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

Sara fled to the door of her old sleeping chamber, but before her hand touched the door handle, she changed her mind. No, she would not seclude herself in there like a child rebuked. Her behavior toward her husband had been childish enough.

Had she not expected Sir Richard’s anger once he awakened? It was not as though he would thank the angels for the privilege of marrying her. If she’d thought that possible, she would have waited until he knew what he was doing.

The man had been tricked, by her and by his liege. Small wonder he cursed his fate and her, as well. But the marriage was done and he could not undo it, not without demanding annulment and questioning the honor of the King of England to his face. Though her husband’s angry reaction to wedding her had bruised Sara’s feelings, she vowed she would shed no tears over it.

She had passed twenty-one summers and never wept for any man, none save her poor father when the dreadful Scots slew him six months ago.

Simon, Baron of Fernstowe, had been a man to weep for. How she missed him. If only this knight of hers would come to care for her half as much as her beloved sire had done, she would cry tears of joy for it.

Very little hope of that, she thought, scoffing at herself. Even had this fine knight come courting, cap in hand and contract readied, it would have been her lands that he sought, not herself. Ungainly tall as she was and with her face scarred to the bargain, no handsome warrior like Sir Richard Strode would stoop to win her favor. Foolish even to indulge in any fantasy such as that.

She marched down to the kitchens to see to the making of candles and wiped the foolish wishes from her mind.

All the while she issued orders to the maids performing the noisome work, Sara bent her mind to a practical solution. She would win her husband’s respect if nothing else.

And when he bedded her, she meant to make him glad of her attentions. He would find no whimpering virgin twixt the sheets when they sealed their bargain. Untried she might be, but Sara had never whimpered in her life.

She knew full well what to expect. Life in a castle did not lend itself to privacy and she had a curious mind. Though the act itself looked rather awkward, even frightening betimes, so was riding a horse 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. “Aye, if she says it, then ’tis so. And she’s a fine lass, is my lady. Ye’ll treat her kind. I’ll be seein’ ta that. I ain’t lookin’ ta die fer attackin’ my betters, but do ye fergit her worth, I’ll see ye straight ta hell afore me.” Then he smiled, sweet as you please. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milord, I’ve horses ta shoe.”

Richard hid his smile until the door closed. The smithy might be one to watch, but he had convinced Richard he was no Scots spy here to scout the place for future raids. Pledging lifelong fealty to the family who saved his life spoke well for the man’s honor.

Richard’s father had taught him that loyalty weighed more heavily in a man’s favor than all other virtues combined. Richard lived by it, serving Edward III unto death as he had vowed to do at sixteen.

Richard shifted and winced. He had very nearly met that obligation earlier than hoped. And how had the king thanked him for that? Saddled him with a wife and property he had no use for.

How many times had Richard stated without equivocation that he intended to remain unwed forever? That he wished nothing more than to ride behind his king until he met the reaper or grew too old to sit a saddle? More times than he had fingers, that was for certain. Had the man ever listened?

Richard sighed and closed his eyes again, brushing a hand over his face. Yes, of course Edward had listened. He never missed a word spoken within his hearing by anyone. He heard every syllable, every nuance of meaning, then evaluated, drew his conclusions and acted on them according to his and England’s needs. That meant Edward of Windsor had a reason for wedding one of his knights to this woman. A purpose greater than the need to keep one knight content.

There would be written orders. Of that, Richard had no doubt. He would follow them, of course. Had he not sworn? This sacrifice ill suited him, this taking of a wife when the thought was so hateful to him, but he would not protest to the king. Knowing Edward, it would accomplish nothing save to raise that Plantagenet temper. Any man with any sanity avoided that at all costs.

In fact, Edward had likely set this task with an eye to a twofold result. Fernstowe, a favored keep of Edward’s, would gain a watchdog, and the king would see whether he had the unquestioning obedience of the man set to the task. This, then, was a test in addition to a mission.

“Ah, damn you, Ned! How could you doubt me? Why would you?” Richard rasped, slamming a fist against the mattress.

That cursed female had put the idea in the king’s head. And Edward did hold soft feelings for the married state. He loved his queen—and rightly so—but it gave him the idea all the souls in Christendom should march through life in pairs. Ha!

