A Marriage Made in Secret Read online

  ‘Can I help you, lady?’ He sounded suspicious as if he, like Katharine, thought that she couldn’t be trusted, blocking the half-open doorway with his body so that she couldn’t see past.

  ‘Sir.’ She didn’t know whether or not to curtsy so she dipped halfway down as a compromise, licking her lips to loosen them as she held up the ring. ‘The Queen bid me show you this and to request that you meet her in the French King’s private chambers.’

  ‘Not me, I think.’

  The frown fell away, his mouth quirking as he turned his head to speak to someone else in the room, presenting her with a clear view of his back. Mathilde glared at it, resenting the amusement at her expense. She might be a nobody, but she’d been sent by the Queen and he ought to show some respect.

  At last he finished speaking and opened the door wider, as if deciding to trust her, after all, propping one shoulder against the stone archway as his gaze dropped down to her feet and then meandered slowly upwards again.

  ‘We haven’t met before, lady.’

  A roguish half-smile played about his mouth and Mathilde’s resentment increased tenfold. It was a statement, not a question, and she didn’t know how to respond. The way he spoke implied that he ought to have met her, as if he were familiar with all of the ladies in the Queen’s household, but his scrutiny made her uncomfortable. She wasn’t used to being looked at in such a manner. She simply wasn’t used to being looked at. Most men’s gazes passed over her and moved on. His suggested that he was committing every inch of her body to memory.

  ‘No.’ She tossed her head to hide her embarrassment, but his smile only grew wider. It made the ice in his eyes melt a little, drawing attention to the long curly black lashes around them. She resented those, too.

  ‘I didn’t think so. I would have remembered.’ A single dark brow rose upwards. ‘You needn’t look so nervous. I don’t bite.’

  ‘I’m not nervous,’ she retorted, irritated that he could read her so easily. She needed to learn how to guard her expression, but such a thing was easier said than done. There were so many aspects of court life that she hadn’t yet mastered, deceiving others chief among them. It was a skill that she needed to learn, and quickly!

  ‘Ah, my mistake.’ His voice was laced with scepticism. ‘Then tell me your name.’

  ‘My name?’ She tensed, pressing her lips together in a thin line. The Queen had told her not to trust anyone and even if she hadn’t, Mathilde didn’t want to tell this man anything. She didn’t want to be there at all, having this conversation. His pale gaze seemed to be having a strange, disruptive effect on her breathing, making her chest feel constricted and her heart thud in a way she’d never felt before, as if it were actually pressing against her ribs. ‘I hardly know you well enough to share it, sir.’ She gave him a haughty look, mimicking Katharine’s disdainful tone whenever she spoke to the spies.

  ‘Very wise.’ He leaned forward slightly, his voice deepening. ‘But then how are we to become friends?’

  ‘Why would I want to become friends?’ She took a hasty step backwards. ‘I ought to go.’

  ‘Then we can walk together.’

  ‘No! That is, we probably shouldn’t be seen together.’

  ‘But then who will lead the way to the French King’s chambers?’

  He pushed himself upright, looking very tall and broad-shouldered suddenly, and she felt a fresh jolt of panic. She was anxious enough about finding her own way back through the maze of corridors, but she didn’t want to start leading the Queen’s guest in circles as well. Was she supposed to accompany him? Them? Isabella hadn’t said either way. She had the vague suspicion that she was being toyed with on purpose, but before she could challenge him the door was pulled wide and another, older man appeared on the threshold.

  This, she presumed, was the Queen’s real guest, though she still had no idea who he was. He carried himself like a lord, but his clothes were plain, without any crest or insignia, nothing to make his identity obvious. He had a hood pulled over his head, too, though in the glow of the lamplight she spied thick brows, a neatly trimmed beard, and the same black and blue colouring as her tormentor. This man’s features, however, were marred by an expression of arrogance. He gave a tight smile when he spied the ring in her hand and she stepped aside quickly, losing her voice all over again.

  ‘Now you’ll have to come with us.’ Her young tormentor leaned close to murmur in her ear and her stomach jumped and immediately started tying itself in knots. It wasn’t that she’d never been whispered to before. With three brothers and one sister she was accustomed to childish confidences, but this felt different. She’d never stood so close to a man who wasn’t a relation before and the sudden warmth of his breath on her neck, exposed by her long braid, made her feel strangely dizzy, as if she’d been dancing for too long. The sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but she didn’t want it, not here, not now and definitely not in front of these men, whoever they were. She only hoped that it passed before they reached the Queen. There was something about Isabella that made Mathilde think she could see everything.

  ‘Allow me.’ He reached a hand out for the lantern and she almost dropped it, letting go of the handle as his fingers brushed against hers. Fortunately he was quick, catching it in mid-air so smoothly that the tallow candle inside barely flickered.

  She twisted her face away, enraged by the sight of his silent laughter. If he’d been one of her younger brothers, Laurent or Dicun or even Aland, she would have kicked him in the shins in retaliation, but common sense prevailed over temper. Tempted though she was to inflict some kind of painful injury, for all she knew he might be a baron.

