Читать книгу Hidden Honor - Anne Stuart - Страница 6

Elizabeth was up early. She’d always been impatient with too much sleep, and on the day she was to start her new life she could barely wait. Excitement bubbled in her veins, and even though her meager belongings were packed and her goodbyes said, she still rose before the first light, pulled her loose-fitting dull brown gown over her shift and laced it herself, and then sat by the window as the sun climbed over the eastern hills. It would be the last time she would see it from this window, and she wondered that she felt no twinge of sorrow. There would be other sunrises, in other places. She’d seen enough of this one.

She leaned her head against the cool stone wall and watched as the household slowly came alive. The milkmaids straggled into view first, and Elizabeth could tell even from that distance that the household guests had found amiable company among them. They were followed by the stable help and then the rest of the household servants, one by one, as they set about their duties. There was no sign of the visitors, either knights or monks, even as full daylight spread over her father’s keep.

It was an orderly, well-run household, despite her father’s slovenly ways, and she had always done her best to make it so. God only knew what it would look like when next she saw it—if she ever did. Even a small castle such as Bredon required a strong chatelaine to order the multitude of servants necessary. In the few years since her father had discovered daughters, even plain ones, had a use after all, she had been kept at a run, overseeing even the merest details of a household that required a small army to run. She seldom had time for her own interests, her study of the stars and the curative effects of roots and herbs. However, she’d become quite masterful at feeding and caring for the fifty or more members of her father’s household.

Who would see to them after today? With no woman to see to the running of the place it would most likely fall into disrepair and decay.

Of course, who was to say there wouldn’t be a woman? Once her father was free of the restraining effects of Elizabeth’s potion, he’d doubtless find himself married once more, and her younger brothers would doubtless follow suit. In truth, there would probably be too many women rather than too few. Another good reason for her to leave—she wasn’t the sort to peacefully relinquish what little power she had.

But that would no longer be her concern. She might never return, never see her family again, and while she’d miss her monstrous younger brothers, she wouldn’t mourn. She would have a new family once she arrived at the Shrine of Saint Anne. A new family, a new name, a new calling. And no regrets.

The first of their guests strode into the courtyard, and Elizabeth watched in astonishment as Prince William himself headed toward the stable. He was fully dressed in his elegant clothing, the gold chasing glinting in the early sunlight, but he had no cap on his head, and she realized with some amusement that he was prematurely balding. His dark hair had been carefully combed over his skull, but it only just covered the crown of his head. He was almost as bald as a monk. It was a good thing he was so tall—most people wouldn’t have the vantage point she had.

Then again, it probably wouldn’t matter if he was fat and ugly, as well as bald. He was the only son of the king, powerful and privileged, and no one would dare say no to him. She couldn’t imagine how he could have killed a woman, or more than one if gossip were to be believed. What woman would dare to resist him, even one of high birth?

She could watch him quite safely, hidden away behind the thick walls of the castle, and she indulged herself for lack of something better to do. He moved with surprising grace for a man so tall, and his long legs made quick work of the expanse of the courtyard. He’d either spent the hours in such debauchery that he hadn’t bothered to get any sleep, or unlike his fellow travelers he’d spent a chaste, well-rested night in the solar. He didn’t look particularly chaste—there was too much knowledge in his eyes, but there’d been no screams in the night, and she could only assume that everyone had made it through safely.

Even Prince William. He passed the stable, heading directly toward the small chapel, and then he disappeared inside.

Elizabeth leaned back, astonished. Prince William’s current atonement had been forced on him, and if even half the stories were true, he was a heedless, cruel man with little regard for man or God.

Though he hadn’t looked particularly cruel last night. And cruel men didn’t kiss plain women on the forehead, did they?

It made no sense to her, and she liked things to make sense, but in the end it was the least of her concerns. The household was truly awake by then, and more of Prince William’s entourage had appeared, looking a great deal less sprightly than the prince himself. It was time to go.

There was no member of her family waiting to see her off—only the servants. Gertrude, the elderly laundress, was weeping openly, and even Wat the stable lad was blubbering. She hugged them all, fighting back her own tears, and approached the weary nag that her father had grudgingly given her for the journey with only minor trepidation.

The men were already mounted. The monks were on particularly fine animals, a surprise. Most holy brothers rode donkeys, not high-strung chargers. Poor old Melange would have a hard time keeping up with even the slowest of them, but it was the best she could hope for. Wat dragged the mounting block over, but before she could move the dark prince spoke, startling her. She hadn’t realized he was so near.

“You’re not riding that pathetic old nag,” he said flatly.

She’d forgotten his voice. She looked up at him, and tried to remind herself that despite his eyes he was nothing but a horrible, wicked, balding man. “It’s the only mount I have.”

“I’ve seen your father’s stables. He takes better care of his cattle than he does his women.”

