At His Command-Historical Romance Version (14 page)

“Farewell, Ni…William. God go with you.” Even as she spoke, Nicholas was on her mind. What sort of woman was she, to crave another with her betrothed beside her?

She waved as William mounted, then rode off with the others.

Nicholas guided his horse out of line and turned back.

He’s looking at me! He couldn’t leave without bidding me farewell.

Joy filled Amice, even at this moment of parting. How she wished she could offer him a favor. But her smile was only for him, and she knew he knew. She raised her hand to wave again, not to William but to Nicholas. If she’d known he was leaving…but she couldn’t send him off with her kisses.

Amice cringed. There
was
someone who could bid Nicholas a public farewell. Belinda ran unashamedly after the departing knights, grabbed Nicholas’s arm and offered him a glove in an effort to mark him as hers in front of everyone. He accepted her favor, but didn’t kiss her, even as she tugged at his arm, Amice noted with satisfaction.

She let out her breath as the last of Henry’s men faded from sight. The waiting would begin. Again.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d counted on Nicholas just being there. Though their day-to-day contact was minimal, and the only real conversation they shared was in her daydreams, mere morsels were better than his absence, the nothingness of the present.

Far better than the fear that harm might befall him or William in battle.

Chapter 8

Harry awaited his daily repast of brown bread and cheese.

It had taken two weeks to get his stern-faced guard to speak through the small, barred opening in the door. Another to learn his name, as bland as the man’s appearance—John. Day after day he’d tried to convince John how time had shown him the error of his ways. To no avail.

There was another approach Harry itched to try. He’d only get one chance. Lying awake night after night, the squealing of rats setting his nerves on edge, he’d considered every possible outcome. The chance of failure was high.

Would today be the day he’d find the courage? It had to be, for he could take no more silence or endless hours of pacing that had worn out his leather boots.

John rapped on the door, the signal for Harry to stand against the far wall, hands behind his back. Humiliation burned his empty belly.

The key creaked in the lock. As soon as John began to open the door, Harry lunged. He flung the door wide and punched John in the gut as hard as he could.

“Oof.” The guard bent over, dropping the bowl of food.

Harry ran.

With so many men gone, the life of a queen’s lady became more tedious.

Unmotivated, Amice wrote only occasionally. Reading took concentration and focus she couldn’t muster. She spent most of her time waiting with the queen for word of the war. Her means of pleasure was long walks around the castle grounds. She’d discovered a gentle hill covered with soft grass and colorful meadow flowers that reminded her of Castle Rising. If she closed her eyes halfway, she could almost believe she was back at home.

One afternoon she sat near a rhododendron bush, trying to write. Her companion was a greyhound puppy, Galahad, a descendant of Nicholas’s first dog, Lancelot. Nicholas had placed the pup in Robert’s care. Robert had been thrilled by the responsibility, but had agreed that Amice could borrow him, just for the afternoon. Knowing the pup belonged to Nicholas made her feel closer to him, no matter how many miles away he was.

Staring morosely at the blank page, she inked her pen again.

A soft voice from the other side of the bush made her pause. Belinda. She peered through the leaves to see Belinda reading softly from a letter.

“Spread the rumor that Henry is ill. If we don’t receive word of this rumor in two weeks’ time, we’ll know you have failed. If you’re caught, you are on your own.”

Amice’s mouth dropped open. The lovely Belinda, a spy? For whom, and for what purpose and reward? Amice sat motionless, afraid of discovery. She didn’t dare breathe until she was certain Belinda had moved on.

Galahad, sensing an intruder on their solitude, began to bark. Amice closed his tiny jaws between her hands. Too late. Belinda’s head appeared over the flowering bush. Amice released Galahad and knocked over her ink, which spilled into the grass and on her skirts.

“What are you doing here?” Belinda’s light blue eyes flashed with anger.

Amice was annoyed to have her special spot invaded, and annoyed to have overheard Belinda. She didn’t want Belinda beholden to her, or to have the responsibility of deciding whether or not to keep her secret. More importantly, she still couldn’t get beyond the fact the blonde beauty wanted to marry Nicholas.

Instead of behaving as though she’d heard nothing, Amice said, “So you add spying to your list of questionable activities.”

Belinda’s fair skin turned bright red. “You are a spy yourself, hiding behind bushes, not making a sound.”

“I was here first.” She blotted some of the ink with her handkerchief. “You might as well tell me the whole story.”

Belinda rounded the bush, clutching her skirts. “I owe you nothing,” she hissed.

“Would you prefer I tell Margaret what I’ve heard?”

“You have no proof. She wouldn’t believe you,” Belinda retorted.

“She has no reason to doubt me. And as the letter you hold implies, the power of rumor must be great.”

Belinda opened her perfect mouth as if to speak, then shut it. “If I tell you, what will you do?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll go to Margaret straightaway if you don’t.” Perhaps she was starting to fit in at court after all.

Belinda paused, as if weighing her options. Glancing right and left, she joined Amice on her blanket. She tucked her skirts closer to her legs, avoiding the ink stains.

“All right. I’m helping the Duke of York.”

Amice couldn’t hide her surprise. How did one such as Belinda convince a noble such as the duke that she could be trusted? “And how did that come about?”

“I don’t need to tell you every detail.”

Amice liked the feeling of power being in the right place at the right time yielded. “I asked for, and will receive, the whole story, or off I go.” She rose to her knees, a trail of ink dripping down the side of her gown.

“Oh, very well. One day I happened upon his brother-in-law, the Earl of Salisbury. We had a conversation about the duke’s situation and the rightness of his cause. What could I do but offer my services?”