  Thankfully, she wasn’t needed as a guide, after all. Despite his earlier taunt, her tormentor clearly knew his way around the castle, leading them in tense-sounding silence towards the royal apartments. Two others accompanied them, guards if their fearsome appearance was anything to judge by, although as far as she could see, they didn’t carry weapons. To do so inside the King’s palace would have been an unpardonable insult and these men obviously knew better.

  Mathilde kept pace uncertainly, half of her wondering whether she ought to excuse herself and make her way back to the Queen’s rooms, the other half too curious to break away. She had a feeling that she was heading even further down the dangerous path, but she still couldn’t turn back, as if she were being pulled by some invisible but compelling force. Not for the first time, she wished that her father had better prepared her for life at court, but then he’d never been at court himself to learn the rules. All he’d ever told her was to be modest and respectful and dutiful, all of which she was, but she still felt hopelessly out of her depth. Time and again, she overheard whispers and hints of scandal, along with a name, Despenser, and understood none of it. Maybe this was finally her chance to learn...

  A page opened the door as they approached the French King’s apartments and Mathilde peered through, surprised to catch a glimpse of Isabella standing inside. She hadn’t expected to see her there so soon, not to mention so close to the entrance after all her insistence on secrecy, but the Queen’s expression was eager, excited almost. As her eyes fell on her guest she smiled the same breathtaking smile from earlier, but this time, Mathilde wasn’t dazzled. This time there was something unsettling about it. It seemed too personal, too intimate, too triumphant almost, not the kind of smile a woman ought to give to a man who wasn’t her husband.

  Mathilde stopped just outside the door, seized with the sudden instinct to retreat as the Queen’s guest pulled his hood back and strode purposefully into the apartment. The younger man followed, glancing over his shoulder as if to weigh her reaction, but there was no mockery in his eyes now. On the contrary, he looked almost sympathetic, his pale gaze darker and full of shadows, as if he regretted making her accompany them, after all. His expression told her that he’d seen the Queen’s smile, too, only perhaps, unlike her
, he knew what it meant.

  ‘My thanks for the escort.’ He spoke as if he’d really needed her help to find the way, holding the lantern out in such a manner that there was no risk of their fingers touching again. ‘Don’t get lost on the way back.’

  She nodded, although she didn’t answer. Instead she turned on her heel and walked away, resolving to forget that the last few moments had ever happened. As for her handsome tormentor, she never wanted to see him again in her life.

  * * *

  Henry watched as the girl retreated along the corridor, the lantern in her hand casting a faint glow of light around her slender figure and adding fiery red lights to her long, chestnut-coloured hair. He’d been suspicious of her at first—it was his job to be wary—but he’d swiftly concluded that those beautiful brown eyes—surely the biggest he’d ever seen?—were incapable of duplicity. In a court full of intrigue and ambition, there was something refreshingly clear and honest about them. They were luminous, without any hint of cynicism or calculation. He’d liked them. He’d liked her. It wasn’t often that he trusted people, and never at first acquaintance, but if she’d been putting on an air of innocence then it was the best act he’d ever seen.

  He’d been unable to resist teasing her, although in his defence he hadn’t expected her to take his words so seriously. Most ladies of the court wouldn’t have. Most would have teased him back, fluttering their eyelashes and sliding their hands to their hips for good measure. But then most wouldn’t have been dressed in such old-fashioned garments either, looking as if they’d just emerged from some country backwater instead of the Queen’s household. Who was she? And why would Isabella trust someone so young and obviously inexperienced? The girl had looked genuinely shocked by the sight of the Queen’s smile for his master, as if she hadn’t known what to make of it. As if she wished she hadn’t seen it at all. Which she wouldn’t have if he hadn’t cajoled her into accompanying them.

  Still, he was being punished for that mistake now. He could have stayed behind in their rooms, enjoying a well-earned nap after the long ride from Hainault, but instead he’d seized the opportunity of walking alongside the girl and now he was stuck here, discreetly trying to ignore the reunion taking place behind him.

  He went to stand by a window, grimacing at the sight of sunshine illuminating the tops of the lime trees outside. Of course it would stop raining now that they’d finally arrived, after eight long hours in the saddle feeling like drowned rats.

  ‘No sign of the Queen’s brother.’ Fitz, one of the Flemish bodyguards, came to stand beside him, speaking in an undertone. ‘Our French King has made himself scarce, eh?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s been delayed.’ Henry murmured noncommittally.

  ‘Or perhaps he didn’t want to interrupt a tryst?’ Fitz smirked. ‘How long will we be staying this time?’

  ‘Not long. A day at the most.’

  ‘You know there are still rumours despite all this secrecy.’ Fitz jerked his head as a door closed on the other side of the room. ‘She plays a dangerous game, your Queen. The English King will hear of his wife’s behaviour sooner or later.’

