At His Command-Historical Romance Version (5 page)

“My thanks,” he said to the server who delivered stuffed capon. He took a bite. The spiced fowl surpassed his expectations.

“You’re a king’s man,” Amice said from the opposite end of the table. “You must know here in East Anglia many support Richard, Duke of York. I’ve heard he and Henry are often at odds, and because of York’s close blood connection to the throne—closer than the king’s himself—Queen Margaret sees him and his family as a threat to any children she might have,” Amice said.

“I’ll always support the king, but what is true is true. King Henry trusts those around him and is easily influenced by others. Much of the work done by his father has been undone. Many of the lands Henry V gained in France have been lost back to the French.”

Amice ran her fingers around the rim of her silver-trimmed cup. He couldn’t help but notice her slender wrists and delicate, oval nails. And wish he could hold her hand again. “How can you ensure Henry trusts the best men? York’s views seem sound. He’s had many successes as Henry’s aide.”

Nicholas was at once impressed that Amice had such strong opinions and dismayed to uncover a sizeable area where their beliefs differed. “How did you come to be so interested in political maneuverings? Most women at court think nothing is more important than who will marry whom or what color their next gown should be. Yes, York and others have urged reform. Each faction wants its favorites in command. I can only offer advice when the king asks it of me.”

“So we are at odds, sir. You must follow Henry, and my upbringing lends me to favor the Duke of York.”

He looked down at his half-eaten capon with dismay. Amice’s cook served foods as tasty as those he’d enjoyed at court, but their discussion had diminished his appetite. “Debating such issues in the privacy of one’s home is one thing, discussing them publicly is another, and a war over them is another thing still. Yes, I will support Henry if it comes to that. As it already has, and might again.”

“Even if you believe York would be a better leader, and could quell the factions? Guide England to more prosperous times?” Amice questioned.

He shifted slightly to see her better, amazed by her perception. “What I believe is of no import. Henry is our anointed king and I am his man. I was raised with him. He may be more pious than most kings, but he’s the rightful ruler. My duty lies with him.”

Amice pushed her trencher away, perhaps as glad as he the meal and the discussion had come to an end. That their views on such an important issue as the governance of England were so disparate bothered him as it must her. Even so, he simply enjoyed her company, this peaceful interlude before the king remembered to find her a husband.

Perhaps that was what made these days all the sweeter. The fact that they could end at any moment.

Her blond, gray-eyed page Robert marched into the hall as she and Nicholas were breaking the fast. Despite their differences, having him at her table made her home feel even more welcoming. A dangerous way to feel.

“Someone approaches.” He puffed out his tiny chest.

Amice nearly choked on a bite of bread, but managed to swallow. Not so soon. She wasn’t ready to leave. Against her better judgment, she wanted more time with Nicholas.

“He has a lute on his back. He must be a minstrel or troubadour. Maybe even a jongleur,” Robert added with a little dance. “I want to learn to juggle.”

Relief rushed from her in a whoosh. She didn’t like being happy one moment, so startled the next she’d assumed the worst. “I’m sure we’d all enjoy some music after supper. It’s been a long while since a performer has come to us.”

“Has it?” Nicholas stood. “I’ll speak with him before the gates are opened.”

“You think he’s an avaricious suitor disguised as a minstrel?”

“I won’t know until I meet him. Wait here.”

She stood and faced him. “This is my home. You’re not my husband, I’m not under your rod. You can’t tell me what to do.” Jumbled emotions made her sound petulant.

Would every issue result in a battle of wills, as if they were rams butting heads? Being at odds with him made her shoulders tense and her stomach churn. But so did giving in. Who was she without authority? A mere lump of clay, serving no purpose but to be pushed and pulled or left alone at the whim of others.

“I’m here to ensure that no harm comes to you. I’m doing that.” With his wide stance, shoulders back and head high, Nicholas looked every inch a knight. Impressive and comforting at the same time.

“And that means you can order me about like a servant?”

