LITMIR.BIZ

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      In the days between Winchester and Canterbury, Nicholas rode more slowly. Edward and Joan could wait another day to wed. He would not harm Anne to pay for their folly. Yet the journey was still hard and there was little time, or breath, to tarry and talk.

      Nicholas, convinced that Anne could keep up, or that she wished to pretend she could, kept his distance. And if she was silent because she was battling pain, he pretended not to notice.

      Safer for them both that way.

      So, once again, he let Eustace or one of the others help her on and off the horse, even though the idiots treated her as if she were a sack of grain, instead of a woman, because he could not risk getting close to her again.

      One moment crying for a dead man. The next, kissing one very much alive. Why?

      But who knew why women did anything except for their own gain. In his experience, women’s interest in him had been directly proportional to what he could offer them. The camp followers wanted a tent and extra food, so he had been the centre of flattery and offers he chose, usually, to refuse. Women who wanted a husband would parade before him, hoping to tempt his eye, until they discovered he could not provide the wanted wealth that would make a marriage worthwhile.

      The truth was that while Anne’s actions were a puzzle, Nicholas was more worried about his own. He had come so close to not letting her go at all. Every time he got close, something urged him to go deeper, to know, to understand this woman whose eyes had trapped him from the first moment.

      Why did he find her so alluring? He couldn’t even tell what colour her eyes were. He had decided they were grey, then she would turn and he would call them blue-green. Yet in another light....

      And as he was studying her eyes, the drift of her eyebrow would lead him to the place where her hair grew, hiding her ear in a tantalising way...

      And then he sighed, disgusted to find the miles had rolled by while he puzzled over something that mattered not at all, as if he actually cared about this woman.

      He had owned little in life and wanted less. Horse, armour, work. Food and drink. Enough to keep body and soul bound to each other, but not enough to hold him down. Never anything that would keep him from moving along.

      But none of these things were things he desired, craved, or longed for. He saw them with the same cool necessity that had made him effective at moving food and weapons. Make a plan. Expect obstacles. Assess and solve each one without letting emotion substitute for judgement.

      At first, he had barely understood or recognised that he was feeling something for her. Certainly there was no reason for it. She was a woman beyond the blush of maidenhood. And he had slipped over thirty without noticing. As a companion of the Prince, it was easy not to notice. The Prince did not marry and so neither one of them had crossed the line that somehow changed one’s life, even if a man thought it would not.

      And how did he come to think of marriage when he was thinking of Anne?

      Yet he had thought of nothing but marriage, clandestine or real, for the last four months. At the end of all this, there would be a wedding, a ceremony, a celebration. That must be the reason his thoughts had turned to her, for his attraction to this woman was ridiculous and inexplicable.

      And impossible to ignore.

      All the better that his time with her would be brief.

      * * *

      In his head, Nicholas knew the reasons Anne wanted to make a pilgrimage, but only as they approached the West Gate of Canterbury did he realise, in his heart, why she was there.

      Oh, he had seen pilgrims before now. Beggars. The blind, the dumb, the lame. Those without the ability that he had to move through the world. But not until today, not until he saw them littering the roadside like so many dead leaves, did he fully understand.

      She could have been one of them.

      Shocking as that thought was, the next one surprised him even more.

      He had never really seen her that way. Not even from the first.

      He stole a look at her, on the horse beside him. She kept her chin up and her eyes straight ahead, refusing to look down at the unfortunate souls. First, he wondered at her insensitivity. Then, he recognised something else. Day after day, she stayed atop the horse by pure force of will. Even with the harness, her legs were shaking with the pain of holding herself upright, all so she would not be left in the dirt like these people.

      No, she did not see herself that way either.

      Such courage dwarfed anything he had seen on the battlefield. It humbled him. Once, he had been ready to discard her as a burden. Instead, his doubts had been the burden. She would not suffer pity for herself, nor spare it for others. She certainly did not want it from him. She wanted nothing from him at all.

      Except a kiss...

      Their arrival at the inn was a welcome interruption to that thought. Now he must settle seven travellers and their horses, send word to the Archbishop of his arrival and attend to the multitude of other details that filled his days.

      He made certain she was comfortable in the public room and it was an hour or more before he returned to see her still sitting there, in the corner where he had left her, looking out on to the street filled with the blind, the lame and the sick.

      Crying.

      Tears again, welling up in her eyes, overflowing, dripping down her cheeks and then splattering onto the wool dress, as steady as spring rain.

      He stepped between her and the rest of the room, shielding her from prying eyes, and rested a hand on her shoulder.

      ‘Are you...well?’ Gruff words. Tripping over something lodged in his throat.

      Anne turned sharply, as if he had attacked. ‘Well? Am I well?’ He heard the pain rip through her words. Pain she’d always hidden before.

      But now that it had escaped, her words ran too quickly to be stopped. ‘I am warm and dry and fed and cared for, unlike these poor creatures. And through no good of my own but only that of my lady.’

      My lady. Of course. The reason for the depth of her devotion was so clear, so obvious, that he had missed it. She owed her life to Lady Joan.

      Have you never been loyal to anyone?

      No. Not in that way. For him, loyalty was a manageable exchange. His arm, his sword, his skills, in exchange for money. Oh, it used to be that men pledged their lives and received protection in return, but now war had grown too large. Too many men had to take the field for too long. Only coins could keep the army in motion. Coins for the men and coins for the horses, arms and food to keep the men fighting.

      ‘But you serve her well,’ he began. Surely there must be a similar trade in her relationship with Lady Joan, not merely charity. ‘It is not as if she gives you alms.’ How demeaning that would be for a woman as proud as Anne.

      She flinched, as if his words had been cruel.

      Not his intent, but perhaps they were. After all, what could Anne offer Lady Joan in return for her protection? Beautifully stitched purses? Mediation on the colour of the Yuletide livery? Care of the children in off hours? Nothing that would ever equal what Lady Joan had given her. Her life.

      Her tears had stopped and she shook her head. ‘No, it is worse than that. I—’

      The words stopped and her expression changed, as completely as if a veil had covered her face. And once more, she was the Anne he knew, a woman proud, stubborn and strong.

      Everything else was hidden.

      * * *

      Beneath the table, Anne wove her fingers tightly together and closed her eyes, giving prayerful thanks to God that she had stopped herself before she told this man everything he must not know.

      What a weak, spineless woman she had become. Just a few days of being close enough

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