But that was until Cullen appeared in the door of the stables. Water dripping from his raised visor, his dark eyes fixed on Teodora. For a brief moment, he swore he saw a wave of relief in the sea-colored depths of her eyes.
And also a cry for help.
Barklestone was still looking at Teodora, although he could see Cullen from the corner of his eye. His voice was as cold as ice. “’Twould seem I have done your job for you, de Nerra,” he said. “Go now and make yourself useful and find a priest. I shall marry this little chit before she causes me any more trouble. Then I shall send her back to London in chains to punish her for her disobedience.”
Cullen was the epitome of the perfect, obedient knight. He had never hesitated to carry out the earl’s orders, no matter how outlandish or dangerous they might be. That was his mission and his duty. But at this moment, as he gazed at the expression on the earl’s face, he experienced a sense of foreboding such as he had never known. Were he to leave in search of a priest as ordered, he suspected he might never see Lady Teodora alive again.
“My lord is fatigued from this idiotic chase,” he said, reaching out to grab Teodora’s free arm. “I shall take her to the monastery and have the monks place her under lock and key until you are ready to proceed. She will trouble you no further, I assure you.”
Preston refused to let her go. He squeezed Teodora’s arm so hard that she bit her lip, lowering her head so that they could not see the pain on her face. “That is not necessary. Do as you are told and be quick about it.”
Cullen pulled harder, trying to gain control of her. “Indeed I will, my lord,” he said. “But might I insist that you, perhaps, have a bit of sustenance at the tavern before proceeding with this marriage? Just as I left, there were several young men serving a rather large group with trenchers of mutton and vegetables. I believe my lord would benefit from such a fare at this time.”
Odd how Preston’s determination to keep Teodora suddenly wavered. His gaze moved between his bride and his champion, indecision in his eyes.
“Several young men, did you say?”
Cullen’s expression was unreadable. “Aye, my lord.”
“How old?”
“Not yet grown men, but no longer children.”
Preston thought a moment. “Mutton and vegetables, was it?”
“Aye, my lord.”
Preston paused indecisively before finally releasing Teodora’s arm. As if to groom himself, he ran his fingers through his neat silver hair. Almost in the same motion, he struck out at Teodora so viciously that she was sent sprawling to the ground. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth and she shook off the stars dancing before her eyes.
Cullen froze. He wasn’t surprised, merely startled. And he further knew that if he made a move to help her, the earl’s anger would turn on him as well. Preston, for his part, hardly glanced at her as he made haste for the stables’ door.
“Let that be a lesson to you, Lady Teodora,” he said evenly, pulling the collar of his coat up around his neck to protect himself from the rain. “I do not tolerate insolence, especially from the woman who is to be my wife. Remember that this marriage is not of my choosing, but of duty alone. I do not need you nor do I want you. It would do well for you not to press my patience.”
With that he was gone, dashing out into the stormy night. Cullen watched him go before turning to Teodora, who was slowly picking herself off the floor. Still, he did not move to help her.
“He means what he says, my lady.” His voice was quiet. “If you insist on rebelling, he will quite happily make your life a living hell.”
Teodora wiped the blood from her mouth, feeling the cut on the inside of her lip. She was closer to crying than she had been in years. “He already has.”
Cullen’s blue eyes were intense. “You know not of what you speak,” he said softly. “This was simply a foretaste. Imagine a slap to your face every night, tenfold, for the rest of your life. If your imagination can think of worse things, I can guarantee they will be nothing compared to the reality of what Barklestone is capable of inflicting. Pain and humiliation like nothing you’ve ever known. I do not know how I can describe this to you in more detail without causing you nightmares for the rest of your life. Suffice it to say that complete obedience is the only way for you to survive.”
Teodora was gazing at him, her eyes full of unshed tears. “I thought Ridley de Lacy was the unsavory one. I heard of his reputation, even as a young girl.”
“Who do you think he learned everything from?”
Teodora stared at Cullen, feeling genuine horror at his statement. The reality of her future loomed heavily and she sighed, slowly wiping the blood from her mouth again.
“I shall tell my father,” she said quietly. “He’ll not permit this.”
“He already knows.”
Teodora looked at him as if she had been physically struck. “He couldn’t. He would not allow his daughter to marry a brute.”
Cullen cocked an eyebrow. “I would be surprised if your father, being a fighting man and wise to the politics of England, was unaware of Lord Preston’s reputation.” He watched her struggle with her composure and his manner softened. He wasn’t without pity for her. “That is the way with political marriages, my lady. When Ridley died, the earl knew the contract had to be fulfilled at all costs. Why do you think he assumed responsibility in his nephew’s stead? There is far too much at stake.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dowries and political alliances, among other things.”
Teodora thought on that. “My dowry is one-third of all de Rivington lands, from the Welsh border to the village of Shobdon. My father inherited these lands from his mother.”
“Lands that Lord de Lacy has now inherited,” Cullen interjected quietly. “But that is only a lesser issue. The primary matter of concern is that by marrying into the House of de Rivington, Barklestone forms a powerful alliance.”
Teodora looked up at him, her pretty mouth swollen. “What does the earl need with a political marriage?”
