How had Fermentine known she was enceinte? It had something to do with menses. They stopped. Fermentine and her husband had been hastily married shortly thereafter. Peri’s courses had continued normally. “Non,” she whispered.
Gallien smirked, then dipped the pen in the inkwell and signed the document without reading a word.
He too has accepted this as inevitable.
A twinge of pity for him tugged at her. But he was cold and arrogant. He did not bestow another glance on her. Were it not for the facial resemblance between the two Normans she would have deemed them unrelated. It was evident her future husband hated her, seethed that he had been bound to an Angevin.
Cold fear crept up her spine that his hatred might turn to cruelty.
The emissary accepted his copy of the agreement and bowed his farewell to the earl and his son, ignoring her completely. The bargain had been completed.
She took a deep breath. Her betrothed was one of the most handsome knights she had ever seen, despite the scowl on his face. His silver hair added to his beauty. Doubtless many Norman noblewomen had pursued him. He could have had anyone of his choosing, but had been forced to accept her.
Resentment was the one thing they had in common, but she resolved not to let that soften her heart towards him.
Gallien recognised the censure in his father’s gaze. It did nothing to calm his raging heart. Decorum dictated he escort his betrothed to the banquet prepared in their honor. He did not want to touch her, though a strange urge had come over him to warm her cold hand when they had first touched. He must guard against that. The brazen chit had dared hesitate before signing the contract, as if she had any more choice than he in the matter.
Here was another Felicité, no doubt. How had she learned green was his favorite color? He would have to be careful. He struggled for something to say that would allay his father’s growing displeasure. He forced a smile as he proffered his arm. “Are your chambers to your liking?”
She did not look at him. “Oui.”
As they processed towards the Great Hall, his agitation grew. The rest of his family awaited them. Despite his mother’s sympathy with his reluctance to remarry, she had already welcomed Peridotte upon her arrival at Ellesmere the previous day. “What does it matter if she is an Angevin? Do you believe it was easy for your father to marry a Welshwoman?” she had chided.
“But he loved you. I don’t love this woman, and I never will,” he had retorted.
Her reply had been something about lightning not striking twice in the same place. He winced at the memory, raking a hand through his hair. Marriage to Felicité had indeed been like being struck by lightning.
It came to him that the woman he escorted was trembling. Felicité had never trembled, except perhaps at another’s touch. “Are you cold?”
He cursed under his breath that his determination to ask no personal questions had already faltered. If she said yes, what would he do then?
Christ, he was acting like a lad of four and ten. Her perfume had befuddled him, but at least it wasn’t lavender.
Her fingers tightened briefly on his arm. She shook her head, her eyes fixed on the stone floor.
His mother came into view, smiling broadly, her arms extended in greeting. She had been his rock during the nightmare of his marriage. He might have lost his wits were it not for her love and support. He had sobbed in her arms like a baby.
His brother stood beside her. Gallien groaned inwardly. Étienne pursued anything in skirts. In the worst torment of his marriage, Gallien had accused his brother of adultery with his wife. To his everlasting shame, he knew now how wrong he had been, but did not doubt for a moment that Étienne would flirt with his betrothed. She was beautiful. From her coloring and the precarious tilt of the veil, he suspected a wealth of red hair. The notion caused a tingle at the base of his spine. He changed his gait to be rid of it.
Never again would he allow himself to care for a woman. They were not to be trusted.
Carys smiled as she chatted with Peridotte, determined to let her new daughter-by-marriage know she was welcome and loved at Ellesmere. The girl was the lone Angevin in a Norman household and Carys knew the despair of isolation that could result from being foreign.
A woman should have at least one happy memory of her betrothal, and Gallien was treating his future wife with a rudeness that bordered on cruelty.
He didn’t realize how fortunate he was to have found a bride like Peridotte. She had qualities he couldn’t, or wouldn’t see.
She was tempted to reveal to Peridotte the reason for her son’s attitude, but it was not her place to do so.
The goddess Arianrhod had answered Carys’s prayers, but she would continue to beg for Gallien’s broken heart to be healed by the jewel with which he’d been blessed.
Heartless Brute
The aroma of food unsettled Peri’s belly. She and her future husband shared a trencher, customary for a newly betrothed couple, and he selected choice pieces of roasted chicken, offering them on the end of his eating dagger, as was expected.
But he spoke not a word. No smile lit his face. Only the darkened blue of his eyes betrayed his mood.
She searched for topics of conversation, but found none.
The earl and his countess occupied the carved lord and lady’s chairs at the head table. Gallien sat at his father’s right hand. Peri supposed that her presence as the extra person was the reason for their closeness on the padded bench. Her betrothed’s thigh touched hers. The heat emanating from his body made her lightheaded. She pressed her fingers to the hidden sachet, thankful for its aromatic properties.
She had brought a goodly supply of potpourri, but would need to ask the countess how to procure more. She had learned her future mother-by-marriage was a healer and the castle maintained a Still Room fully stocked with herbs and medicines.
Gallien leaned closer. “You have no need to draw my eye to them. I see you have breasts.”