  ‘Probably.’ Henry turned his face back to the window with a shrug. No doubt Edward would hear, but he still wouldn’t believe it. That was his problem, never believing that anyone would dare to disobey him. Despite an almost successful rebellion against him, despite years of disquiet and unrest, despite all of the evidence staring him in the face, he would never believe it, expecting everyone to obey his rule no matter how badly he treated them, nor how greedily he behaved or how many promises he broke.

  It was a kind of blindness, that lack of imagination. It would be his downfall. Sooner rather than later if his own master, not to mention the Queen, had their way. Then perhaps England would be a fairer country, a place where a man—any man—could earn position and fortune through ability and hard work instead of simply birthright, where even an illegitimate bastard like him could become someone of consequence.

  A small brown-feathered dunnock landed on the ledge outside the window, its neat, unobtrusive appearance reminding him of the girl. His life was far too hectic and unsettled for him to spare much thought for women in general, but something about her intrigued him. Her face was perfectly clear in his memory. A pleasing one, round and lightly sun-bronzed, with a faint scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, but far too open, as if her eyes truly were the window into her soul. He wondered if she knew what she was involved in. He strongly suspected not. For her sake, he hoped the Queen didn’t use her as an intermediary again. For his own, he willed their paths to cross a second time and then...well then, at the very least, he’d find out her name.

  Chapter Three

  Autumn 1325

  Mathilde was in the palace kitchens before Prime, collecting a bowl of stewed fruit for the Queen to break her fast. The task meant that she was up earlier than the other attendants, but she didn’t mind. The French palace was a busy place, filled with bustle and noise most of the time, but at dawn she could wander quietly through the courtyards, enjoying the scent of the herb gardens and the sweet, clean taste of the air. It was one of the few times in the day when she could enjoy a few moments of peace.

  She stopped in the middle of one courtyard and drew in a deep breath, letting the scents of lavender, thyme and rosemary fill her nostrils and transport her back to her home in Yorkshire. Such moments were bittersweet, though her life at court had improved immeasurably over the past few months. Isabella wasn’t cold and remote any longer, but treated her like a trusted, even valued, member of her inner circle. Homesick and heartsore though she still was on occasion, Mathilde no longer felt so alone.

  Alone. The word sent a prickle of awareness down her spine. She hadn’t noticed it at first, but now she could sense a pair of eyes watching her, though it took her a few moments to actually locate the source, standing only a few feet ahead, half-hidden behind one of the courtyard pillars, twining a stem of lavender idly between his fingertips.

  Her breath hitched in surprise. She recognised him immediately although four months had passed since their first and last meeting and there had been no sign of him and thankfully no more subterfuge since. She’d assumed that he’d left the French court, so what was he doing here again now? He looked almost exactly the same as she remembered, dressed in a plain dark tunic as if he were still trying to attract as little attention as possible, with his curly hair hanging in the same careless way over his forehead. Only his eyes were different. Warmer and less wintry, although it might have been—it surely was—a trick of the light.

  ‘I thought it was you.’ He smiled and advanced towards her with the slow yet deliberate steps of a cat. ‘The Queen’s mysterious ring bearer. Can we be friends yet, lady, or are you still afraid I might bite?’

  ‘No!’ She turned sharply towards a door on a different side of the courtyard. If she’d been remotely pleased to see him, to find that he remembered her, too, then she wasn’t any more. She certainly wasn’t going to stand there and let him mock her again.

  ‘Forgive me.’ His teasing tone dropped away as he fell into step alongside her. ‘We got off to a bad start. I was tired that day and my behaviour wasn’t what it ought to have been. I apologise.’

  ‘Very well.’ Her steps didn’t falter.

  ‘Very well?’ he echoed. ‘Does that mean you forgive me?’

  ‘We are instructed to forgive and so I do.’ She threw him a swift sideways look. ‘That doesn’t mean we can be friends.’

  ‘Just tell me your name, then.’ He put a hand out to slow her down, but she veered away, curving her footsteps around him. ‘Mine’s Henry.’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’ She was as severe as she knew how to be, but he only laughed.

  ‘You’re finally learning court ways then? Good. I was afraid there was too much of the country in you when we last met.’

  She ignor
ed everything her father had ever told her about manners and modest behaviour and glared over her shoulder, barely resisting the urge to make one of the unladylike gestures her brothers had taught her for good measure. His words were less an expression of concern than an insult, a way of saying that he’d found her ignorant and naive that day. Both of those things might have been true—they probably still were—but she preferred not to be reminded of the fact. She already stood out too much among the Queen’s more sophisticated ladies, like a goose in a flock of elegant swans.

  ‘Henry Wright!’ he called after her. ‘Of Ludlow!’

  She kept walking despite her surprise. Just Henry Wright, without any title? Perhaps he wasn’t of particularly noble birth then, perhaps even less than she was, though she refused to gratify him by showing an interest. She didn’t want to be seen talking to him alone either, especially when the castle was so quiet. To a stray observer it might look like a tryst and she knew that the Queen would be displeased if she heard of it.

  She hurried back to Isabella’s rooms, almost spilling the fruit in her haste, to find her mistress already sitting up against her pillows, her golden hair tumbling in lustrous, shining waves about her shoulders.