“The king trusts me, but you don’t?” he asked.

“Of course I trust you.”

“Then let me do my job.”

Life was so much simpler, less confusing, before he arrived. So much she wanted now she couldn’t have: Nicholas to care for her as a woman and to stay at Castle Rising.

“Perhaps we could make decisions together,” she suggested.

“I’ve never discussed defensive strategies with women. Not their purview.” He sat back down. She joined him. “Why not? If the visitor has a nefarious purpose, he might also have cohorts hiding in the trees, planning an ambush. I’ll talk to him from the walls.”

“Thank you. I’ve little expertise in defensive strategies as you say, but I’d like to learn. I’d like to know what’s being done on my behalf at my home and contribute where I’m able. Maybe some women are content to let men tug their puppet strings. I’m not one of them.”

“Very well. You may— Would you care to accompany me to the wall? But I need you to agree to remain behind a merlon in case he or any companions wield bows and arrows.” He stood again and held out his arm as if he were escorting her to a dance.

“Yes.” With a smile of satisfaction, she also rose and lightly rested her arm on his, wishing the warmth of his skin permeated his wool tunic. She sensed his power, his strength. And she had to admit, she was proud to be walking with him. If only for a moment, she could pretend she was his lady.

Nicholas duly approved the minstrel’s admittance. Amice welcomed seeing Nicholas display his leadership skills.

After supper, all were sated on Maia’s fish pie with figs and raisins and ready to hear the minstrel, Geoffrey of Arundel. Long brown hair dangled beneath his hat. His particolored tunic was worn at the sleeves.

“What news do you bring?” Nicholas asked.

“I came from London, where all still talk of the recent Parliament and new taxes. But with your indulgence, I’d rather amuse than inform. Would you prefer a song or a
chanson de geste
?”

Amice loved the long poems centered on myths and legends. “Do you know any about King Arthur?”

“Of course.” In a mellifluous voice, Geoffrey launched into the tale of Gawain, Arthur’s nephew and friend to Sir Lancelot whose honor was tested. Then he sang a song. The gentle lute strumming and the verses of love lost brought tears to some of the women’s eyes.

Amice lifted her chin, trying not to blink and keep her own tears from falling. She wished she could take Nicholas’s hand, to share the moment more fully.

As the “huzzahs” and applause faded, Amice smiled. “Geoffrey, that was wonderful. It’s been too long since I’ve heard the like. My thanks for sharing your talents.”

Seated next to Nicholas, her people enjoying the respite, Amice could not have been happier. She’d commit the evening’s events to paper and always carry the memory with her. With her uncertain future, she feared she might need pleasant memories.

After the minstrel was given lodging for the night, twinges of what could only be jealousy pricked Nicholas. Merely because Amice had admired another man. A handsome, talented one at that, with a voice to make ladies melt. He’d seen the like at court, and been subject to the swooning that went on for days hence.

He sat alone at the table staring into his empty mug. Amice entered the hall, humming the minstrel’s plaintive tune. The fact that it had stuck with her irked him.

“I wish he could sing for us again,” she said, a wistful tone in her voice. “The way he made me experience the lovers’ sorrow, not just through the beautiful notes and well-written verses, but how he sang….” She heaved a sigh worthy of any woman at court. “The pacing, his use of artful pauses. I’ll have to think on how I might apply some of his techniques to my writing. I should have asked him for another song, a happier one. I’d have loved to see how he conveyed joy and pleasure.”

Her gazing upon him was bad enough. He didn’t want to hear Amice sing Geoffrey’s praises. But why should what she thought bother him? She couldn’t marry a minstrel, and he’d be departing in the morn. Their paths might never cross again.

Yet the adoring look on her face even now rankled. He wanted Amice to admire him, as she’d seemed to when they stood on the parapet. To wax poetic about him as she took his arm. He shook his head. More the fool he, for it could do naught but to salve his pride.

She couldn’t marry him, either.

