Suzanne Robinson (19 page)

Blade lowered his hands and sighed. There was naught to be done now. He stalked out of the library and went to his own chamber. René was waiting for him.

“You heard?” Blade asked.

“Oui.”

“She’s in love with me.” Blade heard the wonder in his own voice and cleared his throat. He allowed René to take his cloak while he thought.

“God, René, she’s in love with me”

“Many have been so. She is but one more.”

Blade rounded on his servant. “By hell’s torments, I’ll have your head on a pike for saying that. She isn’t like the others.” He began ripping the jeweled buttons off his doublet in an effort to remove it. “She gave her trusting little soul to me, and her love. Don’t you see? She didn’t just want the pleasure I could give her. She wasn’t trying to flaunt me in front of her rivals. She gave herself, and I took her without realizing what I was receiving until it was too late.”

Flinging the doublet at his servant, he sat on the bed and tugged at his boots. He got one off and threw it. The boot banged against the opposite wall. He felt no better, and he knew why. The idea of coming so near marriage curdled his entrails. Memories of his parents soured the very word. He’d spent his childhood in torment. Night after night he’d crept from his room to listen to his parents fight. As their voices battled, he would tremble with fear and cry and pray to God to make them stop. But they never did.

Later the fighting turned to war, and his father began beating his mother. It was then that Blade interfered. He would thrust himself in front of his mother, and was beaten as well. He remembered little of those beatings, and tried to forget what he did remember. He survived by not remembering.

If he married and became a husband, he might remember more. And even worse, he might become what his father was. He had within him a rage born of the teachings of his father—a rage he controlled and dared not unleash. There were still nights when he dreamed of killing his father. He couldn’t ask any woman to marry
someone who longed to kill his own father. Sometimes he woke in a sweat, fearing that his soul was as evil as his dreams.

And if this fear weren’t enough, there was his added aversion to marrying at all. He’d been the hope and defense of a clinging, helpless woman at too young an age and for too long to take on another. His mother’s death had freed him of that burden, and he could hide his evil dreams. He would give up the freedom if he married, and Oriel was the one person from whom he would be unable to hide his dreams.

Thus when morning came, he took himself to the Richmond chapel with misgiving. In all his intrigues he’d never gone so far as to promise marriage, and never had he been forced to deceive so guileless a maid as Oriel. He stalked down the nave and choir to halt in front of the altar, his features set in an impassive expression as he greeted the Richmond family. All of them were up early for this most precipitant ceremony.

Livia and her sons surrounded him. “It little befits our family honor,” she said, “to set about this betrothal in such haste.”

“Er, we’ve been arranging contracts between us,” George said. “We didn’t want to burden you in your grief for Uncle Thomas.”

As he didn’t think Livia would grieve if she’d been present at the crucifixion, Blade looked away from the woman and encountered Leslie’s speculative stare.

“You do gallop when you’re ready, don’t you, Fitzstephen?”

“Your cousin has won my heart with her beauty and wit.”

“Oriel?” Leslie appeared to consider his cousin’s appearance and intelligence for the first time. “Yes, she’s clever, if you can get her to leave off those bewildering questions of hers. But beautiful? Think you so?”

“If you don’t, you’re blind.”

Leslie grinned at him. “Perchance it’s because I was
raised with her” He nudged Blade with his elbow. “I’m to make myself useful by playing the chaperon for the two of you. I’ll be like your favorite hound, always underfoot.”

“Then I shall lock you in a kennel.”

He was sparring with Leslie when Oriel came into the chapel with Faith and the Richmond daughters. The chapel door opened, admitting a burst of sunlight, and she stood in the entry. With the fiery light behind her, she was lit in gold. Sunlight ignited her dark hair, turning its red highlights into a brilliant crown. For a brief moment Blade forgot his qualms, forgot Thomas Richmond’s secrets and the peril of England’s queen.

She walked down the aisle, a small figure dwarfed by the columns and high ribbed vaulting, and he noticed that Faith had convinced his stubborn Oriel to don a lady’s gown in honor of their betrothal. No wonder she had seemed on fire upon entering. She wore a gown of gold and ivory shot silk trimmed in heavy gold embroidery and pearls. He blinked as the gown and her hair glistened in the sunlight.

