missed a word spoken within his hearing by anyone. He heard every syllable, every nuance of meaning, then evaluated, drew his conclusions and acted on them according to his and England’s needs. That meant Edward of Windsor had a reason for wedding one of his knights to this woman. A purpose greater than the need to keep one knight content.
There would be written orders. Of that, Richard had no doubt. He would follow them, of course. Had he not sworn? This sacrifice ill suited him, this taking of a wife when the thought was so hateful to him, but he would not protest to the king. Knowing Edward, it would accomplish nothing save to raise that Plantagenet temper. Any man with any sanity avoided that at all costs.
In fact, Edward had likely set this task with an eye to a twofold result. Fernstowe, a favored keep of Edward’s, would gain a watchdog, and the king would see whether he had the unquestioning obedience of the man set to the task. This, then, was a test in addition to a mission.
“Ah, damn you, Ned! How could you doubt me? Why would you?” Richard rasped, slamming a fist against the mattress.
That cursed female had put the idea in the king’s head. And Edward did hold soft feelings for the married state. He loved his queen—and rightly so—but it gave him the idea all the souls in Christendom should march through life in pairs. Ha!
Lying here, useless and groaning, would gain him no answers. But at the moment, he knew he could not drag himself down to Fernstowe’s hall, naked as the day he first drew breath, and demand an accounting from his new wife.
He was trapped.
Sara dressed with care the next morn. She drew her second finest gown and chemise from her clothing chest and shook out the creases. The pale saffron and emerald-green suited her coloring. Father had always liked her in this one.
As she donned it, working her arms into the fitted sleeves, the smooth samite felt light and smooth floating against her bare skin. She executed a whirl as though dancing, and smiled as the billowing fabric settled around her body. ’Twas a childlike thing to do, but Sara had learned long ago to take small pleasures wherever she could find them.
The soft woolen overgown warmed her, calmed her as it smoothed over the folds of the silk. She fastened a belt of golden cord round her hips using a clasp set with pretty stones. The long tasseled ends of the cord swung nicely against her knees when she walked.
Will he like it? Sara wondered as she brushed out the length of her dark mane and caught it up in a twist. The pins carved of bone slid out of her grasp and she had to begin again. Once she had tamed her unruly hair, draping it on the sides to try to cover her scar, she placed a transparent veil of silk over the crown of her head and secured it with a thin circlet.
Hesitantly she picked up the polished silver mirror that had once belonged to her mother. For a moment she studied her reflection, trying to examine her features without noting the scar. “No use,” she admitted, making a wry face at herself. She could see naught but the long, thin line from brow to chin, too far from her hairline to cover completely with a wave.
With a sharp huff of resignation, she put the mirror away. He’d already seen the scar anyway. Vanity would be her undoing. She must accept herself the way she was and see to it that her husband did the same. She’d not disguise her faults, not the scar, not her height by stooping or bending her knees, or her willfulness. That last, he’d probably like least of all. But he might as well adjust to the whole of her at once.
Sara went to her writing table and picked up her marriage documents, along with the missive King Edward had left for her husband. With a lift of her chin and a squaring of her shoulders, she went to present herself to the man she had chosen to share her life.
“Will he nill he,” she repeated the king’s words, and stretched her mouth into a confident smile of greeting.
He was sitting up in bed looping the ties of a loose sark when she entered. Either Eustiss or Darcy had returned his clothing to him, and he was almost fully dressed.
At first glance, Sara knew he did not recognize her. That accounted for the pleasant smile. It faltered at once. “Oh, it’s you,” he muttered, resuming his task of dressing.
“You should not be up and about yet, sir,” she admonished, noting the sweat on his brow and the paleness of his face.
“I am well enough,” he replied. “I was about to come and seek you out. There are matters we must discuss.”
“No argument there. But I believe I have what you would have sought,” she said. Stepping closer, she held out the folded parchments. “Our marriage lines and a letter from the king.”
He snatched them from her hand, pushed himself back upon the bed and unfolded the one on top. She watched him scan the bold writing long enough to read the signatures and then toss it aside. The sealed packet took more time.
When he had finished reading that one, he sighed and lay back against the pillows, not resigned, but fuming.
Sara felt she must say something to break the ominous silence. “I regret you are not pleased.”
His eyes cut to her and then through her, chilling her to the marrow. “Do you?”
She lowered her head submissively. Now was no time to assert herself with a pithy reply. He looked dangerous. Not surprising, but disappointing all the same. Reason might not work today.
For the present, however, she could remind him of all he had gained by this match. “The king offered me a choice of husbands, you see. This was my reward for saving your life. I asked myself why would any landless knight not welcome rich properties, more coin in his coffers, a strong woman to bear his children?”
He spoke through gritted teeth. “I am not landless, nor do I need your wealth. And I already have children.”
“Oh, but that’s wonderful, sir! Will you bring them here? I adore—”
“Spare me that tripe,” he snapped. “I’ve seen how you noble women adore! My progeny can do without that quite well, thank you!”
Sara moved to the bed and laid a hand over his. He snatched it away, scattering the papers across the coverlet. “Richard? I may call you so, may I not? I am sincere in this, believe me,” she continued without awaiting an answer. “I love little ones, I do. Nothing would please me more than to have you send for them. I do recall the king saying you were father to a fine son. You have more than one child, then?”
Richard grunted, not deigning to look at her.
“How many and how old are they?” she asked, hoping to supplant his ire with fatherly pride. “Come, do tell me!”
“A son of seven years,” he said, nearly spitting the words. Then he turned his gaze on her. “And a daughter of eight. A bastard. How will you adore that one, madam?”
Sara stood back, folding her hands in front of her and tilting her head to one side. Her husband thought to shock her, mayhap even to humiliate her by demanding she take in his natural child. Foolish man. A real smile crept across her face. “I shall gladly be mother to both if you will allow it.”
His expression changed to one of patent disbelief. Then he changed the subject entirely. “The king wishes me to settle the Scots matter hereabouts as soon as I am well. That was his intent in allowing you this marriage to me. So much for your fine reward.”
If
