At His Command-Historical Romance Version (13 page)

She concentrated on the others in the room. A few miscellaneous advisors, and someone partially hidden in the shadows of heavy curtains.

Henry spoke, drawing her attention from the shadowed man. “Lady Winfield, your betrothed is at hand. I present Lord William Talbot.”

The man stepped out of the shadows and bowed. Amice studied him unabashedly, as he studied her. She saw a tall, thin man, somewhat older, with thick brown hair interspersed with gray, dressed in a diamond-patterned knee-length velvet doublet belted at his waist. He smiled slightly as he bowed. Altogether an attractive man.
But he’s not Nicholas
.

What could she do? The king himself bade her to wed. How could she put her selfish desires against the wants of her king? She should be honored she had value enough to be given to the son of the great commander who for decades served England so selflessly.

There was no way to refuse.

The king continued, “Your marriage will reward the efforts of one of my most stalwart commanders, his father, John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury. Unfortunately, he must soon leave to join his father and brother to continue our campaign in France. The wedding needs wait until Lord Shrewsbury returns.”

She hoped her relief didn’t show on her face though it rushed from head to toe. Had her reprieve been granted? If they didn’t have to wed until Shrewsbury’s return…with the sad state of the war, who knew how long that would be. Or what events might intervene. She held back a grateful sigh.

Amice awaited dismissal from the royal pair. Henry wore his customary black, his round-toed shoes disdaining fashion. His only jewelry was his necklace of “SS” links and a ruby cross. The somber costume made Margaret seem all the brighter, with her heart-shaped gold wire headdress and heavy necklace of square gold links studded with jewels.

“We shall have the betrothal tomorrow,” Margaret said.

Air whooshed out of Amice. Her heart sank.

Whispers fluttered through the room.

Amice froze, stiff as if she’d been standing outside in December. She was doomed. A betrothal was almost as binding as a marriage. Tomorrow she would belong to this man she’d just met, but hadn’t even spoken to.

How awkward to stand staring at one’s all-too-soon-to-be betrothed in the presence of a crowd including the king and queen.

Her tongue seemed stuck, so she was grateful when Lord William broke the silence. “My liege, how can I thank you for the gift of such a beauteous bride? With your permission, we take your leave to walk in the gardens, that we might become acquainted before I depart for France.”

His voice was pleasant enough, but not as rich or deep as Nicholas’s. She shook her head. How would she stop comparing the two?

The king nodded his approval. Amice barely heard the hushed congratulations as they walked from the chamber, side by side. They continued through the halls in silence, as if by unspoken agreement waiting to talk until they were alone. Outside, she barely appreciated the sunshine and pleasant breeze. He led her to a small carved bench nestled beneath a large oak tree.

What did one say to one’s just-met, soon-to-be groom, days before his departure for war? She knew nothing about him but his name and his father’s reputation. She could offer no words of caring or love.

A jeweled brooch winked from the brim of his hat. “I wanted to marry before I leave, in case….” He stopped. “I wanted you to be my wife, in case I fail to return. But the queen wouldn’t have such a rushed event. If I had the time, I would talk of your beauty, praise your hair, for isn’t that what women want to hear?

“Instead, I must bid you farewell to make ready for war. I didn’t know I’d be sent away so soon, or I’d have come to court earlier. But problems on my estates needed resolving.”

He smiled and took her hands. His were cool, his fingers short and thick, not long like…. “Have you no favor for your departing knight? No sweet kisses for your lord?” he asked with such tender gentleness that she smiled too.

She liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkled, noticed the rich brown of his eyes. But she preferred blue.

“Had I known, I’d have worn some pretty ribbons or gloves, but all I can give you now is this.” She pulled the necklace she always wore over her head. The slender chain sparkled. “It was my mother’s. This is a portrait of her. The border is pearls and amethysts. My favorite stone,” she added.

Her fingers itched to snatch the necklace back. She grabbed her skirts instead. What had she done? She’d offered her most precious possession to this man she barely knew. The man soon to be her betrothed. Had she loved him, the gift would have been her only means of sending part of herself. Parting with her only connection to her mother now seemed foolish.

She could tell by the way William carefully accepted the gift, the way his fingers lingered over the back of the pendant, that he knew its value.

He looked at Amice. “Your face will follow me to battle. I look forward to being your husband. But I cannot accept your most generous favor. Perhaps a scarf or veil? I can send my squire to fetch one, if you like,” William said.

His kind offer touched her. The time to take the necklace back had passed. “No, I want you to have this. It would please me to know it can bring comfort to someone else.” She pressed it into his palm. “Please. The necklace has brought me peace in difficult times.”

He nodded, understanding. “I’ll wear it always.” The chain just fit over his head, amethysts catching the light. “There. Until I return. For you and for the sons we shall have.”

Tears gathered. Henry had found her a good man. Was he with her now only to be taken away by this endless war? She could be a friend to him, at least. She raised her face, and he offered a gentle kiss. A kiss of peace. Not a kiss of love or desire.

“I must go, but will see you on the morrow. While I’m away, I’ll write when I can and tell you of France and of my dreams.”

“I will write as well.” She couldn’t promise to tell of her dreams. At the moment she wasn’t sure what they were, but she knew they didn’t involve him. And that made her feel guilty.

They stood and returned to the castle as silently as they had left it.

The next morning, Ginelle hovered like a delighted butterfly, oohing and aahing as she helped Amice dress. Amice’s heart and soul ached as she prepared for a ceremony she wished to share with Nicholas, not a near stranger.

The plighting of her troth, exchanging words of future consent such as “I will take you to be my husband” and signing contracts with a priest’s approval meant nothing, yet bound her like mortar to brick. The king’s and queen’s presence, an honor granted to few, felt more like jailors ensuring that their prisoner obeyed.