He couldn’t help smiling at her as she came toward him, for as usual, she had forgotten her lady’s graces and was holding her gold and feathered fan as if it were a riding crop. Behind her shuffled the Richmond girls, who slid into the family pew, giggling and whispering. All except Joan, who bore the air of a martyr. As she sat down, he saw her bend and tug at the back of Oriel’s skirt. Oriel kept walking, then stopped short and stumbled. He darted forward and caught her arm. The scent of lavender and spice wafted up to him, and he felt a hot spurt of desire that made him set his jaw and curse at himself.

The ceremony was a brief one, an exchange of
de futuro
vows in which each of them said “I will” in response to the chaplain’s questions. He was relieved, for if the vows had been
de praesenti
, in which they would have responded “I do,” the betrothal would have been
much harder to set aside. He thanked the Lord for not making George more farsighted.

He had had the presence of mind to think of a ring even before George had come to him with the offer of a temporary one. He put it on Oriel’s finger, marveling at how small her hand appeared when resting in his own. The ring was his own, one handed down in his family for generations from one heir to the next. A thick gold band, it was inscribed with the Fitzstephen heraldic device, a shield upon which was engraved
per pale
, with a falcon addorsed on the right and a great helm on the left. The ring was too large, but Oriel gazed at it in wonder, closing her fingers so that it wouldn’t fall off.

He hadn’t expected her to provide a ring. Indeed, he hadn’t given the matter any thought at all, so when she breathed the words “I will” and took his hand, he simply smiled at her. She smiled back, but then opened his hand and produced a ring that caused Blade to stare like a cowherd at Bartholomew Fair.

Of red gold heavily embossed with scrollwork, it was mounted with a great, square-cut emerald larger than his own thumbnail. The piece was old and more valuable than anything he’d seen Oriel wear. He knew she was an heiress, but now it occurred to him to wonder at her indifference to the riches she so clearly possessed. She had given him a ring that would purchase a small castle.

He allowed her to slide the jewel onto his finger, and suddenly, the betrothal was complete. He took a deep breath, then kissed her. Her lips opened under his mouth, and he slipped his arms around her, pressing her to his body. A harrumph from Faith brought him to his senses. When he lifted his head, Oriel looked up at him, and he forgot the restive aunts in the fire in her eyes.

Livia trumpeted at them. Recovering themselves, they knelt before the altar for the service that was to follow. As the chaplain droned on, Oriel surreptitiously groped for his hand and clasped it. His lips quirked but
he maintained his composure when she tickled his palm with the tips of her fingers. At the end of the ceremony, Blade took Oriel’s hand and placed it on his arm. They led a procession out of the chapel and into Richmond Hall, where a midday feast had been provided.

His misgivings about his situation returned and he found he had little appetite. Since it was Lent—mid-March—there was fish and more fish. He contented himself with helping Oriel to salmon. She declined the oysters and fried cod, and he observed with fascination the way her nose crinkled at any suggestion of eel. Finally he persuaded her to eat some candied strawberries.

In deference to the season, there was no dancing. By the afternoon he was freed from the attentions of the aunts and cousins. Oriel had retired earlier to change, having lost patience with her farthingale and the scratchy embroidery on her gown. He was pacing in his withdrawing chamber, imagining how Oriel would take his inevitable request to be released from their vows when he heard a muffled sob coming from the library. He crossed the passage between the two chambers and found Oriel collapsed in Thomas Richmond’s chair, raining tears on the carved arm. He knelt before her, wondering if she had sensed his unwillingness at the betrothal.

“Chère?”

The sobs stopped. She lifted her head. Her lashes were wet, as were her cheeks, and she covered her nose with a kerchief.

“Chère
, what ails you?”

“Oh, naught.”

Blade took her hands, and she turned her face away from him.

“Tell me, for I won’t let you stir from this spot until I know what has caused you grief.”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, then met his gaze “I quarreled with Aunt Faith.”

“Not a difficult thing to accomplish.”

She almost smiled at him.

