Suzanne Robinson (16 page)

T
he morning after the royal banquet saw Honor ensconced on a cushion in the queen’s solar. Dazed, uncertain but ecstatic at the same time, she hardly cared that she’d been accorded the honor of attending Her Highness. Queen Elizabeth was reading from a stack of letters while her ladies embroidered, read, and listened to a minstrel playing on his lute. Honor pretended to listen to the music, but she was really trying to adjust to the idea that Galen de Marlowe had asked for her hand.

She hadn’t slept all night. Her mind flitted from one thought to another. First she thought of how detestably Galen had acted toward her, then she remembered his sweet smile and gentle hands, but soon she began to worry.

She was certain Galen was as confused as she. Why else would he behave in so contradictory a manner. He’d been so stubborn and hateful about Durance Guarde. Honor smiled. But, now that she thought of it, he’d never really objected to her personally.

“What are you smirking about, Lady Honor?”

Jolted out of her reverie, Honor looked up at Lady Nicolette, the blonde who had simpered at Galen last night. Nicolette had been eyeing her hatefully ever since Honor came into the solar. She glanced over her shoulder at the queen, who was still reading letters, then hissed at Honor.

“Stupid girl. Galen simply wants Castle Stafford and its lands. It’s unseemly for you to moon about the palace as if you were a beautiful princess who’d won the love of a king.”

Honor cocked her head to the side. “I pray you, Lady Nicolette, if what you say is true, why then did he not ask for your hand? Your dowry is twice the size of mine.”

Nicolette boiled like a laundry cauldron.

“I’m merely curious,” Honor said calmly.

Behind her two of the queen’s ladies giggled. Nicolette glared at them, stalked over to a window and pretended to look at the view.

Honor returned to her puzzlement. She had done this all night to no avail, but early in the morning it occurred to her that his gift must have played a role. Mayhap Galen, having seen her so much, finally had a vision of them together.
He denied working spells on her, and she believed him. A man who had a gift such as his had no need of other magic. God had blessed him. What wonders must he have seen. And horrors, she thought, remembering what Galen had said about Aymer’s death.

A shadow passed over her happiness. Poor Aymer had been murdered. By whom? She and Galen must find out. He was right; Aymer’s killer must be brought to justice. They must find him before they married. She didn’t want this horrible mystery hanging over their life together.

Honor smiled. Who would have thought old Leekshanks, the scourge of Durance Guarde, would want to marry her? He could have anyone. He could have the beautiful and rich Nicolette, although he had better taste than to chose her.

She admired his reputation as a fierce yet honorable warrior and as a loyal friend to the king. And to conduct himself with such integrity in spite of having so powerful a talent—that was honor indeed. He could have used the power of his visions for personal gain, but he never had. Many noblemen had curried favor with the king and been rewarded handsomely. Galen took little and aspired to even less.

But he was right to keep the visions a secret. Many would fear it. Some would try to use him. Still others would try to destroy him. Yet he’d trusted her with his secret. Honor blushed and
glanced around the solar, hoping no one saw her. He must love her greatly to trust her with so dangerous a secret, and she would protect it and him with her life.

Honor stirred on her cushion. She was growing bored. Galen was closeted with the king, her father, and law clerks. She sighed and propped her chin on her fist. Marriage was a complicated matter when there were lands and titles involved. Her first marriage contract had taken a whole day to arrange.

“Lady Honor.” It was one of the queen’s younger ladies, a small, dark-haired girl named Marie.

“Yes, Lady Marie.”

Marie dropped onto a cushion beside her, and another lady joined them. Lady Marie whispered behind her hand.

“Pray you, what is he like?”

The other girl giggled and nodded. “Yes, what’s he like?”

“Who?”

“Lord de Marlowe, of course.”

“Oh.” Honor was taken aback. No one had ever wanted to know what Aymer was like. Then her spirits lifted. “Why, he’s a perfect gentle knight.”

“Yes,” Lady Marie said as she leaned closer and lowered her voice even more. “But his kiss. Is it as magical as they say? They say he’s dark, dangerous, and sinister. Is his kiss dark, dangerous, and sinister?”

Honor’s jaw dropped. Luckily she was saved
from answering when the queen clapped her hands.

“Stop that giggling and whispering, Marie. Honor is not going to discuss her betrothed’s personal qualities with you. Nor will I have such wanton conduct in my household.”

