The Reckoning - 3 (38 page)

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It was not that she did not want to remarry. She did, for she well i^ew that a woman's only choice was between the marriage bed and the nunnery, and
Elizabeth did not want to become a nun. What she Canted was to escape the life she presently led, trapped at Chartley ^vith a father she feared and a stepmother she disliked, dependent upon their grudging charity, desperate for a home, a haven of her own.
But she was not so naive as to see marriage as her way out. A ^e was too vulnerableto her husband's will, his whims, his fists. Elizabeth had no marital memories of her own, but she'd too often seen her stepmother serve as the scapegoat for her father's erratic temper, had too often played that role herself. She did not want to wake up in bed with a stranger, a man handpicked by Edward for purely political purposes. She wanted a say in so momentous a decision, and although she knew women were rarely, if ever, permitted that privilege, she had spun out a fantasy in which it was so. Edward would intervene on her behalf, compel her hateful stepson to honor her claims. She would be given her own manor, her own household, and soon there would be a proposal from one of her neighbors, a man handsome and highborn and approving of her independent spirit. To Elizabeth, that did not seem so much to ask, and by the time she reached Worcester, she was already anticipating her liberation
... at long last.
She was utterly unprepared, therefore, for what happened that evening in a darkened bedchamber at the Bishop of Worcester's palace. She'd been heartened by the warmth of Edward's welcome, and was further encouraged when he took her aside for this private audience. When Edward clinked their wine cups together in a playful salute, she could restrain herself no longer. "Have we something to celebrate?"
"Indeed, we have, sweetheart. I have made a brilliant marriage for you."
Elizabeth had wondered why the chamber was so poorly lit. Now she was grateful for it, pulling back into the shadows as she sought to get her emotions under control. "Who . . . who is he?"
"I've found you a Prince, Lisbet. Davydd ap Gruffydd, brother of"
"No!"
Elizabeth was on her feet, looking so horrified that Edward was hard put not to laugh outright, although he could not resist glancing toward Davydd's hiding place in the recessed window-seat. "Sweetheart, you cannot believe half of what you've heard about Davydd. The man has enemies, I'll not deny it. But
I can assure you that he"
"No . . . please, you must listen to me. My father and husband Were foolhardy enough to defy the Crown, and it cost them all they

