Juliana Garnett (22 page)

And there was naught he could do about it. He was to wed her in a few hours’ time, and they would be bound for eternity.

Closing his eyes, Rolf had the bleak thought that he was truly damned.

Kneeling at the altar, Annice had the fleeting thought that she was making a dreadful mistake. Rolf knelt beside her, his body tense, his replies given in a rough voice that made her heart sink. There had been no admiration in his eyes when he’d first seen her, only a chill gleam of icy green before he turned away.

Heartsick, she’d clasped her hands tightly together and looked down at her clenched fingers. Rolf, resplendent in his gold-and-sable tunic, a scarlet mantle draped over broad shoulders—tall and handsome and splendidly golden—dismissing her as he had the first time she’d seen him, with an indifferent glance. All the pains she had taken to look her best were for naught.

Clad in the amber tunic of silk and a cloth-of-gold cotte, she looked like a living flame. Belle had been awed as she’d placed a heavy necklace around Annice’s throat and told her how beautiful she was, but it had taken a glance in a polished silver mirror to convince her. Embroidered in gilt threads, the amber silk flowed over her body in graceful folds. Long sleeves edged in more intricate embroidery trailed to the ground; they were kept from dragging by thin, beaten gold chains fastened to a gold girdle worn around her hips over the cotte. Slender threads of gold had been woven into her loose hair, glittering in the light. A circlet of
dainty, fragile blossoms lay atop her crown, the tiny yellow and white flowers delicately beautiful.

But it was the necklace that commanded the greatest attention, jewels of gold and garnet lying like fire upon her breast. Matching earrings dangled from her earlobes, flashing fire each time she moved. Rolf had sent them to her chamber as a wedding gift early that morning. She had wanted to thank him for the unusual gift and smiled up at him when they stood before the altar.

But the cold, frigid gaze turned on her had frozen her in place and made her heart sink. He resented this marriage, she knew, but she had thought he’d grown warmer toward her. His thoughtfulness in displaying her father’s colors, and the soft words at the evening meal, had given her hope.

That hope was dashed now, and she bent her head and dutifully made the proper responses as the priest clad in richly embroidered vestments conducted the ceremony. Candles flickered in tall branches, reflecting from gilded statues and embroidered altar cloths. The smell of incense was strong, the rustle and murmurs overly loud in the crowded chapel of the village church. People spilled from the chapel onto the front steps, and all the way to the town square. This was an occasion for the villagers, and all had turned out. Not just to see their liege lord wed, but because after, at the castle, they would be given food and drink, and there would be entertainment for those fortunate enough to find a place to stand in the hall. Others would wait outside, craning their necks to see, drinking wine and ignoring the admonitions of the priests to be abstinent.

Most of the ceremony passed for Annice in a daze. Despite the stuffiness inside the crowded chapel, she was shivering by the time the priest finished his benediction and told Rolf to kiss his wife. After a fleeting brush of his lips against hers, Rolf took her hand and helped her to her feet. She turned blindly toward the sea of strange faces.

If this had been a normal wedding, there would be loved ones there to smile at her, to come forward and kiss her cheek and wish her well. But there was only Belle, smiling tremulously at her from the side, eyes aglow with romantic
dreams. Poor girl. She thought her lord in love, when in truth he was only obeying his king.

Stepping down from the altar railing, Annice focused on where to put her feet instead of on her husband. He still held her arm, his fingers warm around her wrist, steadying her. She spared a prayer of gratitude that he held her up, for she could not have traversed the length of the chapel without support. She had a vague impression of vaulted ceilings and hundreds of candles, strange faces lining the chapel aisles. Then, as they passed through the tall doors to go outside, she saw her vassals standing attendance. They watched gravely, witnesses to their old lord’s daughter and their new overlord’s union.

Cleit of Wulfcot and Sir Simon stood nearest, and they dropped to one knee as she passed. Then she was gone, out on the front steps of the church, sunlight in her eyes and a soft breeze cooling her face. Rolf lifted her, both hands around her waist, and set her upon a dainty snow-white palfrey caparisoned in flowing silks and wreaths of flowers. They rode through the village streets at a slow pace, flowers strewn before them and grains tossed at them to bless their union with fertility.

