‘My sister does me a disservice, my lady. I am not at her beck and call. Neither am I under orders from the newly restored King of Scotland.’ His smile touched my heart as he took my hand and raised it formally to his lips. They were warm and dry against my skin and I shivered at their light brush as Edmund Beaufort continued, smoothly courteous, holding my gaze with his. ‘I am come to pay my respects to the Young King. And, of course, to his lady mother.’
He hesitated as if he was lacking in assurance, but I knew he was not. None of the Beauforts lacked assurance. ‘If my lady will receive me here as a guest, in her household, as the King’s cousin?’
The question made my heart flutter. How strange that he should ask it, and in so personal a manner. Why would I not receive him? The strange intensity of him undermined my habitual polite response, and I found myself searching for a reply, caught up in his stare.
His family history was not unknown to me, redolent as it was with past scandals. The Beaufort bloodline was descended from John of Lancaster and his mistress of many years Katherine Swynford. A scandalous, illegitimate line, of course, but on the marriage of the infamous pair the children had been subsequently legitimised and had married into the aristocratic families of the realm. Now, formidably ambitious, precociously gifted and intelligent as well as blood related to the King, they were one of the foremost families in the land.
And this was Edmund Beaufort, son of the Earl of Somerset and nephew of Bishop Henry, and of course Joan’s brother. And second cousin to my son. A young man from a family skilled in warfare and politics, obviously destined for great things, as were all his family, although he had been too young to fight in the recent wars in France at Henry’s side.
How old was he? I considered the years behind the supreme confidence, beneath the fluid line of muscle given attention by his fashionable tunic with its luxuriant sleeves and jewelled clasps. Less than twenty years old, I thought. Younger than I. But he had grown up since I had last seen him, a youth under Bishop Henry’s care, when I had first come to England. Taller and broader, he would make a fine soldier now that he was grown into his strength.
‘My lady?’
I had been staring at him. ‘You are welcome,’ I managed as he bowed low again over my hand, brushing my fingers once more in chivalrous salute. And he did not release his clasp until I tugged my hand away, and then he did so with a rueful smile.
‘Forgive me, my lady. I am sorely blinded by your beauty. As is every man here.’
It took my breath. I could only stare at him, as he stared back at me. Men did not flirt so openly with the Queen Dowager. Men did not flirt at all.
James, still caught up in his own woes and oblivious to any undercurrents, continued to expound. ‘I still thought they would never release me, even with the document and the pen to hand.’
‘Of course they would.’ Edmund, abandoning me with a charming smile much older than his years, punched him on the arm. ‘Have sense, man. Think about it. What will your return to Scotland bring of benefit to England? Peace between the two countries. Particularly if you decide you were well treated here.’
James gave a shout of laughter. ‘So that’s why the Exchequer has agreed to provide me with a tunic in cloth of gold for my wedding.’
‘Of course. And in grateful thanks for your cloth of gold you will do exactly what England demands of you. You will withdraw all Scottish aid to French armies, and you will stop any plundering along the border between our two countries.’
I was impressed. How precocious he was, and how cynical, as were all the Beaufort clan. I could not look away as he stood, hands fisted on hips, outlining the future of English relations with Scotland. Edmund grinned, spreading his hands, long fingered and elegant. ‘The cloth of gold is the last payment England will have to make for you. You’ll be home in no time after the New Year. And we will send you off in good spirits, will we not, my lady?’ He had spun round. Again, before I could prepare for it, that red-brown gaze was devouring my face and I felt myself flushing almost as rosily as Joan.
‘What do you say, my lady?’ he whispered, as if it were some intimate invitation.
And all I could do was swallow the breath caught fast in my throat.
‘As for that, if you’ll have us,’ James interrupted, as he gestured to encompass his friends, ‘we’re in mind to stay here with you for Christmas and the New Year.’
‘And the possibility of spending it with your newly affianced wife…’ I managed to chide, pleased to have the attention drawn away from me.
‘… has nothing to do with it.’ But James’s hand sought Joan’s again.
‘And you, Lord Edmund? Do your family expect you?’ I held my breath, not quite knowing why. Or perhaps not willing to admit to it.
‘No, my lady. I am here at your disposal.’ His face was a miracle of deference.
