when she thought about it. She had certainly mastered that feat quickly enough, and the rewards had been great. It got her where she wanted to go.
Marriage would be rewarding, she would see to that. She would have protection from the Scots and the husband of her choice. Richard Strode would share Fernstowe and all its profits. And pleasure in the marriage bed, every delight that she could give him.
Sara smoothed her hands over her middle in anticipation, paying little mind to the household task at hand. She watched her women add and stir the bayberry scent to the cauldron of melted wax.
The smell of it always stirred memories of Yuletide seasons, of gifts and celebration and the happy laughter of the children of Fernstowe. She needed little ones of her own, and now would have them.
The sons she would give her husband could be naught but sturdy and wise. She was that way herself and so was Sir Richard, if the king spoke true. Like always bore like. Her husband would be proud then, glad she was no dainty weakling with goose feathers for brains.
She would not dwell upon the daughters she might produce, who would likely top their suitors in height, just as she usually had done.
Her father had loved her despite her tallness and he never seemed to notice the scar after it had healed. Fathers tended to turn a blind eye to their daughters’ faults. So she hoped that held true, in the event she birthed a few girls for Richard.
She would allow him some time to bemoan his lot and nurse hurt feelings toward her and his king. He had, after all, been wed against his will and without his knowledge. But very soon, Sara meant to turn his thoughts around for all and good.
Together, applying his strength and her wisdom, they would vanquish her dreaded Scots neighbors and make Fernstowe the strongest estate in the north of England. Together, they would produce children to make King Edward himself turn green with envy.
Sara knew she could make all of this happen if she persevered. Her father had always assured her that she could do anything she set out to do if she would keep her goals foremost in her thoughts and never doubt her abilities.
Her looks were not that important, she told herself with a practical sniff. What was that old saying? All cats are gray in the dark. Men said that, meaning they cared little about a woman’s appearance in the bedchamber. Any female would please them there. She would do that right enough if she put her mind to it.
Sara moved forward to take over the positioning of the candle wicks, making certain they were exactly centered within the long slender iron cups that would receive the scented wax.
As in the creation of candles, every worthwhile endeavor required careful preparation of the ingredients, a series of steps accomplished one upon the other in precise order, so that the end results justified all the effort.
Her immediate task concerning this marriage was to convince her husband to put aside his pride at being duped. She must point out the advantages for him in becoming the new Lord of Fernstowe. Later, when he was recovered enough, she would encourage him to look past her appearance and take joy in his good fortune.
The next morning Richard rubbed his eyes and then rolled his head, stretching the stiff muscles of his neck. He had slept the sleep of the dead.
Where was the woman, he wondered? He refused to ask about her. “You were here before, I recall,” Richard said to the man who had come in her stead.
“Oh, aye, milord. I been seeing to yer, ah, needs. Milady woulda done, but she still be a maid. I didn’t think that fitting.”
“I quite agree.” A humbling thought, indeed, having that woman tend to washing him and such. It was bad enough to suffer anyone doing so, but he could barely sit, let alone stand by himself. “So, who are you?”
“Eustiss, milord. I be Lady Sara’s smithy, the only soul about the place strong enough to lift ye.”
Richard jerked his arm out of the man’s grasp. “I can do for myself now.” He added belatedly, “But I thank you.”
“’Tis well come ye are.”
“You sound like a…Were you born here?” Richard asked.
The red-whiskered fellow laughed, a booming sound that matched his girth. “Nay, I’m a Scot. Ye needn’t bite yer tongue on it. Least, I was one. Broken man now, cast out. Lady Sara’s old da found me near the border and took me in. All stove up from a beatin’ and left fer dead, I was, nigh on six years past. Home’s Fernstowe now, and allus will be, long as I’m allowed ta stay.”
He pointed to Richard’s wound. “Strange, that.”
“What is so strange? It’s an arrow wound, nothing more.”
Eustiss pursed his lips, his eyes squinted. “Scots I knew had little use for bows.”
“The one who did this will have even less use of his,” Richard remarked with satisfaction.
He suspected this old fellow still held some ties with Scotland, if only those of homesickness. However, it wouldn’t pay to raise any question of loyalties at the moment, not when he could scarcely make a fist.
A quick glance about the room told Richard his weapons were not available, either, even if he had been in shape to use them. He hated feeling disabled. How long would he be invalid? Had the woman said a fortnight? Two?
In spite of his former intention, he asked the man, “Where is…your lady?”
Eustiss cackled. “Out seein’ ta matters at the village, I expect. She goes out most days round this time.”
“That cannot be safe, her wandering about in these times,” Richard declared, leaning back against the padded bolster the man had arranged behind him.
He knew that Fernstowe Keep lay only a short distance from the border, probably a favorite target for raiders from the north. Edward’s main reason for the visit here had been to judge the extent of the troubles in the Middle March and decide what to do about protection for the estates in peril of attack.
Eustiss regarded him with a jaundiced eye. “Yer worrit that th’ lads across the bog’ll get her, eh?” He shook his shaggy head and sighed. “More danger’s like ta come from th’ east. One fine English laddie tried to grab ’er once. She knocked him clean off his horse. Heh-heh. Th’ beastie drug him nigh on half a league afore he got his foot loose of the stirrup. Served him right.”
Richard had jerked upright at the news and was now paying for it. He grabbed his chest, sure that his heart would pump right out the hole that arrow had made. “Damn!” he gasped.
“Heh-heh,” the old man chortled. “Teach ye ta stay still, won’t it?” Despite the jab of his words, the smithy’s eyes looked sympathetic. “Ye got a ways ta go afore yer mended.”
Gently as a mother would, he lowered Richard back against the bolster. “Best ye rest the night now. Milady will see ye in the morn.”
“Wait!” Richard demanded, reaching out to grab hold of the man’s sleeve. “Tell me about her. She says—that she is my wife. Is this true?”
Eustiss looked him straight in the eye, a thing no one below knight’s status should dare. His words were every bit as direct.
