My Lady's Choice. Lyn Stone
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