the plain, ugly truth belied her own instincts, and if she wanted to make it to the Shrine of Saint Anne in good order she needed to curb her random tongue.
Leaving the prison of her father’s house had lured her into thinking she had more freedom than in fact she truly had. She would be much better off reassuming the mantle of a faintly witless woman.
“Yes, my lord,” she said in the slightly breathless voice she used with her father. “And you’ll be truly shriven, by our Lady, and go on to live a life of peace and justice.”
He was the one who snorted with laughter. “You think so?”
“But how else could it be, my lord? My father has told me so, and a good daughter knows the wisdom of her parents.”
She wasn’t expecting him to put his hands on her. He transferred the reins to one hand and took her chin in the other, turning her face up to his. It was too dark to see him, too dark for him to see the banked anger in her dulcet gaze. “And you’re such a good daughter, Lady Elizabeth, are you not?” he said lightly. “A fine housekeeper, a dutiful child, with a gift for herbs and healing. You’ll fit well into a convent, serving our Lady and keeping a still tongue in your head.”
“A still tongue in my head?” she echoed nervously, still looking up at him.
“You’re aware that Saint Anne’s is a silent order? Devoted to meditation? Most days you won’t be allowed to speak a word that isn’t in Latin. You’d best get all your arguments out ahead of time.”
She turned her head away from him, and he dropped his hand. In truth, the feel of his long fingers on her stubborn jaw had been almost as unnerving as the information he’d imparted. An order of silence? Where her only conversation would be the words of holy orders? She’d go mad.
And trust Baron Osbert not to have apprised her of that fact. If he had even a particle of wit she’d suspect he’d done it on purpose, but her father hadn’t the brains for such treachery. Besides, she kept her conversation to a minimum in his presence—he wouldn’t think silence would be a particular burden. He tended to think all tongues should be stilled except his own.
It would have served him right if she’d poisoned him before she left. A miscalculation in his calming draft could do wonders.
She wouldn’t have done it, of course. No matter how great the temptation, her gift with herbs and remedies was only to be used for good, not evil. Tampering with her father’s carnal desires had saved the servant women, though unlikely as it was, some didn’t appear to want to be saved. Tampering with his life would be unforgivable, and no journey of penance would wipe the stain from her soul.
She would deal with life as it happened. She had every intention of becoming abbess of the small order in record time—with her wit, learning and fierce determination she had little doubt she could do almost anything she wanted. She would find a way to relax the strict rules of the order. Or start talking to herself in her cell.
“I have no arguments, my lord William,” she murmured in her best, placate-her-father voice.
He muttered something under his breath, and she almost thought he said “like hell,” but she must have misheard. The wind had picked up, the warm spring day was growing cooler, and the ramparts of the small castle loomed ahead, looking ominously familiar.
It couldn’t be. Thomas of Wakebryght’s home was in the opposite direction of Saint Anne’s Shrine. They would have had to spend the day traveling away from their destination in order to reach it, a detour that would make no sense.
No, many castles looked the same, built as they were to keep marauders at bay. And the shadows were growing long, making things hard to see. She’d only been at Wakebryght once in her life, on her betrothal day. The day her humiliation had been complete, and she’d sworn she’d never return.
“You might know this place,” the prince continued, unmindful of the thoughts racing through her brain. “It belongs to a neighbor of your father’s. Wakebryght Castle.”
“No!” She couldn’t help it, the word came out sharp and definite.
The man behind her seemed unfazed. “No?” he echoed. “I assure you, it’s most definitely yes.”
“Wakebryght Castle lies in the opposite direction of Saint Anne’s Shrine.”
“So it does. A little subterfuge for those watching who might wish to cause harm to the king’s beloved son.” There was a strange note in his voice. “No one will suspect us of doubling back. There’s no need to fuss, Lady Elizabeth. One day more or less won’t make a difference when the whole of your life stretches ahead of you, devoted to God and good works. And silence.”
“I won’t go.”
He seemed unfazed by her flat refusal. “I did rather doubt your vocation, but it’s not for me to question a father’s judgment. I suspect you’ll cause the good abbess of Saint Anne more trouble than you’re worth.”
“I mean I won’t go to Wakebryght,” she said flatly. “I’d rather die.”
“My dear Lady Elizabeth, neither choice is yours. We’re already here.”
They were at the front gate, and she could see the welcoming committee awaiting them. Including Thomas of Wakebryght’s harridan of a mother, Lady Isobel. Her reaction was instinctive, unwise and immediate. She tried to jump off the horse.
She’d taken the prince unawares, but he was still too quick for her. One moment she’d seen the ground looming up from a great distance, in the next she was pulled back against his hard chest, clamped there by strong arms, so tightly she could barely breathe. “Not wise, my lady,” he murmured in her ear. “Suicide is a mortal sin. Not to mention an overreaction. If you dislike your host so much you needn’t worry. His wife was entering childbirth when we left yesterday—most likely he’ll either be at her side or celebrating his new heir. The man is thoroughly besotted.”
She knew that, far too well. “Please don’t make me go,” she whispered. “I’d rather sleep in the forest. You don’t even need to leave anyone with me to guard me—as you well know I’m not the kind of woman to tempt men into dangerous behavior.”
She didn’t understand his sudden laugh. “You’ll sleep beneath Thomas of Wakebryght’s roof, my lady. And if you give me any more arguments I’ll have you tied to my bed.”
Not a pleasant proposition. Though if it made Thomas think she’d become the treacherous prince’s leman, then he might wonder at his own rejection.
No, he wouldn’t. As children they’d played together, betrothed in the cradle, good friends as they’d tumbled in the grass. But at age fourteen, when she’d been brought to marry him, he’d looked up into her green eyes as she towered over him and simply, flatly refused.
The bride gifts were returned. As was the bride, who traveled back to Bredon Castle in an uncomfortable cart, veiled to hide her shame, while Thomas of Wakebryght married his tiny, buxom, flaxen-haired cousin Margery.
And now she was back. “I’d rather be fed to dragons,” she said under her breath.
“Unfortunately there are none around. What have you got against Thomas of Wakebryght? Did he break your heart?”
She
