Secrets at Court (17 page)

‘No! I have not... I am not a woman who has attracted men that way. But once, I would like just once...’

That, he could give her.

They could not run. Here. It must be here. Now. If they waited until it was easy or convenient, he, both of them might come to their senses. And for once, that was not what he wanted.

He opened the door to her room, and held out his hand.

Chapter Eighteen

I
must remember everything,
Anne thought, as the door closed behind them.
Every moment so that I can
relive it later.

Until Nicholas, she had known nothing of loving or kisses. Yet she had spent a lifetime near a woman who loved men. Lady Joan had borne Thomas five children. Some nights, Anne had heard them, through the door. The panting, the groans, the screams. And with the Prince, it was the same.

But for herself, beyond the kisses she had shared with Nicholas, there was only the mystery of
want
.

He put the candle down beside the bed and she looked at the straw mattress, hesitant to take that step.
Now. It must be now
.

Suddenly, he scooped her into his arms and carried her there and all her awkwardness fell away.

Tonight, she would be the Anne she was inside.

Nicholas sat beside her on the bed and looked at her, head to toe, without speaking. The silence lengthened, her cheeks grew hot and she looked away, unaccustomed to being examined instead of overlooked.

He reached for the fall of her hair and lifted it behind her shoulder to reveal her face.

Her breathing quickened. ‘What are you doing?’

A gentle smile in answer. No need to be urgent this night.

‘Looking at your hair,’ he said. ‘It is one of my favourite parts of you.’

Foolish flattery. ‘Red hair is frowned on.’

He furrowed his brow and skewed his lips into mock consideration. ‘Then I will not call it red. Shall I name it sanguine? Or gules? What shall I call it?’

‘Call it nothing at all. Don’t look at it at all.’

‘You’ve taught me to see.’ His fingers played with her hair, a gesture as intimate as if he was stroking her skin. ‘Yet you do not want to be seen?’

No. She did not. She wanted to close her eyes and disappear into him, consumed by this mysterious thing between men and women.

‘You have always seen me more clearly than others do.’
Be brave. Look at him
. But she could not.

‘That’s what I want to do. I want to spend this night looking at you, from head to—’

‘No! You must promise me.’ She bent her knees, drawing up her legs hiding her foot, still in its red hose, safely beneath her skirt. ‘Don’t look...’

And of course, he did. ‘I’ve already seen it. You don’t have to hide.’

But she did, she had to hide so many things. ‘Don’t look at me at all.’ She leaned over and, with one breath, the candle went dark.

Outside, the sun had set. Fading light still smudged the room, but she felt safer now. More hidden. Less Anne.

He inhaled, as if to argue, and then her lips took his and there were no more words.

He broke the kiss and pulled off his tunic and hose. In the near dark, she was brave enough to shed all but her chemise, letting him help.

She felt his hands stroke her arms, explore her neck and she could scarcely breathe for the joy of it.

A human touch. She had not realised that skin could crave such a thing. Air, velvet, linen, silk, sun—all had stroked her skin without her notice.

But when had any man ever touched her with tenderness, with passion?

Touched her at all?

Now, everywhere, his fingers, lips, as if kindling flame wherever he touched. She succumbed to the feeling, to being pleasured, and then, as he cupped her hip, stroked her thigh, she tensed.

No lower. He must not go lower...

‘Shh. I promise.’

And because she believed him, she let the want crash through her.

Soft surprise, to discover how alive she could feel. Skin, breath, something even deeper trembling, fighting to break free, escape, faster than a horse could gallop, mobile as a falcon in flight. Soaring. Never, never wanting to touch earth again.

Here, now, finally, she was not slow or awkward. She did not stumble or hobble. Nothing held back her kisses or her touches.

Even though she had never loved a man before, it felt easy and natural. As if she were not the Anne everyone saw, but the Anne she had always wanted to be.

Free.

* * *

This, Nicholas knew he would remember.

Don’t look at me,
she had begged. Yet as the last light of dusk ebbed from the room, he filled his eyes with the sight of her face, lips parted, eyes half-closed, freed of pain and worry, feeling only the pleasure of his touch.

He explored her skin with gentle fingers and watched her stretch and sigh and offer herself for more. His lips took the tip of one breast and she moaned in delight. Trailing kisses, he discovered one, then the other, the same, yet different, until he was certain he would know one from the other, even in the dark.

Now came the curve of her hips. A kiss where a bone lay beneath skin impossibly fair and pale. Skin no man had ever seen.

