“I would not disturb such lively argument,” William said, more grim than the lightness of his words suggested, pulling a thick volume from the shelf. He opened it on the table with studied calm.
Beaufort glanced at him, a little perplexed. “My dear Miss Ansley, I think I shall not dare debate you further. The afternoon is fair. Will you ride with me, William?”
“I cannot,” William said, looking up from his tome. “My father has asked me to look up a legal point—he wishes to raise it in the Lords and needs proper authority to support it. I promised I would find the passage.”
“Ah,” Beaufort said, wholly untroubled. “Then I’ll leave you to your duty. Still, if you grow weary of dusty tomes, join me.”
“I cannot spare the time.” William did not look up.
Beaufort inclined his head, then gave Jane a courteous bow before taking his leave. His tread was unhurried, relaxed, as though nothing in the world were amiss.
The door closed. Silence stretched. Jane glanced toward William, still bent over the open volume, though he had not read a line.
She began gently, “May I—”
But he was already moving. In two strides he reached her, his hands closing on her shoulders. His mouth came down hard, urgent and possessive, stealing her breath. For a moment she clung to him, stunned by the force of it, the sudden fire breaking through the serenity of the library.
Then as abruptly as it began, he tore himself away. His chest heaved, his jaw tight, but he gave no word of explanation.
“William—” she managed, shaken. “What—?”
He turned, already striding for the door.
“What of your father’s legal argument?” she called after him, bewildered.
But he was gone, leaving her standing amid the scent of vellum and smoke, her lips parted, her heart racing, unable to fathom what had come over him.
* * *
The woods were hushed save for the crunch of leaves underfoot and Margaret’s quick, eager voice. Jane walked between the child and Viscount Beaufort, a small book in her grasp, her tone animated as she spun a tale.
“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.”
