titters of the ladies.
But his look of disgust when she had touched him drove any sense of gratitude from her.
It was her wedding night, and save for the company of a large white windhound, she lay alone. More alone than she had ever been before.
As if the king had commanded it, the next day dawned clear and brilliant, the weather a sharp contrast to Stephen’s gloomy mood. He should have let the gypsy girl flee on his horse, should have forfeited the wager to King Henry. Capria was precious to him, but not nearly so precious as his freedom.
Instead, he had foolishly allowed himself to be captivated by the horse thief’s wide eyes, so clear and disarming in contrast to the dirt on her face, the tangles in her hair.
Gypsy eyes, he told himself. As false and full of lies as her Romany soul.
“Ah, Kit,” Stephen said, sitting on a heavy box chair and holding his head, “say it was all a bad dream. Say I’m not truly shackled by God’s law to a wild, half-mad gypsy.”
Kit Youngblood’s mouth quirked in a curve that suspiciously resembled a stifled grin. He held out Stephen’s plain frieze jerkin. “It was no dream, my lord. The king waived the banns and called for a clerk. You are well and truly married to the strange girl.”
Stephen lifted his head, rubbed his hands over his stubbled cheeks, then pushed his arms into the jerkin. “Must you always be so blunt?”
“My lord,” Kit said, lacing Stephen’s sleeve to the armhole of the jerkin, “why did you not simply refuse?”
Stephen did not answer, for not even Kit knew the truth—that if he had dared to cross the king once more…
“She would have been hanged,” Stephen said brusquely. “We shall collect my gypsy baggage and get ourselves home. Then I’ll find a way out of this mess. Where is the wench, anyway?”
Juliana was already mounted and ready to ride when Stephen came out to the park beside the river Thames.
“My blushing bride,” he muttered under his breath. She sat frozen upon a gray gelding, her cheeks still smudged with dirt, her eyes wide and wary with pain and uncertainty.
The look brought on a flash of remembrance. A few years earlier, Stephen had come upon a poacher’s trap. The sharp-toothed iron jaws were clamped around the foreleg of a young doe. The dying creature had gazed up at him, that same look in its eyes, begging for a quick death.
Stephen had slit its throat.
“The lady,” he said with a mocking bow, “does not seem to take joy in seeing her new husband.”
“I take no joy in riding off with my jailer,” she spat. “I’d no more pretend to like you than I would care to warm your bed.”
He slid his gaze slowly over her. She sat astride, her patched skirts hiked up and billowing over the saddlebow. Long bare legs and dusty feet clung expertly to the horse’s sides.
“Believe me,” Stephen assured her, “I have higher standards for the women I bed.” His fury at the king honed an edge of cruelty to his words. “You seem better suited to certain other domestic tasks.”
She glared at him with loathing hot in her eyes. “I will not do your Gajo washing, nor work in your Gajo fields.” With her strange dog trotting at her horse’s stirrup, she rode stone-faced, looking disturbingly like a scatterling from a siege. When they stopped at wayside inns along the way, she ate and drank mechanically. At night she lay unmoving on a pallet. The dog never left her side, and while she slept he remained vigilant, lifting his black lip and growling if Stephen even so much as blinked at Juliana.
Kit, understandably discomfited by the tension, kept up a constant, mindless chatter as they trudged through the terraced green west country: King Henry had sent aides abroad in search of a new royal bride. At the royal court of France, people drank from cups that, when drained, revealed a man and woman in flagrante delicto. Sebastian Cabot, the mariner, had sent a savage from New Spain to London, and the
But his look of disgust when she had touched him drove any sense of gratitude from her.
It was her wedding night, and save for the company of a large white windhound, she lay alone. More alone than she had ever been before.
As if the king had commanded it, the next day dawned clear and brilliant, the weather a sharp contrast to Stephen’s gloomy mood. He should have let the gypsy girl flee on his horse, should have forfeited the wager to King Henry. Capria was precious to him, but not nearly so precious as his freedom.
Instead, he had foolishly allowed himself to be captivated by the horse thief’s wide eyes, so clear and disarming in contrast to the dirt on her face, the tangles in her hair.
Gypsy eyes, he told himself. As false and full of lies as her Romany soul.
“Ah, Kit,” Stephen said, sitting on a heavy box chair and holding his head, “say it was all a bad dream. Say I’m not truly shackled by God’s law to a wild, half-mad gypsy.”
Kit Youngblood’s mouth quirked in a curve that suspiciously resembled a stifled grin. He held out Stephen’s plain frieze jerkin. “It was no dream, my lord. The king waived the banns and called for a clerk. You are well and truly married to the strange girl.”
Stephen lifted his head, rubbed his hands over his stubbled cheeks, then pushed his arms into the jerkin. “Must you always be so blunt?”
“My lord,” Kit said, lacing Stephen’s sleeve to the armhole of the jerkin, “why did you not simply refuse?”
Stephen did not answer, for not even Kit knew the truth—that if he had dared to cross the king once more…
“She would have been hanged,” Stephen said brusquely. “We shall collect my gypsy baggage and get ourselves home. Then I’ll find a way out of this mess. Where is the wench, anyway?”
Juliana was already mounted and ready to ride when Stephen came out to the park beside the river Thames.
“My blushing bride,” he muttered under his breath. She sat frozen upon a gray gelding, her cheeks still smudged with dirt, her eyes wide and wary with pain and uncertainty.
The look brought on a flash of remembrance. A few years earlier, Stephen had come upon a poacher’s trap. The sharp-toothed iron jaws were clamped around the foreleg of a young doe. The dying creature had gazed up at him, that same look in its eyes, begging for a quick death.
Stephen had slit its throat.
“The lady,” he said with a mocking bow, “does not seem to take joy in seeing her new husband.”
“I take no joy in riding off with my jailer,” she spat. “I’d no more pretend to like you than I would care to warm your bed.”
He slid his gaze slowly over her. She sat astride, her patched skirts hiked up and billowing over the saddlebow. Long bare legs and dusty feet clung expertly to the horse’s sides.
“Believe me,” Stephen assured her, “I have higher standards for the women I bed.” His fury at the king honed an edge of cruelty to his words. “You seem better suited to certain other domestic tasks.”
She glared at him with loathing hot in her eyes. “I will not do your Gajo washing, nor work in your Gajo fields.” With her strange dog trotting at her horse’s stirrup, she rode stone-faced, looking disturbingly like a scatterling from a siege. When they stopped at wayside inns along the way, she ate and drank mechanically. At night she lay unmoving on a pallet. The dog never left her side, and while she slept he remained vigilant, lifting his black lip and growling if Stephen even so much as blinked at Juliana.
Kit, understandably discomfited by the tension, kept up a constant, mindless chatter as they trudged through the terraced green west country: King Henry had sent aides abroad in search of a new royal bride. At the royal court of France, people drank from cups that, when drained, revealed a man and woman in flagrante delicto. Sebastian Cabot, the mariner, had sent a savage from New Spain to London, and the
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