Annice suppressed the urge to break into laughter. It seemed a masquerade to her, a mummer’s play to entertain bored guests. Even when they were finally back in the great hall at Dragonwyck and she was seated at the high table, nothing seemed real. There was the element of a dream to it, all hazy passages of images before her eyes that would vanish when she awoke.

Time dragged past in an agony for her. She sat stiffly, the smile feeling frozen upon her face as course after course was proudly brought out and presented by the cooks. Servants bore heavy platters to the tables, jellied eels, baked salmon, stewed eels, boiled porpoise and herring—lamprey, pike, and cod—so many fish dishes swam before her gaze that she began to feel slightly seasick. That thought provoked a spasm of laughter that stuck in her throat, and she managed a cough to cover her distress.

“Milady,” Sir Simon said, leaning close to her, “art thou well?”

She lifted her gaze to his face and saw concern there. Should she admit her fears? Nay, she knew she could not.

Managing a smile, she murmured, “Yea, Sir Simon. I am quite well, only a bit bemused by all the dishes being served. Is that a swan I see being brought in?”

Sir Simon turned slightly to look at the squires bearing a huge, heavy platter to the high table to present. A swan had been roasted, its feathers replaced, and the entire bird displayed upon a lake of blue pastry as if swimming. Jellied trees and bushes shivered with each step the squires took. Behind those came another magnificent dish, this time a roast peacock, feathers replaced as the swan’s, the fanned tail resplendent with brilliant plumage.

As was his duty, Rolf rose to his feet and solemnly pronounced the dishes most beautiful and the cooks most imaginative. With his benediction the dishes were taken away to be properly carved.

Though the musicians had been playing throughout the meal, they struck up a livelier melody as these platters were removed to the kitchens. Now would come dancing before the next course was served, and Annice’s throat tightened. She would be expected to dance with Rolf, of course, but had not thought about it. Nothing had been on her mind but the wedding and her husband’s mercurial moods.

Fortunately, there were scores of willing dancers to disguise her stiffness from any who were watching. Rolf’s hand on hers was warm and his grip light, as if he were not her lawful wedded husband but a remote stranger. When she dared a glance upward, even his eyes were those of a stranger, distant and cool, regarding her through the dark bristle of his lashes with indifference. She looked away, dismay clouding her vision.

Rolf’s hand tightened on hers. “Do not pretend coyness where it does not exist, lady wife,” he murmured, and when her glance shot to his face, a mocking smile curled his mouth. “Ah, I see that you are aware of my meaning.”

“On the contrary,” she snapped as anger scattered the cloud of dismay, “I have no idea what you are talking about. Pray, explain.”

“Later.” His fingers slid from the cup of her palm to her wrist in a light clasp. “When we are alone.”

Though she would have liked to demand that he answer her at once, she knew that there were those present who would love nothing better than a reason to gossip. Nay, there would be no titillating pieces of gossip to take to Seabrook’s willing ear, or even to the king’s. Not if she could prevent it.

Her mouth tightened, lips pressed close together to hold back an angry retort. When they returned to their chairs, impatiently waiting servants began bringing in more courses for the tables. Intricate subtleties made of cake and jellies in the form of hunting scenes, castles, and even a man and woman, were brought in to mark the end of each course. Wine flowed freely, and there was a seemingly endless procession of peas, relishes, and greens.

After those courses were removed, there was more dancing. This time Annice was claimed by Sir Simon, and then Cleit of Wulfcot, followed by Rannulf of Melton Mowbray and Richard de Whitby After dancing with her vassals, she found herself partner to a loyal agent of the king’s, Robert de Vieuxpont.

Smiling down at her, Lord Robert said pleasantly, “I recall your father well, milady. ’Tis glad I am to see his daughter wedded to the king’s man. Your recent … misfortune … has now been remedied.”

Uncomfortable at his steady regard, Annice managed a smile. “Yea, milord, I pray that all misfortunes may be so alleviated. ’Twas kind of the king to remember me in my distress.”

Lord Robert’s brow rose slightly. Her reply could be taken in any manner he wished, and after a moment he apparently chose to regard it as favorable. He smiled.