“She is furious at me for—for …”

“Last night.”

“Yes, but not because I’ve lost my virtue. She said I, I opened my legs for you so that you’d be forced to marry me instead of Joan. She made what we did sound so ugly. And then she said the Bible condemns harlots like me. It says more bitter than death is a woman whose heart is snares and nets. Then she quoted Proverbs: ‘Her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.’ ”

“Your aunt has the soul of a pig. How could you listen to her?” He put his hand to her cheek. “Listen to me instead,
chère:
‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes.’ ”

He was rewarded with a brilliant smile. She took his hand from her cheek and clasped it in both of hers.

“ ‘As the apple tree among the trees of the wood,’ ” she said softly, “ ‘so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.’ ”

Rarely had a woman made him blush. What was happening to him? Blade lowered his eyes and studied their joined hands.

“Blade,” Oriel said.

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid I called her a jealous old termagant.”

He laughed, forgetting his discomfort, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I rejoice to hear it.”

“Blade.”

“I haven’t gone away.”

Now she was staring at their hands. “I …” She cleared her throat and started again. “I did forget all virtue, but—but I couldn’t seem to help it. I wanted you so. I never thought to find someone who would capture my esteem and my—my longing at the same time.”

Never in all his dealings with women had one so astonished him. As she looked at him, he saw both love
and desire, mingled in a heady brew he’d never before longed to taste. It was almost as if he was being offered the Holy Grail. He had no words of response, but to his relief, she seemed to expect none and changed the direction of her thoughts as if she assumed he returned her feelings.

“I came in here to think, you know, not to fight with snarling aunts.” She leaned over the arm of the chair and produced the book of Sir Thomas Wyatt’s poems. “I was trying to think of why Uncle would go to such trouble to direct me to this sonnet.”

Grateful to be distracted from uncomfortable thoughts, he nodded. Now was the time to guide her thinking in the right direction. “Thomas Wyatt” he said, “was in love with Her Majesty’s mother long ago. He was in love with Anne Boleyn.”

“Yes, you can see it in his poetry. Did you know Uncle was great friends with a man Anne Boleyn almost married? His name was Henry Percy, and he was the heir to the Earl of Northumberland, but Cardinal Wolsey broke their betrothal. Uncle said Henry Percy never recovered from losing Anne Boleyn.” Oriel looked up from the book to regard him solemnly. “She must have been a creature of great fascination.”

“Chère
, a thought just came to me. These hints of your uncle’s, they all have to do with Anne Boleyn.”

She nodded slowly. “They do.”

Silence fell as he allowed her a few moments to think. Watching her piquant face absorbed him. He studied her wide brow dusted with fine curls, her adamant little chin.

“You know, now that I think upon the matter, Uncle Thomas was greatly absorbed in that old story about Her Majesty’s mother—so much so that he purchased a painting.”

“What painting?”

“That one.” Oriel turned to point to a portrait on the wall behind her.

He rose, offering his hand to her. Together they went to stand before the painting. The portrait showed a woman in a black gown trimmed with gold and pearls. She wore an old-fashioned French hood also trimmed with pearls, and a long strand of pearls wound around her delicate neck. At its center was suspended a gold pendant in the shape of the letter
B
. From the pendant hung three large, teardrop pearls.

The woman herself appeared far less beautiful than he would have imagined her to be considering that for her, old King Henry had defied the Church and dragged his kingdom to the brink of war. Her face was long, as was her nose, and she had a small, bow-shaped mouth. Its diminutive size gave her a pinched, self-satisfied look. But her black, almond-shaped eyes stared back at him in mocking amusement, as if she knew what he was thinking and saw the incongruity of her situation. Now he knew where the queen got her dark, flashing eyes and not a little of her wit.

He was studying Anne Boleyn’s long neck, which had been severed when Henry VIII decided she wasn’t going to give him sons, when suddenly Oriel gasped and stuck her face close to the picture. She seemed to be inspecting a portion of the dark background behind Anne Boleyn.

“Look,” she said.

He bent and stared at the patch of paint at the tip of her finger. Barely discernible was a faint design done in a paint that blended into the background.