Moments later, they were dismissed. Through lowered lashes, as she backed from the royal presence, she spared a glance for the gifts. Their wrappings appeared to be of silk and the contents soft. The king often presented his dependents and favorites with clothing at Christmas or for weddings, christenings and the like. This was, she felt certain, the nature of their gifts.
Nor was she wrong.
When she had returned to her chamber, and her portion of the king’s gift was delivered, Isabel hesitated to open it. She had ordered a gown of sanguine-red silk made for her wedding, had transported it northward and back again. This replacement had the feel of a bribe, at least to her mind. To accept it seemed the final submission to her fate. Yet refusing it would be a rather childish bit of defiance. Who would be harmed by it except herself? With stiff fingers, she slipped free the cord that held the wrappings.
Inside was a sumptuous silken costume in Henry’s colors of green and white. The gown was beautifully embroidered in a pattern of bracken fronds and gold vines on a white silk ground, with dewdrops among them made of pearls. Its sleeves, attached by ties at the shoulders, were also embroidered and so wide and full at the wrists that they draped nearly to the floor. Included was a girdle for her hipline that was worked with gold and set with a cluster of emeralds, also a fillet of woven gold wire to hold back her hair, which would be left uncovered on this one occasion of her life.
It was necessary to try the new gown and girdle, so she and Gwynne might make any necessary alterations. None were required, so Gwynne insisted, though Isabel could hardly tell from her reflection in the pie-size round of polished steel held by the serving woman.
“’Tis a marvel of a gown, fit for a princess, milady. I’ve never seen silk as soft or as fine,” Gwynne said, spreading the sleeves so they draped just so, then standing back with her head cocked to one side to view the affect. “The king did well by ye, he did.”
“Yes. I wonder why.”
“Ye be his ward, and it’s his duty to dress you for your wedding. Should there be aught else?”
“There usually is, I fear.”
“You think it a reward? But for what, think you? Unless…”
“The ordeal of marrying beneath me, no doubt.”
“Yet yon knight can hold his own with any.”
This was true, something that caused an odd, heated heaviness beneath the gold mesh of her girdle when she thought of it. He had stood tall and unbowed during their audience with Henry, showing proper respect but no subservience. She had seen nobles of rank display far less dignity in the face of kingly frowns.
Such thoughts were far from comfortable. Deliberately, she said, “But he is only a knight.”
Gwynne lifted a brow. “You will receive a third of Braesford as your dower right. What else is needed?”
“You know very well.”
“An earl or a duke as husband, ’stead of Braesford? And I suppose ye’d take a hobbling old rake with title attached, instead of yon fine piece of manhood? Indeed, milady, I say ’twould be a sorry bargain.”
Isabel gave her a jaundiced look. “You have ever had an eye for a nice pair of shoulders. There is far more to a man.”
“So you noticed his shoulders, did ye? And his legs, too, I’ll be bound—strong as oaks they be. As for what he’s got between them…”
“That isn’t what I meant!”
“But you won’t claim ’tis nay important.”
No, she could not say that, though she tried not to think overmuch about that part of Rand, or of what would happen on their wedding night. She was less than successful. In truth, she had tossed and turned in her litter after he left her, trying to forget the strength of his hands, his arms, the way he seemed to fill the small, swaying space they had shared. Yes, and the brief intimation of what it might be like to feel his weight upon her, his power inside her.
His hands had been gentle as he cradled her injured finger at Braesford, before he had ruthlessly pulled the broken bone ends back into place so they might set properly. Would he be the same behind the curtains of their marriage bed, gentle at first but merciless as he possessed her?
With a quick shake of her head to dislodge the disturbing thoughts and the light-headed feeling that came with them, she said, “The richness may also indicate the value of the alliance to Henry.”
“What way would that be?” Gwynne inquired with a frown.
“Because of the signal service Braesford performed for him some weeks ago, one that went awry.” She went on to explain in full, having no compunction about discussing the matter with Gwynne. The woman had done her best to protect both the girls and their mother during her second marriage, lying for them, making excuses, bringing them food and drink when they were shut away as punishment for some error. She had despised the Earl of Graydon and blamed him for their mother’s death, had rejoiced when he died. She was no fonder of his son and heir, their stepbrother.
“Aye,” Gwynne said with a wise nod. “I heard some such in the servants’ hall at Braesford. All there knew the lady had been the king’s mistress, knew men came and took her away.”
“And the baby?” Isabel asked sharply.
“The lady carried a bundle when she went. At least, so ’twas said after the charge of infant murder was spouted off in the great hall that night. Some swore they’d seen the babe, though no one went in and out the lady’s chamber except the maid she’d brought with her.”
Was this something the king should know? Isabel wondered if he would listen, or if, having such a network of spies in various parts of the realm, he knew it already.
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