Lying here, useless and groaning, would gain him no answers. But at the moment, he knew he could not drag himself down to Fernstowe’s hall, naked as the day he first drew breath, and demand an accounting from his new wife.

He was trapped.

Sara dressed with care the next morn. She drew her second finest gown and chemise from her clothing chest and shook out the creases. The pale saffron and emerald-green suited her coloring. Father had always liked her in this one.

As she donned it, working her arms into the fitted sleeves, the smooth samite felt light and smooth floating against her bare skin. She executed a whirl as though dancing, and smiled as the billowing fabric settled around her body. ’Twas a childlike thing to do, but Sara had learned long ago to take small pleasures wherever she could find them.

The soft woolen overgown warmed her, calmed her as it smoothed over the folds of the silk. She fastened a belt of golden cord round her hips using a clasp set with pretty stones. The long tasseled ends of the cord swung nicely against her knees when she walked.

Will he like it? Sara wondered as she brushed out the length of her dark mane and caught it up in a twist. The pins carved of bone slid out of her grasp and she had to begin again. Once she had tamed her unruly hair, draping it on the sides to try to cover her scar, she placed a transparent veil of silk over the crown of her head and secured it with a thin circlet.

Hesitantly she picked up the polished silver mirror that had once belonged to her mother. For a moment she studied her reflection, trying to examine her features without noting the scar. “No use,” she admitted, making a wry face at herself. She could see naught but the long, thin line from brow to chin, too far from her hairline to cover completely with a wave.

With a sharp huff of resignation, she put the mirror away. He’d already seen the scar anyway. Vanity would be her undoing. She must accept herself the way she was and see to it that her husband did the same. She’d not disguise her faults, not the scar, not her height by stooping or bending her knees, or her willfulness. That last, he’d probably like least of all. But he might as well adjust to the whole of her at once.

Sara went to her writing table and picked up her marriage documents, along with the missive King Edward had left for her husband. With a lift of her chin and a squaring of her shoulders, she went to present herself to the man she had chosen to share her life.

“Will he nill he,” she repeated the king’s words, and stretched her mouth into a confident smile of greeting.

He was sitting up in bed looping the ties of a loose sark when she entered. Either Eustiss or Darcy had returned his clothing to him, and he was almost fully dressed.

At first glance, Sara knew he did not recognize her. That accounted for the pleasant smile. It faltered at once. “Oh, it’s you,” he muttered, resuming his task of dressing.

“You should not be up and about yet, sir,” she admonished, noting the sweat on his brow and the paleness of his face.

“I am well enough,” he replied. “I was about to come and seek you out. There are matters we must discuss.”

“No argument there. But I believe I have what you would have sought,” she said. Stepping closer, she held out the folded parchments. “Our marriage lines and a letter from the king.”

He snatched them from her hand, pushed himself back upon the bed and unfolded the one on top. She watched him scan the bold writing long enough to read the signatures and then toss it aside. The sealed packet took more time.

When he had finished reading that one, he sighed and lay back against the pillows, not resigned, but fuming.

Sara felt she must say something to break the ominous silence. “I regret you are not pleased.”

His eyes cut to her and then through her, chilling her to the marrow. “Do you?”

She lowered her head submissively. Now was no time to assert herself with a pithy reply. He looked dangerous. Not surprising, but disappointing all the same. Reason might not work today.

For the present, however, she could remind him of all he had gained by this match. “The king offered me a choice of husbands, you see. This was my reward for saving your life. I asked myself why would any landless knight not welcome rich properties, more coin in his coffers, a strong woman to bear his children?”

He spoke through gritted teeth. “I am not landless, nor do I need your wealth. And I already have children.”

“Oh, but that’s wonderful, sir! Will you bring them here? I adore—”

“Spare me that tripe,” he snapped. “I’ve seen how you noble women adore! My progeny can do without that quite well, thank you!”

Sara moved to the bed and laid a hand over his. He snatched it away, scattering the papers across the coverlet. “Richard? I may call you so, may I not? I am sincere in this, believe me,” she continued without awaiting an answer. “I love little ones, I do. Nothing would please me more than to have you send for them. I do recall the king saying you were father to a fine son. You have more than one child, then?”

