King's Gold

And that brought him up short. What if she did find another and came to him, her priest, to ask that he marry her again? He could not do so, not while he remained convinced that her husband was no more dead than he was himself. No! He must tell her the truth, and that right soon.

‘Mistress,’ Father Luke confessed quietly, averting his eyes, ‘I think that he stole my money and has fled.’

Furnshill

It was late that night when Jeanne heard her husband climb the stairs to their solar.

‘You are weary, Baldwin.’

She saw him grin at her as he reached over to set the candle on a spike by the doorway. ‘I admit it freely, my love. I am tired.’

‘Was it Sir Peregrine?’

‘The man exhausts me. His presence is a trial in its own right.’

‘He is a different man since his marriage.’

Baldwin looked at her. ‘No. He is the same man with a thin veneer of suavity.’ He sat and began to tug off his boots. ‘His marriage to Isabella has given him new interests, it is true, but his own desires were always concentrated on removing the Despenser from the heart of government. To achieve that, he knew that he must see the King replaced. Now that King Edward II has given up his throne and passed it on to his son, Sir Peregrine considers his function in the world achieved, and he is content. But he knows that my own loyalty will remain with the King anointed in the sight of God, and none other. For no other King will exist for me until Edward II is dead.’

‘But what does that mean?’ Jeanne asked. She felt a flicker of fear awaken in her breast. ‘You will not go against the new King, will you?’

Baldwin sat back and she saw his dark eyes study her for a long while. ‘No,’ he said at last, and her heart begin to calm. ‘No, I could not involve myself in the kingdom’s politics. Not willingly. I think that I have done my part in the last five years. I am keen now to remain as I am: a lowly rural knight. I have no affectations, no ambitions. I wish to enjoy what life is left to me with my family. That is all.’

He turned away and pulled his tunic over his head, tugged off his chemise and bundled all his clothes into a ball, setting them on top of the chest. He climbed into bed naked, and Jeanne snuggled closer. ‘Ach, you’re freezing!’

He chuckled, pulling her towards him, and kissed the top of her head. ‘We shall be safe enough down here,’ he said comfortingly.

Jeanne smiled to herself as he kissed her again, and lifted her head so he could kiss her mouth. She felt the familiar thrilling through her body as they began to make love, but later, when she opened her eyes again, close to sleep, she saw that her husband was staring up at the ceiling intently, like a man considering an unpleasant task.

Last year, at the time when he had been called away to protect the Duke of Aquitaine on his journey to Paris, knowing he was to desert her, he had worn a remarkably similar look on his face.

He looked at her now, and murmured, ‘I think I am glad I collected my sword.’

His words were spoke lightly enough, but the look in his eyes was enough to chill her blood.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Vigil of the Feast of the Annunciation

Willersey

It was no good, she couldn’t sleep. Agatha surrendered herself to the fact that she would remain awake throughout the night, and rolled from her palliasse to her feet, then shuffled in the dark towards the table. She sat on the stool and leaned her elbows on the table, chin resting on her fists.

That prickle!

It was the only thought that kept running through her mind. She wanted to scream and lash out at anyone who came near. But in truth, deep down, all she felt was despair at the thought that the man with whom she had expected to spend the rest of her life had deserted her.

Her man must have told Father Luke, since the latter was so certain. Perhaps Ham had confessed in church, or when he got drunk. Ham may have found some accommodating bitch who tempted him. Perhaps that was it – not money, just a draggletail, and he was off after her like a dog. All men were the same. Even Ham.

‘Why now?’ she groaned.

She could have made something of her life if he’d died years ago. When she was in her twenties, there were men who’d shown an interest in her and she could have made a good match. Instead, here she was – a raddled old wench, her face lined, her body sagging and worn. No man would want her now. She took her hands from her face and studied them: the calluses and warts, the horny skin. Once she had been pretty enough, and if she had been saved from this life of endless effort, maybe she would still be comely.

In time, she hoped she would accept the idea that he had left her. It was terrible to think she might not. A life full of bitterness was no life at all.

She looked over at Jen sleeping on her palliasse, her mouth dropped open, faint snores ensuing, and felt another surge of sadness, tinged with determination.