Lyn Stone - My Lady's Choice

Sara held her breath.

“Never, sire! But Sir Richard—”

The king drew himself up to full height, which was considerable, rested his fists on his hips and glared. “—will wed this woman! Marry them now or get you from my sight! Permanently!”

The portly cleric jerked open his prayer book and quickly shuffled to the side of the bed. The king grasped Sara by one arm and dragged her to stand betwixt him and the priest.

So there they stood, three in a row, so close they were touching, as they peered down at the knight, who shifted beneath his sheets and groaned with pain.

Sara reached out and took one of the clenched fists in her hands, trying to soothe him. She barely heard the drone of the priest’s voice until he stopped for a response.

The king leaned forward a little and commanded, “Sir Richard, say you aye or nay.”

The knight grunted harshly as though trying to fight his way out of the fog, “I—”

“There. You have an aye, Father. Continue.”

The priest chewed his upper lip, apparently decided not to anger the king by refusing, and rattled on.

He paused for Sara to answer his query and then snapped the book shut. “You are man and wife together.” Another short spate of unintelligible Latin followed. “Amen.”

She and the king responded in unison, “Amen.”

Sara watched King Edward lay a parchment on top of Sir Richard’s body, then place a quill pen in the knight’s hand and guide it to mark. He handed the feather to her and pointed. She quickly signed where he indicated.

When he removed the paraphernalia and stepped away from the bed, Sara bent over and planted a brief kiss of peace on Richard’s lips. “Rest now, husband,” she whispered. “’Tis done, and all will be well.”

King Edward went to the small table near the window and beckoned the two of his retinue whom he had selected to attend the ceremony. They joined him and the priest to sign as witnesses of the marriage.

When the royal party and the priest left to sup in her hall, Sara remained secluded with Richard in the master chamber. He was her husband now. Her place was by his side. Heaven grant he would see the truth of that once he regained his senses.

Richard’s eyes protested when he tried to hold them open, but he finally succeeded long enough to determine that he had survived. For certain, this place was not heaven. Nor was it hell, for he felt frozen.

The soft bed beneath him reminded him of the one he had left in Gloucestershire. The hangings appeared rich, though likely older than he was. He sniffed the strong odor of camphor. His body ached right down to the marrow of his bones and his head seemed certain to split should he move it.

He sensed someone nearby. Someone humming. A woman.

“The king—?” he rasped, unable to complete the query.

A hand brushed over his brow, but he could not see the owner of it for she stood near the head of the bed, out of his line of sight. “Your king lives because of you, sir. He is well, and off to York these four days past.”

“Aah, good,” he said. “My throat…”

“Sore from ranting, no doubt. The fever held you longer even than I feared it would. You should drink all you can manage of this. I know ’tis not tasty, but you must.”

Richard’s eyes closed of their own accord as he accepted the cup she put to his lips. A foul brew she offered for one who sounded so sweet, he thought. Her low, honeyed voice drifted through and soothed his aching head like a balm.

Once she lowered the cup from his mouth, he asked, “Where is John of Brabent, my squire?” By all rights, that young man should be performing this task for him.

“Gone to York with the king, sir. It seems his father would attend there and the lad wished to see him. I did promise him I would see to your care in his stead.”

“Ah, well, then…since no one stayed to cart my body home, I suppose I shall be obliged to live.”

“Aye, you will mend, though you did give us quite a fright for a time.”

“I think I can move my arm,” he mumbled, more to himself than to her. He raised it a little and grunted. “Though it hurts like hell.”

She ran a soft damp cloth over his brow and jaw, cooling him. “It will be fine eventually. I wager you will be up and about in a fortnight. Back to your full strength in twice that time.”

“Thanks be to God,” he growled, “and to you, I should imagine.”

He sensed she leaned near now and wished to see the face of this angel who had tended him. With all his remaining strength, he forced open his eyes again.

Richard had thought her wellborn by the words she had spoken. She had used the Norman French employed by nobles to converse one with another. Her appearance belied that station.

She wore a rough-spun gown of dark color and no head covering at all. Unbound midnight hair, a long curly mass of it, floated round her shoulders like a dark, shifting cloud.

Though he could not feature young John leaving him to be tended by a lower maidservant or some drab, this woman certainly dressed as one of those. Her manner and features seemed rather refined, however, not those of a peasant.

Her mouth was wide and mobile, would be an ever-changing gauge to the bent of her temper, he decided. Kissable, if he were inclined to indulge himself. He was not, of course. One never dallied with the servants. Hadn’t that particular lesson drummed itself home!

Her nose appeared a trifle haughty with its slight tilt, and that chin proclaimed outright stubbornness.

But the eyes were what arrested his breath. Amber with dark flecks of brown. Of a sudden, their beautiful lashes closed off his study of them.

She gave her head a small shake as though uncomfortable under his stare. The movement shifted her hair from the left side of her face, which she then presented in an almost deliberate way.

Richard sucked in a sharp breath. A thin, white scar reached from the tip of one beautifully shaped eyebrow, down the outside curve of her cheek to the edge of her challenging chin.

He stared at it, wildly furious at whoever had marred such perfection. A shallow knife wound, he determined from the evenness of the cut, not deep enough for stitching. Not accidentally done, either, for the depth would have varied over the prominent cheekbone. Some cruel hand had taken a blade and set out to mark her.

A brutal master? He would challenge the man to the death! Or was it a husband? He would kill the knave outright without a hearing!

Only when she turned straight on to face him again did he realize he must have hurt her himself with his foolish gaping.

In truth, the line of the scar did not look awful at all. But that someone had disfigured her apurpose horrified him. Richard swallowed hard and lowered his eyes to her graceful, expressive hands, which were twisting nervously about the drinking cup.

“Who are you?” he asked gently.

One corner of that malleable mouth kicked up as did both dark eyebrows. “Well, sir, I might as well tell you now whilst you lie there unable to throttle me for it.” After a deep, fortifying breath she announced quietly, “I am Sara of Fernstowe, your wife.”

Richard closed his eyes again. He might as well shut them, he thought, since he was still asleep and possessed by feverish visions. Just like a disordered mind seeking comfort to conjure up a wife the total opposite of his first.

Evaline was, after all, his worst nightmare.

The memory of her petite, ethereal figure and angelic face flitted behind his eyelids and dissolved into the skeletal corpse she was when last he saw her.

Feelings ripped through him, far less welcome than more arrows; anguish at the untimely death of one so young, sorrow for his son who grieved despite hardly knowing his mother, and most shameful of all, his own relief. Try as he might, Richard could not banish that despised reaction and it near killed him.