Sir William plucked a tall weed and twirled it through his fingers, staring at the tufted top. “When York defeated Henry the Sixth, back in ‘61, my father did not get involved in the fight. He had much to lose, and King Edward was young and strong, so much better than the weak old king. My father hoped, like so many, that the new king would bring peace to the realm. But ten years later, my father joined the plot to restore Lancaster to the throne. I told him….” He began shredding the top of the weed, tiny seeds falling to the ground. “I told him it was a mistake. I asked him not to. But I was only a boy, why would he listen to me? And for a time, he was right. For a time, they succeeded. King Edward was put to flight and my father had a share in the victory and the spoils, such as he’d never had.”
“But King Edward always won,” I whispered, not expecting to be heard.
“Yes, I told him that.” He threw the weed, now stripped of its head, and brushed his hands together, wiping away the seeds, wiping away the past. “I told him the old king was mad, not fit to rule. I told him that having the queen and the prince ruling in his place would just lead to more fighting among the great lords, and that King Edward would return….” He smiled briefly, bitterly. “Yes, well. I had little satisfaction in being proved right. He lost everything then. King Edward stripped him of his lands and all his money. We had nothing.”
I frowned. “But….”
“One good thing about a usurper is that he needs allies. When King Richard pushed Edward’s son aside and stole his crown, he returned my father’s lands to him. And upon his death, confirmed it in me. Contingent on my support in the region, naturally.”
“Naturally?” I repeated, not really understanding.
“Tudor,” he said. “I told you. Henry Tudor is above all a Welshman. When he returns from exile to make another attempt at the throne—and he will, and it will be soon—he will land in Wales to gather support and he will march through these lands toward London. Richard expects men like me to help stop him.”
I held that thought in my mind, turning it. Then I asked, “What will you do?”
Again, that bitter smile. “I do not know.”
It was nearly dark when we trotted back through the gates into the courtyard. Two of the servants came out with torches to see to the horses.
Sir William dismounted first and came to stand beside my horse, waiting to help me down. After my last experience, I hesitated. I had no desire to be dumped on the ground like so much baggage once more. Yet I was exhausted and weak, and he was standing right there. How could I refuse? I kicked my feet free of the stirrups and suddenly I was sliding down into his arms. For the space of two breaths, I sank into him. I allowed myself to be glad of his strength. I leaned into his chest, my head tucked under his chin. His heart beat slow and steady beneath my cheek. I remembered his words to Gregory, in explanation of his behavior: true and perfect love. For a moment, I was comforted. For a moment, I felt safe.
Only for a moment.
I pushed away from him and went into the keep without a word.
The heat of the day clung to my room. I tried to lie down on the ropes of the bed frame, but that was like an instrument of torture, cutting and binding and threatening to throw me over. I sat up against the cool stone wall as I had the night before, but I was so worried that he would come in and disturb me that I couldn’t rest. Every whisper, every footfall below, had me jerking alert.
At last, he had me so tired I could no longer sleep. A victory for him indeed.
So I sat awake, listening instead for any sounds in the courtyard that would tell me a horseman had been sent to my father, or was returning.
I listened to my heart beating in silence for a very long time.
Some space of time later—I could not tell how long—voices drifted up the turns of the stairs like ancient ghosts, and I followed them down. At home, in my father’s house, I had become accustomed to avoiding the squeaky wooden boards of steps and landings. Here, I needed to be cautious of patches of stone worn smooth as ice or rounded deep as cups. Thus, creeping quietly was not an issue, but staying upright was.
I paused in the archway of the main hall, letting its shadow conceal me. Sir William sat at the table on the dais, facing the other door from which Gregory and a couple of the other lads were bringing food.
My mouth filled and my stomach clenched. Food. From where I stood, I could not smell it or even see it clearly, but plates piled with something set on a table were enough to put my innards into turmoil.
Sir William took up a small brown sphere and tore it in two—oh, bread!—and set half of it down. The other half, he spread with something soft and pale, butter or cheese.
I bent over, squeezing my arms into my gut to halt the pangs.
When I straightened again, he was alone. Eating.
I plotted a mad dash into the room, pondering how much I could grab and cram into my mouth before he could stop me.
Putting the bread down on the plate, he shifted in his chair. His entire posture was alert, listening.
I froze. Had I made a sound? Had he noticed my presence? What would he do this time?
When he turned his head to look around the hall, I caught a glimpse of his arrow-sharp nose, his angular cheek, his piercing eyes, all topped by that tousled hair. Just as when I had first seen him leaning on his horse in the courtyard of the inn, the sight of him gave me a shiver. I jumped back, pressing up against the cold stone. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he made my heart skip. But he was maddening, infuriating, horrible! And he wouldn’t let me eat!
The chair creaked. I peeked around the corner again. He had settled back to his meal.
I drew an unsteady breath, watching him. All right, then, he was too alert. A mad dash for food was not going to work.
I lingered in the archway, unable to tear myself away from the sight of food although it was torment to watch him eat.
