Wicked (15 page)

“Sofia.”

“Go away, Tobin. Climb down, for you will not be coming in here this night! Or any night!” She started to turn away.

“Wait!”

“Why?”

“I cannot climb down.” He paused. “My clothes are caught.”

She turned back and saw it then, the dark blue strip of his tunic that was wedged between the closed shutters; it was the strip that had the two back closures on it.

He
was
caught, truly caught. In the shutters. Which were locked. And she was not going to unlock them. Ever.

She covered her mouth with one hand and began to laugh.

“Are you laughing?”

“Aye,” she said between breaths.

There was a long pause of silence, then came a deep command, “Open the shutters.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sofia!”

“Pray tell?” She sauntered in a casual circle, waving one hand. “What is wrong, Sir Knight? Are you truly stuck?”

“Open . . . the . . . shutters.”

“I thought you knights were supposed to be trained in strategy. Are you not? It seems to me that you should have thought of this possibility before you took siege, oh great warrior.” Then she really laughed, bent, placed her palms flat on her knees and howled.

She could hear him swearing over her laughter.

“Was not that the exact same word you said would damn me to eternal hell?”

He repeated it.

“What if the Archbishop heard you? Oh, and please don’t teach that word to our daughters, sir. Perhaps our useless sons, but not our daughters.”

“I am not jesting with you anymore . . . ”

“Who is jesting? I am perfectly serious.”

“Open the blasted shutters.”

“Farewell, Sir Knight! I shall bid you good night . . . adieu.” She yawned loudly.

“Sofia!”

“Ho . . . hum! I’m yawning. All that celebrating just wore me out.”

“When I get down from here I shall wear you out.”

“Are you threatening me? Your own betrothed? And you, a gallant knight. Wherefore art thy chivalry, sir? Have you not heard of courtly love?”

She heard him mumble something, something that sounded like, “I’ll give you courtly love.”

“Tell me this,” Sofia said. “Was that another threat?”

“Open the shutters.”

“I cannot. Besides, there is not time. For you see, I’m off to bed.” She turned and danced across the room, humming sweetly because it drowned out his threats and curses and the pounding on the shutters.

He could pound all night.

She drew back the coverlet, kicked off her slippers, and crawled into bed.

After a minute she got up, because of his hissing her name and hammering so loudly even the dead could not sleep through it. At the foot of her bed, she opened the chest and took out her despised sewing box, filled with torturous items like steel pins and sharp needles. For the first time she could ever remember, she was glad to have that sewing box. She rummaged through and pulled out two small balls of silk tapestry yarn, cut some off, then wadded them up and stuck them in her ears.

She cocked her head and listened for a moment. The pounding was muted, not much louder than her own heartbeat.

The perfect solution! Humming, she put the sewing box away and crawled back into her soft and comfy bed. In a matter of moments she was fast asleep with a huge and satisfied smile on her face.

Chapter 10

There was an old Spanish proverb that Tobin had heard somewhere; it claimed water was for oxen and wine for kings. ’Twas most fitting when he’d had too much of the King’s wine the night before, and now it felt like there was a team of oxen stomping around inside his pounding head.

He sat in the Great Hall, waiting to break fast . . . or to die, whichever came first. His elbows were planted on the table, the heels of his hands pressed against his eye sockets to dull the throbbing pain there.

From the quiet in the room he figured that he was not the only one suffering. They said the King was not coming down. The Archbishop left the night before, teetering in his saddle. His father and most of the men-at-arms were in the same shape as he was, head down, waiting for food and uttering an occasional moan, but mostly, they were blessedly silent.

He was almost asleep, facedown on the table, when his father kicked him hard in the back of the calf. Tobin’s head shot up. He winced, then turned and scowled at his father. “What did you that for?”

“Lady Sofia.” His father gave a slight nod toward the arched entrance, where she stood, surveying the room with an unreadable look.

Tobin closed his eyes. A mighty effort.

She hummed loudly and out of pitch as she crossed in front of him, a strident sound that was as welcome to his ears as a cat fight.

