Читать книгу My Lady's Choice - Lyn Stone - Страница 9

Northumberland, 1339

“Our thanks for making his death more comfortable, Lady Sara,” King Edward said softly, his blue eyes already misted with grief. “He looks to be at peace.”

Sara of Fernstowe smiled as she rounded the sickbed with the basin containing the bloody rags and arrowhead.

“Your knight is not dead, sire,” she assured him as she handed off the container to a maidservant and faced her king. “Nor will he die if I can bring him through the fever sure to take hold.”

The handsome blond giant who ruled England abandoned his regal pose beside the bed and leaned over, his ear to the knight’s lips, his large hand upon the uninjured shoulder. “’Tis true, he breathes! How is it that my physician declared this man beyond hope, and you have saved his life?”

Sara liked the king. When denied a thing—such as having his knight’s life spared—however, she imagined Edward III could be as fierce as his grandfather, the famous Longshanks.

She preceded her conjecture with a small laugh. “Mayhap your healer feared your wrath if he did not succeed in his efforts, my liege. You should not blame him. As you must know, few men do survive such a wound.”

She continued, unafraid to state the truth. “There is a chance I, too, shall fail, but I think not. He weathered the cutting out of the point with hardly a grunt of protest. Here is a strong fellow who bears a hurt well. I would say he has borne others in your service, judging by his scars.”

The king straightened. “Ah, you do not know the half, my lady. Twice now Sir Richard has thrown himself betwixt me and disaster. The first time we were lads—I, but a fledgling king, and Richard, only a squire.”

He continued, pride in his knight visible in the rapt expression he wore. It was as though he could see it all again, there in his mind. “Three assassins attacked me in our camp, intent upon my death. When Richard’s overlord fell in the attempt to save me, this one took up the old earl’s sword and slew the two remaining. Nearly died then from a sword cut to his thigh.”

“Ah, a brave deed for a youth. So you took him into your own service then?”

“Fortunately, or I might lie here this very day and you would be tending me in his stead. Richard must have spied that archer poised to shoot and took the arrow meant for me. Then, wounded as he was, he chased the scoundrel down and cut him in half. What think you of that for strength and valor?”

Sara studied the figure lying on her bed. He nigh matched the mattress in length. Had he stood upright, she knew he would rival the king’s great height. If his chest had not that wealth of muscle, the arrow that struck him might have proved fatal, indeed. Aye, he was strong as he was brave.

And handsome. She noted the dark chestnut hair with its faint gleam of red in the candles’ glow. His skin looked smooth and lightly browned by sun. His sensuous lips, slightly opened, revealed white, even teeth and his nose appeared straight and unbroken.

If only she could see his eyes, perhaps she could judge the kind of man he was. Sara found she really wanted to know, and so she asked, “What manner of man is he to withstand such hurts? Fierce? Gruff?”

The king sighed loud and long. “Nay, not Richard. Unless provoked, he tends toward gentleness and good humor. He is honorable to a fault. Son to a good father. Father to a fine son. A husband fiercely loyal to his poor, dead wife. Friend to me and mine. A knight who scorns rewards for his valiant doings.” Sara noticed tears had formed in the king’s eyes.

“Faith, my liege, but that does sound much like a eulogy! Have hope he will survive, for I do!”

That brought a smile, as she had thought it would. He brushed a hand over his eyes and then regarded her with a curiously amused expression. “And you, my lady, do you scorn rewards for good deeds?”

“I? Not for an instant, sire! Do you offer one?” Sara said, more in jest than serious question.

The king tilted his head and considered her for a moment, his arms folded across his mighty chest. “One of the matters I intended to resolve whilst in the North was to see you wed. With your father gone, you know you must marry to hold Fernstowe. Two men have petitioned me for your hand. I would give you a choice of husbands. How does that suit?”

Sara held off answering. She took advantage of the informality of the setting and paced for a few moments, tapping her lips with one finger.

She knew that Aelwyn of Berthold wanted her lands. They bordered his own and he had made no secret of his wish to gain hers, as well. He had been after her since she was a child of twelve. Failing to obtain her father’s approval while he lived, and her own since then, Aelwyn must have written to the king.

“Lord Aelwyn of Berthold and who else, sire?” she asked, wondering if it could be Lord Bankwell, a distant neighbor here in Northumberland who had once asked for her. Bankwell was old, enough so that he’d courted her mother before her parents had wed. Likely it was not him. Once he’d met her, he had appeared disinterested and content with her father’s refusal of his suit.

“Lord Clivedon of Kent. Do you know him?”

“Nay, I do not.” And she did not want to. “You say I have the choice of husband?” She smiled up at the king, watched him nod his assent, and then cast her gaze toward the man on the bed. Did she dare? Why not be bold, since she had nothing to lose?

“By your grace, my liege, I choose this one,” she announced, pointing toward the knight in her care.

If she had expected to shock King Edward with her demand, she saw she had not. He settled an assessing look upon her, then glanced at Sir Richard, his eyes narrowing with a certain craftiness. Sara prayed he would say yes.

After several tense moments of consideration, he smiled winningly. “Save him, Lady Sara, and you may have him, will he nill he! My word upon it.”