Cullen gazed at her, wondering how he could explain it to her in simple terms. He couldn’t, of course. Politics were never simple. But he was forced to proceed with the understanding that she was surely privy to her father’s political views. Careful, he thought. He was walking a fine line between telling her just enough and telling her too much. Whatever he said could easily get back to her father. After a moment, he removed his helm and scratched thoughtfully at his sweaty scalp.
“Do you know of Barklestone, Lady Teodora?” Cullen finally asked.
“What do you mean?”
“His standing in court?”
She shook her head. “I do not.”
Cullen continued. “He used to be a favored of Richard, one of his closest advisers. When Richard died, Barklestone remained loyal to him, even though his brother ascended the throne. Even now, he remains resistant to John’s rule.” He paused. “What do you know of the king, my lady?”
He shouldn’t have asked her the question, not this soon into their association, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. The woman was being used as a pawn in a much larger political game and he wanted to see how much she knew. Perhaps she was just as savvy as her father in his loyalty to the king, or perhaps not. From what he’d seen so far, he didn’t think so.
Use her to your advantage, my lord.
That was the advice he’d given Preston when the man was wavering against assuming his nephew’s betrothal. Although the advice came directly from William Marshal, as he very much wanted yet another connection with a political marriage linked to the rebellion against John, it had been Cullen who had delivered it. When Cullen had originally told William of Ridley’s death and of Preston’s consideration of the betrothal, it had been William’s advice to convince Preston to assume the betrothal at all costs.
And he had.
Therefore, in that sense, Cullen was responsible for the lady’s situation, and that did not go u
nnoticed. It was a political marriage between two families who were on opposing sides, though neither family pretended to be zealous. The truth was that they were zealous – both sides – and this marriage was for both families to spy upon each other, using Teodora as the conduit.
That had never been any clearer to Cullen than it was at this moment.
As he looked at the woman, he couldn’t help but noticed she hadn’t answered his question. She was wiping at her bloodied lip, lost in thought, perhaps overcome with her situation. He spoke again.
“Answer me,” he said. “What do you know of the king?”
This time, Teodora answered. “What should I know? He is our king and my father supports the king.”
“Do you?”
She shrugged. “It makes little difference to me who sits upon the throne. It does not affect my life. I am still at the mercy of men, no matter who sits upon the throne.”
Cullen believed her. Her manner was far too innocent for it to be an act of deception, or a lie. No one was that adept at deceit and he never received the impression from her that she was entirely capable of such deception. She’d come across as honest and straight-forward, especially in her resistance to the marriage. Perhaps, indeed, she knew nothing about the marriage she was to be a part of; he trusted his instincts and would have wagered money on the fact.
“That is very true, of you or any other woman,” he said. “And as far as your knowledge of the king, I suppose you needn’t know too much about him, and I am sure what you do know, your father has told you.”
It was a bit leading and he wondered if she would take the bait and speak of her father’s loyalties, but she did not. She remained thoughtful a moment before replying. “Is that what the earl meant when he said he would ship me to London?” she asked. “Am I to be part of the court?”
She sounded curious in her question, perhaps even pleased. But there would be nothing pleasurable about her living in London. The woman truly had no idea of the social standing she was about to enter, or the hazardous politics for that matter.
“You will live in London,” he replied quietly. “But ask no more about it. I do not think you would like the answer.”
Teodora looked at him, her curiosity replaced by concern. “Why do you say that?”
“Trust me on this matter and ask no more.”
She opened her mouth to disobey him, immediately, but thought better of it. Instead, she shifted the subject. “What do you intend to do with me now?”
Cullen looked off toward the livery entrance, to the muddy street beyond. “I intend to take you to the nearest monastery,” Cullen replied. “Do you know of one before we go traipsing off into this hellish weather? I should not like to be searching all night in the rain.”
She hesitated a moment before finally nodding. “Leominster Abbey. There is a Benedictine monastery there.”
“How far?”
“Not far. Mayhap a mile or two, straight through the town.”
He looked at the pouring rain. “That is one or two miles too long in this weather.”
Before she could reply, Anthony was suddenly in the doorway, drenched to the skin. His frantic gaze moved between Teodora and Cullen, standing several feet apart. The first thing he noticed was Teodora’s swollen lip and his concerned expression turned to rage.
“Gods and angels have mercy,” he muttered, stepping in from the rain and placing himself protectively between the pair. “What in the hell have you done to her, de Nerra?”
Although Cullen maintained his outward calm, he made sure his sword hand was free. He had heard the tone in Anthony’s voice before, in other men, and it always preceded some sort of violent physical action.
“I’ve done nothing,” he answered steadily. “Lord de Lacy has seen fit to punish his future wife. ’Tis none of your, or my, affair, and I suggest you leave it as such.”
Anthony looked at Teodora. She gazed back at him, as cool as always. She had never been one to cower or weep, not even in the most dreadful of circumstances, and Anthony knew he could say or do nothing further to aid her. But the natural protective instinct for the young girl he had watched grow up was surging wildly.
“Bastard,” he hissed before he could stop himself.