Her belly next, and a kiss for the dip of her navel, the centre of a woman’s wantonness. Yet she did not writhe, as he expected. Instead, she laughed, truly and lightly, with only the rounded edges of joy. And at that, he laughed, as well, as glad to coax her joy as her passion.

The passion would come.

Her legs next, for him to explore, but as he went lower, she tensed, so he stopped, and let her pretend that she could move as freely as any other woman.

Here, she could.

Her thighs were firm beneath his palms, the muscles grown strong from days of gripping the horse. But between them, ah, between her thighs he would find the seat of her passion.

A kiss there, too. A kiss on her secret centre. No hesitation now. No resistance. She opened to him, her slick scent showing that she was ready.

But he was not. He wanted to savour this moment, to relish her release instead of his own. He wanted to see her face when she felt for the first time that shift in the earth that signalled she had crossed to the other side.

And so, instead of taking her, he led her. First, with his tongue and kisses, tasting her sweetness, loving the sound of her breathing, shorter, faster. Then, because he wanted to miss nothing, he moved his kisses higher until he could look at her face again.

Her eyes, still closed, fluttered open. Then, a smile.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Now.’

And he did not take his eyes from hers as he slipped inside her.

* * *

Anne had thought she understood something of lovemaking. But as Nicholas filled her, she realised she had known nothing at all.

Man and woman did not fit together as two people who clasped hands, but remained in their own bodies. Instead, they merged into one being, no longer separate. He breathed in. She exhaled. His heart beat. So did hers. He pulsed within her and she answered, over and again, higher and faster and stronger.

And then, the strength exploded into shards of shining weakness and in that, too, she knew they were as one.

* * *

Nicholas awoke feeling as if his world was upside down.

Anne still slept beside him, but restless, he left the bed, pacing, realising quickly how small the room was.

Standing as far away as he could, he looked at her, curled atop the bed. Her pale reddish-blonde hair hung over the side of the mattress. Her foot was safely hidden beneath the covers, but the red woollen hose that had covered it had escaped and lay tangled in the linens.

And he thought of last night.

He had prided himself on many things during his life, but this, knowing that his lips, his fingers, had brought her such joy...

This made him feel finally, truly, a man.

He had taken women before, but he had taken them as he had ridden over the land, barely stopping to glance at it on the way. Were they fair or dark? Round or sharp? It did not matter. Each was only there to get him where he wanted to go.

But Anne...

It did not matter that the room was dark. He would know her anywhere now. Her scent. The curve of her hips, one different from the other, as each had a different job to do. He had traced her pale eyebrows now, memorised them with his fingers, learned the shape of her jaw by kissing it, imprinted her body on his own as if he were earth.

No woman had ever given herself to him so freely, without expecting anything in return. He had thought he would have to coax her. To tease her slowly, to lead her bit by bit. A touch on the hand, then on the neck. A soft kiss first. He had thought that passion would have to wait, as he drew her in.

Instead, the barest touch, the first meeting of lips and tongue, and all the hesitation was gone. She had yielded, pressing herself to him as if he were her returning lover, coming home from the war.

When in his life had he ever given himself so completely? When had he ever known a woman so completely?

If he never saw her again, he knew he would carry the memory until the day he died.

If...

There was no ‘if’. There was only the certainty that he must take her, as he promised, to a small, cold convent near the end of the world and leave her there, far away from the very world she hungered to experience.

He could not leave her.

Could not or would not?

To the Prince, of course, he had owed his duty. There was no duty here. There was only...

He refused to think the word. The woman was nothing to him. She would tie him down, even more than an ordinary woman.

And he was trapped by the argument, unable to do anything but watch her and wait for her to wake, not knowing what would happen when she did.

* * *

Anne knew she waked, but she squeezed her eyes tighter, not wanting to face the dawn. Oh, she had given herself last night and she had no regrets. It was better than riding a horse, or chasing a hawk. It was as if her own, poor body could fly.

Oh, it had been more awkward, she supposed, than it would have been for some women, as he honoured his promise and did not look at or touch her foot, but at the end, it was as if her spirit, at once in her body and mingling with his in the air, was no longer felt trapped.

That was the memory she had wanted. That was the memory she would cherish in the long, dark days to come.

The bed was empty, but she heard his breath, near the hearth.

Life. Life must be resumed.

Stretched on her stomach, she pushed herself up on her elbows and looked at him, her breath catching in her throat all over again. She had felt him all over, but in the dark tumble beneath the covers she had not
seen
him.

Not like this.

Now, she could see those legs. As long and straight as she had imagined, and yet the thighs...well, now she knew. The strength it took to sit on a horse.

And the curves she had caressed on his shoulders and arms, smooth like the worn steps of Canterbury, now she could see the blue of his veins, strong as a river, coursing beneath his skin.

