him. He looked the part today. Whatever message he bore, the tidings must not be good.

What was that legend?

If a wolf sees a man before the man sees the wolf, the man will lose his voice. If the man sees the wolf first, the wolf can no longer be fierce.

Then surely he must have seen her first.

She stopped before him and he bowed, briefly. ‘I must speak to you alone. Let us walk.’

She gave the page a wave of dismissal and followed Sir Gilbert into the corridor. His stride was longer than hers and she near ran, trying to keep up, but still she lagged behind.

He turned to look finally, still frowning.

She stopped, still a length behind him, and mirrored his glare. ‘My steps are shorter than yours.’

A flicker crossed his face, as if her words had shamed him.

Again, she had been forward, speaking as if she had the right to counter him. Would he shout? Raise his hand to her? No. He did not have a husband’s rights. She was safe.

He waved towards a window alcove with a stone seat. ‘Then sit.’

She did. The hallway, far from the nearest fireplace, was empty and the stone was cold even through the wool of her gown.

He did not sit, but towered over her, broad shoulders blocking the draught from the window, looking more fearsome than ever. She braved meeting his eyes again, but this time, she sensed none of the fire that had sparked between them before.

This time, he eyed her as if she were an opponent on the field.

She wanted to avert her gaze—to study the cloud-filled sky and assess when the rain would come—to look anywhere but into his critical eyes. But she willed herself to face him, calmly, waiting.

He began without preamble. ‘The Duke thinks I ought to marry you.’ Words spare, blunt. And totally void of feeling.

Yet they left her as shocked as if he had run a sword through her. All hope for a life of independence, even the few weeks’ reprieve she had tried to grasp, all gone. She clawed for words. ‘But I am serving the Queen.’ As if that might truly save her. ‘She asked that I stay—’

‘You will continue to do so as long as she wishes.’

Only until Easter, La Reina had said. And there could be no wedding until Lent was over. But then? She would indeed be at a man’s mercy again.

She paused, letting her mind settle. She must not assume the worst. They were gathering men and ships to return to Castile. This man had other obligations and no time to settle into a new household. ‘So we will be betrothed. For some time.’

‘No.’ His face was grim, as if he took no more joy in this marriage than she did. ‘Before I sail for Castile.’

And yet, she had heard nothing of when that might be. Did she have weeks? Days? Only hours of freedom left? ‘When? When is this marriage to take place?’

How many more days of her own did she have?

‘A few weeks. The war is close upon us.’

Obvious the man had not married before. He knew nothing of all that lay ahead. ‘But banns must be read, the union announced—’

‘Lancaster will see to that.’

‘I see.’ And now she did. No arguments to be made. No way to delay. The decision had been made. Once again, control had left her hands and been given to men. She fixed a smile on her lips, met his eyes with the appropriate expression and mumbled the words he must have expected from the first. ‘I am honoured, of course, and will try in every way to please you.’

The compliment brought a moment of confusion to his face, a touch of doubt to his gaze. ‘Does that mean yes? That you will marry me?’

She wanted to scream no to this man she barely knew. Was he cruel or kind? Had he wealth or only his armour?

And yet, all that mattered less now than what he knew.

He knew of her humiliation. He knew that her husband had betrayed her with another woman. Seen the crumpled evidence of her failure as a wife.

Suddenly, knowing she would have to please a husband again, the familiar fears returned. Would he, like Scargill, think her breasts too small and her hips too thin? Would he, too, grow to hate the sound of her voice and tell her to shut her mouth?

And even though she must expect that this man, too, would seek another’s bed some day, the first time he came to her bed, he would already count her a failure. He already knew she had not been enough for her husband.

And yet, he had asked. Does that mean yes? An awkward question, but surprisingly kind. As if pretending the choice were hers. It was not. For she had known one thing, always. No woman could refuse a marriage.

And so, with head high and lips pressed firmly into a smile, she nodded. ‘Yes. I will marry you.’

I will marry you. Words enough to satisfy canon law. That would allow her to call him husband.

He let out a breath, as if with her assent, the hardest part had passed. ‘Then we are betrothed.’ Yet that look of uncertainty lingered on his face, as if the Wolf had become a Lamb. ‘Have you nothing more to say?’

