La Flamme (Historical Romance)
Read La Flamme (Historical Romance) Online
Authors: Constance O'Banyon
Tags: #Historical, #Romance, #Fiction, #France, #Year 1630, #European Renaissance, #LA FLAMME, #Adult, #Adventure, #Action, #Kings Command, #Wedding, #Pledge, #Family Betrayed, #Parisian Actress, #Husband, #Marriage, #Destroy, #Mystery, #Suspense, #Alluring, #Sensual
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reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
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quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
A special thanks to Judie Hall, PhD, RN, CEN, for being my medical advisor on this book. Your help is most appreciated.
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me, which though it alter not love's sole effect, yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee, lest my bewiled guilt should do thee shame.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
1630
The sky was the color of smoke and there was a chill in the air as a weak sun strained to penetrate the high clouds. A wide circle of colorful tents dotted the meadow while crested banners of the noblest families in England snapped and waved in the light breeze that stirred the late spring wildflowers on Heyworth Moor.
Charles Stuart had only been king for five years and already he'd made powerful enemies by disbanding Parliament whenever its members disagreed with him. His despotic actions had split the nobility; some supporting him, while others favored Parliament. Thus far the quarrelling factions had stopped short of armed conflict, but civil war would surely come if the two sides did not heal their differences.
Apprehension was reflected on the faces of the highborn lords and ladies who had once rebelled against their king but now had gathered to pledge him their fidelity because Lord Woodbridge had asked it of them. Many here would face old foes today, not on the field of battle, but by attending the wedding that everyone hoped would unite a troubled England.
The hope for the future of the realm came in the form of the young daughter of the powerful earl of Wood-bridge and in the son of the equally powerful duke of Balmarough. The houses of Woodbridge and Balmarough had divided loyalties; Woodbridge was Catholic and staunchly supported Parliament, while the house of Balmarough was of the Anglican faith and unquestioningly supported the king. Since the lords were still distrustful of each other, this mutual ground had been agreed upon for the nuptials.
King Charles's advance guard had already arrived to make certain that everything was in readiness for the monarch's appearance. Holding their breath, many turned toward the woods from whence he would come—watching... waiting.
It was rumored that Lord Blackthorn, the son of the duke of Balmarough, had disagreed with his father and refused to submit to the marriage. Those who were acquainted with Lord Woodbridge knew he would never tolerate such an insult to his daughter, Lady Sabine. So an air of uneasiness settled over the moor, for everyone realized that there might yet be conflict if the young lord rejected a marriage that had been arranged by Charles Stuart himself.
Surely Garreth Blackthorn would not disobey the king…
Fourteen-year-old Lady Sabine limped across a meadow where a sheen of dew still clung to the grass. Several years earlier, her leg had been broken, and it had never healed properly. Awkwardly, she lifted her gown to keep the hem dry. When she entered her mother's tent, Lady Woodbridge came forward, smiling, and pressed a kiss on her daughter's cheek. But Sabine's father scowled at her.
"You are late for prayer," he said. "Your pleasure can be delayed, but God is not to be kept waiting."
"Yes, Papa," she said, dropping to her knees. In the inner circle of light, she knelt beside her parents, while her mother's ladies and her father's attendants knelt just behind them.
Sabine looked up at her mother and received an understanding smile that comforted her. Then Lady Woodbridge lowered her head and reverently clasped her rosary. Sabine was certain her mother's prayers were for her and Lord Blackthorn.
The girl's mind was not on her prayers as she looked from her lovely mother to her stern-faced father. Her father's features were angular and his brows met across the bridge of his nose. He was a harsh man, but in rare moments he could show affection with a pat on the head or restrained praise. Sabine had gotten her curly auburn hair from him, although she'd always longed for flaxen-colored hair like her mother's. She knew she was not beautiful but her mother told her that with her striking amber-colored eyes and even features she would one day be a beauty. Sabine did not believe her—her mother looked at her with love, and not as she actually was.
Lady Woodbridge was lovely of heart and face. She was devout in her religion and insisted that her family be the same. She was French by birth, and had taught her children her native language even as they learned English.
Sabine squeezed her eyes together tightly and whispered a prayer that God would take pity on her and deliver her from this marriage. She paused to wonder if God had the authority to change the mind of a king.
