Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year. Кэрол МортимерЧитать онлайн книгу.
her lust.
Unbidden, she thought of Nicholas. He of the strong brows and the rugged nose and the lips that...
She shook her head. The man’s lips were no longer of any interest to her unless they were speaking of something of interest to her lady.
‘We must craft the celebration carefully,’ the Countess was saying. ‘It must not be so gay that it dishonours those taken by the pestilence, yet it must be grand and appropriate to a future King and Queen.’ A perplexed pout quivered on her lips. ‘And yet, it is a ceremony for two who are already married.’
‘Not in the eyes of the Pope.’ Anne swallowed, wishing she could recall the words. She knew better than to speak so bluntly to her lady. Sparring with Sir Nicholas had made her tongue tart.
Lady Joan blinked, as if her pet monkey had suddenly nipped her. ‘The Pope will get his chapels. All will be as it must.’
‘If Sir Nicholas obtains the proper blessing from the Archbishop.’
Now, the Countess turned her full gaze on her. ‘You assured me there was nothing to fear. Have you spoken to him again? Has something changed?’
Yes. He was asking questions, the very questions neither she, nor her lady, wanted to answer. But to say so would be to admit she had whiled away a few minutes in the sunshine with a handsome knight who actually looked at her. To admit that instead of avoiding him, she had spoken to him of wants...
She cleared her throat and shook her head, looking at her stitches instead of at her lady. ‘I only mean that if he is looking into the past, he might become curious. He might ask more questions.’
Reassured, the Countess waved her hand. ‘He will find little.’
That, of course, was what she was afraid of. And what would Nicholas Lovayne do then? No doubt he would be loyal to his Prince, just as she was to her lady.
‘I know!’ The Lady Joan stopped her pacing. ‘After the wedding, we’ll have a celebration. A tournament before all the people to prove that we have triumphed over the death that haunts our land.’
Anne smoothed her fingers over the silver stitches, holding back a pointed reply. Only Jesus Christ triumphed over death.
But her lady was speaking of dresses and colours...
‘Shall he come to the wedding?’
‘Who?’ Her lady returned to the bench and placed cool fingers on Anne’s forehead. ‘Are you ill? You are not like yourself today.’
No, she was not. She was still dizzy with confusion. ‘I meant Sir Nicholas. Since he helped to make it possible.’
A shrug. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Then how am I to avoid him? Until he leaves for Canterbury, I cannot refuse to speak to him without creating questions.’
The smile, always the smile that disguised the workings of her lady’s mind. Anne tried to compose her face so, but she was not good at lies.
‘No, no. I see. You are right. He has done us a great service.’ She patted Anne’s hand. ‘Stay close to him. Treat him as a close friend.’
She had wanted only forgiveness for the sin already committed, not an obligation to seek him out again. ‘I am not a woman to capture a man’s attentions.’
The look of pity on Lady Joan’s face made her wince. No. Her lady had not thought so either. ‘I only meant you should keep him amused. Diverted. Men without war must be kept busy.’
‘Perhaps that would be better left to someone who could dance with him.’ The thought of deliberately getting close to Nicholas Lovayne unsettled her. As if she might, like the moth, singe her wings on the flame.
‘A woman need not dance with a man to keep him entertained.’
Anne knew that as well as anyone. She knew enough how to distract people so they would not notice...other things. She made the final stitch on the Prince’s badge, glad to lay it aside. Black and silver were dreary colours. ‘This one is finished, my lady.’
‘Good. Now, show me how the aumônière is coming. Will it be ready next week?’
Anne put aside the Prince’s badge to show her lady the needlework that would become an alms purse. Because her feet did not work, her fingers worked even harder. How many pouches had she created in her time? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? Each one given away for a man to give to his lady, or for a lady to entice her man.
This one showed two lovers, standing side by side in a garden, the lady fair and smiling.
‘Your stitching is as expert as the guild’s work, Anne. This looks just like Edward and me.’
‘Thank you, my lady.’
And because she pleased the Lady Joan, Anne did not have to beg for alms from men and women with purses such as these.
‘I know! Make one of these for Sir Nicholas to give to his lady as a thank you from me. Find out who she is. That will keep his thoughts away from other things.’
His lady. Of course he must have one. ‘But what if it doesn’t?’ Anne knew enough of him to know he was not a stupid man. ‘What if he asks of things he must not know?’
Lady Joan paused, staring at Anne as if she had not understood the question. ‘Why, then, you will lie,’ she said, as if she had said Anne might sup on beef stew.
You will lie.
Could she? When she opened her mouth, would the words come out?
She would, because she must.
Because her whole life was a lie.
She reminded herself of that, after the evening meal, when she looked for Nicholas in the Hall. Her lady had asked that she befriend him and befriend him she would, ignoring the fact that the idea appealed to her for reasons her lady must not know.
As before, she saw him standing alone at the edge of the Hall, looking out over the dancers. She joined him, relieved he had not moved in the time it took for her to hobble to his side. He could easily escape her and she could not chase him around the Hall.
‘I hope you do not mind my company,’ she said, as she sank onto the bench and leaned against the stone wall. Her leg ached and she wished she could rub it.
‘I wonder why you seek mine,’ he said, in a sour tone. ‘I seem to do nothing but insult you.’
She felt heat in her cheeks. ‘Forgive me. I must be ever pleasant and positive with the Countess.’ She pulled her needlework out from its pouch and fumbled with the needle and thread. ‘Sometimes, I...’ She bit her tongue.
‘Tire of it?’
‘Do you not? Are there not times you want to say something the Prince would not wish to hear?’
He smiled, sheepishly.
So that had happened. Recently. ‘I can see that you have.’ She wondered what impolitic thing he had wanted to say. And whether it had been about her lady.
‘I’ll keep your secret,’ he said, the smile warmer now, ‘if you’ll keep mine.’
She had to return his grin and, for a moment, she felt as if they were partners instead of adversaries.
‘You have my promise,’ she said.
Relationships, promises, loyalties. In the end, that was all a King had. That was what allowed him to rule. That was what kept the world from falling utterly to dust and what kept Anne from starving alone.
Nicholas was loyal to Edward. He would find what Edward wanted him to find.
All would