Anger surged into her throat, threatening to choke her. A pulse beat in her ears. She opened her mouth to retort, but no words came. She squirmed on the bench, wishing she could flee.
He rolled his eyes. “Nor do you need to press your thigh to mine. I am immune to your game.”
Tears welled. “I play no game, milord. It is you who plays games, toying with me as a cat toys with a mouse.”
To her surprise he frowned. “You are right, milady. Where are my manners? As you have probably sensed, I am not happy with this betrothal.”
“Nor am I,” she whispered.
Her response did not matter, though it piqued Gallien’s male pride that she did not want to marry him, any more than he wanted her. But he had his reasons—good reasons.
Why would an eligible maiden not want to marry the eldest son of a powerful earl? Granted he had not been friendly. In fact, he had been cruel and rude. This was what Felicité had turned him into—a cold, heartless brute. “I am a difficult man,” he conceded, drumming his fingers on the table.
She sniffled, blinking away welling tears—what color were her eyes exactly? Green, flecked with brown. In this light, they reminded him of the amber necklace his Uncle Rhys wore—a family heirloom passed down through generations of the Welsh side of his ancestry.
He tore his gaze away. Why did he care what color her eyes were? Her dismay at being bound to him had gone unanswered. He cast about for something more pleasant to say. “But we might learn to tolerate one another.”
She swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on a point faraway. “I had foolishly hoped for a marriage of more than tolerance.”
The wistful melancholy in her voice caught him off guard, but he supposed most maidens’ heads were filled with the notion of finding a great love. He had once entertained similar fancies. “You dreamed of marrying a handsome prince,” he said with more sarcasm than he intended.
She swiveled her head and glanced up at him sharply, her cheeks reddening. “Non, non,” she stammered, “not yet a prince, a�
��”
She clamped a hand over her mouth, green eyes widening in apprehension.
Cold fury swept over Gallien. The woman was in love with someone else.
Baudoin squeezed his wife’s hand under the table and leaned over close to her ear. “At least they are talking,” he whispered.
“Neither looks happy,” she replied. “Gallien’s shoulders relaxed for a few moments, but now he’s even more sullen and angry.”
“She must have unwittingly said something to upset him, but how is the girl to know? Have you mentioned anything?”
“About Felicité? No. Gallien must tell her himself.”
Baudoin sighed. “I doubt that will happen. I don’t think he’s ever told us the whole story.”
Throughout the lengthy struggle to convince their families they should marry all those years ago, Baudoin had been sustained by one consoling truth—Carys loved him. He grieved that the fiasco with Felicité had convinced Gallien he was unlovable.
Vows
Alys took a step back from her mistress, sniffling. “My lady, you are beautiful. If only your Maman and Papa were here to see you.”
Peri pursed her lips, determined not to shed more tears. She had done enough of that throughout the long sleepless night, wishing her parents had come to her wedding. Perhaps their presence would fill the lonely void where her heart used to be.
The earl and countess had deemed it wise to hold the ceremony soon after the betrothal since Peri was far from home. She’d seen little of her betrothed in the sennight since. Étienne had paid her more attention. Now she stood in her chamber, dressed in a gown of white silk that was finer than anything she had ever worn. The countess had recommended the unusual color and, after innumerable fittings, the castle seamstresses had finished the garment in record time.
Alys divided the hair on one side of her mistress’s head into two sections. Instead of a third strand of hair, she used hairpins to secure a white ribbon. Peri winced as Alys plaited the hair tightly with the ribbon, then rolled the braid into a bun, secured with more pins. She repeated the process on the other side.
Peri smiled weakly, her eyes watering. “At least you are here with me, Alys. Whether I look beautiful or not will be of no consequence to my betrothed. He hates me.”
The maidservant opened her mouth to respond, but jovial male voices in the outer hallway caught their attention. One struck a chord of memory, but it was impossible he would be here.
She clutched the fabric of her skirts. The earl was to escort her to the door of the church, but she had thought there was time yet to calm herself.
Someone rapped loudly.
Feeling light headed, she nodded to Alys. “See to it.”
The earl strode into the chamber, smiling too broadly. “We have a surprise visitor.”
Peri’s knees buckled when a grinning Geoffrey Plantagenet sauntered through the door. No wonder they called him Geoffrey the Handsome. The jaunty cap with his signature sprig of broom matched his doublet and hose perfectly—all of forest green wool—her favor color.
She sank into a full curtsey, certain she would be unable to rise when he gave her leave. “Milord Geoffrey,” she rasped, surprised to hear any sound come from her dry throat.
He bent to take her hand. “Rise, Peridotte de Pontrouge. I am not king yet.”
Peri hazarded a glance at the earl. The smile had fled.
Geoffrey gripped her hand and helped her rise. “I hoped I would arrive in time for the nuptials of my favorite Angevin.”
This could not be happening. Geoffrey had come for her wedding?
The earl stepped forward. “Milord Geoffrey has requested the honor of escorting you to the door of the church.”
Peri’s heart raced. She blinked rapidly, the breath stolen from her lungs. The man she loved was here to give her away to a man she feared and loathed. What game did he play? She had dreamed of his coming, riding to her rescue on a white steed, not to help seal her fate. She swallowed the thickness in her throat, willing the chamber to stop spinning. “I…”
Geoffrey held up his hand. “It is my duty to represent your father and mine today.”