Custom dictated that he rise as she approached. He tried to, but had to use two hands to push himself up, and then rested one palm down on the table so he wouldn’t wobble.

“Good morn!” she said in a tone as bright and intense as the sun, loud as the first bells of Prime. She stood by her heavily carved chair, paused a moment, then grabbed the chair arms and dragged the thing back across the floor tiles; it scraped and scratched and made a horrific sound like a knife on a dry whetstone.

Sharp pain shot through the top of his wine-abused head, rang clear through his teeth, and landed squarely in the backs of his eyes, a twanging, piercing pain that felt as if a broadsword had struck him there. He gritted his teeth, his jaw so tight it went numb, but a groan escaped anyway.

Tobin shielded his eyes, head down.

She plopped into the chair with so much vigor that it scraped again, then she grasped the seat and began to hop forward, still sitting in the chair so its legs clattered and clopped on the floor.

Jesu
! He drew back, flinching, then seized the chair, and lifted it straight upward with her in it. He placed the chair softly, ever so softly, before the table.

“Why, thank you, sir.” Her voice was all honey. Then she waved a hand in a careless motion and knocked over her pewter goblet; it landed against the rim of a silver platter, and sounded like the hammering of a smithy. She fumbled with it three more times and finally he leaned over and grabbed the thing, turned it upside down, and gently set it down on the table.

Tobin sank lower into his chair, unseeing, but not unfeeling. He felt something all right. Pain.

A servant righted Sofia’s goblet and filled it, then moved to Tobin’s cup. He slammed his hand over it, shook his head slightly, then moaned under his breath.

She turned to him, fighting a slight smirk. “What? No wine this day, Sir Tobin?”

He grumbled something useless about not being thirsty in a low tone that about killed his ears.

“I am thirsty.” She drank some of the wine, then turned and leaned forward. Right into his face, she said, “I am about to die of thirst. See how very much I drank?” She jammed the goblet beneath his nose.

The hair of the dog bit him.

Hard.

His belly lurched. He shoved the wine from his face and turned away, just as a servant placed a platter of pickled eels before him.

His belly tumbled and turned like an acrobat.

“Pickled eels, sir?” Sofia asked all too sweetly. “This batch has been aged . . . months I believe. Smell them.” She motioned for the servant to lift the platter. “They are a special delicacy that I ordered
just
for you.”

He stood so quickly that his chair flew backward. Its back banged hard against the floor. He heard his men groan in unison. But he couldn’t see them, because he saw nothing, only a green blur as he slapped a hand over his mouth and made for the door.

“Did you know, Edith
, that the word
bride
comes from an old word used for
cook.”
Sofia sat under the huge old apple tree, her back against the trunk and her knees clasped in her threaded hands. She stared dismally at an abandoned bird’s nest. “Cook!” She made a snorting sound. “Disgusting, is it not?”

“I do not think it disgusting at all.”

“That is because you
want
to be wed. I do not.”

“I think that day at the Miracle Plays you would have wanted to be wed to Sir Tobin. You just did not know who he was.”

“Perhaps. But that was before I knew his true and vile nature.”

“He made a stupid mistake. That bet was cruel. But you have made mistakes, too. Think of how you treated Lord Geoffrey and that Spanish prince. You were not kind, Sofie. Can you not forgive Sir Tobin?”

“He hasn’t the wit to ask for forgiveness,” Sofia shot back, quickly angered because the oaf had not even tried to apologize. “Why would I want to marry someone who is so cocksure, obnoxious,
and
a drunk?”

“He is not a drunk and you know it.”

“You should have seen him hanging from the tower last night.”

“He was celebrating your betrothal and drank too much wine.” Edith paused and her eyes grew distant and dreamy. “I would love it if a man risked life and limb to climb a tower just for me. How perfectly romantic.”

Sofia gave a dry laugh. “Romance had little to do with his motives. I am certain it was not me he was thinking of when he climbed that tower, but himself and what he alone wanted. In fact, I would wager he was not even using his head, but thinking with something else altogether.”

“Well, that certainly makes no sense. Why would he climb a tower if there was no one there? Of course he was doing so for you. And what else can one think with? We only have our head with which to think.”