Amice frowned, doubtful Belinda would even consider a discussion about any matter more serious than the design of a new headdress or who might be dallying with whom, but she remained silent. She wrapped and unwrapped a curl around her finger.

“I don’t believe you.”

Belinda pouted prettily.

Amice could see that trick working on men, but it didn’t move her. She set her jaw and crossed her arms. “I have nowhere else to be, nothing important to do today.”

Or any day, for that matter.

“All right. I’ve heard rumors of York’s increasing strength. Should he gain control of the throne, I want to join his court. Are you satisfied?”

Amice nodded. “That I believe. What is the duke having you do?”

“You heard me read the letter.” Belinda tucked an errant strand of blond hair under the wire mesh of her headdress.

“I did. But how will you spread such news so it’s not traced back to you?”

“I haven’t gotten that far,” Belinda admitted. “Stop that!”

Galahad was worrying the hem of her gown between his teeth. Belinda pulled the offending hound to the side and pushed him toward Amice. “Here, control your animal,” she bit out, as if glad of an excuse to change the subject.

“He’s not mine. He belongs to Nicholas.”

Belinda pursed her lips, then frowned. “What is that to me? Now you must keep your part of the bargain and remain silent.”

Amice smiled again. “I never promised not to tell.” Belinda opened her mouth to retort but Amice held up her hand. “What if I said I wanted to join you?”

“Why?”

Galahad turned in circles, oblivious to the ink and to his companions’ intense conversation. After completing his series of inked paw prints, he rested his head in Amice’s lap. He put his nose between his tiny paws and closed his eyes.

Amice petted the sleepy pup as she prepared her answer. What should she say…she wanted to feel important, wanted to be needed? That she missed her home and Nicholas so much she’d do almost anything to add excitement and responsibility to her life? Telling Belinda her reasons would shift the power balance between them, but she’d come this far….

She looked at Belinda, whose eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“I’ve always believed in York’s cause, but didn’t see a way to offer aid until now. It would also increase his trust in you if you were able to bring him more loyal assistants.”

“I’ll consider informing His Grace of your interest. What can you offer him?”

Amice knew better than to say, “Whatever you can,” guessing Belinda’s involvement might at some point include more than she, Amice, was willing to give. “I can write, quickly and with a clear hand. Perhaps he needs documents copied.”

“That idea I like,” Belinda said. “I’ll think on it and report back to you.”

Why did Belinda walk away with such a satisfied smile?

Chapter 9

France, Near Castillon – July 1453

Instead of missing Amice as he traveled through France, Nicholas forced himself to concentrate on the matters at hand. Such as how to succeed at their task: relieving the beleaguered English forces under siege at Castillon.

The journey of John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury’s six-thousand-man army had progressed smoothly. It was rumored their opponent, Jean Bureau, led anywhere from seven to ten thousand Frenchmen. Were Nicholas in charge, he wouldn’t attack without proof and a clear understanding of their opponents’ weaknesses.

Nicholas wanted to learn about the man Amice was to marry. He was predisposed to dislike William and found nothing to change his impression. The man’s tedious descriptions of previous successes didn’t help.

As the time to fight drew near, tension increased. Nicholas could feel it in the humid air, see it in the tightness of the men’s faces. Early in the morning, Talbot took five hundred men at arms and eight hundred mounted archers, including Nicholas and Lord William, to lead the attack.

“I hear Bureau has more cannon and bombards than anyone in all of Europe,” one of the men offered.

“I hear he’s got the balls to go with them!” another added, rewarded by the raucous laughter of nervous knights.

Nicholas ignored the banter. He had a bad feeling, and feared his prayers for victory would go unheeded. The English weren’t equipped to fight an artillery battle. But they had their orders.

Focusing on the road, he rolled his shoulders to ease his aching muscles. Annoying rivulets of sweat trickled down his back. Though it was barely daybreak, the air was hot, thick and damp. Dense forest hindered any breezes that might have broken through the heat.

Ahead was a small priory, which a scout reported was filled with French soldiers. Taking the priory was no challenge. The taste of victory increased the knights’ confidence along with their lust for French blood.

One of the injured French cried, “You cannot win. We have cannon, so very many! You English dogs will perish. We built a wall of guns….” The man died.

Had he spoken true? Sir Thomas Evringham, their standard bearer, was sent to investigate. Talbot, clearly invigorated by their early success, encouraged the men to drink wine while they waited for the rest of the men to catch up. But it seemed to Nicholas as if the man’s words had dampened some soldiers’ spirits.

A dust-covered messenger interrupted their respite.

“The French are retreating,” he gasped. When all stared at him in surprise, he repeated, “The French are retreating! They’re leaving!”

Sir John beckoned the man over. “Who are you? Are you sure of this?”

“I escaped from Castillon. Many horses were fleeing the French camp….”

Talbot turned toward his men. “We ride,” he shouted.

Nicholas didn’t recognize the messenger. He prayed their commander was right to trust him.

Distant cannon thunder heralded their approach, surging into ear-numbing explosions as they rode closer. Nicholas and the rest halted abruptly as Castillon came into view. He’d never seen as much artillery in one place. The dying man had told the truth. Mounted on a wall of earth were more culverins than he could count. Plus heavy bombards and newer, lighter cannon that loaded from the back, not the muzzle.

So many shots fired that the noise never abated. The roar was deafening. A huge cloud of dust grew in the distance…the retreating French?

Should the English retreat? Were they mad to attack?

As they splashed across the Lidoire River, wet clothes and armor slowing their progress, a shout rose above the din. “How are we supposed to beat them?”

Then another, “We’re coming from behind. With a sneak approach they’ll not get those guns on us!”