She would remember this, exactly. Later.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

He opened his mouth and shut it, for once without words.

She felt, now, that her foot was naked and she sat up, looking frantically for the sock to cover it. ‘Don’t look,’ she warned, before she pulled her foot from under the covers, and he sighed, but turned his head.

Covered again, she tried to swing her leg around, suddenly awkward, all the freedom and grace of last night gone. Immediately, he was there, settling her with a touch, as if he knew just how to help without making her feel clumsy.

Oh, the tenderness in just that simple gesture. Equal to every passionate touch from last night.

He sat beside her and turned her face to his. ‘Anne...’

She jerked away from his hands. ‘No words. What are words compared to what happened last night? Nothing.’ Weak, worthless things.

‘But everything has changed.’

‘Nothing has changed.’ All gone. All the joy of the memory. Not to be visited again until she was safely away from him. ‘Everything will be as it must.’

He rose, pacing again. Ah, how she envied him those simple steps. ‘As it must? Or as Lady Joan wills it?’

Anne gripped the bedpost and pulled herself to her feet. ‘Or the Prince or the King or the Pope.’

‘What about what Anne wants?’

The sad smile came before she could stop it. ‘I know what Nicholas wants. Nicholas wants freedom. Nicholas wants to roam the earth of France or Italy or Castile or even Cyprus. Nicholas wants to roam unfettered.’ She bit her lip.

And so did she.

‘So Nicholas,’ she continued, ‘will do as he said he would and take me to Holystone to rest. Then, he will be free.’

Oh, the ache that word put in her throat.

She could not read his face clearly, but she saw a struggle there. Some tug of war between what he wanted and what he...desired.

‘I am not a man who falls in love.’

‘I know.’ And now for the lesson Agatha had taught her. ‘I am not a woman who expects love.’ Wants it, yes. Oh, yes. But she had known, always, there would not even be marriage, let alone passion. ‘This was one night. A gift.’ A memory to be taken out and relived when the cold walls of her sister cell closed in on her like the short, dark winter days.

And then his eyes warmed. ‘Not just one. We will have more nights to come.’

Chapter Nineteen

S
o they made their way north, not hurrying, pretending to each other that the journey would not end.

And if they went a few miles afield to see a cathedral or enjoy a market day, what was the harm? Anne refused to dwell on it. Refused to think of anything beyond the day. And the night.

And if she had a child? She would not think of that, either. She would be safely locked away, the babe cared for in the convent, and no one beyond those walls would ever know.

With no one to stitch for, her hands were empty, so in the evenings Nicholas taught her to juggle. Or tried to. She learned to toss two balls, and the other guests at the inn applauded the night she finally succeeded with three.

And afterwards they went up the stairs together, letting the others think they were married.

Eustace and Agatha kept their secret.

* * *

‘We will be in Lincoln tomorrow,’ Nicholas said, late one night a week later, as they lay together, sated and warm.

She snuggled closer. ‘Beyond the scent of the tannery, I hope.’ She had not seen it, but the stench had hovered in the air most of the day.

Beside her, he went still and quiet. ‘Yes. Well beyond.’

She nodded and drifted toward sleep. Then, something he had said, long ago, tickled her memory. ‘Is your home near? Would you show me?’ He had no family left, she remembered that, so there would be no awkward explanations to make.

She rolled on to her back and tapped his nose with her finger. ‘I’d like to picture you there as a little boy.’ She giggled. ‘Learning to juggle. Show me where you learned to juggle.’

Abruptly, he turned away and sat up on the edge of the bed. ‘Why would you want to see that?’

‘Because I care about you.’ She trailed her fingers down his bare back.

He moved again, standing, out of reach of her hand. ‘Because you are trying to trap me.’

‘Trap you?’ She shook her head, thinking her sleep-fogged brain must be confused. ‘How... Why... What...?’

Nicholas was pacing now, as if he wanted to escape the room. ‘Yes. Trap me, force me into marriage.’

Something cold, as if she were frozen, trickled under Anne’s skin. ‘How can you think—?’

‘Isn’t that what you want? You would be saved from the convent and I’d be weighed down with a wife.’

She could not speak, then, for the pain that gripped her.

Weighed down. Cannot move
.

And if she had ever, in the moments before sleep, dreamed of tomorrows with Nicholas, she had known it was impossible. For her, but most of all for him. How could he accuse her when she had tried so hard?

She lashed out, speaking no more sense than he. ‘You were the one who insisted that you come with me.’ A worse thought now. ‘Did you do it only because you could take what you wanted? No one would know or care what happened to me, would they?’

