Dragon's Dower. Catherine Archer
him to tell her what he was about in bidding her to come to court. He would say nothing until he was prepared to do so. No amount of coaxing had ever changed that, as she’d learned from early childhood.
Again Isabelle wondered why her father had her summoned here. Dared she even hope? Surely he would choose the weakest, most malleable of men, the kind who fawned and cowered before him. And when he did, Isabelle herself might hope to exert some influence over such a man. Marriage would bring the possibility of freedom from the tight fist of her father’s control.
Unfortunately until that event occurred Isabelle must play the part of dutiful and obedient daughter. It was a part she had learned to play very well.
To cover her extreme agitation she focused her attention on her clothing, her jewels and her hair. She ran her hand over the deep-blue velvet of her skirt, concentrating on the roughness of the silver embroidery beneath her fingers. She knew that the silver slippers she wore and the sheer veil with its silver circlet were the perfect complement for the gown with its tight bodice and low square neck.
Unbidden, thoughts of the stranger who had stopped to ask if she required assistance the previous day came into her head. He had indeed been very handsome with his well-formed masculine features, dark hair and warm brown eyes. Those dark-lashed eyes had also looked on her with appreciation as he raked his thick straight hair back from a high, intelligent forehead.
Unlike other times when she had been viewed thusly, his appreciation had made something shift inside her, something feminine and vulnerable. For the stranger had been seeing her—Isabelle—and with gentle eyes. He had not known that she was the only offspring of the Earl of Kelsey.
Though many men had professed to find her attractive they knew her father had no other heir to his earldom but her. They sought power, as her father had done in attaining his earldom—from betraying his own brother. That man had been her uncle, the one other warriors had called The Dragon because of his skill and fierceness in battle, and because of his fierce sense of honor, duty and love. It was to her uncle that she owed thanks for the vast dower her suitors sought.
Isabelle’s heart ached afresh at the thought of the loss of him. For though she had been a small child when he died she had loved her uncle Wallace like no other human being. He had been kind and gentle and all that was good in the world and thus became the prey of one who would do what he must to gain power and position.
Her father. She hated her father more for that than for all his many cruelties to her. But he was all she had. Her mother had died when she was very small and the only thing she knew of her folk was that they lived in Normandy. Once, not long after her mother’s death, a woman had visited, saying she was Isabelle’s aunt, but her father had sent her away and she had never returned.
All Isabelle could do to try to make things right was to think of the dower that would someday be hers as her father’s only heir. In memory of The Dragon she would teach her child to be like his great uncle Wallace had been.
The knock that sounded at the door did not surprise her, nor did the presence of her father’s man, Sir Fredrick, standing there when one of the other women opened it. Father had sent word this morn that she was to be at the ready for his summons.
Without haste Isabelle stood, again smoothing her hand over the skirt of her kirtle.
She kept her head high beneath the gazes of the women of the court. She was grateful when the door closed behind her and she no longer had to endure their hurtful speculation.
Sir Fredrick paid her little heed other than to clear the hallway for her passage. She did not need to be told that his efforts were more in aid of hurrying to reach her father than any concern for her. He had been with her father for as long as she had memory and made his complete loyalty to the earl known at all times. Though Isabelle was amazed that her cold and distant father could have inspired such devotion in any man, she had come to accept it.
They moved on to a more sumptuously appointed portion of the castle, finally arriving at a door, which the knight opened without knocking. Still trying to remain impassive, Isabelle moved ahead of him when he stepped aside and motioned her forward.
What she saw on the other side of the door was a surprise to test the skills of self-possession that she had spent her lifetime perfecting.
The long narrow chamber bore four occupants. At the far end of the chamber, her father, King John and another man stood with their backs to her. With them was a priest.
Her gaze went to her father, even as she felt the eyes of the king come to rest upon her face. There was something familiar about the third man, who still stood with his back toward her, his wide shoulders encased in dark-green velvet. There was something about the thick, straight dark hair that brushed the velvet of his collar.
Her questioning gaze went back to her father. He cast an approving glance over her, assessing her to determine if she was properly representing him, as he always did, but not seeing her. He nodded and said, “Very well, then. Isabelle has arrived. We may begin.”
Isabelle met the king’s sharp gaze for a brief moment as she asked, “Begin what, Father?” She was pleased at the cool unconcern of her tone. It betrayed none of the agitation that made her heart pound painfully in her chest. Peripherally she became aware that the other man had finally turned around.
Isabelle’s gaze moved to his face. Her heart stopped, then thumped to life again as she saw, saints above, that it was the very man she had met upon the road the previous day. The very man who had been so much in her thoughts in spite of her wishes to the contrary.
If the shock on his handsome face was any indication, he was as surprised to see her here as she was him.
What indeed was he doing here in this chamber with her father, the king and a clergyman? Forcing herself to speak evenly, she asked again, “Begin what, Father?”
There was a long heavy silence. “Haven’t you even told her?” It was the stranger’s deep voice. His brown eyes met hers. In them she saw resentment.
Odd. Odder still was her reaction to his expression. The ripples of annoyance and unwanted regret that rolled through her made it difficult to retain her pose of calm. She was not sorry when he turned to glare at her father.
Her father scowled. “What I tell my daughter is none of your concern.”
“It is if she is to be my bride.”
“Bride.” The word was nothing more than a whisper of outgoing breath. She had hope, but…It was so sudden.
Her shock was lost to the others as her father replied, coldly, “You have me there, Warleigh. But recall as you consider yourself master to my daughter that I am master to you.”
The man who, if she was hearing aright, was to be her husband, answered with equal lack of warmth. “’Tis only through dastardly doing that it be so. Had you not falsely accused me—”
Her father blustered. “Dastardly? I’ll have you keep your accusations to—”
King John halted them with upraised hands. “No more.” He cast her father a warning glance. “You assured me that you could see to this matter. Keep this man in check.”
Her father bowed. “That I will, Sire.”
“And you, my lord, you will recall that it is only by my mercy that you have been granted this opportunity to live. You will create no trouble for your father-by-marriage. Is that clear, Warleigh?”
Warleigh. In all these years she had not forgotten the names of the three fosterlings who had given evidence against her uncle. Shock rolled through her anew. Not only was she to marry one of the ones who had done her such ill, the marriage had clearly been foisted on the angry and resentful Warleigh as a punishment.
Never had she expected love, or even affection. But she had not thought to be given in such a state of resentment, had even hoped the man she wed might be malleable to her own wishes. Warleigh’s outraged pride told of a strong and commanding will. Heaven help her, it would take every ounce