At His Command-Historical Romance Version (17 page)

“I’m tired of waiting, of being patient.”

“As am I.”

Even as he said words she wanted to hear, proving that she might have the chance to spend days or her future with him, her failure to be forthcoming combined with a hint of sorrow in his eyes chilled her to her fingertips. Was it because of something she hadn’t said? Or something he hadn’t told her?

If so, it would serve her right. For there was plenty she’d not told him. She’d handed off more letters for York to Belinda earlier that morning. How could they move ahead with their relationship until he knew it all?

The forest meeting with Amice had frustrated Nicholas. Just like recent council meetings, which eroded his nerves faster than sand in a windstorm. Few of Henry’s advisors seemed concerned with the good of the realm, but hungered for as much power as each could wrest.

Despite his loyalty to Henry and England, he’d hoped the catastrophic defeat would put an end to fighting with France. After a hundred years of war, after the great inroads Henry’s father had made, Calais was the only bit that was left to England. Why didn’t the king focus on the abundance of problems at home instead of draining his coffers to pursue a lost cause abroad?

Occasional twinges of discomfort in his leg served as nagging souvenirs of Castillon. How could he forget? Horrific sights, sounds and smells of battle, all centered around William’s death, accompanied him each night and kept him from sleep.

The constant reminders incited him to avoid Amice. In the forest, they’d been so happy to see each other, to plan, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to explain his role in William’s death. He didn’t want her to know of his guilt, to watch joy fade from her face as he told of his failure to save William. How could he face her again without doing so? Would he ever be ready to? He was cracking slowly, like pond ice in the spring. He’d allowed Amice into his heart, savored the elation of feeling so close to someone with whom he’d wanted to share his life.

Now he endured the agony of not deserving her. Because of William. And because he couldn’t shake the belief that by offering coin for her freedom, she’d also be buying him. What man of honor allowed himself to be purchased like a trinket at a fair? But breaking his promise to arrange a meeting with the king made him feel worse than a coward.

He hardened his heart against her inquisitive looks. Once she’d walked up to him as they passed in a hallway. He’d forced himself to ignore her. Better that she hate him for abandoning her than because she knew the truth. Even if she could find it in her to forgive him, he didn’t think he could forgive himself.

But there were fewer people at the smaller manor of Clarendon than at any of the king’s castles. Avoiding her here was more difficult. So he had to find the strength, somehow, to tell her he hadn’t yet spoken to the king. He owed her and himself that, at least.

A scream disturbed his musings. A page ran up to him. “My lord, my lord, you must come at once, at once!”

Nicholas was about to reprimand the page’s imperiousness, but the boy’s flushed face and bulging eyes stopped the rebuke. He jumped up from his chair, weight on his good leg. “What is it? Is it the queen, the babe?”

The page bent over and gasped for breath, resting his hands on his thighs. “No, no, no! To the king, the king!”

“Show me,” Nicholas ordered.

As fast as the page’s short legs and his injured one could carry them, they raced to the hall, where they were brought to an abrupt halt by the stillness of the tableau before them. No one moved a muscle, captured like a page torn from an illuminated manuscript.

Several advisors and attendants stood staring aghast at the king. Henry, dressed in his customary black, sat motionless on the throne. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. His head tilted slightly to the left, as if listening with mild interest to something no one else could hear. Even the outspoken Margaret was frozen, a beringed hand held to her chest.

All gaped at the king, as if focusing their energies on him would encourage him to move or speak.

“What happened?” Nicholas asked.

“One minute he was fine. The next, as he is now,” explained the page.

He’d never seen anything like it. “Go find Hatclyf, the king’s physician.”

The boy ran off.

Several minutes later, after a brief look at the king, William Hatclyf proclaimed, “I’ve been called one of the most skilled in my field, but I can offer no immediate diagnosis.”

Those waiting had gathered into small, whispering groups.

“Maybe he was poisoned,” someone offered.

“Could it be the shock of losing all at Castillon?”