Teodora glanced at Cullen, waiting for him to step forward and defend his lord’s name. But the knight remained silent on that matter.
“We are going to Leominster Abbey,” he told Anthony.
Anthony was still distracted with Teodora’s bloodied lip. “Leominster Abbey? What for?”
“There is a Benedictine monastery there and a priest to conduct the marriage ceremony,” Cullen said matter-of-factly. “Barklestone wishes this marriage to take place immediately.”
“But…” Anthony’s anger cooled into confusion. “I do not understand. Lady Antoinette has been preparing for this wedding for some time. All of Cerenbeau has been waiting for…”
Cullen turned away, shaking the water from his helm and plopping it on his head. “Lord de Lacy wishes to marry the lady immediately. Leominster Abbey is closer than Cerenbeau.”
Anthony looked at Teodora. She was obviously uncaring that her grand wedding would not take place. Instead, she would find herself united in a cool dark sanctuary with only the monks as witnesses. Either way, she would find herself married to a hateful man and he could sense defeat in her eyes, no matter how much she pretended to keep a courageous front. It didn’t sit well with him and he felt some desperation on Teodora’s behalf.
“Let me return her to Cerenbeau where she can be surrounded by her family,” Anthony pleaded quietly. “At least there will be some comfort for her there, not simply a gallery of sexless men who have no concept of the union they have the power to perform.”
Cullen looked at him, his expression impassive. “I have my orders.”
“Have you no mercy, man?”
Cullen was already moving for the door, grasping Teodora’s wrist so she could not escape him. She made no move to try. Without resistance, she followed him into the gloomy night.
“I do.” Cullen’s voice was muffled by the sound of the rain. “But the earl does not.”
Outside, the storm was pounding. Teodora sloshed through the rivers of mud, never more discouraged in her life. The rain served as a reminder of her dismal future and within the comfort of the raindrops, her guard went down and a few hot tears found camouflage.
“Dies infelicis,” she muttered.
Cullen heard her. And he could hardly disagree. Unlucky day, indeed, he thought.
CHAPTER FOUR
Leominster Abbey
“By the power vested in me by his holiness, the pope, and our Most High, Lord of Lords, King of Kings, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Dominus vobiscum.”
Teodora winced as Preston’s grip on her hair tightened. He had held her like a trapped animal the entire time, his fingers wound viciously in the white-blonde strands. It had been a strange way to conduct a marriage ceremony, not to mention uncomfortable. But the priest had said nothing.
Of course, it behooved him to keep silent in lieu of the coinage Preston had paid him for his services. Now, with the ceremony complete, Preston pulled Teodora’s face against his stubbled chin and lips. He managed a disdainful peck somewhere around the temple.
“It is done.” He released Teodora so swiftly that she nearly stumbled. “Take her to the chamber immediately.”
He was speaking both to Cullen and the priests. The tiny storage chamber had been outfitted with a singular cot he had paid handsomely for so that the marriage could be consummated. The monks, of course, all slept in a large dormitory on the second floor and privacy was virtually unknown. But Preston’s money had managed to find his new bride a small amount of solitude for what was to come.
Cullen dutifully grasped Teodora by the arm. Preston, however, motioned him over and Cullen left the lady in the care of the monks. She was taller than all of them and they looked at her as if she were something from myth
; tall, blonde, beautiful. A Valkyrie. They stared at her strangely, and she stared back just as strangely, as they led her away to the bridal boudoir.
Cullen found himself watching her go. In truth, he wasn’t sure why. All he knew was that he had spent the past several hours in her company and an odd protective instinct seemed to be taking hold. He recalled, quite clearly, the knot in his stomach as Preston had held her brutally throughout the ceremony. It had been so unnecessary and unchivalrous, and he felt very much as if he wanted to do something about it.
It was a feeling he didn’t like in the least.
“De Nerra,” Preston’s raspy voice broke into his thoughts. “You will do the duty.”
Cullen looked at him, confused. “Duty? What duty is that, my lord?”
Preston suddenly seemed ill at ease. And very, very defensive. “My wife. You will do the duty.”
Cullen still wasn’t following him. “I do not understand, my lord. What duty would you have me do?”
Preston’s jaw ticked beneath his trimmed beard. He glanced about as if to make sure no one was listening, perturbed that he was going to have to explain himself.
“I do not intend to…” He sputtered to a halt and became increasingly irritated. “The woman is my wife in name only. Only. Do you understand?”
Cullen was blunt. “I do not, my lord.”
“I don’t intend to know her in the biblical sense. Is that clear enough?” When Cullen simply stared at him, de Lacy sighed heavily. “Christ, man, must I spell it out for you? I do not intend to bed the woman!”
It all became clear in an instant. Cullen had a difficult time concealing his shock. “And you intend that I should consummate your marriage, my lord?”
Amazing how perceptive de Nerra could be, Preston thought dryly. “I have no intention of touching this woman,” he muttered. “I never did. I consider it your duty, as my champion, to accomplish this for me. You like women, don’t you? In fact, I seem to remember that you are betrothed. Didn’t your father send you word about a contract a short time ago?”
Noble Line of de Nerra Complete Set: A Medieval Romance Bundle Page 5