will admit.”
“Miracles are possible,” Marguerite said, “so the priests tell us. We have only to believe. You are protected, dear Isabel, until a husband is chosen who can love you with all his heart.”
“Yes, of course,” Isabel said, swooping upon her younger sister to give her a swift hug in passing. Marguerite had wanted to be a nun as a girl, had almost become a novice during their time spent being schooled at the convent near Graydon Hall. She had walked the long stone corridors with her hair tucked into a wimple and a breviary in her hand, rather like the king’s mother, Lady Margaret.
The urge did not survive her first infatuation, which happened to be with a French man-at-arms who served their stepbrother. It had been a virulent attachment, but was cut short when she discovered he had bad breath caused by a rotted tooth. She was still quiet, pious and pessimistic, unless the subject under discussion had to do with men. She could be irreverent enough then, though inclined to credit any male in knight’s clanking armor with sterling and noble qualities.
The three of them—Isabel, Cate and Marguerite—were very alike in appearance, all possessed of quantities of golden-brown hair, a little lighter in Cate’s case, a little darker in Marguerite’s. Cate was taller by an inch or so than Isabel, and Marguerite that much shorter. Where Isabel’s eyes gleamed with varying shades of green, however, Cate’s were the rich blue of an autumn sky and Marguerite’s as brown and sparkling as good English ale. Their features were regular, though Cate’s eyes had something of an impish cat’s tilt to them, and Marguerite had dark, slashing brows that could turn her slightest frown into a scowl.
Though Isabel and Cate were slender of form, Marguerite had not quite lost her childhood roundness. They could all still fit into the upright armor chest at Graydon, however, their secret hiding place from the wrath of their stepfather when they were children. They knew this because it had sometimes been necessary to avoid their stepbrother’s rages, as well. Treated as annoying dependents in spite of the rich inheritance of lands and keeps received from their true father, held as less important by far than Graydon’s hounds or hunting hawks, they had banded together from childhood for protection and support. Isabel’s wedding journey had been the first time in their lives that they had been apart for more than a few hours.
Their days had been spent in isolation at Graydon Hall and its environs. That was until Henry VII came to the throne. The king had soon sent to command their presence at court, in company with dozens more like them. The royal treasury had been depleted by war and swift means were required to fill it. More, Henry had need of lands and titles to assure the loyalty of those around him. Naming the unmarried women and widows throughout the kingdom as his wards was an ideal solution. He could take possession of the income from their estates, arrange suitable marriages for payment of a reasonable bride price or, at his discretion, accept a handsome recompense to allow them to avoid matrimony.
Isabel had not been given the last choice. She could only suppose it was because she, with her portion of her father’s wealth, was Henry’s idea of an appropriate prize for his companion in arms.
Who he might consider deserving of Cate’s and Marguerite’s dowries and their hands was still in doubt. They awaited his decision while putting their trust in the curse.
“Graydon returned with you?” Cate asked, continuing at Isabel’s nod. “He must be laughing up his sleeve at the turn of events.”
“As you say. He was quite blithe on the return journey. I heard him humming as he rode.”
“Perhaps he will speak to the king,” Marguerite said, “saying we are too dangerous to be given in wedlock.”
Their stepbrother, having grown up thinking of the vast estates inherited by Isabel and her sisters as his own fiefdom, had been enraged at the idea of losing control of it. He had stormed up and down Graydon Hall, cursing the laws of consanguinity, which prevented him from marrying one of them to preserve at least a portion of it—as his stepsisters, marriage between them was forbidden by the church as surely as if they had been blood sisters. Rather than remain at Graydon while the three of them disported themselves at court, he had journeyed with them to better keep them under his thumb. As the weeks and months passed, however, he seemed to grow accustomed to the idea that they would marry. He was even heard to say that giving up his wardship was a gesture of loyalty to the crown which would redound to his benefit. Falling in with a handful of other malcontents, he spent his time gaming and hunting, drinking and wenching. Isabel could only be glad that he was not expending his energy on more dangerous pastimes, such as plotting sedition.
“Always expecting a way out of dire straits,” she teased with a bright look for her younger sister as she lifted her hair and ran a cool cloth over the back of her neck. “You would never agree, I suppose, that we may bend circumstances to our own desires?”
“As to that, you’ve managed it for us often enough, dear Isabel. Take the way you made Graydon believe it his idea that we should be taught by the nuns, a most marvelous escape.” Marguerite caught the edge of her veil, chewing on a corner in a habit from childhood. “But was this the same? I mean, was it also a marvelous escape?”
“Yes, how did this Braesford strike you as a husband?” Cate demanded. “What was he like?”
“Were you glad or sorry to be whisked away before the wedding?” Marguerite added.
“We demand to know all!”
Isabel looked from one sister to the other, trying to decide how to answer. It seemed important, for some reason, to be fair.
“He is an interesting man, and a strong one,” she said finally. “It isn’t difficult to see how Henry came to reward him for his service to the crown.” She turned away, rummaging for a clean shift in her trunk, which had been set at the foot of the bed.
“That’s all very well, but what did he look like?” Marguerite asked with some asperity. “Was he handsome? Did he live up to the description given you before you left? Was he the image of knighthood?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“No, but surely you can find more to say than that he’s strong and deserving!” Cate protested.
Isabel made no answer as her serving woman swept into the room at that moment, bringing with her a gown of gold velvet that she had taken to the kitchens to steam away its wrinkles. Gwynne, who had looked after them since they were children, as she had looked after their mother before she died, was greeted with nearly as many hugs and exclamations as Isabel had been given. When things had quieted again, and Gwynne was lacing up the back of the gold velvet over Isabel’s clean linen shift, Cate gave the serving woman a saucy look. “Saw you this bridegroom of our sister’s, dear Gwynne?”
“Aye, that I did.” The woman tugged the laces tighter, so Isabel inhaled with a gasp.
“And what did you think of him?”
“’Tisn’t my place to think.”
“But truly, you must have noticed something about him.”
“A fine, braw gentleman. Big.”
“Big?” Cate turned a gleaming gaze on Isabel.
“Welladay, then,” she said, rolling her eyes in mock annoyance. “He is tall and well made, powerful as a man must be who has survived tournaments and battles. He’s actually well-spoken, as befits a companion of Henry’s years in Brittany. I should warn you that he speaks