He lifted the bread to his mouth, opened his lips—how I watched every movement he made, like a hawk sighting a vole for its dinner—but then he paused, looked at the bread, and set it back down on the plate.
Why?
I almost screamed the word and had to clamp a hand over my mouth. If only one of us might eat, then eat he should. He must!
He covered his mouth with one hand, staring at the plates before him, shaking his head so slightly I wondered if he was even aware of the motion. Then he leaned back in the chair, pressing the heels of both hands into his eyes and letting out a sigh.
Perhaps he was tired? If he was, it was his own fault. Riding through the night, keeping me up with no sleep, tormenting me all the day long….
He muttered something, so faint I could not hear it. Only a few words reached me. “Who knows….” He shook his head again. “I wish he’d tell me.”
What? He wished someone would tell him what?
“Gregory,” he called, his hands still over his eyes.
I froze. Straining to hear what he was saying to himself, I had crept forward out of my hiding place and was out in the hall, exposed.
As Gregory hurried into the room, I scampered back into the dim archway.
“Take this away.”
“But, sir,” Gregory protested, “you’ve hardly eaten anything. Are you certain?”
“Yes. I’ve no stomach this evening.”
Gregory bowed and began stacking the dishes in his arms. “Yes, sir,” he said, backing away. “Very well, sir.”
I watched as my only chance at food disappeared through the other archway.
Sir William dropped his hands to the arms of his chair with another huge sigh.
I frowned, not comprehending. What reason did he have to be so despondent? He had food at his beck and call, and a bed to sleep in if he chose, and no one tormenting him every moment of the day.
I slunk back up to my room and curled up in my little hedgehog ball on the far side of the room, staring at the door, waiting for the next assault.
Under cover of midnight darknes
s, I made my way back to the kitchen. Though the cook might be a demon in the service of the devil, that demon had to sleep sometime.
My greatest fear was that, suspecting I might try this, Sir William might have ordered the kitchen locked up at night. But when I tried the latch, it lifted with ease. The room was scarcely any less bright, for the fires had only been banked, not extinguished, but it was positively serene by comparison. All the pots and kettles had been washed and were neatly stowed below the tables or on shelves lining the walls. Knives lay in rows on a table, gleaming and freshly sharpened. Fat loaves of tomorrow’s bread rested under cloths near the window, casting a faintly yeasty smell over everything.
I knew well enough that there would be at least one boy sleeping in here, tasked with minding the fires and preparing the morning’s porridge during the night, so I moved as silently as I could toward the back of the kitchen and the large opening I was sure signaled the pantry and food.
Food.
I’d take anything at this point, even slops out of the pig’s bucket.
Hadn’t Gregory said something about a pig?
I was nearly there—I could see the shadowy shapes of jars and canisters and sacks and barrels—when I tripped and went down, hard, on one knee.
Biting my lip to keep from cursing, I rolled onto my back, clutching at my right knee, eyes squeezed shut against sudden tears. Pulling a deep breath in through my nose, I collected myself and sat up.
My kirtle had a lovely new rip and my knee was bleeding. Wonderful.
Worse, though, a rattling snort told me the kitchen boy was stirring.
Panicked, I scooted toward the pantry opening. I had not come this far to leave with nothing. On a low shelf just inside the entry was a bowl of apples and one of pears. I grabbed blindly and scrambled, half bent over, back to the kitchen door.
I gulped down the pear core and all—Oh sweet! Oh soft!—and started working on the apple as I headed back to the keep.
Head down, satisfied with my little victory and checking on my scraped and bloodied knee, I walked right into Sir William.
Naturally.
He caught me by the arms as I staggered backward and kept me upright. In the half-light cast by the knife-blade moon and the stars, his eyes and teeth were bright, his features shadowed. Heat from his hands traveled up my arms straight to my core, unsettling me more than stumbling had.
“Aren’t you up and about early this morning?” he said.
“Morning?” I stammered around a mouthful of apple. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Maybe so, maybe not. Looks like full day to me.”
I tried to back away from him. “As you say, sir. If you’ll please let me pass….”
“By all means, if you’ll tell me where you’ve been.”
I gritted my teeth, sifting through a dozen sharp replies. “I’ve been for a walk.”
“A walk.”
“Yes.”
“By yourself.”
“Yes. I’ve done it before, you know.”
“Oh yes, I do know. I just can’t imagine where—”
“Why? Because it’s the middle of the night?”
He smiled and shook a finger at me. “Oh, good. Oh, very good.” He released my arms and stepped aside. I was suddenly cold without his touch and tucked my hands inside the long sleeves of my dress. Nodding an abrupt courtesy, I went past him toward the keep.
I don’t know what made me turn around. Maybe it was the moonlight, the safety of darkness. But before I could think the better of it, I said, “Why didn’t you come to the church?”
He stood silent, staring down at the dusty ground. I took a step closer, wanting to confront him, wanting to make him look at me. “You said you were sorry you caused me that pain, so why did you do it?”
