caught the side of the face, sent her staggering onto the bed.
“Keep your mouth shut.” His voice held no trace of emotion as he strode to the door. “At least until after the wedding. Then you’re his problem. Just remember, there’ll never be a place for you at Compton. Give the old man a son, and you’ll want for nothing. Fight him and you may find yourself back at the convent—if you’re lucky.”
His footsteps thudded down the corridor. Ortha slid in, muttering beneath her breath as she dampened a cloth from a water jar on the table to hold against Emelin’s face. Emelin felt her lower lip. It was swollen a bit. Perhaps no one would notice.
The evening meal was well-advanced by the time she arrived at table. Lord Osbert scowled. His eyes lingered on her face. With a glance at Garley, he grunted, then nodded at her. Emelin swore she detected a flash of pity.
“Sit. Eat.” For once, his rumble sounded almost kind. “You’ll need your strength.”
He was certainly right about that. Barring a miracle or a war—could a war be a miracle?—she would wed this man old enough to be her father. Yet that life would be kinder than any other Garley connived.
She must reconcile to her fate. It was, after all, what she’d prayed God to send. A home, a husband, a family.
Her vision misted at the memory of the dark-haired mercenary, and she squeezed shut her eyes. Reality held no room for childish dreams.
Chapter Five
Emelin dreaded the meal, but at least she sat far enough along the table that she avoided her brother. He sat beside Lord Osbert, who had another man on his right. Both Garley and Lord Osbert appeared intent on that man, a lord to judge from his rich clothing and arrogant mien.
Voice lowered, she asked Lady Dulsie, “Who is the one speaking with Lord Osbert?”
“Oh, my dear, that’s the king’s man. He arrived yesterday. All the way from Normandy.” Lady Dulsie’s voice rose to a squeal on the last word, and her eyes sparkled. “My husband says his name is Lord Paxton, and he brings word from Richard, himself. Isn’t he handsome?”
Some might call the king’s man well-looking with his neatly trimmed moustache and beard, but Emelin thought his face too narrow, his nose too sharp. He reminded her of a fox.
The lord’s eyes were sharp, as well. While he spoke with the men, his gaze scanned the hall with rapid thoroughness. She could almost see his mind grasp every detail. That gaze paused on her, and he made some quiet remark.
“Yes, yes,” Lord Osbert boomed in grating joviality. “That is my bride, Lady Emelin, daughter of Sir Roland and Lady Hawise of Compton, sister of Sir Garley.” He cited her pedigree like a prize mare’s: Emelin by Roland out of Hawise. Evidence of her breeding ability.
She firmed her jaw and schooled her features.
A commotion at the door heralded the entry of late arrivals, and a rough-looking group filed in. Among them, two sported bruises and cuts; a third limped slightly. The handful of men found positions at the end of the last table and fell to eating, all except the one who limped. He stared at the dais, then wiped a forearm across his mouth before he sat.
Emelin followed his glare to the king’s man and caught the minute pause when he saw the gesture. But he continued to speak with Lord Osbert, unperturbed by the insolent newcomer. Impossible for her not to wonder about the royal emissary. What did he intend here, and how long would he remain?
An answer to the second question came shortly after the meal, when shouts and the stamp of horses filtered in from outside. Emelin joined others at the doors to peer out. He was preparing to depart, without even the courtesy leave-taking one might expect of such a guest.
A surprisingly large band of soldiers congregated to accompany him. They rode in a different direction from the way she had arrived earlier, and she wondered what lay along that route. And why had the lord left so late in the day?
From
“Keep your mouth shut.” His voice held no trace of emotion as he strode to the door. “At least until after the wedding. Then you’re his problem. Just remember, there’ll never be a place for you at Compton. Give the old man a son, and you’ll want for nothing. Fight him and you may find yourself back at the convent—if you’re lucky.”
His footsteps thudded down the corridor. Ortha slid in, muttering beneath her breath as she dampened a cloth from a water jar on the table to hold against Emelin’s face. Emelin felt her lower lip. It was swollen a bit. Perhaps no one would notice.
The evening meal was well-advanced by the time she arrived at table. Lord Osbert scowled. His eyes lingered on her face. With a glance at Garley, he grunted, then nodded at her. Emelin swore she detected a flash of pity.
“Sit. Eat.” For once, his rumble sounded almost kind. “You’ll need your strength.”
He was certainly right about that. Barring a miracle or a war—could a war be a miracle?—she would wed this man old enough to be her father. Yet that life would be kinder than any other Garley connived.
She must reconcile to her fate. It was, after all, what she’d prayed God to send. A home, a husband, a family.
Her vision misted at the memory of the dark-haired mercenary, and she squeezed shut her eyes. Reality held no room for childish dreams.
Chapter Five
Emelin dreaded the meal, but at least she sat far enough along the table that she avoided her brother. He sat beside Lord Osbert, who had another man on his right. Both Garley and Lord Osbert appeared intent on that man, a lord to judge from his rich clothing and arrogant mien.
Voice lowered, she asked Lady Dulsie, “Who is the one speaking with Lord Osbert?”
“Oh, my dear, that’s the king’s man. He arrived yesterday. All the way from Normandy.” Lady Dulsie’s voice rose to a squeal on the last word, and her eyes sparkled. “My husband says his name is Lord Paxton, and he brings word from Richard, himself. Isn’t he handsome?”
Some might call the king’s man well-looking with his neatly trimmed moustache and beard, but Emelin thought his face too narrow, his nose too sharp. He reminded her of a fox.
The lord’s eyes were sharp, as well. While he spoke with the men, his gaze scanned the hall with rapid thoroughness. She could almost see his mind grasp every detail. That gaze paused on her, and he made some quiet remark.
“Yes, yes,” Lord Osbert boomed in grating joviality. “That is my bride, Lady Emelin, daughter of Sir Roland and Lady Hawise of Compton, sister of Sir Garley.” He cited her pedigree like a prize mare’s: Emelin by Roland out of Hawise. Evidence of her breeding ability.
She firmed her jaw and schooled her features.
A commotion at the door heralded the entry of late arrivals, and a rough-looking group filed in. Among them, two sported bruises and cuts; a third limped slightly. The handful of men found positions at the end of the last table and fell to eating, all except the one who limped. He stared at the dais, then wiped a forearm across his mouth before he sat.
Emelin followed his glare to the king’s man and caught the minute pause when he saw the gesture. But he continued to speak with Lord Osbert, unperturbed by the insolent newcomer. Impossible for her not to wonder about the royal emissary. What did he intend here, and how long would he remain?
An answer to the second question came shortly after the meal, when shouts and the stamp of horses filtered in from outside. Emelin joined others at the doors to peer out. He was preparing to depart, without even the courtesy leave-taking one might expect of such a guest.
A surprisingly large band of soldiers congregated to accompany him. They rode in a different direction from the way she had arrived earlier, and she wondered what lay along that route. And why had the lord left so late in the day?
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