“Perhaps he has inherited the madness from his grandfather, Charles VI?” another suggested.

“No, no. Charles had frantic fits. This is different.” Hatclyf said. “Though I have never seen symptoms such as these, I believe it’s safe to move him to his chambers. Perhaps after purging him I’ll know more.”

Nicholas, Hatclyf and John Norris, an esquire of the household, carefully carried the king from the room.

Queen Margaret sank into a chair, hands over her bulging abdomen. Amice, worried that the shock of Henry’s illness might induce early labor, hurried to her side.

“I’m fine, fine,” Margaret breathed. “We needs wait. Maybe the king will recover soon….” She pushed herself to her feet and announced, “No one in this room is to discuss what they saw here.”

Hours later, the physician and John Norris returned to the queen. Hatclyf reported, “King Henry cannot speak, does not appear to understand when spoken to, nor do his eyes or expression reflect awareness.

“Your Grace, I am most sorry to report that I can find no cause for King Henry’s strange affliction.” He wrung his hands. “I suggest we send for my colleagues, John Arundel and John Faceby. Perhaps they’ll see something I do not, think of a treatment I have not.”

“Agreed. I also propose that the king be moved, if it won’t injure him further, to a larger holding, where he can rest more comfortably,” said Norris.

The royal household moved back to Westminster as quickly and quietly as possible. Margaret made her wishes known to a small group of the king’s advisors, including Nicholas.

“No one else is to know of his infirmity,” she told the group, gathered around a large table. “No one. Not the people of England, and certainly not Parliament. Henry has no heir of his body. Should something happen to this child….” She didn’t need to say more. Many babies failed to survive infancy. “If I have a son, he’ll need a regent, like Henry when he became king at nine months old. And how should the regent be chosen amidst squabbling similar to that of a generation ago?”

No one could meet her gaze.

Long days passed. Each member of the king’s and queen’s household moved about in silence, trying to look busy. Each prayed fervently that the king would recover and life could continue as normal. Few words were spoken, and those that were came as hushed whispers filled with uncertainty. Henry’s councilors met for hours on end, trying to come up with a feasible solution to a land without a king.

“Henry’s condition hasn’t changed. We can’t go on behaving as though he’ll miraculously recover,” said Norris.

“The Lancastrian position was precarious enough before he took ill,” a lord interrupted. “Our enemies can’t learn Henry is incapacitated.”

“We must decide who shall rule. And should Henry die, who will succeed.”

As murmurs buzzed about the room, Nicholas worried about his king, queen, and country. Yet part of him rejoiced. Surely no one would think about finding Amice another groom now.

Chapter 11

Amice had never been so miserable. Like everyone else, she was concerned about Henry’s condition, not only for Henry, Margaret and their unborn child, but because of what it meant politically and personally. How long would she be forced to linger at court, unable to plan? Cyril’s reports that all was well at Castle Rising made her miss home all the more.

Margaret’s pregnancy advanced along with concern that Henry would never recover. The more time that passed, the more she feared Margaret might yet select another groom for her. Every day was spent in turmoil, wondering if anything would happen, if York would find out about Henry’s ailment and try to take advantage of his indisposition, if Margaret would decide to send her ladies home. If.

Belinda delivered letters and parchment from York, Amice dutifully returned accurate copies. The latest batch had been to highly-ranked supporters, wondering why Henry had been absent of late. Knowing the reason, yet unwilling to go so far as to contribute information, heightened the war in her head between right and wrong. Her fear of discovery never abated.

She rarely saw Nicholas, who was constantly closeted with the council. When she did, lines of strain etched into his face discouraged her from conversation, from troubling him further with her concerns. He couldn’t be avoiding her, could he? His customary tan had faded, stress adding to his pallor, she was sure. Dark circles under his eyes attested to long hours of arguing with the council and getting nowhere.

She wanted to tell him she thought of him often, that she couldn’t put him from her mind, remembering his few kisses still made her yearn for more. That every time she saw him a rush of desire filled her. Even if she could bring herself to say the words, personal matters paled in importance to the king’s illness and political problems.

