Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year. Кэрол МортимерЧитать онлайн книгу.
the horse, but by the next day, he could no longer bear to watch their inept attempts. The men were clumsy with the fastenings as well as with her. If he did not step in, they would injure themselves and the horse as well as Anne.
So he took responsibility again, although it put him close to her near a dozen times a day. The gestures had become easy for him, but he performed them with stiff arms, trying to keep her body away from his.
And still he caught the scent of her hair, like some spicy forbidden fruit, hidden within a deep forest.
When that happened, he would tense his arms and she would stiffen her spine and although they touched, it was as if a wall of pavise shields stood between them, strong enough to ward off a shower of enemy arrows.
He told himself she was nothing more than an obstacle in his path, like a river in flood or a muddy road that must be traversed in order to keep moving, then left behind. Dealing with her physical limitations on the journey was no more difficult than persuading a French baker to sell bread to the English enemy or finding a port near the fighting for the supply ships to dock. He had solved many more difficult challenges.
But those problems had come and gone and troubled him no more while thoughts of Anne never fully left him. Beyond the fact that he must answer for her safety and comfort, some mixture of resentment and concern, edged with unwelcome desire, hovered, always close.
Then, he would look at her and see her smile and that would make him happy, thinking he had somehow been responsible for it.
It would take near ten days to reach Canterbury, longer than if all the riders were able bodied. Nicholas pushed to keep the pace, all the while watching Anne when she was not looking at him.
Was she in pain? If so, she hid it well. Proud and stubborn. Determined not to slow them down.
* * *
They reached Winchester by the end of the second day. He sent his squire and the others to arrange rooms in the tavern while he took Anne to the Pilgrim’s Hall, in the shadow of the Cathedral.
She would have little rest here, he thought, as she settled in, but at least she would be beneath a roof. Heavy wooden beams soared to an arched ceiling that seemed to imitate a cathedral. Yet there was none of the sanctuary’s peace or quiet. The open room was crowded with pilgrims and travellers scattered across the floor, each seeking the illusion of separate space.
She would be safe here and he would be glad to leave her for the night. If she were beyond his sight, he would certainly be able to sleep with untroubled dreams.
‘You will be comfortable here,’ he said, already thinking of what he would do if she said no.
‘The court travels regularly,’ she said, her self-sufficiency as strong as a suit of armour, though weariness shadowed her eyes and weighed on her shoulders. ‘My serving girl is here. She can accompany me.’
‘Accompany you?’ Worry sharpened the words until they sounded like anger. ‘Where?’
‘I am going to Greyfriars Church.’
‘Why?’ He was tired. She must be exhausted. ‘You agreed to forgo pilgrim duties.’
Her eyes met his. ‘It is not part of my pilgrimage. The Earl of Kent is buried there. My lady asked that I visit his burial place.’
‘Lady Joan’s former husband? Was he not buried in France?’
‘Not he. Her brother.’
‘Brother?’ If she insisted, he could not let her walk the streets with only a maid for company. A new, difficult path stretched between here and his pint of ale. ‘Was he taken by the pestilence?’ No one had mentioned the death of a brother.
She shook her head. ‘He died nine years ago. At twenty-two.’
Twenty-two. Were the man still alive, he would be Nicholas’s age. ‘In war?’ Had he known the Earl? Marched or fought beside him? He tried to remember. That year had been a blur of truce and battle, back and forth between the Scots and the French. There had been so many marches, so many battles.
‘No. He just...died. Who knows how death takes some men?’
He looked back at her, sharply. Was there more than loyalty in her devotion? ‘Were you...fond on him?’
Wide eyes of shock. ‘He was married.’
He did not bother to say how little that could mean. ‘But you knew him?’
‘Of course. He was Joan’s last living brother. When he died, the land and the title became hers.’
That would not explain her loyalty. In his experience, women were not so selflessly devoted to others. Only to themselves. Still, if she’d had a fondness for a man once, it was her own secret and no concern of his. He had become fanciful. Her reasons mattered not. He only had to deal with the consequences.
‘Your devotion to your lady is admirable.’ His jealous response to a dead man was not.
She grimaced, proof he had not fooled her. ‘Have you never been loyal to someone?’
‘To Edward and the King, of course.’ Yet his loyalty to the Prince and his father joined with duty, obligation and survival. It was not this emotional bond she seemed to have. It was beyond gratitude.
‘To no one else? Your family?’
‘My family was not worth such devotion.’ She had lived near all her life with her lady. He had left his own family behind years ago.
Dismay softened her face. ‘I am sorry for that.’
‘I’m ready.’ The serving girl’s voice surprised him. ‘Eustace has said he will come with us.’
‘No, he won’t.’ Eustace, he was certain, was only going to be with Agatha. The young idiot would be playing the man for her instead of caring for Anne. ‘If you wish to visit the church, I will take you.’
‘But I—’
‘If any harm came to you, Lady Joan would have me drawn and quartered.’ And so would the Prince, too, if his lady asked. He waved off the maid and the squire, who looked happy to be left to entertain each other, and handed Anne her staff. ‘Here.’
As tired as they both were, Nicholas commandeered a cart so Anne would not have to walk or ride, pushed her through the streets to the church, helped her rouse one of the brothers to receive a new memorial gift from Lady Joan and watched as Anne prayed before the small memorial.
A full-size sculpture lay atop the coffin, as if the man had turned to stone on his deathbed.
A young, titled man, with lands. Gone.
Born the same year that Nicholas was, now he moved no more.
A chill from the stone floor crept into his feet and rose up his calves.
Death came when it would. Nicholas knew that as well as any man. Quickly or slowly, foreseen or unexpected, he was ready for it.
At least, that was what he had told himself.
Now, he wondered. When he died, there would be nothing left. That was the life he had chosen. One with nothing that would weigh him down. No title or lands. No wife. No child. No one to mourn him.
Not even a member of the household, like loyal Anne of Stamford, to pause before the tomb to say a prayer for his soul.
Anne pushed herself to her knees and he gave her a hand to help her rise. And when she stood, still leaning on him, he saw that she wept.
Tears. From a woman who never yielded. Was she more closely related to the family than he knew? A bastard daughter and half-sister, perhaps? Did she weep for a brother, for some lost, hopeless love, or simply at the sadness of death? It made no difference to him now. He could not bear to see her cry.
Without thinking, he pulled her close, tucking her head against his shoulder, stroking her hair. She