Lady At Arms (23 page)

Sir Walter raised a staying hand. “Pray, listen to me. As the king has decreed what will be, you will only do yourself and your family disservice if you defy him. Thus, you must let Lady Lizanne decide her own fate, which is as it should be.”

Ranulf narrowed his gaze on him.

“And this I know…” Walter gripped Ranulf’s arm. “…you will gain what you seek. She will choose
you
.”

Ranulf was jolted by the conviction in his vassal’s voice.
Would
Lizanne choose him? After the accusations she had made against him and affirmation of the feelings she had once had for Philip? He did not believe it.

“Unhand me, vermin!” Lizanne strained against the two men on either side of her who held her arms, but resistance was useless. Expressionless—or nearly so, for neither man was entirely successful in keeping a smirk from his lips—they pulled her through the wide doorway, pushed her forward, and retreated.

As the doors behind came together with a resounding thud, the king’s booming voice reached her from across the hall. “We thought, perhaps, you had decided to leave us early, Lady Lizanne.”

She drew a long breath, looked across the expansive floor to where King Henry sat in an elaborately carved chair high upon a raised platform. Beside him sat Eleanor, arrayed in a gown the color of sapphires. To the queen’s left stood a stout priest, a psalter clasped between his hands. To the right of the platform were Ranulf and Philip.

Lizanne looked between the two men, but it was Ranulf her eyes came to rest upon. Though he was some distance away, she saw the tight-lipped expression he wore and the hard glint in his eyes. Something bad was afoot. And she was not at all surprised.

“Come, Lady Lizanne,” Henry ordered. “You have kept us waiting too long as it is.”

No doubt, for the younger of the two soldiers who had come for her while she strolled the gardens this morning had grumbled over the amount of time expended to find her. And, when she had refused to accompany them unless they revealed her destination, they had lost all patience and dragged her into the palace.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked forward and silently counted her steps two by two in an attempt to distract the anxious thoughts she did not wish to show upon her face.

She halted in front of Henry whose thunderous expression nearly made her forget what was expected of her. Lightly lifting her skirts, she knelt before him.

“Enough,” he said.

With a sidelong glance at Ranulf, she straightened.

“’Tis time you wed, Lady Lizanne,” Henry began in a tone similar to the one her father had used when she misbehaved.

Dear Lord, I have not much hope of escape this time, do I?

“For too long, you have been a burden to your brother. Thus, ’tis time that burden was passed to another.” He smiled at that.

And he could, for he was not the one made to suffer a bad marriage, which was surely what hers would be if she was forced to exchange vows with Philip Charwyck. But surely there were others with whom the king might match her.

“Once again,” Henry continued, “I have taken it upon myself to find you a suitable match. This time”—he pointed at her—“you will not defy me. I will see you wed this day and, henceforth, I expect to hear no more of your unladylike behavior.”

This
day. Lizanne swung her gaze to the priest. The reason for his presence suddenly clear—worse, the reason for Philip’s presence and only Philip—she felt a terrible weight fall upon her.

No hope at all, Lord…

“Is that understood, Lady Lizanne?”

She looked to Ranulf who, it seemed, was prepared to hand her over to Philip himself.

I am going to be sick.

She swallowed hard, shifted her weight to counter the wave of dizziness, and looked to the man who would, this night, claim marital rights over her.

Philip Charwyck smiled slowly and raised his eyebrows above triumphant eyes—as if he were about to gain a prize he very much wanted. But how could he want her? Why consent to a marriage he had years ago refused?

Heart beating hard and fast, Lizanne returned her gaze to the king. “Your majesty, I beseech you—”

“Is it understood, Lady Lizanne?” Angry color rose in his face.

She cast her eyes down, nodded.

“You will look at me when I speak!”

Lizanne lifted her head. “Aye, your Majesty. It is understood.”

He considered her, then smiled. “I am pleased we are finally in accord. Indeed, it puts me in a generous mood.” He leaned back in his great chair. “You would like me to be generous, would you not, Lady Lizanne?”

