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.
Chapter Nine
T he 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
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.
Chapter Nine
T he 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
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