His tone was serious, but only she and Alys saw his wink. Her heart skipped a beat. It was a ruse. He intended to step in at the last moment to claim her. But how could that be? He was betrothed to Maud. There would be a war, or at the very least a skirmish within the walls of Ellesmere Castle. Geoffrey might be killed.
“Are you well, daughter?”
It came to her then that she was leaning heavily on the earl who gripped one hand tightly while supporting her by the elbow. This kind man whose son she was to marry must not see her love for Geoffrey. “I feel faint,” she whispered.
Baudoin de Montbryce chuckled. “Every bride feels that way. Worry not, you look beautiful. My son is a lucky man.”
He paused, hesitating as if he wished to say more, but then passed her hand to Geoffrey. “She’s all yours, milord.”
Gallien shifted his weight nervously as he waited by the door of the church with his brother. He tapped his upper lip with his fisted hand, his gut in knots. He understood now the defiance of the wounded boar cornered by the hunters. At this late hour, when marriage was inevitable, he tried desperately to devise a means of escape.
There was none.
He had done his best in the sennight since the betrothal to avoid Peridotte de Pontrouge. It irked that jealousy raised its ugly head when Étienne fawned over her, but his greatest annoyance was the persistent effect she had on his body. She had only to smile at his brother for Gallien’s cock to harden.
There was no doubt she was lovely, but Felicité had been beautiful too, outwardly.
To compound his irritation, Geoffrey Plantagenet had arrived unexpectedly, ostensibly to represent all things Angevin.
Why did he have the feeling there was more to it than that?
He gripped the edges of his black doublet and straightened his shoulders, flicking off a speck of lint on the sleeve. He was satisfied the tailor had made the shirt and doublet long enough this time.
He considered removing the gold chain of square links he had chosen for its simplicity of design. It would look meager compared to whatever Geoffrey wore.
He was about to ask Étienne to help him unfasten it from his shoulders when his father came up, somewhat out of breath. “Plantagenet is to give away the bride.”
Gallien smirked. “What an honor. To be given away by the future King of England. Our Angevin must be a more important person than we thought.”
He hated this game of politics that had forced on him a woman he did not want. She did not want him either. She loved another. What had she said? Not yet a prince.
The meaning of her slip of the tongue kicked him in the gut. Dieu! She was in love with Geoffrey the Handsome.
Rage boiled in Gallien’s belly. His betrothed preferred a vain, immature boy to him. Was there nothing lovable about Gallien de Montbryce?
“Let the prancing idiot lay a hand on my wife, and he’ll regret it, prince or not,” he muttered. “I’ll stuff the sprig of broom down his throat.”
“What?” Étienne asked innocently. “I didn’t hear what you said.”
“Nothing,” Gallien ground out between clenched teeth. “Where is my bride?”
The back of Geoffrey’s hand felt cold beneath Peri’s as they processed to the church, their gazes fixed straight ahead. She wished they were alone, so she could whisper of her love, but his bodyguards accompanied them, and Gallien’s sisters attended her. The silk of her skirts swished against the stone floor, the only sound, apart from the loud beating of her heart.
They crossed the deserted bailey. Where was everyone? Probably driven indoors by the cold wind.
She caught a whiff of incense. Only a few more steps.
Without warning, Geoffrey’s finger drew a lazy circle in her palm. She glanced up at him, gasping when he kissed her hand, his tongue swirling over her knuckles. She tried w
ithout success to discretely pull her hand away, afraid Fleurie and Isabelle may have seen the flagrant breach of propriety.
A moment ago she had been shivering with cold. Now heat rushed from her toes to the top of her head.
Geoffrey laughed as the church came into view. A cold chill once again gripped her belly that had naught to do with the weather. Her betrothed stood in the entryway, frowning. Had he seen Geoffrey’s inappropriate behavior? She feared his anger. She had hoped to see one of his rare smiles as she approached the church. A scowling bridegroom clad entirely in black did not augur well for the future.
Gallien held out his hand. Something flickered in his blue eyes that made her knees go weak. Geoffrey gave her over to him. “Here is your bride, milord Gallien de Montbryce. Treat her well.”
To her surprise, Gallien nodded. “I intend to treat her in the manner she deserves.”
His hand was warm, but his demeanor as they exchanged vows chilled her to the bone. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if he might flee at any moment. It was a habit she had noticed before. He uttered his promises like a meaningless catechism, his voice cold and flat.
When her turn came, she had difficulty speaking. Her throat became as dry as the dusty eastern plains Crusaders told of. No sound emerged until she swallowed and began again. She feared the wrath of God and eternal damnation if she uttered untruths. She yearned for a marriage of love, truly wanted to honor and obey this man she was marrying. She was drawn to him, despite his coldness. His silver hair only added to his attractiveness. His broad shoulders and well-muscled arms and legs bespoke a man of action and power. A protector.
She had been disappointed not to see much of him in the sennight since their betrothal. The warm smiles he bestowed on others when he was unaware she watched him filled her with a strange longing.
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