Thereafter I took care that they were thrown together. He was, I knew, unmarried and unbetrothed, as she was. He was happy to be in Winchester, free of the gloom and protocol of Oxford. In this mood he might be glad to take a girl of this city back with him as a bride. And it would suit me very well to have him do so.
Nor was Jenny a person to whom even the Prince of Oxford could object as a future lady for his son. She came of a family that had been noble for generations—since the Disaster—and her father had been Prince of Winchester. It would be a good match.
I told only Blodwen of my hopes. She did not dispute the advantages, but said:
“I think you will find him eager enough. I am not so sure of her.”
“But she likes him. Anyone can see she does. Did you not see them laughing together only this morning?”
Blodwen smiled. “Liking is not loving.”
“His looks are good enough. He is a tried warrior. He is cheerful and has a nimble wit. And he is a Prince’s son, Prince in Waiting to a great city. What more could she want?”
“Poor Luke! You know how to wage war or make a treaty, but in the trivial small maze of a woman’s mind you are lost utterly. Jenny does not need telling any of that; she sees it before you do. But if she does not have a heart to give, it is no help.”
“But she is not betrothed!”
“No,” Blodwen said, “she is not betrothed.” She sighed. “I will not argue with you. Perhaps it will fall out as you hope. Luke, I must go. There is a last fitting for my gown for tonight. I do not want to disgrace you at the ball.”
• • •
I was with Jenny when Blodwen came into the Hall of Mirrors. There was a sudden hush in the talk. I recalled a similar silence falling on the Wilsh court in Cymru’s throne room, the night I saw her first, and turned to look.
She had brought her other dresses with her, but this one had been made by our Winchester tailors. The cloth was silk, less fine and less brightly dyed than that of the Wilsh: a dull crimson. But to make up for it they had put heavy gold braid at the neck and hem and on the deep cuffs. And they had cut it cunningly so that it clung close to her, and yet swirled from her as she walked.
I said, involuntarily: “By the Great, have you ever seen anything so lovely?”
“No,” Jenny said. Her voice was small. “Nothing.”
“I must go to her,” I said. “And I think Eric is looking for you, Jenny.”
“Then I suppose I must wait here until he finds me.”
She turned away, and I went to Blodwen. I was almost afraid to touch her when we stood up together for the first dance, but she took my hand firmly with her small warm one, and tugged me sharply into line when I made a false step. I had never had much skill in these enterprises.
Apart from that, things went well. I saw Eric dancing with Jenny, and that pleased me. Later I saw him go out with her through the open doors into the garden, which pleased me still more. Then, just before supper, I saw Eric on his own.
I said: “Are you looking for Jenny? I think I saw her . . .”
He cut across my words, an unusual impoliteness.
“No.” He looked unhappy. “I’m sorry, Luke.” He put on a smile but it was more rueful than cheerful. “I have suffered a reverse.”
“A reverse? How?”
He told me. He had proposed marriage to her and been refused. And it was clear, though he did not charge her with it, that the refusal had been brusque rather than gentle.
My anger rose. I knew that hardness of Jenny’s. In the past I had suffered from it. She had the right to take her own decisions, but no right to be rude to a friend of mine, a Prince I looked to as an ally.
I made excuses and left him. I looked for Jenny and soon found her. I said:
“A private word with you.”
She smiled but her lips were tight. “As you wish, sire.”
The garden was the nearest place. There was an arbor beyond the sundial and we had it to ourselves. We could hear the minstrels’ music and see figures moving in the Hall of Mirrors, but at this spot it was quiet and private.
Jenny said: “This is the second time I have been brought here tonight.”
Her voice was provocative and defiant. My anger increased. I told her what I thought of her conduct. Eric was a good man. He did not deserve to be treated with contempt.
“And did he say I did so treat him?”
“No. But he was hurt. If a woman must refuse a man she can do it decently, without wounding him.”
She was silent; then said: “I did not mean to hurt him. I agree, he is a good man. But he took me by surprise, and I am not . . . accustomed to such things.” I saw her look at me in the dark. “If you think it right, Luke, I will tell him I am sorry.”
She had accepted the rebuke and was trying to make amends. In a calmer mood I would have realized this, and let it go. But my anger was not only on Eric’s behalf. It stemmed also from the frustration of my plans. I said savagely:
“You are a fool, as well. You will get no better offer than this, nor one a tenth as good.”
She stared at me. Fire came back into her voice too. She said:
“A Prince may command his people. But by what right does he tell them how to live their lives?”
“For your own good! Because you are blind, girl, to your own interest.”
“Blind?” She laughed. “As blind as the Prince of Winchester?”
We faced each other in bitterness and rage. I saw the rapid rise and fall of her breast and my own pulse was racing. In the distance there was the soft murmur of voices, above the music of a minuet. I said:
“I have eyes that can tell a fool, and a friend.”
“Have you? And a betrothed bride who dallies with a friend? Can they tell that?”
I laughed now. “You are not just a fool, but mad.”
Her voice dropped but was burning still. “Yours are the only eyes that do not see it.”
I took her arm roughly, my fingers bruising the flesh. She winced and I said:
“You tell this lie of Blodwen. I could have you whipped for that and may do yet, noble though you are. But what man do you traduce? What friend do you call false?”
“You know it. You do not need telling.”
It was true. In such a catalogue of lies there could only be one name. I said:
“Edmund?”
She stared in silence and the silence gave assent. I let go her arm.
“So you charge your own brother with this. You disgust me. Without a single jot of evidence.”
My contempt provoked her again.
“Listen,” she said, “listen, blind Luke. Do you remember a day when we picnicked in the water meadows, and you were called away to Romsey? Edmund took her back in your place. Not to the city only but to her apartments. And stayed there after.”
“At my bidding. I told Blodwen to give him his supper, in return for the rowing.”
Jenny said: “They dined late that night. I went to his room after eleven, and he was not there.”
“You speak out of narrowness and ignorance. The Wilsh love talking late into the night. In Klan Gothlen Edmund and I have sat with Cymru till two of the morning. Eleven is late by our standards but not by theirs.”
She said nothing. In the distance the music stopped and the chatter of voices swelled up. I said:
“Exile would be better than whipping. I would rather not see your face again. But to take any action would injure Edmund. So go your way, Jenny, and keep out of mine.”
She went without speaking by the path that would take her from the palace. I walked, willing myself to calmness, back to the Hall of Mirrors. Another dance had struck up as I got there. Edmund stood opposite Blodwen. They saw me look at them, and smiled.
• • •
A troop of players came to us that winter. They were not the ordinary strolling players, who acted their parts in any room large enough, or in the open air, and sent one of their numbers round with a greasy cap to collect money off their audience. These were more ambitious. In Salisbury they had had what they called a theater, and they took a disused malt-house to make a similar place in our city. It was in the River Road, not far from my Aunt Mary’s house.