She coughed, to cover the laughter that threatened to bubble over. A woman did not laugh at her husband. Not if she wished a smooth existence. But this man seemed full of contradictions, by turn stern, angry, kind and even, for a moment, as uncertain of the future as she.

There were questions she should ask, important ones about her land and his family, where they would marry, where they would live. But the answers barely mattered now. My Lord of Spain had decreed it. So it would be. All she could do was to bow her head, bite her tongue and submit to this man’s will. ‘What happens next?’

‘I have duties with my lord, as do you with the Queen. We will continue to fulfil them.’

She nodded, as briefly as he, with a half-smile as if his answer pleased her. It was a partial, but perplexing reprieve. ‘But I am to meet your family, move my belongings, settle into your holdings and establish a home...’ When she had married Scargill, there was a flurry of activity, settling details of property and management of the holdings, making room for him in the home that had been hers...

All to be ready for the arrival of a baby that never came.

‘Nothing will change.’ He said those words as if they were a vow, then rose, as if the conversation was complete and everything settled.

Nothing? It was evident that the man had never married, or he would know that everything was to change. Or, perhaps, it was true for him. Only Valerie would, once again, rearrange her life to accommodate a husband. And, if he had no home of his own, perhaps they would live at Florham, as she and Scargill had done. The very possibility was a comfort.

‘Is it my place to tell the Queen that I am to be wed?’ How were such things done? Her life had been tied to the earth, not to the court.

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is for My Lord of Spain to do. I do not know the way of such things.’

‘As you will, my lord.’

He shrugged his shoulders, as if to throw off the title. ‘You must not call me that.’

My lord. It was the title Scargill preferred above all others. ‘But so you shall be.’

‘Call me something else.’

‘The Wolf?’ She permitted herself half of a smile. ‘I think I prefer my lord.’

‘My father called me Gil.’

‘Gil.’ A name bright and strong. Easy to speak. ‘Then it will be as you wish. Gil.’

He nodded, awkward, then stood. ‘Tomorrow I go to Losford on behalf of the King. We will discuss arrangements when I return.’ Duty done, he bowed. Brief. Perfunctory. ‘Goodnight, Lady Valerie.’

His task complete, as if dusting his hands of dirt.

He was three steps away when she called after him. ‘If you are to be Gil, I must be Valerie.’

He looked back, then honoured her with a stiff nod, as if every interaction was painful.

But then, he took a step towards her and did not look away. Tangled in his gaze, she rose from the bench and moved in his direction. Time slowed. Her pulse quickened. Close now, she could see his lips, no longer unyielding but softer than she had thought. One breath more, two, and they would make another step, touch, and—

‘Goodnight, Valerie.’

And then, he was gone.

Nothing will change.

She only wished it were true.

Chapter Five

After he told the Scargill widow he would marry her, he vowed to think of her no more.

He did not succeed.

For the two days it took to ride to Losford, he thought of little else.

He had faced few battles for which he felt less prepared. With sword and shield, he was at home. No man would ever call him coward. All the lessons of honourable men at war were now his own, ready to pass on to his son.

But the courtly manners, the ways to woo and the honour due a noble woman, those had been harder to conquer. He had delayed the study of them, thinking them unimportant. So now, when the moment came and he was forced to ask a woman to be his wife, he had not known what to say.

Yes, she had agreed, though he would not have blamed her if she had wanted a different match. If I am to meet your family, she had said, as if she had no hesitation and knew nothing of his past. Was she really ignorant of his history? If so, what would happen when she discovered...?

Too late to wonder. She had agreed. The matter was settled. He would marry and have the son he had always wanted.

And the legacy he wanted for the child? Castile twinkled before him like a distant star. When he needed solace, he would think again of the colourful courtyards, far from the forests of Leicester. There, in the sun, well away from his home where the Brewen name meant only disgrace, his son could grow to manhood with pride.

As Losford Castle’s crenellated corners came into view, looming over the narrow band of water between England and Calais, he was reassured. This place was more home to him than his own.

Here, he had taken his first steps towards redemption.

As a lonely boy carrying a disgraced name, he had served as page and then squire to the Earl, one of the most powerful men in England. Before he was felled on the field in France, the man had moulded Gil’s character and his skills.

There had been no time to send a messenger, but the guards recognised his colours and before he had dismounted, Lady Cecily, the daughter of the late Earl, and her husband rushed into the courtyard and embraced him.