“Don’t most men?” she responded, then bit her lip. Being outspoken was always a failing, and she didn’t want his dark, unnerving eyes on her any more than necessary.

“Brother Adrian!” he called over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving hers. To her surprise, it was the youngest, baby-faced monk who slid off his horse and came running.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Find milady a better mount. If she tries to keep up with us on that poor beast she’ll be left behind in no time.”

“I don’t know if Baron Osbert would be willing—”

“Baron Osbert has no say in the matter. He would scarce want to inconvenience his prince, would he? He is singularly lacking in wisdom, but even he can’t be shortsighted enough to offend those in power.”

“Indeed,” Brother Adrian said, advancing toward Wat, who stood trembling in his manure-stained boots.

“I don’t know what I can give you,” Wat said in a wavering voice. “The baron has never let her ride much. She’s such a hopeless rider that he was afraid she’d ruin any of his decent horses.”

Prince William was still looking at her. “You really are a disgrace, aren’t you?” he said softly.

“So I’m often told.” She wasn’t about to defend herself. She would ride whatever they put her on, just as long as it took her to her new life.

“Bring her Anthony’s mount. He won’t be needing it.”

Elizabeth allowed herself a brief moment to worry about poor Anthony’s fate before she spoke. “I’m certain Melange will be fine.”

“And I’m certain she won’t. Are you planning on arguing with me?”

That was exactly what she wanted to do, but she thought better of it. One didn’t argue with the king’s son, particularly when he was known to possess an uncertain temperament. “As you wish, my lord.”

He nodded. “A sensible decision. I knew you were wiser than your father. We’re already late in leaving.” He should have moved away. His huge black horse was restless, breathing heavily in the early morning air, ready to jump ahead, but he kept the beautiful creature under control with almost imperceptible effort as Adrian returned with a freshly saddled chestnut mare.

Elizabeth eyed the creature warily. The horse was bigger than Melange, and much livelier. But she certainly wasn’t about to waste her time thinking she had any choice in the matter. Life wasn’t about choices, it was about making the best of what was forced on you.

Riding a strange horse was bad enough, but going through the awkward business of mounting with the prince’s dark eyes on her was worthy of argument. Until she glanced at him and knew he wasn’t going to budge.

The mare held still with surprising patience as she scrambled onto her back, a good sign. Melange, for all her torpor, wasn’t as well behaved. Elizabeth sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward. If she hadn’t managed it she had little doubt the prince would have put his hands on her again, in front of everyone, and that was the last thing she wanted.

And then they were off, their cavalcade moving with stately grace through the early morning mist. Elizabeth looked back, one last time, at the assembled servants, the familiar shape of Bredon Castle, where she’d spent her entire seventeen years. And then she turned her back on it, facing her new life.

It was a matter of great pride for Elizabeth that she never cried. Not when her father boxed her ears, not when her brothers called her a maypole, not even when she’d overheard two of the women of the castle discussing her total lack of feminine attributes. Not even when her only chance at married life was destroyed before it even began, when the man she’d been betrothed to chose another. When she looked in a mirror, even in the wavering reflection she could see herself well enough. Red hair—a sign of the Devil. Pale skin that freckled and burned in the bright sun. Way too tall—she towered over most men. Way too skinny—her hips were narrow, not made for childbirth, so what good would she be to anyone? She had breasts, but their relative abundance was more of an inconvenience than a boon. They had no use but to get in her way and occasionally excite the attention of some idiot male. At least in the convent no one would notice.

She never cried, and she prided herself on her strength and resilience, but by the time the sun was high overhead she was ready to sob with pain and frustration.

In seventeen years she’d never traveled more than half a day away from the castle, and then only once, to her aborted wedding. Her mother had no family left to visit, and Baron Osbert certainly never sought out her company on his occasional journeys. But now she’d been in the saddle longer than she’d ever been in her entire life, and her body screamed at each step the horse took.

“My lady?” The soft voice penetrated her self-pity, and she lifted her head to look into Brother Matthew’s pale blue eyes. “Are you ill?”

She cast a nervous glance ahead, but Prince William was well in front of the caravan, almost out of sight. She gave the gentle monk a brief smile. “Just travel-weary,” she said with at least a modicum of honesty. In fact, she was so wretched she could scream from it, but it would do her little good. “You’re very kind to worry,” she added. “I’ll be fine once we stop to rest.”

Such a shame to have such a pretty face lost to a monastery, she thought absently when he smiled back at her. A few more sweet men like him in the real world would certainly improve the quality of life. Instead, most husbands were bullying brutes, and the thoughtful men were devoted to celibacy. As was she, she reminded herself swiftly.

“I’m not sure the prince has any intention of stopping before nightfall,” Brother Matthew said in a wry voice.

Elizabeth couldn’t help her tiny moan of despair.

