Chapter 13 #2
Geoffrey returned to Thames twelve nights later under circumstances the Baron described as “discreet,” though this appeared to involve six armed riders, two exhausted horses, and Father William pretending not to recognize anyone after midnight.
I heard the gate horn from the western tower and arrived in the lower hall still fastening one sleeve of my gown.
Geoffrey was standing beside the hearth when I entered, rain-dark cloak thrown back from his shoulders while one of the grooms carried in saddlebags behind him. He looked tired again, worn at the edges in the way all of them were becoming now.
His gaze found me immediately. And softened immediately afterward.
“Lady Harper of Thames,” he said.
“You’re late.” I grinned at him.
“I was detained by politics.”
“That sounds contagious.”
“It is. I recommend avoiding noblemen entirely.”
“That advice feels personally inconvenient.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
The Baron, who had been reviewing correspondence at the table nearby, looked up briefly. “You may woo Harper after you explain why three men nearly killed each other over grain tariffs in Hertfordshire.”
I found Geoffrey later in the study sorting through correspondence beside the fire. Candles burned low across the table. Maps, seals, ribbons, and folded reports covered nearly every surface except the small space he had apparently cleared for me beside his elbow.
“You’re working,” I said.
“My father believes sleep encourages weakness.”
“A fascinating theory.”
“He’s hoping to publish a pamphlet.”
I sat down beside him and immediately reached for the nearest parchment before ink dripped across the cuff of my sleeve.
Geoffrey caught my wrist lightly.
“A moment.”
His hand disappeared briefly into one of the saddlebags beside the chair.
Then he placed a small object carefully atop the correspondence between us.
Gloves. Soft brown leather lined at the wrists with darker wool.
I blinked at them.
“Your sleeves keep staining,” Geoffrey said.
“You bought me gloves because I spill ink?”
“I bought you gloves because you fret over ruining your gowns.”
I picked one up. The leather was softer than anything I had worn since arriving in the thirteenth century.
“You noticed.”
Geoffrey looked briefly confused by the question.
“Of course I noticed.”
That shouldn’t have affected me as much as it did.
* * *
Three nights later rain closed around Thames so heavily the lower courtyard vanished entirely beneath mist.
The Baron summoned both Geoffrey and me to the study after supper. The long campaign table had disappeared beneath maps.
Northampton.
Supply routes through the Midlands.
Small weighted stones marked troop positions while ribbons in different colors tracked alliances currently shifting faster than the weather.
I stood beside Geoffrey at the edge of the table studying the latest reports while the Baron read aloud from a dispatch near candlelight.
“The northern companies are pulling west,” Geoffrey said.
“No,” I answered automatically. “They only want the Crown to think they are.”
Both men looked at me.
I reached across the map before second-guessing myself and touched the road near Leicester.
“If they truly intended withdrawal, they would abandon the river crossing here.” My finger moved farther south. “Instead they reinforced it.”
The Baron went still.
Geoffrey watched me with that same unnerving focus he brought to strategy discussions and battlefield reports.
“The supply caravans,” Geoffrey said slowly.
“They’re bait,” I answered. “Or protection for something larger moving behind them.”
The Baron looked back down at the reports.
“Well,” he said dryly, “it appears I’ve accidentally acquired a war council.”
I smiled faintly.
Geoffrey didn’t, because he was still looking at me.
The Baron gathered several dispatches together with deliberate slowness.
“I require wine,” he announced finally.
“You already have wine,” Geoffrey said.
“I require different wine.”
And with that he walked out of the study carrying two parchments.
Silence settled behind him. Rain tapped softly against the windows. Candles flickered gold across the maps between us.
I became aware, suddenly and catastrophically, that Geoffrey and I were standing very close together. His hand rested near mine atop the campaign table. Neither of us moved away.
“You see things other people miss,” Geoffrey said quietly.
I looked down at the maps.
“I keep waiting for history to snap back into place.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
The question lingered softly between us.
My fingers brushed accidentally against his while reaching for one of the weighted markers.
