the king still looked doubtful about the wisdom of rushing the match, he shrugged and agreed. He must realize how this knight of his would rail against this. But, obviously, he had also decided the union would serve England’s needs by placing a trusted protector this far north.
Only when he left the sickroom to go below and drink with his men, did Sara abandon her wide smile and expel a huge breath of relief.
She could not have devised a better plan. That a solution to her problems had fallen directly at her feet—well, upon her property, anyway—seemed an excellent omen.
For the past few months, Sara had feared another confrontation with that noxious hound, Lord Aelwyn. This marriage would eliminate that hazard for certain.
And there were the Scots, of course. Always the Scots. They had murdered her father, and since that foul deed, had been harrying Fernstowe, thieving her cattle and killing her people in the outlying settlements. Other estates along the border suffered also.
Sara strongly suspected that threat from the North had lent weight to the king’s decision to grant her Sir Richard as husband. He surely had not done so to please her personally, no matter that he called it her reward. Someone needed to take matters in hand hereabout. King Edward needed the border secure as surely as did Sara and the other landholders.
That Lord Clivedon from Kent who had offered for her might have done well enough, but with lands to the south, he would not be present the year round. Sara had no desire to spend half her time in the south of England for the rest of her days.
God only knows what might happen to Fernstowe with her prolonged absence. The king would definitely benefit by placing a favored and loyal knight in charge here as Lord of Fernstowe. She had merely brought it to his attention by way of requesting this favor.
She glanced toward the injured knight. Here lay her hope. If only she could keep him alive, he would serve her needs quite well. King Edward, well-known for his honesty and values, would never heap such praise on a man undeserving.
Sara knew Sir Richard would recover. All because of her. He would probably hate her then for arranging this marriage while he lay helpless and had no say in it. But his honor would bind him to her, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter.
He would be obliged to defend Fernstowe against all enemies, especially the fierce Scots who raided time and again. And wedding him would disabuse Lord Aelwyn of the notion that he could take by might what was not his by right.
The whole arrangement made good sense to her, and the king appeared to agree. Hopefully, Sir Richard would be compliant.
Sara brushed absently at the dreary brown gunna she wore over her chemise. She grimaced at the stains it bore, the knight’s blood, the dirt around the hem where she had knelt over him when they had lowered his stretcher to the bailey. She should change before the ceremony. But what did it matter? The king had already seen her so. And in his fog of pain, Sir Richard would never notice or care.
Even did the sight of her register in his fevered brain, her manner of dress would not make much difference. Ugly and ungainly as she was, even the cleanest and richest of clothing could hardly conceal her frightful looks.
Once her new husband grew hale enough for the task, she might have to drug him to consummate their union. The thought stung, but Sara accepted it. She was as she was, and he must deal with her appearance as she had always done.
At least he was tall enough to look her eye to eye, which was more than most men she met could ever do. The scar from brow to chin might put him off as it did many, but there was naught she could do about that.
Sara caressed his sleeping face with a longing gaze. Oh, to be as perfect as that man, to draw sighs and tender looks from a lover, to be desired as he surely was. To be loved by him as he must have loved that poor, dead wife the king had mentioned.
’Twas not a fate she could ever look forward to, Sara thought wryly. But for a tower of a woman with a damaged face and no hopes in that direction, she had done right well for herself. The king had seemed pleased to grant her this man. And she had earned him. If not for her care, Richard of Strode would now be dead.
She dismissed the childish wish for a love match and rummaged in her herb basket for the extract that might revive Sir Richard enough to agree to the vows.
“Do it and have done!” the king whispered angrily to the priest.
The holy man, called Father Clement, argued. “But Sir Richard has no wish to wed, sire. I beg you wait until he can tell you this himself. He holds constant to the memory of that perfect Lady Evaline, has done for some three long years now! Why, in his confession—”
“Do not dare repeat a word you hold in holy confidence! Not even to me!” King Edward appeared ready to do bodily harm to the cleric.
Sara held her breath.
“Never, sire! But Sir Richard—”
The king drew himself up to full height, which was considerable, rested his fists on his hips and glared. “—will wed this woman! Marry them now or get you from my sight! Permanently!”
The portly cleric jerked open his prayer book and quickly shuffled to the side of the bed. The king grasped Sara by one arm and dragged her to stand betwixt him and the priest.
So there they stood, three in a row, so close they were touching, as they peered down at the knight, who shifted beneath his sheets and groaned with pain.
Sara reached out and took one of the clenched fists in her hands, trying to soothe him. She barely heard the drone of the priest’s voice until he stopped for a response.
The king leaned forward a little and commanded, “Sir Richard, say you aye or nay.”
The knight grunted harshly as though trying to fight his way out of the fog, “I—”
“There. You have an aye, Father. Continue.”
The priest chewed his upper lip, apparently decided not to anger the king by refusing, and rattled on.
He paused for Sara to answer his query and then snapped the book shut. “You are man and wife together.” Another short spate of unintelligible Latin followed. “Amen.”
She and the king responded in unison, “Amen.”
Sara watched King Edward lay a parchment on top of Sir Richard’s body, then place a quill pen in the knight’s hand and guide it to mark. He handed the feather to her and pointed. She quickly signed where he indicated.
When he removed the paraphernalia and stepped away from the bed, Sara bent over and planted a brief kiss of peace on Richard’s lips. “Rest now, husband,” she whispered. “’Tis done, and all will be well.”
King Edward went to the small table near the window and beckoned the two of his retinue whom he had selected to attend the ceremony. They joined him and the priest to sign as witnesses of the marriage.
When the royal party and the priest left to sup in her hall, Sara remained secluded with Richard in the master chamber. He was her husband now. Her place was by his side. Heaven grant he would see the truth of that once he regained his senses.
Richard’s eyes protested when he tried to hold them open, but he
