Simon's Lady by Julie Tetel Andresen

account of the event from your lips.”
    “It went very well,” Gwyneth agreed in her lilting accent. “But as for a precise account, I would not know where to begin.”
    “You might begin by telling me whether you are in any way displeased with your husband-to-be,” Adela suggested gently. To the nearest lady-in-waiting, she requested that two cups of wine and a bowl of nuts be brought then she drew Gwyneth down next to her on the gaily-striped cushions. Lowering her voice in a conspiratorial tone, she said, “The matter is not cast in stone until the wedding vows are spoken, you know.”
    She saw Gwyneth pause a moment before replying demurely, “Displeased with him? No, madam.”
    Adela smiled encouragingly. “Are you pleased by him, then?” she prodded.
    Gwyneth lowered her thick, blond lashes. “I am pleased to accept your choice of husband for me,” she replied, ever demure.
    This was not the response Adela was angling for, and she wished she could have seen into the young woman’s eyes. “Very proper,” she confined herself to saying. Hoping to coax Gwyneth into revealing her feelings, she ventured, “Simon of Beresford has many fine qualities.”
    “Oh, yes, I am sure that he does,” Gwyneth replied.
    “He is strong and rich,” Adela continued, “although he is not one to display his wealth.” She paused long enough to take a cup of wine from the tray held by the lady-in -waiting and to gesture invitingly toward Gwyneth. “And he is kind.”
    Gwyneth took the cup and raised her eyes. In the benign light of the dying day, Adela found herself looking straight into a limpid, limitless violet that told her nothing of Gwyneth’s thoughts.
    “I have seen that he is strong,” Gwyneth said sweetly, “and I believe you when you say that he is rich. However, I have too slight an acquaintance with him to know yet whether he is kind.”
    Adela laughed once, musically. “You may as well state that his manners are harsh and that his social graces are few!” she said humorously, switching tactics. “Such a man is our Simon! But I assure you that he is honorable and that beneath his ragged manners beats a warm heart.”
    Gwyneth nodded acquiescently, and Adela felt the first stirrings of dissatisfaction with her day’s work. “But you are not drinking, my dear,” she said, noting Gwyneth’s untouched wine. “It will relax you after the excitement of the day.”
    Thus commanded to drink, Gwyneth obeyed.
    “Now that I have mentioned Beresford’s rather blunt ways,” Adela continued, keeping her tone light, “I must say that they were in full evidence earlier today in the council room. A number of barons were present when I bestowed upon Sir Simon the privilege of marrying you, and in his surprise, he reacted without thinking!” Her voice was cozily confidential. “You, dear Gwyneth, know how rumors can scurry throughout a castle, becoming more distorted with every telling. The ones circulating about Sir Simon that so closely concern you are bound to come to your ears, and I did not want you to be distressed, my dear, if you were to hear that Sir Simon was not happy with the match.”
    Gwyneth replied with an openness that gave her words the ring of truth. “You need not worry about untoward rumors of such a nature coming to my ears, madam, for Sir Simon told me himself that he was against the marriage.”
    Adela was mightily displeased by this information, but had enough experience not to show it. She had not thought it necessary to speak to Beresford alone before he met his bride, figuring that Gwyneth would win him over with her beauty. She did not know what ailed the man, but she made a mental note to meet with Beresford immediately before supper.
    Before replying, she fortified herself with a leisurely sip of wine and encouraged Gwyneth again to do the same. Then she set down her cup and matched Gwyneth’s openness with a pleasant candor of her own. “Our Simon, again!” She shook her head