by Brit Darby
Neither man would meet her gaze. They seemed embarrassed, and well they should, she thought, escorting a bride like a criminal to the ceremony. They flanked her on either side as they traversed the corridors, posing as royal escorts but Alianor knew they were there to assure she did not escape her fate.
Outside Fountainhall, she was handed into a carriage, drawn by matching gray horses bearing de Lacy’s coat of arms. The carriage lurched forward and they made the short journey to the chapel. Alianor settled back against the cushions and drew deep breaths to steady her nerves. All too soon they stopped and she had no choice but to disembark. The time had come.
De Lacy waited on the steps of the church, wearing a rich cerulean velvet tunic and a mantle trimmed with gray fox. His gloves were embroidered and ornamented with jewels. He wore an ostentatious display of gold chains and medallions, reminding Alianor of a prized warhorse decorated for battle.
As she ascended the stairs, de Lacy’s eyes watched her but she stared right through him — he looked too much like a cat ready to devour a mouse. When she started to enter the chapel, he laid a restraining hand on her arm.
“Nay, sweet Alianor. We will say our vows here, outside the chapel, so all Fountainhall may rejoice at our union.”
Despite the early hour, a crowd gathered at the base of the steps. Alianor guessed de Lacy’s real motive was to humiliate her in public. Determined not to falter or show fear, she said, “Your reasons for evading God’s house are well-founded. Does your conscience trouble you so, milord? Or is the crux of it that you have none?”
A spark flashed in his eyes and his vice-like grip on her elbow tightened. He leaned close and murmured, “I look forward to quelling your impertinence and molding your high spirits to serve me.”
She masked the pain he caused her. “’Tis uncommonly cold this day,” she said lightly, “an ill omen indeed. It seems a higher authority is displeased with your plans.”
The muscle in de Lacy’s jaw flexed as he clenched it. “Be careful, my dear; do not overstep.”
Alianor shrugged off his words. Suddenly she no longer feared him; she no longer cared about her fate at all. It was bitterly cold in the early dawn, but she stilled the shivers lest he assume she quivered from his touch.
Her silence frustrated Quintin. He liked her fiery spirit, her oft cutting remarks — they amused and enticed him. This caricature of a meek woman disturbed him. Had he broken her will already?
The thought worried him. It was Alianor’s fire he craved, the glittering daggers in her eyes when she looked at him. Her refusal to engage in spirited banter troubled him. Aye, he wanted her to submit, but only after a delicious and prolonged battle. This was no challenge.
He knew one way to get a reaction from her. “Alianor,” he said, “I bear unfortunate news. I am unable to come to you this eve.”
She smiled, a small smile, but nonetheless it had the effect of a slap to his ego. Quintin lashed out, knowing his news would trump her amusement.
“Indeed, I regret that I shall be otherwise occupied, but do not fret, my pet. I will not have my bride ignored on her wedding night.”
She cast him a startled, wary glance and he felt a surge of delight. Anticipating her shock and horror, he continued. “The King deigns to honor us with the primae noctis, and I dare not gainsay a royal decree.”
“I should think not,” she agreed, giving him none of the desired reaction he craved.
“You do not protest?”
“What difference one swine or another?”
Quintin exhaled a long, drawn-out breath, like a snake’s hiss before it strikes. It took every bit of his self control to resist the urge to throttle her right there on the steps, with the entire crowd looking on. Had the King and his retinue not appeared, he may have caved to the violence boiling in his gut and struck her. But the grand processional led by trumpeting heralds provided a needed distraction to rein in his temper.
King John rode a white horse with gilded hooves, its saddle and bridle flashing with precious gems. He was magnificently garbed in dark plum velvet, jeweled crossbands on his legs, and a matching velvet mantle arranged in perfect folds over the horse’s withers. He wore his crown as he did during matters of State, or whenever he wished to impress a crowd.
The King’s personal retinue included William Marshal and John de Grey, the bishop of Norwich and the King’s justiciar, one of the few men he trusted. The Queen’s carriage brought up the rear, the scarlet silk hangings embroidered with gold thread and pearls.
The royal party disembarked and joined the others. They went inside the church for religious services first. Bishop de Grey performed high mass with admirable style, having precedence over the local priest.
After mass, as de Lacy had requested, the wedding was held outside. Four pages held a blue canopy above the bride and groom during the ceremony.
To Alianor, everything blurred into one endless Latin phrase. She glanced over the crowd, ranging from gawking peasants to smirking nobles, and felt numbed by the sea of faces. She caught William Marshal’s eye, and the kind knight nodded as he silently applauded her dignity.
