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abashed and she was sorry. ‘I must seem rude. I’m just ready to be quit of him and back to France.’
    ‘No! I like that you do not...hold your tongue.’ So few were so blunt. Fewer still would speak of movement without a downward glance at her poor leg. ‘I envy you your journey. I would love to see...so much.’
    ‘Have you not been out of England?’
    ‘Yes, of course. The Lady Joan was in France when her husband, Lord Holland, died.’ They had gone when her lady willed and returned when her lady willed. And all the while, unexplored horizons beckoned.
    He looked at her, his glance too perceptive. ‘And when next she returns, you will, too.’
    ‘They speak of Aquitaine. A kingdom of his own for the Prince.’
    He grunted and took a sip of claret.
    Again, she waited in vain for him to speak. Finally, she tried again. ‘You do not approve?’
    He looked at her, his expression more shock than sneer. ‘My opinion makes no difference.’
    A feeling she well knew. ‘But you have been there.’
    He nodded.
    ‘And would you return?’ He, a man who had travelled across France. He would know whether it was a place she would like.
    ‘There is no need. We subdued it.’
    So clear that this man knew no life but war. ‘I mean, should we—I mean, should the Prince and my lady go, will it be a pleasant place to live?’
    ‘A flat land with rivers. Hard to defend. The bridges need to be rebuilt.’
    No mention of whether the rivers were wide and blue or narrow and rushing. No word of green leaves or yellow flowers or whether the sun was warm or the wine sweeter near its own soil. ‘Can you speak of nothing but horses and supplies and fighting?’
    His eyes cleared of memory and recognised her once more. ‘That’s why I was there.’
    There with eyes focused not on the land, but on how they must move over it and what they must do to subdue it. ‘But I will not be there for war.’
    ‘The Prince will.’
    ‘But his wife will not. I hope there will be time to see other things.’
    Quiet, but intent, he studied her. ‘What things? What things would you choose to see?’
    She looked away, abashed by the perception of the question. If she were as tall and strong as he and free to choose her life, she would walk from here to Compostela to see the shrine of St James and from there to Rome, where the ancient stones of the Romans still stood. And beyond that lay Castile or Jerusalem or even Alexandria...
    But those were dreams for someone else, not for a lame girl.
    ‘I go where my lady chooses.’ And was fortunate to do so. Fool. She had let the man turn questions on her and then been foolish enough to answer them.
    She bowed her head over her needlework, grateful that the music and chatter had masked their words. She must turn the talk back to him before she said something else to regret. Dancers gathered before them on the floor as the minstrels lifted pipes and bows.
    Turning back to Nicholas, she gave him her broadest smile. ‘Do you dance?’
    * * *
    Nicholas looked at Anne, uncertain what to say. Anything he said would be an insult to a woman who would never skip gaily through a circle dance.
    ‘There was little dancing in the midst of battle.’ It was the truth.
    She looked up from her stitching and smiled, as if she realised the foolishness of the question. ‘Was there no respite from the fighting?’
    ‘The King made time for hawking.’ Which meant Nicholas had arranged for the care and feeding of the King’s favourite birds as well as of men.
    ‘Ah.’ She had a way of looking from her stitching to his face and back in a natural rhythm. ‘I have ridden after the falcons. Once. Or twice.’
    She could ride, then. He had wondered.
    His surprise must have shown plain on his face, for she answered it. ‘The falconer does most of the work.’
    ‘I did not think—’
    ‘I know what you thought.’ Her needle paused.
    He, a man who cloaked his feelings from royalty, had allowed this woman to see his