Honor sighed and picked up a piece of cloth from the sewing basket at her side. Attending a queen was proving to be a most tedious duty. She had things to do. She wanted to visit the Westminster tilers and engage them to tile the floors of the house she was still going to build at Durance Guarde. She had to reengage the master mason and his crew and talk to her architect. Still, all that must wait if she was to be married.

Glancing at Nicolette, Honor was careful not to allow herself to smile and be accused of smirking again. But she couldn’t help smiling. Especially when she thought of Galen, his long legs and slim hips, strong thighs and hot mouth. Oh, dear. Now she was flushed. Honor ducked her head, pretending to examine a stitch. This was going to be a long, long day.

To honor’s dismay it took three whole days to arrange a marriage contract. During that time Galen tried to seek her out, but the queen proved a most vigilant guardian. On the fourth day Honor was in the London lodgings taken by Sir Walter
for their stay, fidgeting while Jacoba fastened her into a gown of emerald silk.

“Hurry,” she said. “He’ll be here soon.”

“Just you be still and let me put this veil on your head.”

“I don’t need a veil.”

“It’s not proper to go about London town without covering your hair. Put this circlet on to hold it in place. By my faith, it’s a wonder you attracted Lord de Marlowe’s interest, what with you refusing to shave your forehead to make your brow appear high and never wearing a proper headdress nor nothing.”

“I’ll not shave my forehead, Jacoba. It’s absurd. Did you see Lady Marie? She’s shaved her forehead and her eyebrows. Her head looks like a boiled egg.”

“It’s the fashion.”

“Fashion be damned.” Honor scuttled out of Jacoba’s reach and flew to the window. “He’s here. Where’s my cloak? Where’s my cloak?”

Honor grabbed the garment from Jacoba, but the waiting woman held her back.

“Now, you wait, my fine lady. You walk down them stairs without haste, as befits your father’s daughter. Else you’re sure to fall down them.”

“But—”

“Remember yesterday. You fell the last two steps because you won’t look where you’re going.”

“Oh, very well. I’ll walk slowly.”

She left her room and would have bolted down the dark wooden staircase, but Jacoba collared Dagobert and pushed him in front of her mistress.

“Just you go ahead, boy, and be dignified about it.”

Dagobert straightened his tunic huffily at the implied insult, settled his cap on his head, and preceded Honor with a stately march. Hemmed in by Jacoba and the page, Honor had no choice but to walk rather than run. By the time she reached the hall, an alarming timidity stole over her.

She hadn’t been alone with Galen since the night of the banquet. Yesterday in the royal garden he’d tried to pull her through the door that led to the plum orchard, but the queen saw him and called Honor to her. Her Highness was one of the few people in the world who could thwart Galen successfully.

Now he was here, dressed in dark-brown velvet and soft riding boots, filling the hall with his tall elegance and that air of mystery that so captivated women. Now she understood it. The reserve, the guardedness was a part of him.

He was like some jeweled treasure chest shrouded in darkness. You could see the gleam of costly metal and stone, glimpse ornate carving, sense the treasures locked inside. Although you might long for him, you couldn’t touch. He wouldn’t let you. And the more he refused, the more you longed to touch, to possess. Lady Marie had begged her to cut a lock of that silky dark hair as a treasure. Honor had replied that she wouldn’t dare.

“Honor, don’t just hover by the stair,” Sir Walter said. “Lord de Marlowe is waiting.”

Honor came forward, twisting her cloak in her hands, uncertain.

Then Galen said, “Don’t scold her, I pray you. She has good reason to hesitate after the many times I was so inhospitable at Durance Guarde.”

“You were a saint to endure her plaguing you,” Sir Walter replied with a chuckle as he took Honor’s hand. “But it’s all ended marvelous well.” He placed her hand in Galen’s. “Be of good cheer, daughter, for we’ve signed at least a hundred documents put before us by clerks, and the betrothal ceremony will take place at Castle Stafford in less than a fortnight.”

Honor hardly paid her father any attention. She couldn’t take her eyes from Galen, and his gaze never left her. Then he seemed to wake from some intense meditation.

“We must be off, Sir Walter. The king’s favorite goldsmith will wait upon us, and we must ride all the way to St. Paul’s and down Cheapside.”