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had. I'll not be yoked to another rebel. I'll not wed a Welsh malcontent whose only loyalty is to himself, for sooner or later, he'll fall. . . and drag me down with him!"
Elizabeth's first outburst had been involuntary, and she'd been encouraged to continue by Edward's unexpectedly mild reaction. But that indulgence, that odd amusement chilled with her first words of defiance. Getting slowly to his feet, Edward gave Elizabeth such a cold, forbidding J look that she shrank back, the rest of her protest catching in her throat. "You disappoint me, Elizabeth. I thought you had more confidence in my judgment. Do you truly think I'd have you wed a man who'd make you unhappy? Now . . . ere you say something you'll long regret, I would suggest that you think this over."
Edward paused for emphasis, but he was mollified somewhat by Elizabeth's submissive silence, and he said, more kindly. "I do have your best interests at heart, lass." Gazing over her shoulder toward the window-seat, he bit his lip, and again that unaccountable look of amusement crossed his face. "In fact, I think you ought to stay right here, have some time alone. I'll be back in a while. In the meantime, you make yourself comfortable, and give some very serious thought to what I've said."
Elizabeth stared at the closing door, fighting a mad urge to flee, for where could she go? She did not have the courage to defy Edward. Nor did her father;
he feared Edward even more than he hated him. But . . . but what if she took holy vows? That would thwart Edward.| At what cost, though? Bride of Christ or bride of Davydd ap Gruffydd.l She'd heard that a trapped animal sometimes gnawed off its own leg inl order to escape the snare. But most of them waited passively for their fate, defenseless, doomed.
All her life, Elizabeth had been drawn to drama. Even as a child, she'd been one for turning a scratched knee into a lethal wound, a playmate's rebuff into a blood feud, every joy, every slight, every dread magnified a hundredfold.
She embroidered facts instead of threads, not because she was a liar, because she was a romantic. But now that she was facing a genuine calamity, she found herself unable to react, unable to scream or rebel or even to cry. She could only wait for Edward to return, listening for the sound of the hunter's footsteps in the snow.
It was this sense of her own helplessness that stung her into a sudden flare of futile rage. She looked at Edward's wine cup, the cup he'd used to toast her marriage, and then she was lashing out, sending it spinning off the table, down into the floor rushes.
Her burst of temper did not help. All she accomplished was to
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latter her skirt and to lose the light, for some of the wine spilled into the oil lamp. Elizabeth muttered one of her father's favorite oaths, sank down into the nearest chair. What now? To whom could she turn? Her erandrnother?
No, she had disinherited Derby after his disgrace. Might the Queen . . .
Elizabeth's head came up sharply. She was not frightened at first, for she knew that mice were no respecters of rank, as likely to be found in a palace as a peasant's hut. By now her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and as she glanced toward the sound, she could make out a shadowy form within the window recess.
"Who is there? What do you want?"
Davydd had been hurling some very creative mental curses at Edward's absent head. But Elizabeth's quavering challenge brought him hastily to his feet. "Do not be afraid," he said soothingly. "I mean you no harm."
His words were wasted, though; she heard only the accent. She'd spoken instinctively in English, for that was her first tongue. If French was the language of the court, English reigned in the nursery; like most children of the Norman-French nobility, Elizabeth had been tended since birth by English wet-nurses and English maids. Davydd had answered her in English, too, but with a distinctive cadence, one that held echoes of his native Wales.
Elizabeth had jumped to her feet at sight of an intruder. Now, as she realized the identity of the man coming toward her from the shadows, she began to tremble. She was so obviously terrified that Davydd swore under his breath, half-expecting her to bolt at any moment.
"I startled you, I can see," he murmured, and before she could retreat, he grasped her arm, gently but firmly steered her back toward the chair. "I think you ought to sit down, catch your breath, whilst I get you something to drink."
Elizabeth sat on the very edge of the chair, watching as Davydd recovered the wine cup from the rushes, found a half-full flagon, favored her with a relaxed, reassuring smile. Gripping the cup with both hands, she drank until she'd gotten her courage back. "I know who you are," she said, very low, glancing swiftly up at him through her lashes and then away. "So ... so why are you being so kind to me? After what I said ..."
"Hellfire, sweetheart, I've been called far worse than a 'Welsh malcontent!' "
But she did not return Davydd's smile. He could see that er breathing had steadied. In another moment or so, she'd be composed en°ugh to comprehend the significance of his presence here, to realize what a shabby trick he and Edward had played upon her. To head off a* moment of reckoning, he said quickly: "I'm glad you brought it out

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into the open, though. After all, when the body is lying right on the floor in front of us, still warm and twitching, we can hardly ignore it might as well dissect it." But that earned him not even the glimmer of a smile. She looked at him so blankly that he sighed softly; this was not going to be easy. "The marriage," he said patiently. "I think we ought to talk about it. It is only fair that I begin by discussing the disadvantages of marriage to me. But in all honesty, I can think of nary a one!" | Again, he failed to get a smile.
"Well, on to the advantages. Does f a crown catch your interest? There is a very real possibility that I might one day be Prince of Wales."
That had not occurred to Elizabeth. But he might also end his days in English exile, dependent upon Edward's charity. She did not dare to say that, though, kept her gaze locked upon the hands clasped in her lap.
"Of course some people claim my future is more likely to hold a gallows than a coronation," Davydd joked, and she could not suppress a gasp, her eyes flying upward to his face; Jesu, had he read her mind?
He was laughing silently. "Be that as it may, there are other benefits to be found in marriage to me. Not the least of them is that I'd be able to secure your dower rights in the Marshal lands, to stop your stepson from cheating you. Then there is always the pleasure of my company. I'm easy to content, rarely riled, no small virtues in a husband, I would think. I'm not one for squabbling for its own sake, nor do I believe a man ought to take out his foul moods upon his wife. For certes, I'd never hit you, and"
He'd thrown out that last reassurance almost as an afterthought. But her reaction stopped him in mid-sentence. Her head jerked up; a hand clenched on the arm of the chair. And he remembered stories he'd heard of the Earl of
Derby's savage temper, felt for this unhappy girl a sudden flicker of pity.
"That . . . that is easy enough to say."
"Wales is not like England, Lady Elizabeth. Welsh law forbids a man to strike his wife except under extreme provocation, such as infidelity." But Davydd could never be serious for long; his mouth twitching, he added, "I might well give you headaches, lass, but not bruises."
That promise meant more to Elizabeth than the glimmer of a crownif she could believe him. Reaching for her wine cup again, she was surprised to find she'd drained it dry. Davydd poured her another cupful; she drank gratefully, then remembered her manners and thanked him. "Does Welsh law truly protect women from beatings? Even the Church says a man has the right to discipline his wife
..."