She had not created a scene — Walter would be proud. A knight’s lady did not bemoan her fate; she faced it staunchly and with great aplomb. In Alianor’s heart, she remained Lady Coventry; de Lacy could not take it from her no matter what blasphemous vows were forced upon her.
Her attention continued to wander; the ceremony long and drawn out. It seemed they knelt and rose a hundred times. To occupy herself, she wondered who all these people were, what lives they led. She decided it was better to be poor and desperate than noble and desolate.
Alianor had known great privilege as English nobility, but her heart yearned for simpler graces. Wolf Haven with its crumbling abbey, the loyalty of Liam’s people, and the fierce love they had for their Emerald Prince.
Liam — his name came to mind like a gentle, loving caress. It was his face she envisioned as de Lacy turned towards her; it was his strong, gentle hands taking hers instead of Le Anguille’s crushing, cruel ones.
“Well-met, my lady wife,” de Lacy said, before his mouth assaulted hers. It was over. The bishop had pronounced them man and wife.
Dazed, Alianor allowed de Lacy to lead her down the steps. The cheering crowd made little impact, except to aggravate her headache further.
Just as de Lacy moved to help her into his carriage, one of the Queen’s ladies hurried over. “Her Grace requests Lady de Lacy join her for the journey back to Fountainhall.”
De Lacy looked displeased, but there was nothing he could do. Eager to quit company of her husband of less than five minutes, Alianor gathered up her skirts and climbed into the royal carriage. Queen Isabella, heavily pregnant yet resplendent in green velvet and gold silk, hugged her warmly. “Dear Nora, you looked so brave and beautiful. I am awed by your courage.”
Alianor smiled and patted Isabella’s hand affectionately.
“I am sorry,” the Queen said. Her doe-like brown eyes pleaded for Alianor’s understanding. “I begged John to call off the wedding, but he refused to hear my arguments. You know he has never considered my opinion of much import.”
“It’s all right, Your Majesty. I know you did all you could, and I am forever grateful.”
Isabella bit her lip. “Nora, I have heard a distressing rumor …”
The carriage started forward, and in the ensuing jostling, the Queen lost her train of thought. Alianor did not know for sure what concerned Isabella; she only knew she could not bear it if Her Majesty had suspicions concerning the King and her wedding night.
Knowing Isabella’s love for jewelry, Alianor distracted her with the ring de Lacy forced onto her finger during the ceremony. It was a swirled mixture of diamonds, rubies and emeralds, gaudy and far too large for Alianor’s hand. It served as a bold mark of ownership, not a love troth. Nevertheless, Isabella seemed impressed.
“One cannot fault Lord de Lacy’s generosity, however coarse
his nature.”
Alianor twisted the ring off her finger. She pressed it into Isabella’s palm. “A gift, Your Majesty,” she said.
Isabella’s eyes widened with shock. “Your wedding ring, Nora? Will Lord de Lacy not be cross with you?”
“Yes.”
Isabella giggled. “You are very naughty, you know.”
Alianor smiled at the Queen’s sweet nature and naivety. It would never enter Isabella’s mind she might be killed by her bridegroom for her actions. “If you do not take the ring, Your Grace, I daresay I shall accidentally lose it.”
Hearing this, the Queen took the ring and tucked it in the gilded purse attached to her girdle. Alianor knew she was a practical woman, and precious gems should not be sacrificed no matter the reason.
“What will you tell de Lacy?” Isabella worried.
“The truth, naturally. I shall say you admired the ring, and I gave it to you. One does not gainsay a Queen her heart’s desire.”
Isabella hugged her again, laughing. “Oh, Nora, how I have missed you.”
A WEDDING FEAST WAS prepared at Fountainhall in celebration of the great event. A trumpeter announced the arrival of the King and his retinue, followed by the bride and groom and lesser nobility.
De Lacy escorted Alianor to a banquette seat at the wall side of the high table. A washbowl and a bronze aquamanile were brought, and they washed their hands and dried them on soft linens. He noticed the missing wedding ring.
“Where is it?” he hissed at her beneath his breath.
“Careful, milord, the King watches us. He might think it unseemly should you have aught but a triumphant smile upon your face this day.”
De Lacy fumed whilst Alianor calmly rearranged a silver saltcellar and a miniature silver ship containing spices and sugar. He glowered at her and seemed about to speak when a servant arrived and genuflected beside the table, bearing the trencher they would share.