“I can see to it that he does,” Brother Matthew said, eyeing her with great sympathy. “Just a word in his ear and I’m certain he’d stop. After all, he could hardly expect a frail woman to keep up this kind of pace.”

“I’m not a frail woman,” she said between clenched teeth. There was a time in her life when she would have given anything to be a frail, helpless flower of femininity. God had ordained otherwise, and she had no choice but to take pride in her strength and endurance. Even if it seemed to have abandoned her when she most needed it. “I’ll be fine. I’m just not used to riding such long distances.”

“The journey’s only just begun. There’s no need for him to set such a pace.”

“Perhaps he wants his penance over and done with,” she suggested, shifting around to try to get more comfortable. Her horse took her restlessness with comparative good grace. Melange would have made life pure hell.

“I would imagine he does,” Brother Matthew said. “Celibacy sits very hard on a man like Prince William. Be careful of him, my lady. It worries me that your father couldn’t even spare a kitchen maid to bear you company. As the only woman in this group of men it makes you very vulnerable.”

“I think they’ll manage to restrain themselves,” she said, tossing an escaping strand of red hair over her shoulder.

“I think you trust too easily. You must promise to come to me if you ever feel you’re in danger. I will do what I can to protect you.”

She looked into his pale, troubled eyes and melted. Why weren’t there men around like him? Peaceful, kind, handsome men with light, soft voices that soothed rather than disturbed? Why waste such a paragon on a monastery?

Blasphemy, of course, but at least she’d been wise enough not to speak it out loud. Who more deserving than the mother church? It wasn’t as if she herself weren’t taking the only chance she had. It was an honor to serve God.

Brother Matthew leaned over and put his hand on hers. Soft, beautiful hands, with a heavy gold signet ring on one finger. “Promise you’ll come to me,” he said urgently.

His hands were cold. Surprising, because the sun was bright overhead. Her own blood tended to run hot—a convenience in a drafty, ill-heated castle, but she knew she was unusual. It only made sense that a holy brother would have cool skin. Maybe the heat that plagued her blood would still and cool once she joined the holy sisters.

He had taken her hand and held it, forcing their horses close together as they rode forward. Brother Matthew’s mount was a great deal more high strung, and Elizabeth could feel her own horse’s distress at his closeness. An anxiety that mirrored her own, though she wasn’t quite certain why. She could think of no way to pull her hand away from the well-meaning friar, and she squirmed in her seat again.

“Brother Matthew!” The youngest monk had ridden up to them, his voice urgent.

Brother Matthew released her hand, slowly, reluctantly, and turned to face the young man with almost insolent leisure. “Yes, Brother Adrian?”

“Prince William wishes to converse with you.”

“We’ll have more than enough time to talk when we stop,” he said, still keeping pace with Elizabeth. “We can discuss atonement and sin at length over dinner.”

“He says now, Brother Matthew.”

Brother Matthew’s smile was exquisitely charming. “The prince will have to accept the fact that he is on a journey of atonement, not of pleasure, and his desires no longer come first. I will join him later.”

Brother Adrian wheeled away, clearly annoyed, and Brother Matthew laughed softly.

“Was that a wise idea?” Elizabeth asked. Just because she was unreasonably enchanted by his sweet smile didn’t mean she’d lost her good sense. “Prince William doesn’t seem the sort of man it is wise to defy, no matter how penitent he’s supposed to be. Isn’t that how he came to be on a pilgrimage in the first place?”

“Indeed. And part of his atonement should be to hear and accept the word no each day.”

“Are you in charge of his penance?” she asked, curious.

“That surprises you? It does me as well—a prince of the land should have his soul under the guidance of an archbishop at the very least, not a simple friar from a small monastery.” There was an unexpected tone of resentment in his voice.

“You must feel very honored.”

Brother Matthew’s opaque blue eyes swept over her, and his smile was angelic. “An honor I could well do without,” he said, reaching for her hand again.

She was a better horsewoman than anyone suspected, and it was a simple matter to make her horse skitter away as if she were poorly controlled by a clumsy novice. Out of reach of his cold, gentle hands and his melting smile.

And then she realized the others had stopped, and all those around her were dismounting. The wretched prince had decided he was human after all and in need of a rest.

There was no mounting block. In normal circumstances she was agile enough to slip down off the back of a horse, but her current mount was higher than Melange, her skirts were wrapped around the saddle, and her muscles screamed at the very thought of it. Maybe she’d just stay where she was. If she got down, she’d simply have to get up on this instrument of torture once more, and that was one thing she wasn’t certain she could do.

Maybe Brother Matthew could help. She turned, but he’d slipped away without a sound. And there was no mistaking who was advancing on her, tall and dark and oddly menacing.

No, there was nothing odd about his menace, she corrected herself. Prince William was a danger to all women. And all the predawn trips to the chapel and penitential journeys wouldn’t change that. Not if you looked into his eyes.