In what way? Allow her to drink herself into oblivion before being tossed upon the marriage bed? Provide a few more feather pillows to soften the violation she would be made to suffer this night by a man she would be made to suffer the remainder of her life?

At her continued silence, the king grunted. “Despite your most recent behavior, I will, indeed, be generous. As the queen believes it would be fitting to give you a choice in the matter of whom you wed, I present these two knights.” He jutted his chin in the direction of Philip. And Ranulf.

Lizanne jerked. Ranulf was offering for her as well? Why? He had said he had declined to be numbered among those who might take her to wife and now…

The king had forced him to it. That had to be it.

Feeling heavier yet, she looked to Ranulf and met those unwavering black eyes. Even at a distance, she recognized the anger there that confirmed he was no willing participant in the king’s game. Next, she turned her regard upon Philip who looked self-assured and wore a charming smile. Though she had once thought him the most handsome of men, she could not help but compare him to Ranulf beside whom he paled.

“Well?” the king pressed.

She turned back to him. “I cannot,” she whispered and heard a sharply drawn breath she knew must have come from Philip.

Henry leaned forward. “I have given you a choice you do not deserve, and still you test me. So now I test you. Choose one of these men or make ready to enter a convent.”

A convent? That or Philip who, for some reason, wanted her though she did not want him. That or Ranulf who did not want her though she…

She put her chin up. “I choose the convent.”

Once again, the king’s face brightened, this time so much that it was difficult to discern where skin ended and hair began.

Nerves bunching, she sought out the queen, but the woman had turned her attention elsewhere as if uninterested in the discord that hung thick upon the hall.

The king heaved a sigh, and when she looked back at him, she saw he had regained most of his natural color. He rubbed a hand over his beard. “Then I withdraw the option of the convent.”

Lizanne took a step forward. “You cannot—”

“What?” He shot to his feet. “You question my authority?”

She quickly stepped back. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. ’Tis just that the other options do not so much appeal to me.”

He turned his head sharply toward Ranulf and Philip. “I see before me two worthy men for whom you can bear children, Lady Lizanne. Choose now or I will do it for you.”

For whom
she
could bear children. That was all she was to this man—a womb to bring forth more subjects in need of ruling.

Watch your temper, Lizanne! You have lost and will only lose more if you continue to defy him. The ability to choose between these two may be all you have, but it is everything.

She drew a deep breath that did little to calm her, inclined her head. “Very well, I will choose.” And make certain she was not the only one to suffer such humiliation and degradation.

She crossed the floor and halted before Ranulf. She stared at him, he stared at her, then she leaned in and whispered, “’Tis out of your hands now.”

His eyes narrowed.

She stepped back, appraisingly ran her gaze down him, then circled him. When she once more faced him, he was utterly still. However, his eyes belied his calm, warning of consequences for having been subjected to consideration reserved for gauging the worthiness of a horse.

Lizanne moved to Philip who smiled lazily at her as if they shared a secret. They did not.

She inclined her head, then appraised him in the same manner as Ranulf. He, too, grew still and, when she was done with him, his eyes also warned of consequences. But from the depth of outrage that shone from them, she knew his consequences would be much different from those doled out by Ranulf, and in that moment she was grudgingly grateful to have been given a choice of the man for whom she could bear children.

She crossed her arms over her chest, asked, “Do you wrestle, Sir Philip?”

She almost smiled, not because of the confusion that momentarily displaced his anger, but the suppressed choking sound made by Ranulf who obviously recalled the story she had told of her encounter with Sir Arthur Fendall.

“Enough of your games!” King Henry roared. “Choose!”

Lizanne placed a hand on Philip’s arm, turned to face Ranulf, and shrugged.

To her surprise, anger filled his eyes rather than relief. She had meant for him to think she had chosen Philip, and it seemed he did. But why should that displease him when he did not want her himself?

The game at its end, and none too soon, she looked to the king and gave words to her choice.

Philip Charwyck roared for clarification.

“I choose,” Lizanne repeated, turning away from Philip, “Ranulf Wardieu.” She stepped before him, curled her fingers around his arm, and looked to the king.

