Rumors at Court by Blythe Gifford

Author:Blythe Gifford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2017-05-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Word of the expedition’s fate came early in July. Gil heard it first, as if on a bad wind in the dark.

The fleet destroyed. Men, burned alive on flaming ships, run aground at the entrance to La Rochelle’s harbour.

To him fell the hated duty of delivering the news to Lancaster. ‘My lord, the fleet, Pembroke...’

Lancaster looked up, all attention and smiles. ‘What news?’ Eager. Expecting to celebrate a victory.

Instead, defeat. And worse. ‘Gone. All gone. The ships, the men, the money...’ Words bitter and brutal. If Lancaster had seized the throne already, if the Castilians had not joined with the French, if...

Too late for wishes. Too late for prayers.

The man who would be King sat stunned, his face full of disbelief. ‘We have never been defeated at sea.’ The enormity of the disaster sank in slowly. And then, ramifications rippled across his face. ‘And Pembroke?’

‘Held for ransom by the Castilian pretender.’ Worst of all insults. ‘They are asking...’ Gil said the number. A sum unfathomable.

‘But he had twelve thousand pounds...’ Enough money to keep the soldiers in the field for months. ‘Surely that would be enough to set him free until the entire amount—’

‘Gone.’

‘Gone?’ Another wave of shock. ‘Where? How?’

He shook his head. ‘In enemy hands. Or at the bottom of the sea.’ Beyond their reach in either case. The money that was to pay the men, to buy victory in France, so they could move on to Castile, all lost.

Lancaster dropped his head, letting defeat roll over him.

Gil gripped his shoulder. ‘We will avenge their deaths. The men are ready.’ Near two thousand were gathering, ready to fight. ‘When we take Castile—’

‘We cannot land ships in France. How can we take Castile?’

The words a blow, yet he knew the truth of them. They could not reach Castile until they regained control of the sea. And so, once again, the dream of Castile, nearly within his grasp, floated from reach, as if washed out to sea and drowned with the English ships.

‘We can,’ Gil said. ‘We will.’ Recall to my husband his duty. The piece of stone from Alcázar hung heavy in Gil’s pocket. The man must not lose hope. ‘We have more ships. More men. We will land in Portugal.’ That must be their path now. ‘This is only a setback, like the blizzard in the Spanish mountains, which made the spring victory more sweet.’

Lancaster raised his head, shaken, still, but with a hint of his old energy. ‘I must go to my father, my brother. We must plan...’

New plans. More battles. Lancaster, surely, must make the decisions now. His brother the Prince, once the most feared of commanders, could rally from his bed for only moments at a time. Not long enough to think or plan an invasion. And the King, by turns ill and distracted with his mistress, seemed distant, as if he were already contemplating the next world.

So would Lancaster’s first duty be to a Castile they did not hold, to the lands in France they were losing, or to England itself?

‘My lord.

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