Neither of us pulled away. The contact lasted perhaps three seconds or possibly an entire century.
Then Geoffrey turned his hand slightly beneath mine.
“Harper,” he said quietly.
A knock sounded abruptly at the study door. We both jumped apart like deeply guilty academics caught committing unauthorized feelings.
Father William leaned inside holding a candle.
“The Baron says if either of you intends to reorganize England tonight, you should first eat something.”
Geoffrey closed his eyes briefly.
I laughed before I could stop myself.
* * *
He left again before dawn. I heard the horses in the lower yard while the castle still slept beneath rain and darkness. Hooves against wet stone. Quiet voices. Leather creaking softly in the cold.
I stood at the narrow window of my chamber wrapped in a blanket and watched torchlight move below through the mist.
The rhythm of it was becoming familiar now. Geoffrey arriving at Thames exhausted and rain-soaked from negotiations, strategy meetings, secret alliances, and arguments conducted in drafty halls across England. Then leaving again before the household had properly adjusted to his presence.
The war had begun teaching all of us the same lesson. Love people quickly. Nothing stayed long.
One rider crossed the courtyard below and looked up toward the tower windows as though he already knew where to find me.
Even at this distance I recognized him immediately as he lifted one gloved hand briefly.
Not a dramatic farewell or a declaration, but an acknowledgment.
I am here.
I must leave.
I will come back if I can.
Something tightened painfully beneath my ribs. I raised my own hand against the cold glass.
Then he turned his horse toward the gatehouse, disappearing into the grey before sunrise swallowed the last torchlight whole.
By September the household had settled into a strange new rhythm.
War. Rain. Couriers. Geoffrey returning unexpectedly at odd hours with mud on his boots and politics clinging to him like smoke. The Baron pretending not to notice how quickly I looked up whenever riders entered the yard.
And letters.
Always letters.
* * *
Geoffrey’s third letter arrived on the first day of September.
I knew before breaking the seal the news would be bad. When I did, I saw that the handwriting was tighter than usual. Controlled.
I sat beside the window looking out at the bailey below and unfolded the parchment.
27 August, near Marlborough
Harper,
The court has begun arresting people.
Two men I shared supper with last week were taken during the night and have not returned. Officially this concerns Rome’s annulment of the charter. Unofficially it concerns the King deciding fear is now more useful than negotiation.
I am not arrested.
I write that first because you would otherwise spend the next page imagining dramatic nonsense.
But the arrests will continue. My father’s loyalties are visibly divided, and I have spent too much time moving between factions to appear entirely trustworthy to either side.
One of the King’s lieutenants advised me privately to leave court soon on a plausible errand. I am currently inventing the errand.
Tell my father. He will know how to arrange my departure so it appears strategic rather than frightened.
The chapel with the saint and the fish has been closed by order of the Crown. Several others as well. I do not know why.
I dislike the feeling of it, and while I am not afraid for myself, I am afraid I will not see you for some time.
Be careful with my father when he receives this news. He will attempt to look unbothered and become unbearable instead.
Yours,
Geoffrey
I read the letter twice.
Then carried it directly to the study. The Baron sat at his desk surrounded by correspondence and candlelight, spectacles low on his nose. He held out one hand for the parchment before I even spoke.
He had become very good at reading my face. That was rather unfortunate, because I had become very bad at hiding anything from him.
He read silently. When he finished, he kept his hand flat against the page for a long moment, as though holding it steady against a wind only he could feel.
“He’ll be all right,” the Baron said.
“You don’t know that.”
“No.” He folded the letter carefully. “But it is what one says until one knows otherwise.”
Something tightened painfully in my throat. “Is that what you told your wife when Aldwin first rode to war?”
The question escaped before I could stop it.
The Baron looked up sharply.
I winced immediately. “I’m sorry.”
“For asking?”
“For invoking her.”
His expression softened unexpectedly.
“No.” He looked back down at Geoffrey’s letter. “Eleanor would have liked you.”