Chapter 17 #2
“King Henry II was in a temper,” she said with mock sternness, “pacing his hall and railing against his archbishop, Thomas Becket. At last he burst out, ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’”
Margaret gasped, pressing close to Jane. “And did the knights do it? Did they really?”
Jane’s eyes danced. “They thought he meant it as command. Four of them armed at once and set off for Canterbury. Imagine the thunder of their boots through the cathedral, their swords flashing in the holy place—”
Margaret squealed, half in fear, half in delight. “And they cut him down?”
Jane let a dramatic pause settle, then continued: “There, before the altar itself. And all the while Becket knelt, praying. So you see, Lady Margaret, words spoken in anger may be taken for orders, even if not meant so. King Henry wept bitterly after, but the world remembered his outburst, not his regret.”
Margaret caught at Jane’s sleeve, eyes wide. “And they killed him in the church? With swords? Truly? Oh, how dreadful!”
“Dreadful indeed,” Jane said gravely. “So dreadful that the Church made him a saint. Pilgrims came from all over England to Canterbury, to kneel at the place of his martyrdom and ask for his prayers.”
Margaret’s face lit with wonder. “They made him a saint? And people still go there?”
“Not anymore, but they did,” Jane said, her voice warm.
“For centuries his shrine was the most famous in the realm. Men and women walked for days on pilgrimage to honor him. And one day, my lady, I shall teach you the tales they told along the road—The Canterbury Tales. All the pilgrims together, each telling a story to pass the miles.”
Margaret gave a delighted gasp. “Stories about knights and saints and everything?”
“Stories of all kinds,” Jane promised. “Some noble, some merry, some solemn—but all told on the way to Saint Thomas’s shrine.”
Beaufort’s brow arched slightly, though his tone was amused. “Not all of Chaucer, surely, is fit for young ears.”
Jane met his glance with quiet composure. “Of course not, my lord. I mean the retellings—the children’s versions. They strip away what is coarse, and keep what may amuse or instruct. Lady Margaret shall hear only the best of them.”
Margaret squeezed her hand eagerly. “Then you must tell me soon, Miss Ansley! I want the first tale today.”
It was at that moment the beat of hooves sounded on the path.
William appeared astride his bay, reining sharply.
His gaze swept over the three of them—Jane flushed and smiling, Margaret clinging to her side, Beaufort looking on with warmth—and something hot surged in his blood, sudden and ungovernable.
Without a word, he swung down from the saddle.
“William, William!” Margaret cried. “Do you know about Thomas Becket, the archbishop of Canterbury? Imagine me as a knight—I would have waited to hear the king’s mind, instead of storming off to do his bidding.”
William’s smile was tight. “When you are a soldier, you wait for official orders. You do not act on your commander’s moods.”
Margaret nodded wisely at this, then spoiled her gravity with a great yawn, rubbing at her eyes.
William stiffened. “How long have you been walking? A lady should not be left to tramp until she drops.”
“Not so very long,” Jane began, but he cut her off with a dismissive wave.
“You should take better care of your charge, Miss Ansley—no matter how preoccupied you are with entertaining my friend.”
Beaufort laughed. “I assure you, Miss Ansley has not neglected her duties. She has been teaching the child the whole way—and in a manner far livelier than any I knew. I was half bored out of my mind with history, until now.”
William did not seem convinced. “Margaret,” he said, his tone brisk. “Up with you.” He lifted her onto the bay’s back with practiced ease.
She gave a delighted shriek. “Oh, William! Now I am one of the knights!”
“And you, Miss Ansley,” he said, turning abruptly to Jane.
She blinked. “My lord?”
“You will ride also. Margaret may fall without someone to steady her. She’s used to her pony, not a stallion.”
Her eyes widened. “But—I do not ride.”
“You need not guide him. Only sit. Hold fast to her.” He gripped her waist, trembling where he touched her. He lifted her lightly onto the horse behind Margaret. She caught her breath, clutching the child as the animal shifted.
“There,” William said shortly. “Keep her steady.”
He took the reins and began to walk, silent, his shoulders tight. Margaret chattered gaily above, demanding more of the knights’ story. Jane’s heart still raced, her cheeks hot with the suddenness of it all.
Beaufort followed at an easy pace, smiling to himself. To him, it looked nothing but brotherly devotion: William leading his sister and her governess with protective care. He could not guess at the turmoil coiled behind William’s silence.
The moment they reached the house, William gave no words of parting.
Once inside, he left them without so much as a backward glance.
He did not stop until he reached the solitude of his chambers.
There, behind closed doors, with no one left to witness the storm that churned inside him, he braced both hands against the mantel and bowed his head.
A wild, unreasonable urge consumed him—to drag Jane away, lock her from every eye but his own, hoard her laughter, her softness, her fire.
The force of it staggered him. Illogical. Shameful. He had never felt its like. The bile in his throat, the trembling in his limbs—what in God’s name was this?
And then he knew. Jealousy.
The word landed like a cannon shot, leaving him raw and shaken. He had never known it before, not in all his years. And now it sickened him, turning his stomach.