After prayer, which Sabine thought would never end, her father left the tent while her mother came to her. "My dearest, I have something to give you. It was given to me as a wedding gift by someone very special."
Sabine's gaze dropped to her mother's hand and she saw the locket that her mother had never removed until now. "Surely not your locket. 1 know how you treasure it."
"As shall you." Lady Woodbridge fastened the locket around her daughter's neck. "As you know, my sister, Margretta, gave this to me before I left France to marry your father. There is still a lock of her hair inside, and I have added a lock of mine."
"Oh, thank you,
Maman
," Sabine said, touching the locket reverently, knowing that it was a true gift of love.
Suddenly they both fell silent and there were tears in their eyes. "This will never do," her mother said lightly. "We must make haste, dearest. My ladies are waiting to dress you."
Sabine looked ruefully at her mother. "Some say that Lord Blackthorn will not come today. I hope he does not."
"Make no mistake about it, Sabine, he will come. Like you, he'll do the king's bidding, and not dally past the appointed time."
"But,
Maman
, I don't want to marry Lord Blackthorn. I have never seen him. He's in his twentieth year and that's too old for me."
Ryanne Woodbridge sat down on a velvet stool and held her arms out to Sabine. "I know what you are feeling, but I can assure you that it won't be so bad as you imagine. Your father is fourteen years older than I."
"Were you frightened on your wedding day?" Sabine asked. In truth, she was amazed that her mother had ever feared anything.
"Indeed I was. I had traveled from France to be your father's bride. When we were married, I was but three years older than you, and I had seen your father only twice before our wedding day. He seemed so stern, and I was terrified. I was far away from my home and about to marry a man I hardly knew."
"But you love Papa."
"I grew to love him, Sabine. I bore him seven children, though five died in infancy. We have shared the good and the troubled times, but not once have I regretted being his wife. It will be the same with you."
Tears filled Sabine's eyes, and she stared at the tips of her green velvet slippers, hoping her mother would not notice. Unconsciously, she rubbed her aching leg.
"Does your leg pain you, Sabine?"
Sabine shrugged, unable to tell her mother that the real pain would come if she saw disgust in the eyes of her bridegroom, because she was crippled.
Lady Woodbridge wiped her daughter's tears with a delicate finger. "Sabine, remember that nothing really changes today. You will continue to live with me and your father until your sixteenth birthday."
Sabine glanced at her mother's slightly rounded stomach. "When this baby is born, I pray it will be a son like Richard so it will not have to leave you at marriage."
"I only pray that the baby is safely delivered, Sabine, and it matters not to me if it is a son or daughter." Her mother's expression was tender. "I would not mind having another daughter as dear as you, even if she had to leave me as you will."
Sabine moved to the cot where her three-year-old brother lay sleeping. Lovingly she touched his cheek. "When the time comes, how will I leave you, Papa, and Richard?"
Her mother ushered her into the inner room of the tent, where her ladies waited. "Let us have only happy thoughts this morning. This is your wedding day, dearest!"
With that, Sabine was disrobed, and submitted to having her long hair brushed and braided, then interwoven with fragrant red roses. She was dressed in a beaded crimson gown with yards of gold braid at the sleeves and hem. The gown was so heavy that it was even more difficult than usual for her to walk. It was grander than anything she had ever worn, yet it gave her no pleasure.
"There, my dear," her mother said, pushing an errant curl behind Sabine's golden headdress. "You look very like a bride."
Sabine limped to the mirror that Thea held out to her and stared at her reflection. "I look like an overdressed child." She turned sadly to her mother. "Lord Blackthorn will not treasure me as his wife."
"Nonsense, dearest. You are from one of the most influential houses in England. Your hand has been sought by royalty and nobles alike. You take with you a dowry of three manors that bring in over a thousand pounds a year, as well as a fortune in gold, silver, jewels, and furnishings. What man would not want you for his wife?"
No one, Sabine thought in despair, understood what she was feeling.
"We must make haste," Lady Woodbridge added. "I am told that his majesty approaches."
With a resigned sigh, Sabine raised her head and met her mother's challenging gaze. The young girl thrust her shoulders back and held her head at a proud tilt, knowing it was expected of her.
"I am ready," she said.
