The Betrothed
By Darby York
Copyright © 2011, Darby York
Cover art design by Stella Price
Digital ISBN: 9781937389192
Published by Turquoise Morning Press for Smashwords
Turquoise Morning, LLC
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P.O. Box 43958
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The Betrothed
Marriage based on love is foreign to the medieval mind. Yet consent must be freely given for a marriage to be valid. Can a reluctant bride dare refuse her betrothed without suffering the consequences?
The Betrothed
Darby York
Dehart Castle
My Lady’s Solar
He comes.
Like dying winds before an approaching storm, there is silence. And then chaos breaks out in the bailey below. Dogs bark and men shout. Horses stomp and snort, their caparisons jingling.
I run to the arched window of my solar, and kneeling on the window seat, lean as far out the opening as I dare. He brings a troop of four knights on horses and twenty crossbowmen with him. He is well-armed, my betrothed.
William de Ashdoune, King Edward’s man, takes his sweet time to come to me. He chooses to fight Madoc, son of the late Prince Llewellyn of Wales, rather than collect the woman contracted to be his bride.
Why do I care? I dig my fingernails into the side of the window sill. I will not marry him. My consent must be freely given for the marriage to be valid. I do not give it.
No matter the agreement between my father and his, a match cannot be forced upon an unwilling partner.
My maid Kate rushes into the solar. “He comes, my lady.”
I turn and see excitement in her eyes…and fear.
“I know,” I say, trying to still the quickening of my heart. I step down from the window seat.
Kate does not know my decision. She only thinks that because my life is about to change hers will also. For too long, ours has been in flux because of the deaths of my younger sister and mother, and the absence of my father in the king’s wars.
“Shall I lay out your best dress?” Kate asks, but I shake my head.
The day is hot, and I have no intent to preen for yon knight. I wear only a long, loose gown of coarse hemp as if I am a poor milkmaid. My sleeves are rolled back from my wrists and my feet are bare. My unruly red hair is unbound and unkempt, falling to my waist. Even if I desire, I am in no way ready to meet my betrothed.
“My seneschal will attend his needs,” I say. “Let Sir William sup by the hearth with his men. ‘Tis late. I will see him on the morrow.”
“My lady, are you sure?” Kate bobs a curtsey even as her eyes grow round. She questions me and with good reason.
He will not be pleased by my slight, for I should be there to welcome him. But he rebuffed me three years hence when he chose my younger sister Isabel over me—the eldest, and who by right should marry first.
Now he comes for me as his second choice. The family alliances must be sealed even though I have not the fair complexion and flaxen hair of my sister. Neither do I embroider a perfect stitch or sing a well-pitched air. I cannot play the lute or step lightly when I dance. But I can read Latin and tally the accounts. I have kept watch over the clerk and supervised the seneschal in my father’s stead.
Because of me, Dehart Castle and its domains remain prosperous in these hard times.
Yet that means nothing to the baron below.
I take a deep breath. My skin is prickly from the heat and from his arrival. No longer able to abide the confines of my solar, on impulse I scurry down the winding steps built into the stone tower wall. Unnoticed because of the commotion of my lord’s arrival, I steal out of the great hall and into the bailey. From there I slip inside a walled garden once loved by my mother and sister.
I love it too. This small plot of greenery is my refuge. I tend its earth faithfully, delighting in the pink peonies and blue flag iris of May, and the red and white roses of June. Now in the hot summer of July, the heady perfume of Madonna lilies lingers in the air. Overhead the sun sets behind stone walls, throwing my flowering herb beds into evening shadows.
I stifle a pang of regret and sadness. My mother and Isabel would have taken such pleasure in the beauty surrounding me this night.
Bending, I pick a stem of lavender and then crush the aromatic leaves and flowers between my fingertips, releasing a delicate scent. I stand and sniff the flower buds, longing for my life to be as it was before war and sickness. Why cannot my days be as uncomplicated as this simple garden?
“You did not welcome me.”
His reproachful words startle me. I snap up my head. My heart races. How do I fail to hear him? I still the shake of my hand. Slowly, I turn to face my betrothed, a knight-errant with the reputation for lechery. He is as fierce a lover as a fighter.
I drop the lavender at his approach. He is taller than I remember. A well-built figure, he stands before me encased from head to foot in chain mail, his surcoat falling to his knees and embroidered with a golden ash tree, his crest. His helm is tucked under his arm. I notice that his black hair is short, as is the fashion from the Crusades, and the rugged features of his face are clean-shaven.
My heart quivers. This is the man I once loved. Yet this man, whose very presence both frightens and excites me, is the man who selected my sister.
A feeling of vulnerability seeps through my veins like heady wine, and I lift my hand to my lips. After all, a lady does not dress as I am dressed and go with her head completely uncovered like a maid.
He peers at me with an unsettling intensity.
I lower my hand and toss hair away from my eyes. “I provided for your comfort, my lord.” My voice is firm. After all, I am the mistress of this household. Why does he question me?
“But you do not honor me with your presence.” His words are clipped and demanding, as if he is already my lord and master.
“I did not expect your arrival today,” I say using my best haughty manner, reserved for recalcitrant servants.
His gaze travels from my face down the length of my body. Can he see through the thin fabric of my gown? I notice the sharpness of his eyes, as if they are daggers.
Does he detect the outline of my breasts and the brown ovals of my areolas? Can he see the curve of my thighs or the dark patch covering my feminine mound?
“I expect you to do your duty,” he declares. “I sent word of my arrival.”
“On the morrow. You are early.” I lift my chin hoping to remind him.
He takes a step toward me. The scent of wood smoke and horses drifts to me. A manly smell clings to his clothes, the scent of one who spends time outdoors under the sun and stars. And yet, I catch a faint vanilla-like whiff of woodruff about him. My pulse quickens.
“Are we to be at odds like this in our marriage?” A slight grin lightens his dark countenance.