Now. I must look at him as I always do. I must give him no reason to question.
She opened her eyes, only to see Canterbury’s crowded streets again, full of pilgrims with wounds visible and invisible. Turning her back, she faced Nicholas. ‘Forgive me. Being here, surrounded like this, I was...overcome.’
Her lady and her mother and the secret. That was all that stood between her and those wretched creatures.
His hand, she realised, still cradled her shoulder and he squeezed it, a gesture that seemed more intimate than any kiss they had shared. ‘I am sorry. This, I cannot make right.’
Simple words that nearly undid her. When had anyone ever told her such a thing?
Her fingers met his. ‘You are a kinder man than you think, Sir Nicholas Lovayne.’
To her relief, he straightened, breaking the intimacy. ‘And you are a gentler woman than you show, Anne of Stamford.’
No, she was not. She was a woman who knew something that must be kept from Sir Nicholas Lovayne at any cost.
A smile now. ‘All will be as it must.’ She waved him away. ‘Go. You must not worry.’
You must not become curious or suspicious or ask more questions.
For keeping that secret had been, simply, the reason for her life. Now, she would keep it for another reason.
She would keep it so that the caring she had seen in his grey-blue eyes, caring she had never seen from another person, would not turn to abomination.
And as he left to make arrangements for the beds and the horses, she gazed after him, choking on truths she dare not speak.
I am not the woman you think I am. I am a woman whose life is based on a lie and I hope you never discover the truth about me.
* * *
Nicholas forced himself to leave Anne and plunge into the distraction of the mundane. Let the serving girl attend her. He needed distance, needed to rend that invisible tie that kept pulling him to her.
Exactly the sort of tie he never wanted.
That was what had trapped his father into marriage with a second wife. There had been no logic, no reason to the choice. And later, all of them had regretted it, even the woman who had blinded his father to the truth.
But at the time, his father, full of love—longing—could think of nothing but this woman.
Nicholas would never make that mistake. Not with anyone. Certainly not with Anne of Stamford.
Kind, she called him. No, he was not kind. He was not given to passions of any sort.
Many were. Men like the Prince and his father roared with laughter or anger, loved who or what they would. They let their swords escape their brains and rode into battle blinded with blood lust instead of the sharp, clear-eyed calm needed in order to stay alive. They killed or maimed or, conversely, gifted friends with presents worth a ransom, acting as an animal might, with no more control than a squalling babe. He had never been a man like that. His father’s life had taught him well.
Instead, he watched. He assessed. He investigated. He planned. Only then did he act. And when something went wrong, and something always went wrong, he reassessed and adjusted.
There was always another way, a different choice, if you took the time to think instead of letting fear or desire overcome judgement.
And if frustration or anger sometimes choked him, he swallowed it and moved on. It was his strength, this control. It had kept him far away from the dangers of too much anger.
Or too much love.
The spectre of the dead man in Winchester rose to haunt him again. Dead. Gone. With nothing to show he had lived on this earth.
Yet that was what Nicholas had chosen. A life with nothing to weigh him down or hold him back. And when it was over, he would leave nothing behind.
That was the way he had always wanted it.
And still did.
The next morning after prayers, Nicholas was ushered into the Cathedral Priory and admitted to the office of Simon Islip, the Archbishop of Canterbury.
As he dropped to his left knee and kissed the offered ring, Nicholas turned an assessing eye on the Archbishop. He was, as the Prince had said, in his seventh decade, and as stern and prickly a character as one would expect the highest church official in the realm to be.
Nicholas rose.
They eyed each other warily.
Nicholas had youth on him. That was a comfort. He only hoped the stubborn old man’s mind could summon up the memories he needed.
In well-rehearsed words, Nicholas conveyed the King’s respects and the Pope’s request, careful to keep the impatience from his voice. The journey itself was no doubt the most difficult part of this assignment and that was half-done. All he needed now was for the Archbishop’s clerk to find the document so that the man could mutter his blessing over it. Then, the only thing standing between Nicholas and France would be the English Channel.
He finished speaking and waited. The Archbishop’s face did not waver. Nor did he speak.
‘We do this at the request of His Holiness,’ Nicholas said, finally, wondering whether the man had heard him at all.
Now, the lips twisted a bit. ‘The French Pope?’
He blinked, somewhat surprised. Typically, such words were not said aloud. ‘And the request of His Grace the King.’
Islip had not always bowed to the royal will. Despite that, or maybe because of it, the King respected him.
The Archbishop waved a hand. ‘A man grows old. His tongue grows loose.’ Beneath greying brows, his blue eyes took on a distant look. ‘God has taken the bishops of Worcester, London and Ely with the pestilence. How am I to replace such men?’
The Archbishop had his own concerns, as all men did. It was Nicholas’s task to overcome them. ‘The Prince asked that I help you in any way I can. As you can understand, he wants all to be in order when the official dispensation arrives for he is eager to be wed.’
‘A little too eager,’ Islip snapped. ‘Now he expects us to be just as eager.’
Nicholas had the uneasy feeling that the man would have said the same if he had spoken to Prince Edward himself. ‘I believe,’ Nicholas said in as calm a tone as he could muster, ‘that all that must be done is to locate the document, review it and issue a statement. I am sure that is what His Holiness expects.’ His Holiness had barely allowed enough time for them to complete even that simple task.
‘All that he expects? To locate and examine a document from when?’
‘Fourteen years ago.’ That was when the appeal for the dissolution of Joan’s marriage to Salisbury had gone to the Pope and the legitimacy of her clandestine marriage to Holland had been upheld.
Fourteen years. Before the Death. Before this man was Archbishop. Before Nicholas had been knighted. He tried to remember himself then, at seventeen. Attached to the Prince’s household, yes, but more interested in the newly founded Order of the Garter and more fearful of the impending plague than interested in the marriage, or lack thereof, of the King’s cousin.
The Archbishop dropped his forehead into his hands and rubbed his eyes, as if the years he battled against had suddenly settled upon him. ‘Explain it to me again,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘About the marriage.’
Nicholas could understand the man’s confusion. It had taken several tellings before even he had grasped the complexities.
‘As