LITMIR.BIZ

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ran away.’ Finally, witless fool that he was.

      ‘You? What was your plan?’

      ‘I had none. I just...ran.’ The last impulsive thing he had ever done. By rights, he should have ended up dead in the gutter of the London streets. Instead, he was picked up from the side of the road by a knight as hungry for adventure as he was. One who appreciated the young boy’s ability to wield his brain as well as his sword.

      Yet that impetuous act had given him the life he wanted.

      ‘And now you’ve been all the way to Avignon.’ Her voice was as wistful as he had felt as a child when he would escape to watch the road, wishing he could see where it lead.

      ‘Avignon, Calais, Amiens, Toulouse, Bordeaux...’ And more. Places whose names he couldn’t even remember.

      ‘I envy you.’ Her voice, in the dark, brought him back from memories. ‘I’ve never been beyond Lady Joan’s household. Not until Canterbury.’

      Never been away from her lady. Never seen anything her lady did not also want to see. ‘And you wanted to. As much as I did.’ His head was beginning to clear.

      ‘You could not understand how much it meant to me to be...free. Just for those few days.’

      Ah, but he did. For it was what he had sought all his life. What was finally near his grasp. ‘And don’t you want more?’

      ‘More? I have food, clothing, shelter. And if I am lucky, a place in heaven. What more could I want?’

      ‘Marriage?’ An abrupt question. ‘Isn’t that something you might want?’ He had asked her the question weeks ago. Now, he was not sure what answer he wanted to hear.

      She looked down and then back at him, with a smile that said she thought he was a wiser man than that. ‘Is it something I might want? As a rabbit might look up at the moon and want to jump there?’

      ‘But...’ After a life of being a smooth-tongued diplomat, he found himself speechless. He did not know much of her family, but she was a knight’s daughter. Even if she had little dowry, there might be someone. But she was implying her limp alone would...

      Well, it would. Who would want to marry a woman who could not tramp up and down the castle stairs or chase the children? Yes, there might be an elusive ‘more’ to be yearned for, but one must be grateful for life alone or be willing to face the alternative.

      She was right. Food, clothing, shelter...but even the son of a lowly Lincolnshire tanner had wanted more than that.

      ‘Even the King wants us to aspire to more. To chivalry.’

      ‘And to chivalric love? Thus should a lady aspire to inspire,’ she said. ‘My lady has certainly done so.’

      Her lady. Her lady. ‘I have heard all I need to about Lady Joan. If I have paid my penance, I think I will find my bed.’

      Without hesitation, she thrust her stick into his hand, as if he, too, might need help to rise.

      He did.

      And after, he gave her his arm, helped her up and let her point him in the right direction.

      ‘Why were you here?’ he asked, fog finally clearing from his brain. ‘Wandering the halls in the dead of night?’

      She leaned on his arm and whispered in his ear, ‘The Prince and my lady wanted...time alone.’

      And so poor Anne was left to wander the halls. The anger she refused to feel rose in him. ‘But that’s not right.’

      ‘You won’t tell the Archbishop, will you?’

      Simon Islip had never crossed his mind. All he could think of was Anne and how damned brave and stubborn and selfless she was.

      He shook his head. ‘Can you return to bed now?’

      ‘I think so. It is near dawn.’ She turned and called out behind her, ‘Sleep well.’

      Behind him, the uneven thump of foot and crutch faded. Then he went down the innumerable stairs, each one a rebuff, and out into the cool air of a September night, and off to find a bed alongside the poor knights in the lower ward.

      But he did not sleep. He was thinking of Anne.

      Day after day, a woman beyond the blush of maidenhood moved uncomplaining through constant pain. Pain that had etched small lines around lips pursed against it and at the edge of eyes that had winced too often.

      Why would he chatter to such a woman about marriage?

      It must be the occasion. For weeks, he had been immersed in details of matrimony. What made a marriage official under the church? When was a couple married and when could that be put aside? When would Edward and Joan be allowed to marry? He had been thinking of nothing but marriage. If he had met Anne during the campaign in France, he would have asked her about ships and horse fodder and the price of salted herring.

      He rolled on to his back and watched the sky grow light, struggling to control the direction of his foggy thoughts.

      He was not a man who would ever marry. Least of all a woman like Anne of Stamford. Yet all the reasons he listed, her infirmity, the burden she would be, not only seemed cruel, they had proven untrue or unimportant.

      No, the truth that came to him was more stark.

      The truth was, he had nothing to offer her, or any woman, but a strong right arm and a nimble brain. All he had to show for thirty-one years on this earth was the horse beneath him and the armour on his back.

      And when he died, there would be nothing to show at all.

       Chapter Fourteen

      When the King and Queen returned to Windsor for Michaelmas, Edward insisted that the entire court join his inspection of the progress on the new buildings.

      Summer was past, the season looked toward winter. But despite the drizzle and the awkward footing in the Upper Ward, Anne enjoyed getting outside, away from detailed discussions of the size of the ostrich feathers and leopards’ heads to adorn the red-velvet marital bed.

      The mood was festive. Henry the fiddler joined the throng, entertaining those less interested in hearing the clerk of the works discuss the precise angle of the kitchen roof.

      The workmen, interrupted, stepped aside to let the King extol his plans. Anne, with a nod of permission from a stonecutter covered with white dust, perched on the block of shaved stone to admire their work.

      The new hall and chapel, paid for with French ransoms, were rising against the north wall of the Upper Ward, grand as a cathedral, and flanked by two gatehouses. Sleeping chambers would be luxurious compared to the cramped quarters within the Round Tower. It would be done soon. And years from now, when Lady Joan became Queen Joan, this would be her home.

      And Anne’s.

      Paid for many times over. Yes, she would be safe here, protected by royal walls, and in a castle where even the passage to the kitchen was protected by a stone tower.

      She felt Nicholas beside her before she saw him, and when she looked up, he glanced down at the ground before he met her eyes. He smiled, as tentative as a young page, as if uncertain what to say.

      She returned it, equally uncertain.

      ‘How go the plans?’ he asked.

      ‘As you might expect,’ she said, aware they were surrounded by ears. ‘There is much to do. They want all in readiness so they can be wed just as soon as the Pope’s dispensation arrives.’

      ‘The Prince asks me twelve times a day when it will come. As if I were the cause of the delay.’ He sighed. ‘But in all the rush, you hold no needle today.’

      She looked down at her fingers, amazed to see

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