‘It has been too long,’ she said, in the chiding, loving tone a sister might use.

Her husband, Marc, let a clap on the shoulder speak for him. They shared the quick smile of fighting men.

It had been eight years since Marc had taken pity on him after the Earl died and had taught him new ways to hold his shield and swing his blade.

In those days, it seemed England had vanquished all her enemies. As a new knight, still green, Gil feared he might never have another chance to prove his worth in battle. A false fear. There had been chances aplenty. That he had survived was a testament to Marc as well as to the Earl.

They hustled him into the warmth of the castle and settled before a fire, the stone walls blunting the howl of the wind. A cup of wine. The smell of roasting lamb. The faces of friends. He took it all in, let the weariness of the ride, and the years, and the urgency of war flow away, and basked in the welcome peace.

What would it be like, to have a haven like this? Would the brittle widow ever smile to see him as Cecily did when she looked at Marc?

But these two had defied a king for their love, not been ordered to the church door as near strangers.

‘It is so good to see you.’ Cecily’s voice, bringing him back to the room. ‘I keep hoping to hear word you’re to wed.’ She raised her eyebrows, expectant.

He cleared his throat. Now, he must speak. ‘Only this week,’ he said, ‘the Duke has chosen a wife for me.’ A word still strange on his tongue.

‘Who? Tell me!’ There was delight in her voice.

‘I know little of her.’ Suddenly, the thought of all he would know rushed through him. The scent of her skin. The feel of her lips. Whether she slept at night on her side or on her back. Not things he could speak of. ‘She is the widow of one of my men.’

Cecily laughed. ‘Well, perhaps you might tell us her name.’

‘Valerie.’ It was not the first time he had spoken it, but this time, he realised how many times he would say it from now on. The word, the woman, both attached to him into eternity. ‘Lady Valerie, widow of Scargill.’ The man’s name, distasteful now.

‘Lady Valerie of Florham?’ She sounded pleased. ‘Her family has lived for generations some two days’ ride from here.’

‘Do you know her?’ Eager, suddenly, to find a connection between his bride and Cecily, who had been like a sister to him.

She shook her head. ‘We have never met, though I know of the land and the family.’

Her family has no stain. ‘An honourable family, Lancaster said.’

‘Truly.’ Cecily and Marc exchanged glances as if they did not need words to understand one another and, for a moment, Gil was jealous. He wanted that kind of love, the kind that needed no words. ‘How does she feel about...?’ About marrying a Brewen. ‘Your family?’

‘She did not say.’ Again, the questions plagued him. Did the Duke select her because she could not protest? Or was she simply ignorant of misdeeds of long ago and far from her own corner of the island? If the latter, he should tell her. And then, she might say no, he might be free—

He sat straight. His own disappointments, petty, not worthy of mention. ‘That is not why I have come.’

He put down the wine. The moment for peace and comfort had passed. ‘Lancaster prepares to sail for Castile and the King gathers ships to send an expedition back to France.’

Marc’s expression hardened. So quickly, he, too, became a warrior again, ready to fight.

And Cecily? Not for her the fearful face so many women donned at the mention of war. Only a brief glimpse of sadness, soon gone. ‘Does King Edward not command his men?’

Cecily had been too long away from court. She could not know how much the King’s strength had failed and how often he was absent from the Hall.

‘I am certain Lancaster is consulting His Grace and his brother on every decision.’ Said too quickly. Said as if England’s greatest warriors were still leading the fight. He sighed. They deserved to know the whole of it. ‘But the truth is, neither the King nor his oldest son is a well man.’ An admission hard to make. For more than forty years, an Edward had led English men to victory. What would they do now?

Did Cecily and Marc exchange a glance? What secret message did they share now?

But she had grown up in this castle, inherited it and held it for England. It was the bulwark that served to stop anyone who dared cross the Channel. ‘Losford is ready,’ she said. ‘What does the King need?’

‘Ships. Cogs. Anything that floats on water.’

‘Not men?’ It was Marc who spoke. He had come to England as a French hostage and stayed for love, promising to defend King Edward’s shores. But would he be willing to invade his own country?

He put a hand on Marc’s shoulder. ‘No. We do not ask that of you.’

A brief moment of relief. And then they spoke of other things: how many vessels were ready now, how quickly the rest could be raised. Clear, now, that the expedition would not sail on the King’s schedule.

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