Richard grunted, not deigning to look at her.

“How many and how old are they?” she asked, hoping to supplant his ire with fatherly pride. “Come, do tell me!”

“A son of seven years,” he said, nearly spitting the words. Then he turned his gaze on her. “And a daughter of eight. A bastard. How will you adore that one, madam?”

Sara stood back, folding her hands in front of her and tilting her head to one side. Her husband thought to shock her, mayhap even to humiliate her by demanding she take in his natural child. Foolish man. A real smile crept across her face. “I shall gladly be mother to both if you will allow it.”

His expression changed to one of patent disbelief. Then he changed the subject entirely. “The king wishes me to settle the Scots matter hereabouts as soon as I am well. That was his intent in allowing you this marriage to me. So much for your fine reward.”

If he meant to disappoint her with that news, he had certainly failed. “I know. Your success in that alone would be reward enough. They did kill my father. ’Twas my reason for choosing you over the other suitors.”

“You had others?” he demanded.

She smiled wryly. “Surprising as it is, I did.”

“Why did they not merit your grand gesture?”

She shrugged, still holding on to her smile. “One was nigh as much trouble as the reivers and the other probably tied to his lands in Kent. I wrongly assumed you were landless since you travel in the king’s retinue as a knight. I thought we would both benefit by this arrangement.” She toyed with a tassel on the end of her belt, swinging it to and fro, then feathering the tufts with her fingertips.

He followed the motion of her hands for a moment and then jerked his attention elsewhere.

“That is all it shall be,” he announced. “An arrangement. The king wants these lands and this keep made safe, so I shall make them so. But if you expect a loving husband to the bargain, you have made an unwise choice in me. When all is done, I shall remove myself to Gloucestershire and leave you to your precious Fernstowe.”

She digested that, losing the smile but holding on to her dignity. “I know I am no prize to covet, sir. My mother warned me well not to expect more than I was due or I would suffer for it. I need nothing from you but your sword once you are mended.” She rose to leave.

“Hold a moment. We are not done with this. Where is this mother of yours? Dead?”

“Nay, she took herself to a convent just after my father was slain.”

“A right good place for a woman who belittles her own child,” he said. “I do hope she acquires a smattering of kindness along with her vows.”

Sara jumped to her dam’s defense. “My mother was not unkind! She did not belittle me! She merely spoke the truth!”

He sat up straight and swung his legs off the side of the bed. “By disparaging your worth?”

Sara shook her head, uncertain what to say next.

“Do you seek sympathy from me with this tale? Or do you expect me to gainsay her and shower you with compliments? Very well then. You are beautiful. Beyond compare.” He tossed his head and scoffed. “As though you do not know it!”

Sara’s mouth dropped open. What did he mean, spouting this nonsense? “You speak of my mother’s unkindness and then you mock me?”

He narrowed his eyes and shook his finger at her then, as though she were a fractious child in need of chastising. “You mark me well, madam, I hold beauty in contempt. It means less than nothing, do you hear? Nothing!”

“You taunt me, sir,” she said, more hurt than angry, but she was that, too. “I accept that you do not want me as wife, but it is a done thing! So let it be!” With that, she whirled around and quit the chamber.

Richard regretted the conversation. Though he believed his ire justifiable under the circumstances, he found no excuse for destruction of the woman’s pride. She thought he objected to the marriage because of her face. He did not want her to believe that, but he could hardly give her his real reasons. He didn’t even like to admit them to himself.

He covered his eyes with one hand and exhaled all the pent-up fury in his lungs. When he had done so, only despair remained, and that so invasive, he almost prevented himself drawing in another breath. Yet, he could not afford to die. Good Lord, he had too many people dependent upon him; aging parents, his young children, the folk on his father’s estate and that of his son. Now, thanks to that king of his, he had acquired a wife and her assorted problems.

Though Richard never shirked responsibility, he did resent shouldering his older brother’s load. Had the errant Alan assumed what was rightfully his as he should have done, Richard would never have had the task of managing an estate that he would never really feel was his own. And he would not have had to wed in order to add the necessary pasturage needed to make Strodesouth turn profitable.

Though if he had not married, Richard recalled, Christopher would not exist, and having his son proved one of the finest joys in his life. The other was Nan, of course. Sweet little Nan.