Brother Adrian accompanied him, and when Prince William slid off his horse with effortless grace he tossed the reins to the young friar and advanced upon Elizabeth. The horse skittered back, feeling her nervousness.

He reached out and caught the reins, putting his hand on the neck of her mount, soothing her with only a touch—an unspoken communication that made Elizabeth even more nervous. He must truly be an instrument of the Devil. She firmly believed that animals had better instincts than humans did, and yet her horse trusted him. If he could trick animals he could deceive anyone.

“Time to dismount, Lady Elizabeth,” he said. “If you stay too long in the saddle, you’ll stiffen up.”

Too late, she thought miserably. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said. “My lord,” she added hastily.

Her skirts were brushing against the fine wool of his cloak, and she could feel the warmth of his body, even through all those layers of clothing. She should have felt stronger, more powerful, looking down at him from her high perch. She didn’t.

“Get down, Elizabeth.” It was an order. No one was around except Brother Adrian, and he was trying his best to pretend he couldn’t hear their conversation.

If she tried, she’d fall at his feet. And she wouldn’t do that for any man. She looked down at him, wondering if a plain “no” would do any good. She had grave misgivings that it would.

“I don’t want to.”

“Get down.”

“I can’t!” she said finally. “If I try to climb down off this wretched animal I’ll fall on my face, and then there’ll be no way you can possibly get me back on her. I’m better off just staying here until we stop for the night….” The words trailed off in a whoosh, as he put his hands around her waist and lifted her down off the horse.

She was right, there was no strength in her legs. But he was holding her with just the power of his strong hands, so that she wouldn’t collapse, and slowly the trembling in her knees stopped and she could stand on her own. If only she could stop the rest of her body from shaking.

“She’s not a wretched animal. She’s a very fine horse, and you know it as well as I do,” the prince said in a mild voice that should have reassured her.

“You can let go of me now.”

“I don’t want to.” She wasn’t certain if she heard him clearly, since he released her even as he spoke and took a step back. She grabbed the horse’s reins for additional support, and ran her hand down her neck in apology before she realized she was touching her just as the prince had touched her. She pulled her hand away hastily.

“No, she’s not a wretched animal,” she agreed. “I’m just a bit…unused to riding for such a long period.”

“Indeed.” He nodded his head toward a stretch of woods. “You can go over there.”

“Why?”

“To relieve yourself,” he said bluntly. “Unless you’ve managed to control your bodily functions as well as you control your father’s household, you should be in need, and I doubt you want to join the men.”

She could feel a blush suffuse her face. Now that he mentioned it, she did need some privacy. “You could have put it more delicately,” she snapped. And then remembered to add “my lord” in a meek tone.

“You don’t strike me as particularly delicate, Lady Elizabeth.” He took the reins from her. “Go ahead.”

She’d overestimated her strength. She was fine standing still, but the moment she tried to take a step forward her knees began to buckle.

And the moment they did, his hand came under her arm, keeping her from falling.

He was closer now, much too close, as he had been the night before. “I beg pardon,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll be fine in just a moment.”

“Do you want me to carry you?”

“No!” The thought of the dark prince carrying her into the secluded woods was beyond unsettling. “I’m fine.” To prove it she pulled free from him and took a step forward.

Her body obeyed her. She managed a cool smile and headed for the patch of woods designated for her use, moving with all the grace she could muster.

Until she was out of sight, when she hobbled, groaning and moaning into the bushes.

She would have liked nothing more than to curl up in a ball and stay there, but she knew it was out of the question. If she tried it, he’d send his men after her. Or even worse, come and find her himself.

She had no choice in the matter. At least the day was more than half over. If she could just get herself onto the back of that horse one more time she’d survive the first day. Barely.

They were already mounted when she emerged from the woods. All of them, sitting on their horses, watching as she slowly made her way into the clearing.

She straightened her spine and approached the horse. No mounting block this time, and Prince William was on his own charger, holding the reins, watching her.

She never cried, and she wasn’t about to start now. Maybe if she managed to get her foot into the stirrup she could haul herself up that high…

“Give me your hand.” Prince William’s voice was peremptory. He was next to her horse, and she couldn’t quite see how he was going to get her on it from his high vantage point, but she held up her hand, anyway, blindly obedient.

It was a grave mistake. He pulled her up, effortlessly, and plopped her down in front of him.

His horse startled nervously at the added weight, but there was no question that the dark prince was an excellent rider, controlling him with seemingly no effort.

Controlling her, and she didn’t like it. Before she could squirm, protest, slide down, he’d moved forward, fast, the horse leaping ahead with restrained energy. The others followed, and any protest Elizabeth could have made was drowned out by the noise of the hooves on the dry road.

And the panicked racing of her heart.