He moved closer to me as well but slowly, like a man approaching a skittish horse. “Do you remember what it was like… of course you do. Shut your eyes. Think back to that day. Think of your father. Think of the priest. The people there, waiting.”
Against my will, my eyes drifted closed and I did what he urged. I went back to that day in my mind. My father, fairly twitching with his eagerness to be rid of me. Master Greenwood and Master Lawry, eyeing each other like roosters ready to fight. The crowd pressing near outside the church, smirking behind their hands, all gloating because the fool knight had been tricked into taking me for money.
My breathing quickened and my face heated up. My hands balled into fists, ragged nails cutting into my palms. My shoulders rose up to my ears. I wanted to strike someone, anyone. I wanted to—
“There, you see?”
My eyes flew open to see Sir William before me, close enough to punch… close enough to kiss. He put his hands on my tense shoulders and squeezed gently, soothingly. “Had I been there, you would have had no choice. With all of those eyes watching, with all of the demands of family and church, there would have been no question of not going forward.” His hands stilled, their weight heavy on me, pressing me down, rooting me in the earth. “If you were going to come with me, I wanted it to be on account of your own will.”
His words were as heavy as his hands. I tried to make light of it. “A woman will have her will,” I joked, but my voice was feeble and shaky.
He gave my shoulders a final squeeze and slid his hands down my arms. Where our fingers met, they held and seemed not to want to part. The rest of me longed to follow, melting toward him as he drew away. “You should get some rest,” he said.
Simple words, yet sufficient to flare my temper once again. “You may have forgotten, sir, but I have no bed!”
He spun on his heel, and while still walking backward, spread his arms as wide as his grin. “All that has happened since you have been here is within your power to change.”
I watched him dash up the steps and into the keep, mouth agape. Get some rest. The man was impossible!
Chapter 13
When I went down into the hall that morning, I found Sir William alone in a chair on the dais. There was food on the table. The fruit I had devoured at midnight might never have been from the way my body reacted to the sight of food.
Looking up, he saw me. A smile lit his face, and my traitorous body glowed in response. Oh, stop it! Yes, yes, he was handsome, but….
“How fares my Kate?” he called, rising to hurry across the hall to me.
Gone was any hint of the distress I had observed in him at the table last night. Gone too was the sober man who confided in me his conflicted loyalties. No, this was the fellow who had come courting and claimed me for his wife: loud, cheerful, confident.
Perhaps I had only imagined the others.
I moved forward to meet him and was shocked when my legs swayed under me.
He was at my side in an instant, his arm wrapped tight around my waist, holding me close, holding me up. I did not want to admit it, but I was glad of his strength. Again.
“You are not well, by the look of it,” he said, leading me toward the dais with great, almost exaggerated care.
“How else should I be?” I snapped as he helped me into the chair he had just vacated. “You have starved me for three days.”
“Three days?” he said, seating himself on the table. “That cannot be! You have only been with me for a day and a night.”
I squinted up at him. Surely that could not be right. Surely not….
But with so little sleep, how could I really be sure? These damned thick walls blocked out the sun.
He handed me a goblet. Without even lifting it, I could feel the alcohol in it pricking at my nose and my tongue. I could not drink wine in this state. I set it down.
“Here, Kate, look how diligent I have been in your care,” he said, reaching for the plate in the middle of the table. “I have prepared your meal myself.”
He removed the napkin covering it to reveal what, to me, was a dream of a meal: a slice of ham, the skin crisped with honey, a heel of white bread made from finely milled wheat,
a piece of fragrant, mottled cheese, a handful of bright red strawberries. Dizzied by the sight, I gripped the edge of the table.
“Would you like something to eat?” he asked.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the food. I was too weak, too flustered to say anything. I nodded.
He dragged the plate across the table. The sound was impossibly loud in the empty hall.
My hand moved out to snatch up the ham off the plate. My mouth was already full of juices in anticipation. Oh joy!
Fast as a striking snake, he grabbed my wrist, my bones like twigs in his fingers. I froze. Men had a right to “correct” their wives—God and law gave them that—yet for all our battles, he had never hurt me. His hand holding my wrist, so large, capable, and strong, was a clear reminder that he could.
Very softly, not quite threatening, he said, “Even the worst servant is repaid with thanks.”
I could scarcely believe it. After everything I had been through, he was going to stand on ceremony?
My tongue itched with scathing words. I wanted to unleash them, to pour them over his head like a bucket of ice water.
I could feel my heartbeat racing in my veins under his fingers.
I drew in a shuddering breath.
“I thank you.”
He released his grasp one finger at a time and moved away. I scooped up the ham and the bread with one hand but shoved a strawberry in my mouth first. The explosion of sweetness almost made me cry. I couldn’t bear to look at him, watching me grab at food like an animal, but I couldn’t help it. I glanced up. The only way I could describe it was that he was studying me. There was no mockery in his face, no gloating over my shame, no disgust or shock or any of the things I expected.
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