“Though the king may at times appear to forget his loyal subjects, I assure you he does not. Many rebel barons will find to their sorrow that neither does he forget disloyal subjects. John has a long memory, it is said.”

Annice looked down, and when the steps of the dance brought them close again, she murmured, “I pray that the
king has a long memory indeed, for if he does, he will not forget that my father loved him.”

“ ’Tis obvious that he has not forgotten, or your misfortune with Luc d’Arcy could have seen you imprisoned.” Lord Robert smiled and said softly, “I am well pleased that you have made the right choice, milady. You will not regret it.”

Glancing toward Rolf, who was dancing with one of his vassals’ wives, she murmured, “I pray that you are right, Lord Robert.”

As if sensing her gaze, Rolf chose that moment to look up. Their eyes met briefly, and her heart lurched. Aye, he was fair to look upon, but what was in his heart? Would she regret this union even more than she regretted her marriage to Luc? She prayed not. Holy Mary, but she prayed that the man she had wed would not destroy her.

She barely realized when the dance ended and she was claimed as partner by another loyal vassal. Names crowded her head, and she struggled to sort through them properly, greeting each man by his correct title. It seemed strange to her that tenants of rebel lords could be loyalists, and conversely, that loyalist barons might tenure lands to avowed rebels. In Lincolnshire alone, it was said, over a hundred writs of seisin had been addressed. Eustace de Vesci owned vast Lincolnshire estates, with many tenants. Rebels crowded loyalists in this more densely populated shire and were conspicuously absent.

There would be a civil conflict, she was certain. Who would win? And what would it mean to her? Mary and Joseph, but she dared not admit that she cared not which side won, as long as she was left to her own. She was sick of war, sick of political strife, sick to death of watching every word spoken, every glance misconstrued.

Even worse was not knowing if she could speak frankly to her own husband, who was the most puzzling of all. The Dragon’s fierce loyalty was well-known to all, but he would not be the first man who spoke loudly of loyalty while wreaking treachery in secret.

There was no one she could trust, no one she could turn
to in this chaotic world of politics and change. Least of all the man she had just wed.

Seated again, she took a deep breath. Her head pounded, and the music seemed overloud. She wished she could flee to her chambers and have this day over with. But it was still day, with light streaming in through the scraped hides stretched over high windows. No glass filled these tall windows, as in the luxury of the bedchambers. Candles gave off spears of light from a heavy candelabra swung from the high ceiling in the middle of the hall, and torches sputtered in metal holders along the walls. Even with the windows, light could not reach the darker corners and beneath the arches.

Boar and venison were served in another wave of courses, some in rich sauces, some roasted. Wild ducks and herons were brought in also, along with other game courses. Pies were cut and small birds flew out, soaring toward the vaulted ceiling in a flurry of feathers. The smell of the food began to nauseate her. People were louder with the passage of time and freely imbibed wine, and she longed for fresh air.

Annice’s hand closed upon the stem of her goblet and she shut her eyes for a brief moment. At her side she could hear Rolf’s deep murmur as he talked with the baron on his left. When night fell, they would be escorted to the bridal chamber, there to be shut in together until morning. With the unusual circumstances of the marriage and her being a widow, there was to be no bedding ceremony, and she was grateful. She could not have borne being undressed and examined before the assemblage, standing in gooseflesh and shivering while all remarked upon the fairness of the bride and the sturdiness of the groom. In this instance it would have been obscene.

“Milady,” a voice at her shoulder murmured, and she turned to see Sir Guy. A faint smile curved his mouth, and he was propped with a crutch. Gesturing to it, he said ruefully, “I cannot ask you to dance, but I want to impart my best wishes for your happiness.”

She smiled at him. “Your wishes are most appreciated,
Sir Knight. Should you be up and about? Your wound will not mend easily if you exert yourself.”

A boyish grin squared his mouth, making him look much younger than she’d supposed him to be. “ ’Tis worth a slow mending just to look upon your fair face, milady.”

Annice felt Rolf shift beside her, heard his low voice say in an amused tone, “You do not seem overly injured, Sir Guy. It seems that your tongue is just as facile. I had thought you on your deathbed, if I were to believe some of the maids frantic at your condition.”