Not that he wanted her to.

A week later, on the first of May, Amice awoke at dawn and ran to the window, opening the shutters as if she were a young girl eager to go outside and play. The sun peeked over the horizon; the sky was awash in pinks and golds, promising a beautiful May Day.

She threw on an old gown of brown linen and hurried to join those who foraged in the hunting fields of Rising Chase to gather the may, branches and flowers they’d fashion into wreaths and garlands. Morning dew on May Day was said to bring luck.

As she selected leaves to weave into her hair, Amice wondered what Nicholas would think. Would one such as he, used to finery and feasts, look down upon their holiday? Would he be bored by the games, find the dances foolish? Everyone, except perhaps Father Heydon of St. Lawrence Church in Rising, appreciated the importance of the ceremonies dating back to pagan times. The earth needed to be encouraged to yield to spring.

She smiled. Whatever his views, she looked forward to Nicholas’s presence at this special celebration.

Though she hadn’t yet come up with another way to avoid marriage except her letters, though good or bad news from court could come at any time, she wanted to live every moment at Castle Rising to the fullest. Each moment in Nicholas’s company made her want another. Despite their differences, no man had made her laugh, none had made her feel so at ease. Contented.

And sometimes, the way he looked at her made her think he saw her as more than a friend. As a woman. Those times made her wish for more…more time, more togetherness, more closeness.

If only…. No. She couldn’t think of what she wanted. But she took extra care with her appearance nonetheless.

Nicholas watched Cyril supervise the maypole decorations in the bailey, shouting commands as morning breezes blew his hair upward.

At court, servants made ready. Nobles participated only in the dancing and eating. The ladies might weave a garland or two, more for sport rather than achievement or to share tasks. Here, everyone worked wholeheartedly, from Amice and Cyril to the stable boy, Harold. Even Amice’s page Robert had a task, for he busily scurried toward the outside kitchen.

Nicholas wanted to join in the fun, but felt uncomfortable asking how he could help. He sat on a tree stump, the sun warm on his face though the air was cool, alone in the midst of activity. Would he always feel the outsider? Because he frowned on the intrigues of court life, he hadn’t minded holding himself aloof there. Here, camaraderie called to him. Would they welcome him if he could bring himself to ask Cyril for an assignment? Watching wasn’t enough. But it was better than not being there at all.

At length the tall birch pole stood ready. Dozens of colorful ribbons, streamers and garlands dangled, awaiting the dancers who took their positions.

Nicholas’s heart cried out, “Please ask me to join you.” Sinful pride prevented him from asking aloud.

Amice wore a flowing green gown embroidered in blue. White hawthorne flowers and leaves peeked out of her dark curls. Amice’s smile, her pleasant yet decisive demeanor when people asked advice, made him like her all the more. A wonderful lady of the manor.

She laughed, moving gracefully into place, her back to him. But perhaps she heard his silent cry, for she turned and started toward him. He smiled inside as she continued her approach and held out her hand.

“Come,” she said. “Everyone must dance.”

The others shouted and waved for him to join their circle.

He was welcome. Tears filled his eyes, a bittersweet ache tightened his throat. When was the last time he had cried? He forced himself not to blink, knowing he’d melt into the very ground with embarrassment if anyone glimpsed how much this meant to him.

Amice’s hand nestled in his as she led him to the circle.

Yearning sliced through him at the feel of her smooth skin, joined by a sense of belonging. He didn’t want to let her go. More the fool he.

“Go,” Amice whispered, releasing his hand. “We saved the place of honor, next to Ginelle, the queen of the May, for you.”

Touched by her thoughtfulness, Nicholas took his place. He would’ve preferred to stay by Amice, for guidance in the dance and to have another excuse to hold her hand, but this position provided him a better view.

As the musicians struck a lively tune, the dancers began their clockwise steps. Even Nicholas knew they had to go clockwise to follow the pattern of the sun. When the others added stomping with their right feet, he joined in as best he could.