Wolf Bride by Elizabeth Moss

Though I am by no means skilled at the lute, nor is my poetry to be admired.’ He paused, his voice becoming husky. ‘I am no Thomas Wyatt.’
    There was a flicker in his green eyes which spoke of wariness, perhaps even an awareness of danger. A sliver of ice entered her heart. She wondered what this courtier knew of the queen’s secret dalliance with Thomas Wyatt, and what it might mean for Queen Anne if suspicions about her character were beginning to be whispered about the court.
    Her reply was careful. ‘Thomas Wyatt is a most wonderful poet, is he not?’
    ‘He is indeed.’ Hugh drank from his wine cup, not meeting her eyes. ‘Wyatt has a gift for versifying almost to rival the classical poets of Rome.’
    His response had been guarded too. Eloise turned her head, and was taken aback to see Wolf watching them both intently. He was not eating, his brows drawn sharply together as though in a frown.
    Was he angry that she was conversing so freely with Hugh Beaufort? Or was it the subject of their discussion which met with such narrow-eyed disapproval?
    She hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to look away and discreetly cut off the discussion. Then the heat of rebellion burned in her heart. They were not yet married. She was still free to converse with whom she liked, and she liked Hugh Beaufort. Not in the same way as Simon, but she guessed he could be a good friend to her. And she would be in need of friends in the months to come.
    ‘Do you write poetry?’ Hugh asked her after a moment, refilling both their wine cups from the flagon.
    ‘It has been known.’
    Hugh grinned at her, then seemed to catch Lord Wolf’s eye. His smile faded and he took a large mouthful of partridge, effectively bringing the conversation to an end.
    Her father grunted, scattering a pinch of salt over his meat. ‘Well, my friends, we have made good progress and should be back in the North Riding the day after tomorrow, by my reckoning.’ He looked down the table at Lord Wolf. ‘Once home, we must discuss a date for this wedding with the priest. The sooner the better is what I say.’
    ‘Indeed,’ Wolf said darkly.
    ‘Once Eloise is safely wed, I shall set about arranging a date for my younger daughter to marry. There is a gentleman in the north who has asked me repeatedly for her hand, the old goat.’ Her father took a leisurely swallow of wine, then wiped his wet mouth on his sleeve, returning to his northern manners now they had left the court. ‘He is nearly as old as me, and no doubt she will not be happy with the match. But Susannah needs a firm hand and a husband’s guidance, just like her sister here. Their mother was the same, God rest her soul.’ He crossed himself, then set to his meal, finishing his thought with his mouth crammed with meat, ‘So take heed, Lord Wolf, not to spare the rod once Eloise is under your protection. An obedient wife will serve you better than a wayward one.’
    Eloise bent her head to her trencher, and finished the meal in silence, her heart beating fast, surprised by her own anger. She felt some antagonism towards her father for his blustering talk of beatings and obedience. But she had heard his thoughts on women and marriage before; they were nothing new, and indeed Susannah had only rarely been beaten for disobedience when they were growing up, for she was their father’s favourite. Mostly her temper had sparked at this stern bridegroom who wished to show her off to his company of gentlemen, but would prevent her from speaking in too friendly a manner with any other man.
    There would be little hope of pursuing the courtly life once married to Lord Wolf. For if she spoke or sang or read poetry in the company of gentlemen as she had been wont to do at court, her new husband would soon make her – or the gentleman in question – suffer for it. She would be less his wife than his possession, and kept under close scrutiny.
    As the last course was served, her anger faded away and an