Finally, in early October, out of concern for Nicholas’s health and to escape the close atmosphere of the queen’s lying-in chamber, Amice wrapped herself in her wool cape and waited by the stables. She knew he rode or visited his horse each morning.

She had to talk with him.

Someone tugged on his sleeve as he came around the corner of the stables after feeding Merlin a few apples.

“Nicholas. You have to get some rest. I’ve been watching you….”

Amice. He was so tired he could barely convince his mouth to smile. In the early morning light, with the hood of her cloak outlining her face and a few curls wafting in the breeze, she’d never looked lovelier. Such a welcome sight. Though it seemed a lifetime ago, he recalled the feel of her lips on his, her soft body against his. And wanted to feel both again.

As glad as he was to see Amice, he still wasn’t ready to tell her the truth. The passage of time hadn’t eased his guilt over his role in William’s death, nor could he think of the right words to say.

He hadn’t told anyone, even Martin, the details of his escape from the Battle of Castillon. Memories still pounced upon him in the dark and chased him into his dreams. Night after night, he felt the shot pierce his thigh, heard thunderous cannon blasts and shouting as he and William argued, saw William’s lifeless brown eyes staring at the smoky sky before Nicholas closed them, his fingers leaving a trail of smeared blood on William’s face.

“Watching me, are you?”

Was it the brisk breeze that tinged her cheeks pink?

“You look awful,” she said. “Have you been sleeping, eating? What is it you do in session all day? What can anyone do?”

“We’re trying to save our country by keeping it in the hands of its rightful rulers. Without our king’s guidance, we face an even more difficult task. Nothing like this has ever happened. We keep hoping a solution will surface. Concealing Henry’s condition from the world gets harder each day.”

“And if you or the other advisors take sick, what then?” Amice shivered and drew her cloak tight.

Nicholas avoided her question and the desire to take her in his arms and keep her warm. “How are you?”

“Well as I can be, helping Margaret. The baby should come any day now. Waiting for the baby coupled with waiting to see if Henry’s condition changes…. I want to go home, Nicholas. I don’t belong here anymore. Until the king recovers or someone else has authority and wherewithal to arrange marriages, I’m just an extra mouth to feed.”

“What’s one more in the midst of so many? Henry has over nine hundred on his staff now, from the chamberlain to his growing team of doctors to attendants paid to sit with him day and night lest there be a change in his condition.”

His shoulders tightened. He had to broach the painful subject of Castillon. If he didn’t, his nights might be haunted for the rest of his life. By the battle, and by Amice. For no matter how he tried to put her from his thoughts, no matter how he tried to focus with the others on a solution, somehow she found her way back in. Time apart hadn’t lessened his interest, though he’d hoped and prayed it would. Talking with her now, looking into her lovely green eyes, his need for her companionship bubbled to the surface from the depths of his soul.

“Amice, I’ve been keeping an eye on you as well, and meant to talk with you sooner. I’ve feared telling you of this, but I can’t continue as we have been. Now we see how short life can be, how quickly things can change. I could have died at Castillon, as…so many thousands did.” He took her hands, chilled by the autumn air. “Even in these times of trial, I can’t forget our kisses. How I wished we could do more. I don’t want you to wed another.”

Amice’s mouth fell open. “You’ve felt this way but waited all this time to say something?”

“Before my journey, before Henry fell ill, I was determined to do what was best for my king and the kingdom, no matter what I wanted for myself. But our defeat in France, the sudden onset and the persistence of Henry’s ailment show me I can’t keep waiting for my own desires to be met. Only God knows how much time we have.” Already Nicholas sensed his burden was lighter. Sharing his feelings, telling the truth, took less effort than keeping it all inside. “Who knows if Henry will recover, and if he does, whether the Lancasters will remain in power. If York and his followers gain control of England, will any of us be allowed to go free? They could seize all we own or put us to death.