“The Portuguese negotiations may be secret,” nodded the baroness, “but his highness was very public concerning those horrid rumours some weeks ago.” Nicholas lifted one eyebrow. “Not, of course, that his highness had ever thought of marrying the young Woodville girl,” the baroness hurried on. “His niece indeed! A horrid thought, and such a religious man would never contemplate – but I was quite amazed that anyone else had started – or ever believed – such a shocking rumour.”
“Rumour,” said Nicholas, “oils the cogs that turn the wheel of fortune.”
“Papa will not let us listen to gossip,” muttered Avice,
Nicholas grinned. “Yet it seems this time that even in the wilds of Gloucestershire, the vine spread its roots. Because the Portuguese were negotiating with our Royal Council for a union between his highness and the Infanta Joanna at the same time as proposing a match between the Infantas’s cousin Manuel and the old King’s daughter Elizabeth, rumour managed to put the two together and whispered that King Richard was thinking to marry the girl himself. Since his crown is entirely due to her and her siblings being discovered illegitimate, such a proposition was absurd. But rumour thrives on absurdities, and it is possible that some malicious soul had his – or her – own motive for spreading those rumours. The king likes to cut through confusion, so made an immediate proclamation to stop the silly tattle at birth.”
“Tattle indeed,” blushed his hostess, “but it was your own dear cousin informed us, sir. Sir Adrian was here at Emma’s request, you see, since she was frightened for your safety. And he discussed the king’s marriage situation in some detail. I was shocked at the rumour he shared with us. As my husband often says, the common folk are always ignorant.”
“The king marrying his own bastard niece!” sniffed Avice. “As if he would want to – with every foreign princess after his hand.”
“As well as an heir, the king needs foreign alliances, and marriage is a good way of finding them.” Nicholas shrugged, looking at his wife. “The proposed match is with the Portuguese king’s sister Joanna, and that’s an alliance worth more than gold. The beneficial union of disparate houses, you might say?” Emeline looked down quickly at her lap. “Though,” Nicholas added, eyes narrowed, “how Adrian knew so much is a puzzle to me, since he is rarely at court.”
“Perhaps the Lady Elizabeth wants to marry her uncle,” suggested Avice.
“I believe the girl wants to marry someone, and is already enamoured of her proposed Portuguese groom’s portrait,” said Nicholas. “And for a girl of announced bastardy, the most royal Manuel is a flattering proposal. Young women, it seems,” and he smiled again at his wife, “yearn for romance and call it love when they find it. But the whole matter of the king’s marriage negotiations is secret, which presumably means everyone knows about it.”
“Chivalry and romance and dreaming of marriages,” Avice interrupted, sighing, “and wondering what it would be like. That’s even more fun than a new gown. And the king is supposed to be terribly handsome. Any girl would dream of marriage to a king.”
Emeline glanced up at her husband. “You seem to know rather a lot yourself, my lord. Perhaps you actually know the king in person?”
“Know his highness? I’m a lowly earl’s son, and only recently his heir.” Nicholas said, studiously regarding his empty platter. “How should I speak with kings, while stuck in that monstrosity of a castle up north?”
Emeline paused, watching him a moment, then said, “But you haven’t actually denied it, I notice. And I know perfectly well how much you love that monstrosity of a castle.”
Nicholas grinned. “Shall I be indiscreet then? Shall I admit that my recent adventures have involved this very situation?” He shook his head, still laughing. “Oh no, I’m not off to foreign lands. But Sir James Tyrell asked me to investigate the beginning of the rumours. He’s interested, as I am, in who might have started such gossip, clearly designed to cause trouble for the king. Knowing your friends is essential for any monarch, but knowing who wishes to build you problems is even more important.”
The baroness stared and Emeline blinked at her husband. “You were actually working for his highness?”
“Not so unusual,” Nicholas said. “Most of the younger courtiers, and many others too, offer service in such a way. Loyalty involves many different pathways. Tyrell, Lovell, Brampton, Howard, we prove our loyalty when we can.”
“What did you discover?” whispered Avice, wide eyed.
But Nicholas shook his head again. “That’s not something I can share,” he smiled. “And should have said nothing at all. It’s not a business I ever discuss with my family, and prefer to keep such matters private.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Avice assured him.
Nicholas shrugged. “They wouldn’t believe you anyway. I’m the irresponsible coward and the family’s shame. It’s a useful position to hold onto.”
Chapter Twenty
They had ridden hard, first for the constable, and then, in company with the constable, for the sheriff. The sheriff had thrown down his quill and stared up in disbelief, ink blotting the parchment where he had been writing. But it was true, they assured him, and he must come immediately.
It was still raining. The rain had helped put out the fire, but such damage had been done that it took considerable time before the full scandal could be realised. The roof had tumbled in, then both floors and ceilings. The great bed had toppled from above to below and now rested, scorched, blackened and partially upended against the table downstairs. Not that there were any stairs anymore. But the two bodies on the bed remained visible, flesh burned and ruined, and their identities, though more guess than recognition, were noted.
“Lord have mercy,” uttered the sheriff. “Dickon, get yourself off to Wychwood and inform her ladyship.”
“It’ll be dark, sir, by the time I arrive. And in this weather too.”
“No choice, lad.” The sheriff gazed at the sprawled and charred remains before him, and gulped. “But don’t you go telling the widow just how he was found, mind. Use your manners and your common sense, now.”
“But shouldn’t it be you, sir, being the sheriff, and not me being the lowly constable, what informs her ladyship?”
“In this weather? Already I’ve a cold on the way.” The sheriff declared, gazing at the charred bones and distorted limbs before him. Then he sighed, acknowledging the inevitable. “Very well, duty’s paramount. I’ll face the baroness myself, and my assistant can accompany me. Alert the guard. I want four armed men, and fresh horses. I’ll time my arrival for the morning.”
It was many miles distant and nearly an hour later when Nicholas regarded his wife through the shifting shadows of the unlit bedchamber. “So, what exactly has missing me entailed?” he demanded, grinning wide.
She thought a moment. “Wanting you back. Never feeling comforted. Thinking so much about you. Worrying myself sick – in case you were sick.”
He shook his head. “Not good enough. I want descriptions. At night, for instance. Did you dream of the pestilence, of pustules and poxes? Or did you dream of lying in my arms, and of me touching where you want to be touched?”
“Yes,” Emeline whispered, looking back at him. “Both those things. All the time.”
They sat together before the window, although the sky beyond the small diamond panes was partly obliterated by rain and the stars appeared blurred, like the small muffled reflections of candle flames. The window seat was deep but uncushioned, and Nicholas sat in one angle, facing her in the other. Their eyes, intent on each other, did not notice the hazy mists of moonlight outside, or the small bluster of the wind in the treetops. Nicholas reached out and took Emeline’s hand. “So when, in your dreams, I touched where you wanted me to touch –” he paused, then said, “where was it?”