the pain behind her eyes. As if by magic the spots of jagged light disappeared to be replaced by a headache. Dull. Heavy. Constant.
But she could see. See Lachlan Kerr’s anger and the gritted teeth of his twenty men. See the pale faces of her cousins and the nervous demeanour of both the priest and her uncle.
And in that moment Grace knew that, unless she took charge of this farce, everyone in her family would be at risk. More than at risk. Death lurked easy when one disobeyed the commands of the king, and her uncle’s building rage worried her the most.
‘I am certain that G-God’s will would not be slighted.’
Lord, if the Laird of Kerr were to walk out now she doubted the aged priest’s superiors would be easy on him for making such a mistake and the token of this truce to secure a fragile peace would be trampled beneath the weight of error.
Her cousins. Her uncle. Grantley.
In danger.
There was only one thing to do.
‘I w-wish to be m-married, now.’
Judith burst into tears and knocked over her wine, the red blush of it staining the tablecloth, a wider and wider blot along the pristine fold of linen. A sign? A portent? Was history repeated in such a simple action? The weight of uncertainty in Ginny’s eyes deepened and the smooth cold gold of Malcolm Kerr’s ring bound the past with the present.
Fickle and faithless and laughing, the secret of his death lay in the room like a shout, like a screaming echo of unrightness, like a shroud of shame that had brought them all to this pass, this penance.
Father O’Brian trembled against the lintel of the door, his fingers clutching the cross at his neck whilst he uttered a prayer, the dull monotones reflecting the mood as her uncle turned an even deeper shade of red.
Her wedding hour.
Chaos.
Her dress hanging in the corner of her cupboard, shrouded in calico. Unworn.
The flowers she had imagined to fashion into a fragrant bouquet, unpicked.
And a would-be husband that looked at her in the manner of a man who did not care at all.
‘He will take my hand and stare into my eyes and a single tear will run down his handsome cheek as he tells me how much he loves me, adores me, cannot live without me, his finger softly tracing the smile on my face…’
Grace shook her head. How often had she told her cousins this story as she lay beside them in the hours before wakefulness became slumber, dream-time cameos where knights of honour and chivalry and faithfulness rode into Grantley demanding love. Her love, despite the itchy rash and cursed stutter. In these stories she had none of them. Even her hair was a less fiery shade of red.
Dreams?
Reality!
When Kerr dragged her into the space beside him, his hands were neither soft nor careful. When he demanded that the priest give the oath to bind them together, she heard hatred rather than love.
And when he gave her his answer two words kept repeating again and again in her head.
For ever. For ever. For ever.
A warm wash of horror flooded through her as, before God and her family as witnesses, she was married. For ever. Sealed in the eyes of the Lord and the law with an unbreakable and eternal promise.
When it was finished and her husband handed her a large goblet of wine, she drank it without taking breath and then helped herself to another, her more normal sense of optimism submerged under the heavy weight of duty.
Judith held her hand, hard clasped and shaking.
‘If he is anything like his brother, Grace…’
She did not let her finish. ‘He w-won’t be.’
‘You can tell?’
‘I can hope.’
‘We could be at Belridden in two days to get you if you needed to come home.’
‘I am married n-now, Judith. Under what law should I be able to leave my h-husband?’
They looked at each other in silence, the enormity of everything a dark shadow of truth in both their eyes.
‘This should not have been your cross to bear. It should have been mine. I am Ginny’s sister, after all; if anyone had to pay the price for Malcolm Kerr’s death, it should have been me.’
Grace looked at her new husband, their eyes meeting across the crowded room. He was as beautiful as she was plain, the pale blueness of his eyes catching her anew with the contrast of colour against his darkness of hair.
David’s knight. A man who had ruled the fields of battle from France to Scotland for a decade. She had heard the tales from various bards when they had come to Grantley with their songs and their stories. Sword, scabbard, mail and shield: Lachlan Kerr’s weapons of choice as he rode beneath the gold-and-red standard of the lion of Scotland, its border pierced by ten fleurs-de-lis.
And now her husband.
She turned his ring around the third finger on her left hand and the warmth of the metal made her smile.
A sign. Of hope? She wondered about her marriage night, about being close to such a man.
‘If you l-love me, Judith, you will promise to st-stay silent about everything, because if you do not then all of this will have been in vain.’
Judith did not look happy at all. ‘Perhaps if you told him about what he tried to do to Ginny…’
‘And ruin her r-reputation for ever?’
‘This is for ever too, Grace.’
‘I know, but I am twenty-six and Ginny is b-barely sixteen.’
‘She has not spoken since…’ Judith stopped and regrouped. ‘Perhaps she never will.’
‘T-ten months is only a l-little time. With c-care…’
A single tear traced its way down Judith’s cheek. ‘You were always the best and the bravest of us, Grace, and if Lachlan Kerr ever hurts you even a little…’
‘He won’t.’
‘You are certain?’
The pale stare of her husband caught her across the head of her cousin, beckoning her, arrogance written in every line of his face.
Grace tipped up the goblet she held and finished the draught within. This charade was for a reason and their marriage was final. There could be no going back on such a promise even had she wanted to.
‘I am c-certain,’ she returned before limping over to join him.
He barely acknowledged her as she came to stand beside him,