Galen placed Honor’s hand on his arm and guided her out of the house. In the street his man Ralph waited, holding Galen’s horse and Honor’s mare. Galen turned to her and kissed her hand.

“Honor, my sweet, I must speak to you privily. It’s terribly important, and I can’t wait much longer.”

Honor nodded, smiling happily at the idea that he longed to be alone with her as she did with
him. Then he scowled at something over her shoulder.

“Oh, no.”

Honor turned and saw Jacoba plodding around the corner of the town house on a donkey.

“Send her away,” Galen said.

Jacoba pulled up beside them and handed Honor her riding gloves. “You’ll not take my mistress anywhere without me. Sir Walter’s orders, me lord. So just you trot along, and be on your best chivalrous behavior.”

“Jacoba!” Honor cried. She heard Ralph snigger, and she cast an apologetic look at Galen.

Pressing his lips together, Galen conducted Honor to her horse and helped her mount. Their little procession wound through the streets of London. Cobbled, narrow, filled with pedestrians, they were hemmed in on either side by houses and shops. They rounded St. Paul’s with its towering spires and worked their way down the long street called Cheapside. It was here that most of the goldsmiths of London had their workshops.

Galen stopped at a large building faced with carved stone and helped Honor dismount. Her ears filled with the banging and tapping that issued from the rear of the shop. Not far away she saw a tavern, and next to the goldsmith’s shop was a moneychanger’s establishment where two men were weighing gold coins at the shop front.

Not waiting for Jacoba to dismount, Galen offered
his arm to Honor and conducted her inside. As they entered, a man dressed in a rich damask robe embroidered with gold thread came to meet them. Bowing gracefully, he greeted Galen in a quiet voice filled with authority and assurance.

“My lord, this is a pleasure.”

Galen nodded, and spoke to Honor. “I must have a word with Master Shaa.”

An assistant offered Honor a seat in front of a table covered in black velvet. With flourishing gestures and a confident smile, he began to unveil objects. First he produced a chalice of fluted agate on a flared gold base. Graceful handles curved up the sides of the vessel, and the filigree was adorned with cabochon rubies. Honor smiled and murmured her admiration, but was distracted when she heard Jacoba enter. Before the waiting woman could join her mistress Master Shaa intercepted her, holding forth a delicate silver chain from which dangled an enameled pendant. Jacoba’s eyes grew as big as cherries.

“Honor,” Galen said.

She hadn’t even seen him approach. “Galen, why am I looking at these vessels?”

“Wedding gifts,” he said.

“But I don’t need—”

“If you please, I would speak to you while your dragon of a maid is occupied.”

He glanced at Jacoba, who was standing before a mirror wearing the silver chain. Galen held out
his hand. Honor took it, and she rose. The smiling assistant held back a curtain behind a counter, and Galen led her into a room. There she beheld walls filled with shelves, and on the shelves rested metal objects too numerous to count—mazers, cruets, reliquaries, caskets, chalices. Honor noticed a set of silver book covers decorated with scenes from the Bible. Around the room were several heavy chests bound with iron and enormous locks, but, in truth, she had little interest in the room. Galen had been trying to speak to her for days, and she thought she knew why.

Galen picked up a small box with a peaked lid engraved with traceried arches. He opened and closed the lid while Honor watched. His brow furrowed.

“Honor, when we’re not quarreling about Durance Guarde, you and I deal well together, do we not?”

Staring at the tips of her boots, Honor said, “Up to now, when we weren’t quarreling we were—I mean, you …”

“Ah, yes. My unchivalrous conduct.” Suddenly Galen slammed the box down on the table. “Damnation and sin, this is cursed difficult.”

“I don’t understand.” She did, but she desperately wanted to hear what he was attempting to say.

Galen threw up his hands and uttered a wordless sound of frustration. He gripped the edge of the table and scowled at the golden box as if he dared not look at her. Mayhap she should try to
put him at ease. She went to him and touched his sleeve. He turned his head aside, but she spoke anyway.

“Galen, if we’re to marry, we can build my house at Durance Guarde together, could we not?”

“What? Oh, yes.”

“I have such plans.” Honor grew excited as she spoke. “I wish you could see the marvels I want to bring there. Such painting, such sculpture. Oh, Galen, we could go to Florence after the wedding. We could share this task I’ve set myself.” He was looking at her oddly.