“Good as done! Now I pray you will enjoy my humble hospitality, sire, and that you shall stay for the wedding.”

King Edward frowned at that. “I regret I cannot, for I must be in York three days hence for a meeting. Richard is hardly likely to recover by the morrow when I must depart.”

“Then, by your leave, may we wed this night?” she asked hopefully.

“How can you do so? The man is insensate,” he argued. “’Twould not be legally done if he cannot say his vows.”

“Never worry, we could rouse him enough to say aye when asked. May we use your priest, sire? Mine is two months dead and I’ve not yet replaced him.”

Though 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 finally succeeded long enough to determine that he had survived. For certain, this place was not heaven. Nor was it hell, for he felt frozen.

The soft bed beneath him reminded him of the one he had left in Gloucestershire. The hangings appeared rich, though likely older than he was. He sniffed the strong odor of camphor. His body ached right down to the marrow of his bones and his head seemed certain to split should he move it.

He sensed someone nearby. Someone humming. A woman.

“The king—?” he rasped, unable to complete the query.

A hand brushed over his brow, but he could not see the owner of it for she stood near the head of the bed, out of his line of sight. “Your king lives because of you, sir. He is well, and off to York these four days past.”

“Aah, good,” he said. “My throat…”

“Sore from ranting, no doubt. The fever held you longer even than I feared it would. You should drink all you can manage of this. I know ’tis not tasty, but you must.”

Richard’s eyes closed of their own accord as he accepted the cup she put to his lips. A foul brew she offered for one who sounded so sweet, he thought. Her low, honeyed voice drifted through and soothed his aching head like a balm.

Once she lowered the cup from his mouth, he asked, “Where is John of Brabent, my squire?” By all rights, that young man should be performing this task for him.

“Gone to York with the king, sir. It seems his father would attend there and the lad wished to see him. I did promise him I would see to your care in his stead.”

“Ah, well, then…since no one stayed to cart my body home, I suppose I shall be obliged to live.”

“Aye, you will mend, though you did give us quite a fright for a time.”

“I think I can move my arm,” he mumbled, more to himself than to her. He raised it a little and grunted. “Though it hurts like hell.”

She ran a soft damp cloth over his brow and jaw, cooling him. “It will be fine eventually. I wager you will be up and about in a fortnight. Back to your full strength in twice that time.”

“Thanks be to God,” he growled, “and to you, I should imagine.”

He sensed she leaned near now and wished to see the face of this angel who had tended him. With all his remaining strength, he forced open his eyes again.

Richard had thought her wellborn by the words she had spoken. She had used the Norman French employed by nobles to converse one with another. Her appearance belied that station.

She wore a rough-spun gown of dark color and no head covering at all. Unbound midnight hair, a long curly mass of it, floated round her shoulders like a dark, shifting cloud.

Though he could not feature young John leaving him to be tended by a lower maidservant or some drab, this woman certainly dressed as one of those. Her manner and features seemed rather refined, however, not those of a peasant.

Her mouth was wide and mobile, would be an ever-changing gauge to the bent of her temper, he decided. Kissable, if he were inclined to indulge himself. He was not, of course. One never dallied with the servants. Hadn’t that particular lesson drummed itself home!

Her nose appeared a trifle haughty with its slight tilt, and that chin proclaimed outright stubbornness.

But the eyes were what arrested his breath. Amber with dark flecks of brown. Of a sudden, their beautiful lashes closed off his study of them.

She gave her head a small shake as though uncomfortable under his stare. The movement shifted her hair from the left side of her face, which she then presented in an almost deliberate way.

Richard sucked in a sharp breath. A thin, white scar reached from the tip of one beautifully shaped eyebrow, down the outside curve of her cheek to the edge of her challenging chin.

He stared at it, wildly furious at whoever had marred such perfection. A shallow knife wound, he determined from the evenness of the cut, not deep enough for stitching. Not accidentally done, either, for the depth would have varied over the prominent cheekbone. Some cruel hand had taken a blade and set out to mark her.

A brutal master? He would challenge the man to the death! Or was it a husband? He would kill the knave outright without a hearing!

Only when she turned straight on to face him again did he realize he must have hurt her himself with his foolish gaping.

In truth, the line of the scar did not look awful at all. But that someone had disfigured her apurpose horrified him. Richard swallowed hard and lowered his eyes to her graceful, expressive hands, which were twisting nervously about the drinking cup.

“Who are you?” he asked gently.

One corner of that malleable mouth kicked up as did both dark eyebrows. “Well, sir, I might as well tell you now whilst you lie there unable to throttle me for it.” After a deep, fortifying breath she announced quietly, “I am Sara of Fernstowe, your wife.”

Richard closed his eyes again. He might as well shut them, he thought, since he was still asleep and possessed by feverish visions. Just like a disordered mind seeking comfort to conjure up a wife the total opposite of his first.

Evaline was, after all, his worst nightmare.

The memory of her petite, ethereal figure and angelic face flitted behind his eyelids and dissolved into the skeletal corpse she was when last he saw her.

