and hasten his steps.
The silence that filled the chamber allowed him to hear the approach of a small number of people and he let out his breath as the portly priest and his clerk stumbled in through the doorway and blessed his way through the stunned mob that now awaited his word and deed. The cleric reached the dais just as Soren’s meagre stores of patience wore out. At least the horror did not show on his face when their gazes met, though he could see the narrowing of his eyes and the restraint the priest exerted on his reactions. All those hours on his knees in prayer and fasting had apparently taught the priest some measure of self-control. Soren crossed his arms over his chest and nodded at the pair as they climbed the few steps and approached him.
‘Tell her to ready herself for marriage,’ he growled to the priest with a nod at the wench. He needed to get this done before he changed his mind.
‘My lord …’ the priest began to stutter. ‘She is …’
‘I said to see to her now, Father.’
He watched as the priest started towards her and then stopped. After glancing between the two of them—his lord and his lord’s intended—Father Medwyn slowly turned from her and returned to stand before Soren.
‘My lord, she is blind,’ he whispered.
With malice aforethought, Soren exaggerated his motions and turned his good eye, his only eye, towards her. ‘Aye, Father, she is blinded.’ Narrowing his eye’s gaze on the defiant, hesitating priest, Soren waited for him to decide to defy or obey.
‘My lord, if you will allow,’ the priest petitioned, leaning closer to speak only to him. ‘This is a clear impediment to marriage. You can find another, mayhap?’
The priest did not realise the boon her blindness was, and of certain, he would never speak of it if he did, but Soren had in that instant of insight. Now, her blindness would cause her to live as his wife and breed him sons.
‘I need not her eyes for a true marriage, Father. I only have need of her womb to consummate the words spoken.’
Since everyone in the hall had stopped speaking at once, Soren heard his words echo into the air around them. He stood close enough to hear her gasp and see her body stiffen as the insult and sentence struck. In truth, he cared less for her than he did the last mount he had purchased, nay, earned, and had paid more attention to that horse’s physical qualities and potential. A wife would lie with him and give him children, sons who inherit that for which his flesh and blood had paid a steep price. And though it would pain him, the man once known as the ‘Beautiful Bastard’, Soren knew he would rather pay for comfort of the other sort when he needed it and keep it an honest exchange of coin for service rather than see the horror in a woman’s gaze.
In his wife’s eyes.
She cannot see me.
It was settled.
‘Bring her,’ he ordered and he waited for his word to be obeyed.
Though some of his men openly scowled, they did as they’d been told to and soon, with a man at each side, Durward’s daughter stood next to him as they faced the priest. She’d not spoken a word yet, but he could hear the sound of her shallow breathing as dead silence reigned once more. What she could not see, but her people could, was the soldier standing behind her with his sword drawn and aimed for the wench. Any disturbance, any outcry, they knew would be met with her death. He saw mutiny in some gazes, frank terror in others, but underlying it all was something more frightening to him in that moment—they loved their lady and would do anything, even acquiesce to him, in exchange for her safety.
He would later tell himself otherwise, but he nearly lost his nerve in the face of such devotion and pure affection. Watching her as she stood tall in spite of the hold laid on her by his men, he realised that she bore the same love for her people in return.
A sense of longing so strong that it almost took him out at the knees tore a path through him, tearing his heart and soul in two. Soren found it difficult, nigh to impossible, to breathe in that second. He shook his head as though to clear his thoughts, then the second emotion pierced him—the one that reminded him of his true purpose. The one that had sustained him through the pain and suffering since that September afternoon and every single, tortuous one that followed.
Anger.
Fury in its strongest form.
Righteous and purifying and fortifying.
It gave him the chance to regain his control and banish any mercy that might be creeping into his heart or soul for her. Straightening to his full height, he glared at those around them who might give any indication of arguing or disagreeing with his decision to proceed—both in marrying her and in marrying her now—and watched in satisfaction as they capitulated. Turning his gaze on the priest, Soren waited for him to begin.
The delay was hardly noticeable, but he noticed and he would hold the priest accountable for it later. Once he began, Father Medwyn accomplished the joining quickly, and if the bride’s vows were not loud and if the groom’s were not enthusiastic, no one dared comment on it. Once they were pronounced wed, Soren glanced at the windows to gauge the amount of daylight still remaining and estimated the amount of work yet ahead of them before any could seek their rest.
Calling out orders, he strode from the dais, mindful of so many things and yet forgetting one until his man brought his attention back to … her …
‘Soren?’ Guermont yelled over the growing din of soldiers and villeins and the general mayhem and confusion of those conquered. ‘My lord?’
Soren paused as he replaced the leather hood he wore on his head and tugged his mail coif over it into place. He shook his head, refusing his helmet from one of the younger men and turned to see what Guermont wanted. Guermont simply nodded his head and Soren realised he’d left her … his wife … standing in the hold of the soldiers awaiting his word.
‘Take her …’ he began, then realised he did not yet know the layout and accoutrements of this manor and keep and could offer no direction in which to send her. He turned to those still huddling along the wall.
‘Where are her chambers?’ he called out, aiming his question at the woman who had fallen to her knees first, crying out for mercy for Durward’s daughter. When neither she nor the others answered, he shrugged. Turning back to Guermont, he shook his head.
‘Tie her there—’ he pointed at the chair where she’d been sitting ‘—and you can find a place for her later.’ Just as he thought would happen, the old woman called out then, emboldened by his threat.
‘My lord?’ she said, not waiting for his permission to approach. ‘I served her mother before her and serve Lady Sybilla now. I would see to her care.’
As he’d suspected, they would dare much for their lady. This old woman did not grovel or beg, she did not even look away from him when he met her gaze. Not willing nor able to give in before all of his men and those newly vanquished, Soren rose to his full height and strode over to the woman … who had the good sense to bow her head at his approach.
‘And you will continue to serve her at my pleasure,’ he said, watching her face for signs of rebellion. But she schooled her expression in respect and obedience and if it hurt to say the words, he could not see it on her face.
‘As you say, my lord. At your pleasure.’