Since he must remain here and do as the king had ordered, Richard wondered who would see to things at home. He had planned to be there in time to arrange for the shipping of the wool. Now he would not.

Richard forced himself to his feet again. He had to recover his strength as rapidly as possible and lying abed was no way to do that. Each halting step wrung new agony from the wound in his chest. He knew from experience that the grunts he uttered now would lessen in frequency as he became accustomed to the pain. The discomfort would sharpen his wits and banish the lethargy that fostered his current feelings of frustration. He needed to move, get things done. God only knows there were enough of them.

“You will come unstitched and bleed yourself out!” came the dulcet sound he both craved and dreaded. She was back again.

He turned too quickly and nearly fell. “What do you here?”

“What else?” She shrugged, holding out both hands, palms up. “To make amends. You must excuse my temper.”

“Do not tell me what I must do!”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Comes from issuing too many orders, I would think. There’s been no one else to do so for some half a year now, since my father died.”

In trying to quell the urge to fall down and faint, Richard held his breath for a moment. He released it on a question. “Why?”

“The Scots who killed my father also wounded his steward. He died later of infection. My mother left for the convent immediately after the funeral. The old priest died of age just recently. Eustiss would help me, but no one pays mind to his words. He is a Scot himself, after all, and most resent his telling them what to do. So, everyone looks to me, and there you have it.”

Here he had it. He nodded. “Sit,” he demanded. She did so, appropriating a stool near the fire hole while he shuffled to the chair she usually claimed.

“First of all,” he said, “we must address the attacks. I would call to arms all who are able to wield a weapon and assess their abilities. Training will take time, but I have no other recourse than to make defenders of those capable of it.”

She nodded and smiled her approval.

“No lord can be everywhere at once and the Scots take advantage of that fact. They attack the most vulnerable, those who would offer the least opposition. We must provide that resistance.”

“True,” she agreed with another succinct nod. “When would you begin?”

“Immediately, of course,” Richard answered, leaning on the armrests and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “The sooner the better.”

“Today?” she asked, unbelieving. “But you are not well enough! How do you expect to train a troop of men to fight when you can hardly stand without assistance?”

“I will do what must be done, my lady, and I, not you, shall decide what that might be!”

She leaped from the stool and paced, kicking her skirts out of her way with each step. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Undo all I have done for you, then. Ride out if you will. Challenge old Alan the True himself if you should happen upon—”

“Who?” Richard barked. “Whose name did you call just now?”

She stopped midstride and turned on him. “Alan the True, scourge of Bannockburn and friend to the old Bruce. Have you not heard of him? I assumed the king knew that he is the one we all dread.”

Richard felt his heart turn to cold lead, weighting down his very soul. Edward’s test of his loyalty was no longer an idle supposition, but a near certainty. “He may, though he has not mentioned him to me. Question is, my lady, what have you heard of this man? You are saying he is the one behind these raids?”

Her eyes took on a hatred so intense he marveled at it. When she spoke, her words contained pure venom. “That one boasted of his name to our men whom he left lying wounded in the wood. After he slew my father, he made certain all would learn of his deed.”

Her voice grew quiet with determination. “If you do nothing else when you are sound and hearty, my good sir, I would you brought me this man’s head. Do this, and I shall grant you anything that is within my power to give.”

Richard clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might crack. He dared not speak for fear of what he might say.

The woman could not know what she asked of him. Or perhaps she did. And he had small doubt that the king knew it also.

Richard wondered if Edward had brought him north for the sole purpose of pitting him against Alan. The wounding had not been planned, of that Richard was certain. However, it did seem fortuitous that the incident had left him in this particular place and with the responsibility of handling this border trouble. This, rather than the marriage itself, was to be his supreme ordeal.

Sara of Fernstowe wanted retribution for her father’s death and the king wanted rid of the threat to the Middle March. They could have conspired to accomplish both goals, using him as the instrument. Or all of this could be coincidental.

Not likely. But no matter what the circumstance, Richard could not do what they wished. Leastwise, not the way they wanted it done. Not for his king’s approval, not to satisfy his own resentment, and certainly not for this woman’s revenge, would Richard slay his own brother.