Amice wished she’d been brave enough to ask Nicholas if he’d agree to a clandestine marriage, in which they’d simply exchange their consent to wed each other. No priest was needed, no witnesses either, for the commitment to be valid. But she didn’t want a marriage the Church believed was a sin. If she had to be married, she wanted a real marriage, and with the right husband.

Her heart was heavy as a millstone. Here she stood in all her finery, signing binding papers with William and all she could think of was Nicholas. He stood at attention near the back of the church, staring straight ahead.

During the next few days, Amice felt obligated to spend as much time with William as he could spare. They walked in the gardens and sat together at meals, appearing to the court as if they were getting along rather well. If she’d never met Nicholas, she might have found some contentment with this man. Unfortunately, she knew she’d constantly compare the two. Nicholas would always prevail.

She often sensed his gaze on her but willed herself not to glance away from William, even for a second. Though she hungered to have any connection with Nicholas, she had to appear the devoted betrothed both for William and herself. He was a soldier on the eve of battle. No matter what she felt, she’d do her best to make his last moments with her pleasant ones.

She tried to care for William. But there was nothing in her heart for her betrothed beyond friendship. Nothing close to deep caring or love. Maybe they didn’t have enough time. Maybe it wasn’t possible to force feelings. He was an interesting companion, a pleasant person, but that was all. She didn’t yearn to be with him, didn’t crave his closeness, or think of him constantly. The touch of his hand didn’t make her insides melt or spark the faintest hint of desire.

Amice refused to admit there’d never be more with William, refused to acknowledge Nicholas’s presence filling her heart. She’d simply await William’s return and try harder to love him. Try harder to forget Nicholas. It was her duty.

If she failed, her life would be miserable.

A week later, in his chamber, Nicholas couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t contain his frustration. He’d known Amice was the only woman for him since their kiss in the garden. Maybe before, but hadn’t wanted to accept it.

He’d not want another. Ever.

Such words didn’t come easily to him, even in his thoughts. So how could he say them aloud? He wanted to tell her that seeing her everywhere but not being able to spend time alone with her made him long for the closeness they’d shared at Castle Rising. He wanted her to know, yet he didn’t. Indecisiveness made him uncomfortable.

To Nicholas, Amice seemed happy…unless she was putting on an act to please Henry and Margaret. She gazed into William’s eyes, too often, he thought, and laughed too frequently. Had his friendship with Amice meant more to him than to her? No matter, now. She and William were betrothed. He was nothing but an erstwhile admirer who lacked the courage to express his feelings. As it should be, he had to admit.

The betrothal had nigh ripped his heart out. He hadn’t wanted to watch them together but couldn’t seem to stop himself, even going out of his way to find them and see what they were doing. He couldn’t bear the sight of their heads bent close. Worse was seeing William hold her hand. And the two of them together at meals made his stomach turn.

At least the almoner would be pleased, having more tasty scraps of capon with its sauce of blanched almonds and ginger or pieces of meat pie to offer the poor.

Amice was lost to him.

The morning William was to leave, several ladies cornered Amice after an early mass. Two Elizabeths, Lady Grey and Lady Roos, were the first to descend upon her. Their incessant chatter gave Amice a headache at the best of times, but today their words fell hard as a sledge hammer on a swage.

Lady Roos pulled at the chin strap supporting her tall headdress. “Tell us about your wedding gown, Amice. Will it be trimmed in fur or beads? How long will—”

“—your veil be?” Lady Grey continued without pause. “Have you chosen velvet for the gown, or brocade?”

The ladies seemed genuinely interested. Even in her tense mood, Amice didn’t want to snap that she hadn’t even begun to consider what she’d wear to a wedding she didn’t want or know when would occur. So she smiled her now customary false smile. She’d fit in while at court, no matter what.

“Lady Roos, perhaps you’ll help me choose by telling me what you wore at your wedding?”

Obviously flattered, Lady Roos launched into a tediously detailed explanation of her attire from bodice to hem, interspersed with lengthy observations from Lady Grey. This allowed Amice to nod politely at appropriate intervals while turning her thoughts elsewhere. She lost track somewhere between the description of the rings Lady Roos wore on her first and second fingers.

They followed her outside, still talking, as she went to bid Lord William farewell. The morning air was stagnant, the sky cloudless. She’d never seen so many people gathered in one place. All about her squires and commanders shouted orders as they took their places in the procession. Horses whinnied. The din made her head pound harder yet. If only she’d had time to seek out some wood betony or boil some heather.

Thankfully William had told her where his men would gather. As she handed him one of her scarves as a favor to decorate his armor, another knight caught her eye, one with broader shoulders and longer, darker hair. Just a few feet away sat Nicholas, atop a brown horse instead of Merlin. Her hand faltered. The blue and red scarf floated to the ground, delicate silver embroidery glistening in the sun.

She bent to retrieve it, sudden dizziness fogging her head. She braced herself against William’s horse, seeking reassurance in the familiar animal scent, the firm flank. Nicholas, going to France? Why hadn’t it occurred to her he’d be going, also? Why didn’t he tell her?

William reached for the scarf as she handed it up, looking down at her with a proud smile.

She was officially betrothed now. Nicholas wouldn’t encourage her to be unfaithful or try to tempt her. Had he told her he was leaving, what would she have done? Did he know she’d have wanted to spend time with him instead of William? To be in his arms, arms forbidden a woman betrothed?

Now, Nicholas wouldn’t even look her way. They were to part without even a shared glance. If he fell in battle, or if she went to live on William’s estate, this might be the last time she saw him. How could he leave without creating a final memory?

Hearts didn’t break, they were torn into pieces, like a condemned man being drawn, hanged and quartered.

“Farewell, my Amice,” William said.