a somersault, then jumped to his feet in front of them, tossing and catching five painted wooden balls. ‘And who is this new arrival come before us?’
‘A juggler like yourself,’ she answered, putting down the alms purse. ‘Sir Nicholas Lovayne.’
He turned to her with a frown.
She ignored him.
‘Ah,’ Old Robert said, both tongue and hands still moving, ‘this is the miracle worker I’ve heard of. The one who can make Eve into the Virgin Mary.’
Shamed, Anne flushed, silent. Fools had licence others did not, but it was a blatant reference to her lady. And not a flattering one. She hoped Joan would never hear of it.
‘Look lively, Sir Miracle Worker.’ The fool tossed a ball to Nicholas.
Astonished, she watched him catch it and throw it back and suddenly, they were juggling the five between them and Nicholas was smiling again.
When, finally, he missed a catch, he picked up the fallen ball and tossed it to Old Robert with ease. ‘I’m not your match, Fool.’
‘Ah, it depends on the game, doesn’t it?’ He winked at them and moved on.
She cleared her throat. ‘He has been with the King for many years. He assumes privileges.’
He shrugged. ‘A fool’s words are not worth repeating.’
Able to breathe again, she turned back to her stitching, watching Nicholas out of the corner of her eye.
Loyal to the Prince, he would spread no tales. And yet he sat alone while Edward the father and Edward the son cast bets on the throw of the die with other knights and nobles.
She met his eyes and nodded toward the laughing group in the corner. ‘You do not join them?’
He turned to follow her glance. ‘Life itself seems a game of chance. I do not actively seek uncertainty.’
‘You have spent years at war. There is no certainty there.’
‘More than you would think. We are certain to ride long days, certain to be hungry, certain to fight. I control all the things I can, but in the end, I am certain to either live or die.’
‘As God wills.’
‘Or the King. Or your lady.’
She must have stared for a moment, shocked at his words. Blasphemy, no doubt, but they reflected her own life, lived at the mercy of someone else.
‘Yet you return to France.’ She must keep him speaking of himself so he would not think of questioning her. ‘Why?’
A wisp of longing washed over his face. ‘To return to war.’
‘But the war is over.’ A truce was signed. French hostages crowded the court.
‘Is it?’ He looked down at her, brow raised, as if she were no wiser than a child, then shrugged. ‘There will be another. Somewhere.’
‘And you care not where you fight? Or why?’
‘Men fight for only one reason. To stay alive.’
‘You don’t want a home?’ A wife? ‘Here in England?’
He shook his head. ‘I would rather keep moving.’
Envy tasted bitter. ‘Will you not wed?’
‘Of course.’ His voice, hearty, but bitter. ‘To a wealthy widow.’
‘Ah.’ She swallowed, ashamed of the direction of her thoughts. Of course he would marry. He was tall and strong. His legs, long and straight, stretched out before him, a deliberate insult to her own. The old King, Longshanks, must have had limbs such as these. ‘Will she be here soon?’
‘She? Who?’
‘Your...’ She had a moment’s jealousy of the woman who would lie in his arms. ‘The widow.’ Someone for whom she could stitch an alms purse.
He shook his head, eyes downcast. ‘There is no widow. But that’s what every poor knight wants, is it not?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what a poor knight wants.’ She kept her eyes on her work, ashamed that she had asked. There would be no one for her. Ever. And asking embarrassing questions of a handsome knight would change nothing.
‘I answered rudely. Your question was an honest one. What this poor knight wants is the ransom for his French hostage.’
‘So you’ve a prisoner?’ Keep the talk of him. Do not let him ask questions about her or her lady.
He nodded. ‘The reward for all my months of fighting.’
She looked out over the Hall where some of the French hostages were exchanging lingering glances with the ladies. ‘Is he here?’
‘He’s safely locked up in London, dining at my expense.’
‘But you’ll be paid for that, with the ransom.’
‘The French have been slow with ransom payments.’
She nodded. That much she knew. ‘And while we wait for French livres, the hostages entertain themselves with food and wine and gambling.’
‘That we must pay for. I sometimes wonder whether it would be cheaper for the French to pay the ransom than to keep paying their expenses here.’
Something she had never considered. He was a man accustomed to thinking of the cost of things. Her lady never did, even after the bill was presented. ‘Yet you are a fortunate man,’ she said. ‘You have a hostage. He will bring you gold.’
‘Forgive my ingratitude.’ He looked abashed and she was sorry. ‘I must seem rude. I’m just ready to be quit of him and back to France.’
‘No! I like that you do not...hold your tongue.’ So few were so blunt. Fewer still would speak of movement without a downward glance at her poor leg. ‘I envy you your journey. I would love to see...so much.’
‘Have you not been out of England?’
‘Yes, of course. The Lady Joan was in France when her husband, Lord Holland, died.’ They had gone when her lady willed and returned when her lady willed. And all the while, unexplored horizons beckoned.
He looked at her, his glance too perceptive. ‘And when next she returns, you will, too.’
‘They speak of Aquitaine. A kingdom of his own for the Prince.’
He grunted and took a sip of claret.
Again, she waited in vain for him to speak. Finally, she tried again. ‘You do not approve?’
He looked at her, his expression more shock than sneer. ‘My opinion makes no difference.’
A feeling she well knew. ‘But you have been there.’
He nodded.
‘And would you return?’ He, a man who had travelled across France. He would know whether it was a place she would like.
‘There is no need. We subdued it.’
So clear that this man knew no life but war. ‘I mean, should we—I mean, should the Prince and my lady go, will it be a pleasant place to live?’
‘A flat land with rivers. Hard to defend. The bridges need to be rebuilt.’
No mention of whether the rivers were wide and blue or narrow and rushing. No word of green leaves or yellow flowers or whether the sun was warm or the wine sweeter near its own soil. ‘Can you speak of nothing but horses and supplies and fighting?’
His eyes cleared of memory and recognised her once more. ‘That’s why I was there.’
There with eyes focused not on the land, but on how they must move over it and what they must do to subdue