Sofia shook her head and drew a circle in the dirt beneath the tree. “It does not matter.”

Edith looked up. “Did you ever find out how he finally got down?”

“According to the castle guard who was watching him, he worked his arms from his tunic, I guess it took a while, and then he shimmied down the rope. When I awoke, the tunic was still caught in the shutters. I dared not open them, just in case he was still there. But after I dressed, I went belowstairs and checked from the outside.” Sofia grinned. “The tunic was dangling there; it looked like a blue and white flag of surrender.”

She crossed her arms in a pleased way and grinned with wicked glee. “’Twas certainly one of my better moments, slamming those shutters. That, along with telling the kitchen that Sir Tobin demanded those eels this morn to break his fast.”

“You know something?” Edith shook her head. “I do not believe I have ever seen someone truly turn green before. The man’s skin was the color of a cabbage.”

“Aye.”

“I feel rather sorry for Sir Tobin.”

“Sorry for him? After what he did to me? You are supposed to be my friend.”

“That’s why I feel sorry for him. You will keep making him pay for his mistakes.”

“Then perhaps he should work harder at not being such an idiot so he does not have so much to pay for.”

Edith turned and looked at her for a long time. “You really are in love with him, aren’t you?”

Sofia did not answer readily, but closed her eyes. “I do not want to be.”

“But you are.”

Sofia turned to her friend. “I don’t understand him.” Her voice had turned quiet, serious.

“What do you not understand?”

She stared down at her clasped hands. “Why he does the things he does.”

“He is a proud young man, always has been, perhaps too proud. I have heard stories that he had trouble when he was fostered. My brother says ’twas Earl Merrick who turned him ’round.” Edith paused and then added, “He is much like you, I think, in that he likes things done his way. He is stubborn and full of pride.”

“Is that what you think of me? Stubborn and full of pride?”

“Sofie, you are like the sister I never had. I love you. But you have to admit that you are sometimes . . . strong-minded.”

“Aye. I am proud if it, too. I will never simper. I like having a mind of my own.”

“I know you do. And sometimes I wish I could do what you do. I wish I could be like you. But I cannot. I do simper.”

“You do not. You are not weak, Edith. Your nature is sweet and kind and gentle and everyone loves you.”

“Aye, but I can disappear in a room. You never do, Sofie. Everyone always knows when you come into a room.”

“Does Sir Tobin? I am not certain.”

“His eyes are always on you. ’Tis just you are so busy trying to look elsewhere that you do not see it.”

“I still do not understand why he acts as he does.”

“Mostly he is reacting to what you do. You are not easy, Sofie. You know that. You make people work to be close to you, as if they have to prove to you that they truly care. That they are worthy. Look at what you do to the King.”

Sofia scowled at her, not liking the way that sounded. “Aren’t you the perceptive one today.”

“I am your friend. I am simply telling you the truth. Would you rather I lie?”

“Like you did about the betrothal feast?”

“I did not lie.” Edith chewed her lip. “Not exactly. The Queen made me swear not to tell you anything.”

“Even if you had told me, I am not sure it would have mattered.” Sofia stood and dusted off her gown and hands. “Which is why I have forgiven you.”

There was a moment of thoughtful silence. Sofia grasped a low branch and stood there looking about her and seeing nothing but the questions she still had. She sighed. She would probably never know what his motives for marrying her were.

“What was that huge sigh for?”

“Because I still cannot understand this betrothal. Why me?” She looked at her friend. “Why does he want to marry me?”

“Sofia, almost every young knight in the land has wanted to marry you at one time or another. You have to ask why? You are so beautiful. Look at yourself!”

Look at herself? Look at the outside. Could not one person look to see what was inside? Sofia hung there, her hands grasping that tree branch and her arms stretched taut as she stared at the ground for the longest time. For just a moment she thought she might cry. She could feel the tears rise into her throat and her eyes.

“There is the bell for None. I must meet the Poleaxes.”

Sofia groaned. “I am so sorry.”

“Oh. Don’t be. They are going to teach me all those things I need to know to run my husband’s castle. Today I shall learn to card wool.”