Feelings ripped through him, far less welcome than more arrows; anguish at the untimely death of one so young, sorrow for his son who grieved despite hardly knowing his mother, and most shameful of all, his own relief. Try as he might, Richard could not banish that despised reaction and it near killed him.

He groaned and shuddered violently, welcoming the pain it caused him. Glad of that or any other thing that would distract him from his dark guilt about Evaline’s demise.

“Good sir, hateful as it must seem to you, I swear I speak the truth,” declared the velvety voice of the woman. “We are wed.”

Richard decided to rejoin the object of this disturbing illusion and play it out, though his mind had begun dancing again like a leaf caught in a swirling current.

At least dwelling on this nonsense would remove Evaline from his thoughts before he slept again. Or was he sleeping still? Of course, he must be.

“Wed? The devil you say.”

She smiled apologetically and glanced away from his sleepy regard. “Aye. The king approved and witnessed the event before he left.”

Richard chuckled lazily. This made no sense, but often dreams were like that.

Then she ducked her head, appearing somewhat shy. “I promise you’ll not regret it, sir. No more than you obviously do now. Aside from my ugliness, I have all good wifely attributes.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he muttered, “Attibutes.” She’d given him something in that drink….

“Aye. My housekeeping skills are excellent, as you will soon see. I read, I write, and most consider me a healer of some talent. I healed you when the physician gave you up.”

“And modest,” he suggested ruefully.

She laughed at herself, a low-pitched and soothing sound. “Oh, ’tis my most laudable trait, that one!”

His cursed chest throbbed dully but incessantly, and Richard tired of this dream. He wanted only to sink back into the nothingness of deeper sleep and escape the discomfort.

“Leave me now,” he grumbled, and closed his eyes.

“Of course, husband. But when you wake again, you must try to eat a little.”

“A little what?” he asked with a dry half laugh, imagining some small animal squirming on a trencher. His mind floated pleasantly, only a corner of it noting the pulsing pain in his chest.

“I shall have gruel for you. And egg pudding with nutmeg, if you like.”

“Nutmeg,” he whispered. “A rich fantasy…indeed.”

Her silken laughter trailed out of his hearing and he thought he heard the shutting of a door.

For an unknown space of time, he slept again, but awareness returned eventually and Richard woke anew. She was here again.

The woman he remembered sat nearby in a large padded chair, stitching something on a small hooped frame.

Through lowered lashes, Richard watched her poke the needle in and out, curse under her breath as the thread knotted, and then put it aside on the floor.

How terribly sad she looked, too morose for tears. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and her beautiful, long-fingered hands clasped beneath her chin.

“Please,” she whispered, “Please do not let him hate me. I will do anything—”

“Come here,” he ordered, curtly interrupting her prayer.

Perfectly lucid now, his dream did not seem a dream at all. He said a quick prayer himself that their former conversation had been a daft imagining. Still, he feared it was not so.

Her words just now did not bode well at all. There must be a reason she would be praying for him not to hate her.

She complied with his summons immediately, all but leaping from the chair to answer it. “Have you hunger now? Darcy is on her way with your food.”

“A plague on the food! Did you or did you not speak to me earlier? What did you say then? Who in God’s name are you, woman, and where am I?” he demanded, piercing her with his most threatening glare.

She raised her chin and squarely met his glare with the glowing amber of her own. “Aye, we did speak. I told you that I am Sara, Lady of Fernstowe. That is where you are, sir. Castle Fernstowe, near the northern border of England.”

“Yes, yes, I recall your name now,” he grumbled impatiently. “But I imagined you said another thing, that we—”

“Are wed, sir. Aye, we are that.”

What was this nonsense? She stood near, but far enough away that he could not reach to shake the truth from her.

Richard forced a laugh. “I wed once and vowed never to do so again. If you think you can make me believe you are my wife, you must be mad.”

“Nay, not mad. I needed a husband and here you were. The king agreed readily enough. He loaned his priest. He stood by you and assisted you in signing the—”

“He did no such thing! Whatever your game, it will not play, madam!” With all his shouting, Richard’s voice quickly receded to a painful whisper. “It will not play.”

“We are wed, I tell you. I have the documents if you would see them.” She threw out her hands in a gesture of frustration and spun around, giving him her back.

Richard squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his head back against the pillow until his neck cramped.

“No!” he said through gritted teeth. “I sleep. I sleep and am cursed by a fevered nightmare. When I wake, ’twill be to feel the earth beneath me where I fell.”

“Would it were so if you’re fool enough to wish it!”

“Or my sins were greater than I thought and this is hell,” he muttered, throwing his arm over his eyes. “I save a king and this is my thanks?” He scoffed. “Virago.”

“Oh, you are most welcome, husband! Welcome to this bed and for my care, you ungrateful wretch!”

“For God’s sweet sake, woman,” he shouted hoarsely, “would you leave me alone and let me rest in peace!”

“Well, I should have done!” she cried. “But you live. And now you are mine, Richard Strode. For better or worse, you are mine. So make what you will of it!”

The door slammed and Richard knew she was gone.

“Short work of it is what I’ll make, you sharp-tongued witch,” he muttered. “For I will not be wed. Not to you, or any other.”