“A fine choice,” Henry proclaimed.

Ranulf stared at the profile of the woman before him. Now it was he who was dumbfounded, Charwyck who was infuriated. He whom relief ran through like a river, Charwyck whom umbrage turned rigid.

When Lizanne had taken such humiliating measure of him, he had berated himself for being a party to such antics, especially as he had been certain she would not choose him. Was it possible she hated Philip more strongly than she hated the man she believed Ranulf Wardieu to be? Or had she realized the error of her accusations? Accepted his disavowal of the odious thing done to her brother and her? Regardless, Walter was proven right.

The face Lizanne turned to him no longer reflected the devilry with which she had made a show of choosing between Charwyck and himself. Instead, there was sorrow as if of deepest regret. “I have kept my vow to you,” she said softly. “I only hope you do not rue it as much as I.”

In the presence of God, King Henry, Eleanor, and a modest gathering of Ranulf’s men, Lizanne and Ranulf stood before the priest an hour later and exchanged vows. It would have been sooner, but the queen had been adamant about the attire such an occasion warranted, and Lizanne’s borrowed garments had been deemed unacceptable.

Three seamstresses had quickly altered one of Eleanor’s gowns, a cream-colored samite heavily embroidered with silver and gold threads to which a flounce had been added to accommodate Lizanne’s height. Despondent, she had sat still while her hair was tamed and arranged beneath a light veil secured to her head with a garland of flowers.

When she had been escorted across the hall, she’d had no notion of the comely picture she presented until she met Ranulf’s gaze. She did not think she would ever forget the way his eyes settled upon her. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time.

Throughout the ceremony, she stared at her fisted hands amid the voluminous skirts, looking up only once to repeat the vows given her. Increasingly pained at having forced Ranulf into this travesty of a marriage, she knew it had been wrong of her, but she could not have chosen Philip. What her childish eyes had been blind to years ago, she now saw clearly.

When Ranulf lifted her chin to drop a kiss on her lips, she did not have time to respond before he drew away. She swayed, steadied her feet, and focused on the smiling faces that moved in from all sides.

Geoff was the first to reach her side. Grinning broadly, he gave her a quick, affectionate squeeze and said, “You are truly my lady, now.”

She tried to smile but, instead, felt her eyes pool with tears.

A hand emerged from the throng and extended a square of cloth. Glancing in that direction, she saw it was Walter. Although the corners of his mouth were only slightly curved, he was smiling.

At her? Why? He could not be pleased. Did he not dislike her?

The cloth fluttered beneath her nose.

She tried again for a smile, this one of gratitude, and accepted the offering and dabbed at her eyes. As she lowered her hand to the folds of her skirt, crumpling the soft linen between her fingers, Ranulf turned from the well-wishers and drew her against his side.

Swallowing convulsively, she looked up.

His smile seemed so genuine that her heart tumbled over itself. And again when he pulled her closer, turned her body into his, and touched his lips to her temple. “Let us make the best of this, hmm?” he whispered, the warm sweep of his breath raising the hairs along her arms.

She nodded. “I shall try…Husband.”

A moment later, they were swept along to the main hall where a hastily prepared but worthy feast was laid out to celebrate their marriage.

Lizanne was overwhelmed by the number of people who awaited them. It seemed as if all of London had turned out for the occasion.

The men were quick to congratulate Ranulf, slapping him on the back, cuffing him on the shoulder, and muttering words in his ear that Lizanne could only guess at.

In contrast, most of the women were less enthusiastic, especially the younger ladies who gazed at the handsome groom with what seemed longing and regret. And which made Lizanne look closer upon the man who was now her husband.

Considering his strong profile, she tried to see him in a different light from the one corrupted by the anger and hate of the past. Not only was he peculiarly handsome with that shock of long pale hair, but he was young and virile—a baron held in high regard by the king. He was honorable, patient, kind.

Most certainly it was envy that held the other women apart from her, each one likely believing herself more worthy than Lizanne with her wild black hair and bothersome height that topped the majority by inches.