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"Welshwomen have always been better off than their other sisters in
Christendom. They can claim custody of their children, unlike English wives or widows. They have as much right as a man to end an unhappy marriagealthough I
ought not to be telling you that, should I? And unlike England, where a man can bring his concubine right into the castle keep if he so chooses, in Wales a man who did that would stir up a scandal of impressive proportions; he'd be answerable not only to his wronged wife, but to her outraged kinsmen, as well."
Elizabeth had never been alone with a man not her kinsman, and she could not quite believe she was really here now, sitting with Davydd ap Gruffydd in the tempting intimacy of a darkened bedchamber. He was very close, perched on the table edge, but his face was in shadow. Never had she been so physically aware of another person. His legs were long, booted to mid-calf in soft cowhide. One hand rested on his knee, and even in such subdued light, she could see a thin white scar snaking across his wrist; she wondered how the wound had occurred, wondered, too, if his body bore other scars. She drank again, and was then astonished to hear herself saying, "You said that . . . that you'd never bring a concubine under your wife's roof. But there would be concubines?'"
She'd caught Davydd off balance. "Yes," he said at last, "there probably would be from time to time. But I'd never shame you, would never flaunt them in public. That I can promise you."
In the silence that followed, he wondered whatever had possessed him to be so candid. But then Elizabeth startled him again. "Thank you," she said, "for being honest with me. My father ... he treats me like a child, and a dull-witted one at that. And Cousin Edward is no better. T have your best interests at heart,' he says ... in a pig's eye!" She paused for breath, no less surprised than Davydd by her outburst, and then glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "I'd not have believed you had you sworn you'd always be faithful," she said, and Davydd finally saw her smile.
Davydd grinned and reached over, took the wine cup out of her hand. "Slow down with that wine, sweetheart. Wine works wonders for seductions, but I need you sober for a serious conversation about marriage."
"What is there to say? We both know that the King is giving me no choice in this."
Davydd slid his fingers under her chin, tilted her face up toward s- "Is it so strange that I'd want your consent? I've never enjoyed riding an unwilling horse."
To his amusement, Elizabeth blushed. "This is so odd," she said

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shyly, "this talking in the dark. I can tell that you're tall, but not nmcj, more. Do you ... do you look like you sound?"
"How do I sound?" he asked, predictably, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "Dangerous!" He laughed, and she could feel her face getting hot again. "You sound," she said tartly, "like the sort of man my stepmother is always warning me about!"
He had drawn back into the shadows; she could hear him moving | about the chamber. "That ought to be enough to send you racing into if my arms, then. Do you not always do the very opposite of what Stepmother wants?"
Elizabeth did not know what to say to that; she'd never met anyone who talked like Davydd, saying outrageous things in the most matterof-fact way. A sudden spark flared; Davydd had found flint and tinder. As the lamp's flame shot upward, she hastily averted her eyes. She could feel his gaze upon her, almost like a physical touching. Would he be pleased with her, find her pretty? When she mustered enough nerve to look up, she saw that he was smiling.
"Shall I give you your first Welsh lesson, cariad? Trech wyneb teg na gwaddol/
or, 'better a fair face than a dowry.' Fortunately for me, you have both, for
I've always been a greedy sort!"
Elizabeth joined in his laughter; she was learning to like the sound of it.
"My hair is a pale flaxen shade," she volunteered, for she was very proud of that; no hair color was more prized than hers. "See," she said, reaching up and unpinning the braid at the nape of her neck. Pulling it free of the wimple draping her throat, she triumphantly held up a plait of pure silver.
Davydd entwined the braid around his fingers, wondering if the hair between her legs was as blonde and silky. "How long do you mean to keep me in suspense, Elizabeth de Ferrers? Shall I have to drag you, kicking and clawing, down the church aisle?"
Elizabeth tried to look shocked and disapproving, but the corners of her mouth were curving up. Davydd brushed her cheek lightly with the tip of her braid.
"Why are you still balking, cariad? Just what were you looking for in a husband? Not many mortal men have haloes."
"I was not seeking a ... a saint," Elizabeth protested. "I just wanted what every woman wants, a man cheerful and good-natured, a devout Christian, a . .
." She was having unexpected difficulty concentrating upon the question. His mustache was lighter in color than his hair, held golden glints, and she found herself wondering if it would tickle when he kissed her.
"Then I am still in the race, for I'm good-natured even early in the