And everything she had cherished seemed about to turn to ash and bitter words.

* * *

Nicholas saw Anne’s stricken face, suddenly sharp and clear, and it brought him back to himself. What had happened? One moment he had been holding her tight, grateful that more than half the journey still lay before them, wishing he never had to leave her. The next—

The next he was a child again, wanting to escape a home that did not want him, resenting a father who had let a woman deceive him.

Trapped
. It was his stepmother he spoke of. He had been running from his father’s fate all these years and not realised it until now.

He knelt by the bed and raised a hand to Anne’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

She swatted it away. ‘Spare me your apologies.’

He grabbed her hands back. ‘Please. Let me tell you.’

Silent, she glared at him, trying to hide the hurt behind a defiant stare. Finally, she spoke, slowly, each word with a weight of its own. ‘I...don’t...care.’

But he would not let her go. He could see what held her back, but something had weighed him down, too. Something she could not see.

He began to speak, as if she had said nothing, keeping her hands in his so she could not cover her ears. ‘My father was a tanner.’

There, the surprise on her face. ‘And you, a knight?’

How far he had come. Almost far enough to forget the stench of the pits where the skin was separated from the fat and flesh. It had taken him years to run far enough away to clear that smell from his nostrils.

But there was more to tell. ‘My mother died when I was a babe. I barely remember her.’

Sympathy softened her face. Her mother must have been her whole world. He envied her that.

Then, the flicker of feeling was gone. ‘You told me this before,’ she said. ‘Or were you too drunk to remember that?’

‘I told you, but I did not tell you all.’

There was something he could not read in her expression, but she remained silent and waited for him to continue.

‘And then, my father, instead of being sensible and marrying a woman with a dower, fell in love with a woman near half his age. She led him on—’ the words bitter even to this day ‘—pretending to be a shy and chaste maiden, and he let lust rule him. He pressured her parents to allow them to wed quickly. And five months after they were wed, I had a younger brother.’

And that quickly, his father’s dreams had died. Gone was the extra time to perfect his skill with the bow so that he could escape from the tannery pits to glory in war.

‘What happened to you?’ Her question was soft.

‘The monks at the priory taught me some Latin, but I did not want to be a monk. I wanted to see the world. But there was no escape for me either and I...’ He was ashamed, even now, to remember. ‘I screamed and sulked and kicked and cried and I suspect they were relieved when I ran away.’

He paused. Always astonishing, to think of that journey. From a small boy trapped in the tanning pits to a foot soldier knighted on the field of battle by the Prince himself. Yes, a man could make of himself what he would, as long as he was able-bodied.

And if not...

‘And so you will never be trapped yourself.’ Her words were rich with understanding.

He wanted to nod, but his head would not move, as if she had trapped him already.

‘And you won’t,’ she said. ‘Not by me. I only wanted...something to remember. Nothing has changed. We have only this journey. After that, you will be as free as you were before.’

He nodded, but he was not certain she was right.

But she did not ask again to see his home and he did not take her.

* * *

And so the days of the journey rolled by and Anne counted them, finally knowing there were fewer before than behind. When they reached Durham, she could scarcely bear to look at the Cathedral, knowing it would be the last.

Three more days, three more nights until they arrived at Holystone. Would God strike her dead when she crossed the threshold? What was the punishment for such a lie as she had lived? Lady Joan had paid nothing for it, so perhaps it was all for Anne to bear.

Was it a bigger sin than sleeping with Nicholas?

No matter. If death came, she would be content, except that she had never seen Compostela. Or Chartres. Or Rome.

Obviously, God had never intended that she would.

The nights had become more important than the days, but instead of spending that night in Durham making love until dawn, they lay awake, holding each other, as if staying awake might hold back the dawn.

She asked him about his life and listened to the tale of a runaway boy who had become a trusted member of the Prince’s retinue.

‘And you?’ he asked that night. ‘You have listened to me for days and told me nothing of your life.’

‘My life has been Lady Joan’s life.’ Not her own. Never her own.

Nicholas leaned on his elbow and raised an eyebrow. ‘Lady Joan has had a very interesting life.’

Exactly what she did not want to explore.

If he discovered the truth, he would know she was not a beloved confidante, but only a twisted, damaged liar who had only been kept safe because of the havoc she could wreak.

No. That, she could not let him see. For if he knew who she really was and how she had lied, this fragile thing between them would be gone. And although she had no hope that it would go beyond these days, this brief joy, of a man truly looking into her eyes, the joy of having, even for a moment, a gentle touch, a kiss, a connection that went deeper...ah, that was worth it all. Worth continuing the lie...

