She glanced down at the floor. ‘I know.’ Had her sadness returned? Would there be tears?
He hurried to speak. ‘Then you know that the siege was broken by that attack. That his death was not in vain.’
‘That is a comfort, surely.’ Her tone suggested otherwise.
‘He was a worthy fighter. His death was a blow.’
Now her gaze met his again. Her shield had not slipped. ‘More so to me.’
Ah, then she blamed him for the man’s death. She had the right. ‘Men die in war, no matter what we do.’ War was not what those at home imagined. It was not...glorious.
He pulled the stained, crumpled silk from his tunic. ‘Your husband was carrying this when he died. I thought to return it to you so you would know he treasured the thought of his wife.’ He waved it in her direction. A poor, limp thing, even more wrinkled and dirty now than it had been when he took it from the man’s body.
She did not reach for it. Instead, she recoiled, as if it were a live thing with teeth.
He shook his outstretched hand, wishing to free himself of it. ‘Do you not want it back?’
‘Back?’ The word, barely a whisper. Then, she lifted that hard, impenetrable gaze and met his eyes again. ‘It was never mine.’
Valerie closed her eyes, blocking the sight of the muddy, wrinkled piece of cloth. It was proof, proof again, of how little she had mattered to her husband.
Sir Ralph Scargill had sailed away to war in the springtime. Another spring came and went. She had not missed him. Though she knew the war was going badly, no one bothered to report details to a knight’s wife and he was not a man to send home tender words.
So it was only a few months ago, when the Duke returned and her husband did not, that she knew the whole of it. Or thought she did.
For now, this man, the one they called The Wolf, stood before her with furrowed brow and an outstretched hand, holding silk that had touched the flesh of an unknown woman who had, no doubt, lain with her husband.
Had she, too, had to hide her bruises?
Even if that were true, he must have cared for this woman to carry a reminder of her into battle. He had never asked Valerie for a token.
And she had never offered one.
But the man before her, a hardened warrior, blinked to hear the truth. ‘I thought...’
She felt a twinge of regret. Poor man. He had only tried to comfort a grieving widow, not knowing she had never grieved.
A frown touched his brows and she saw compassion in his eyes. Around them, people had stopped to look.
She turned away, abruptly, and heard the murmur of conversation again. Bad enough to have seen the man’s shock. She did not want to face his pity. Or anyone else’s.
‘Wait.’ The word low and urgent. His fingers circled her wrist, a touch at once hard and hot.
Reluctantly, she looked back. ‘Why?’ The scrap of silk, discarded, now lay crumpled at his feet. She resisted the urge to step on it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Sorry for her, he meant. Sorry he had embarrassed the poor, wronged widow.
A smile to appease him. A man must never be made to feel uncomfortable. ‘What my husband did was not unusual.’ Though usually not spoken aloud. ‘And not your fault.’
‘Forcing the knowledge on you was. I supposed at the truth and rode ahead. A mistake a commander should never make.’
She covered his hand with hers, intending to lift it from her arm. Instead, her palm lingered, tempted by the warmth of his skin.
Her husband’s hands had been cold. Always cold...
She let go, quickly. So did he. ‘I’m sure you are a good commander and did all you could. Now, please. I must...’
She could not say more. She only knew she must flee this man and all the certainty he brought. Even she could see that the well-worn scrap of cloth was silk, a costly material. Had she been a high-born woman? Or had he bought her something precious and rare? Either way, it had been sacrificed so that he could carry a reminder of this woman into battle.
Searching the hall for a familiar face, she returned to Lady Katherine’s side, hoping there would be no questions about what The Wolf had wanted of her.
But her companion’s attention was on the Duke, who was leaving the dais as the final presentations had been made. She murmured a greeting to Valerie, but did not turn her head, her gaze on the man with something like longing. She looked at him as if...
Valerie shook off the thought. Just because she knew the truth about her husband, she was seeing adultery all around her. No doubt it was there. All men looked for passion outside the marriage bed. A wife must expect no more than duty. She had not expected fidelity from Scargill, but she had never thought to have his infidelities displayed openly to all.
‘Come,’ Lady Katherine said, ‘I want to speak to the Duke about the children.’ A pause and blush. ‘I mean,’ she said, with a lift of her chin, ‘to Monseigneur d’Espagne.’
My Lord of Spain. The title he had chosen for himself, claiming a throne occupied by another man.
But that fact was firmly ignored today. Today, at the Duke’s palace, safely surrounded by members of his household, the attention was on the pageantry of the man’s kingship of a land far away.
As they approached, Lancaster’s smile was all for Katherine. Valerie was invisible in her wake.
‘How are you?’ And then, noticing Valerie, his tone shifted. ‘And how are the children?’
‘The girls are biddable and even tempered. And young Henry thinks he is ready to be a knight though he is barely five.’
Lancaster chuckled. ‘He lacks patience.’ The lack did not seem to disturb his father.
Katherine turned to Valerie. ‘You know Lady Valerie.’
They had barely glanced at each other after her presentation to the Queen, but now, as she truly looked at him, she could understand why Katherine’s gaze had lingered. Strong, tall, a warrior, yes, but a man one might trust in peace as well. Perhaps he would make a good king for those people in far-off Castile.
‘Your husband was a brave man,’ he said.
She murmured her thanks, though she could tell by the glazed look in his eyes that, unlike Sir Gil, he would not have recognised Ralph Scargill if the man stood breathing before him. Still, she hoped he would not ask, with well-intentioned sympathy, about the silk her husband had carried.
He did not. ‘The Queen smiled when she met you,’ the Duke continued. ‘There are few here that she...likes.’
Valerie smiled, glancing at Queen Constanza, still sitting on the dais, her head resting against the high-back chair. Her eyes were closed. Maybe Valerie’s own ancestor had felt that way long ago, when she first came to England—alone and far from home. ‘Perhaps my connection to her country was a comfort, Your Grace.’
‘What word do you hear from your steward?’ Lancaster was, apparently, done with the topic of his wife.
Now Valerie smiled, thinking of Florham. Home. The one corner of the world that was her own. ‘All was well when I left.’ How soon could she return? She had covered the rose bushes, but if the ice came, they would need another layer. ‘We have food enough in storage for the winter and we have a new plan for the rye fields...’
His