She shrugged. ‘There is nothing to tell.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘how you learned to do needlework.’

Remembrance joined relief. ‘I finally had something I could do.’ Something that did not need her to be whole. She had missed it during these days of travel. Perhaps she could stitch altar clothes for the nuns. ‘It was Salisbury’s mother who taught me.’

‘His mother?’

She nodded. ‘It was shortly after he and Joan were wed. We lived all together then. His father died and I think teaching me gave his mother something to do.’

She had not thought of that in years. Lady Joan’s mother had forced the marriage despite her daughter’s objections. Circumstances were strained. Salisbury, sixteen and not yet knighted, was suddenly the Earl, struggling to prove himself equal to the task of the title, as well as of being a husband. Meanwhile, his mother grieved over his father and showed Anne how to make her stitches smooth and even.

‘So Salisbury was managing all the lands by himself at sixteen?’

‘Oh, no. Thomas Holland helped.’

As soon as she said his name, the world become still. A few words. A few seconds. Everything could change. Life could end, just that fast.

‘What do you mean?’ Nicholas asked.

She could not take the words back, so she must pretend they meant nothing. ‘He was the Earl’s steward.’ This was a fact easily known and discovered, and yet why would anyone even think to ask it? Certainly Nicholas hadn’t. Not until now.

She rushed on. ‘Holland was not always an Earl. It was through Joan that he received the title.’ Did she sound too bright? Too careless? ‘He was a squire in the first Earl’s retinue. That was why he was in Flanders when he married Joan.’

‘But you’re not talking about the old Earl now, are you?’

She shook her head.

‘When was this? That he worked for his wife’s husband?’

How bald it sounded, when he said it. ‘I was about eight.’

Nicholas blinked. ‘Why would Holland work for a man who had taken his wife? A wife he was trying to claim.’

Could she lie again? Could she tell him she did not remember? Even he would not believe that.

She shrugged. ‘Children do not notice such things.’

Even in that, she lied. Children noticed exactly those things. As a child, she had known that the way Lady Joan and the steward had shared touches was meant for a man and his wife.

And why.

* * *

Nicholas sat up in the bed and shook his head, certain he had misunderstood. He did not even want to marry, yet he could not have done what either of those men had done. ‘If a man had stolen my wife, I would be challenging him on the field of honour, not toiling as his steward. Why would Salisbury hire the man who claimed his wife?’

‘Well, he did not know that at the time.’ She nodded, lips pursed, and said no more.

He thought he had memorised every detail of the convoluted history of Joan’s marriages, but there must have been a gap, something he had missed or forgotten. ‘So they marry in Flanders when Joan is twelve, Holland goes off to fight for another three years, then returns to England and works for Salisbury and then waits for three years before he petitions the Pope to restore Joan to him?’

‘He didn’t have enough money to do so earlier,’ she rushed to explain. ‘Not until he went to France and captured a prisoner to be ransomed.’

She must misremember. She had only been a child.

But the words reminded him of doubts he had smothered before. Why would a man wait seven years to claim his rightful wife? Why would Joan have even agreed to the marriage with Salisbury if she believed she was already wed?

Worse, why would Holland live with, even serve the man, day by day, and then watch his own wife go up to bed with him night after night?

He could not imagine it. No man he knew could tolerate such a thing. Unless...

Unless he had not been married to her. Unless he only started sleeping with her himself after he came to work for her husband and used the clandestine marriage as an excuse to break a valid marriage and take her himself.

That explanation looked obvious, now that he faced it. The story about the secret wedding in Flanders, that could be swallowed. But what man in love and in the right, with God on his side would return to find his wife married to another man and after what must count as a truly perfunctory protest, wait years to pursue his claim?

What husband brings into his household a man who claims to have wed his wife?

Anne was looking down at her hands, as if she wished they were busy with needle and thread. Could she have known? Had she known all along?

He tried to tell himself no. Tried to tell himself that she was too young.

My mother was the witness.

And Anne had been with Lady Joan ever since.

He tried to think of another interpretation, but what had been justified as kindness now seemed like coercion.

And the only way the plan worked was for Anne to know, too. As well as her mother did. Well enough that Lady Joan had to pay her with protection for life.

Yes, Anne’s mother had good reason to lie before God and man. To provide for a child that would have no place in the world otherwise.

But now, that child was a liability because she knew the truth of a matter so huge that it would rock the throne of England.

And now, so did he.

‘Anne.’ His very tone commanded that she meet his eyes and when she did, he saw what he should have recognised all along. ‘There was no marriage, was there?’