Dinner commenced with a blessing. The first simple course was a thick stew ladled onto bread in the bowls. A single goblet served wine, which the new couple was expected to share. Alianor took a small sip and watched de Lacy quaff the remainder in a single gulp. He snapped an order at an underling and it was refilled again. He seemed ready, even anxious, to meet Dionysus this night.
“I repeat, Madame, where is your wedding ring? If you have lost it, I shall extract every pence of its worth from your sweet flesh.”
“Perhaps you should ask Her Majesty.” Alianor nodded up the table where Isabella presided with the King. De Lacy caught the glitter of the Queen’s new bauble on her right hand, and seethed. Yet there was nothing he could do about it, and Alianor smiled at his predicament.
He saw her satisfaction, and was quick to strike. “You dare much, my wife, but be warned, you will have no safe haven on the morrow.”
His threat did not sway Alianor and she risked one more jibe. “The morrow, aye, after the King has enjoyed the pleasures rightfully due my groom.” She took a bite of the quince pudding set before her and proclaimed it very good.
In truth, she thought de Lacy might choke on the fury shaking him. And, his mood worsened as the hour wore on. Likewise, each dish was more elaborate and impressive. Roast peacock was served, fully feathered, with its tail spread. A swan with a silvered body and gilt beak, swimming in a sugary, subtlety pond. Alianor picked at a simple assortment of fruit and cheese instead, and nibbled on a slice of bread.
She noticed a faint smile on de Lacy’s lips as a great pastry was brought from the kitchens in lieu of a wedding cake, decorated with rose petals and violet-colored sugars from Alexandria. The guests clapped and exclaimed with awe as the giant confection was placed in the center of the high table.
“I chose it myself. I thought it would please you, my dear,” de Lacy said to Alianor, his tone overly solicitous. “Would you do the honors?”
She shrugged and rose, accepting the pastry knife from a servant. When she cut into the crust, a dozen bewildered white doves burst from the steaming shell, and while de Lacy and the assembly laughed uproariously, the nobles’ falcons were loosed and plunged upon the hapless birds. Sickened, Alianor dropped the knife and left the table amid the melee.
As she moved into the hall, the King stepped from the shadows and stopped her in passing. “It’s far too early to retire, Lady de Lacy. Or do you find yourself anxious for your bridal night?”
Alianor hesitated, aware of his gaze devouring her. She glanced back at the feeding frenzy in the hall. Slain doves littered the tables, and the public display of brutality was too much to bear. “I cannot countenance cruelty, Sire,” she said, her eyes burning with tears.
“Methinks you are too tender-hearted,” King John lowered his voice and leaned closer so his words bore a measure of intimacy, “with all save your liege.”
Alianor sensed the Queen watching them from a distance over the rim of her jeweled goblet. She felt nauseous. “Please, Your Grace, I beg a short respite from the festivities. I wish to rest my eyes.”
The King frowned. “There is a tournament planned this eve. You will perforce attend, milady.”
“Of course, Sire,” Alianor murmured, then curtsied and hurried away from the depravity. The defensive armor she had ensconced her mind in threatened to shatter. Tears threatened to spill, but, by God, she would give neither de Lacy nor the King the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Chapter Twenty-seven
AFTER THE MEAL, THE guests assembled to watch a floor show with traveling minstrels, jongleurs, and acrobats. Strumming upon a vielle, the jongleur from France sang Chrétien de Troyes’ Knight of the Cart, a tale addressed to the absent Lancelot, who was the secret lover of Guinevere. The story reminded Alianor of the book she had borrowed from Liam. This time, despite her resolve to stay strong, tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
Fortunately, nobody but Lilith saw them. Alianor listened to the music from her chamber, while Lilith gently massaged her temples with rosewater.
“There, milady, are you not feeling better?” the tiring woman asked.
“Yes, Lilith. It’s all the excitement, I suppose.”
“Perhaps your plaits are too tight, milady.” Lilith had already removed her veil and wimple, and Alianor rested in a simple smock, her wedding garb carefully laid aside.
Alianor agreed the weight of her hair might have produced her headache. Lilith unpinned the heavy plaits and unraveled them to brush out the long tresses.
Gradually, Alianor’s tears dried and her headache eased. The pleasant music and her repose upon the soft ticking bed aided her distress, though every passing hour reminded her of the King, impatiently awaiting the moment he would claim his cruel victory over her.
She had debated surprising the King with a dagger in hand, or sewing needle if need be, but care was taken to assure all dangerous objects were removed from her person. Even the little dinner knife attached to her purse had vanished.
In the past hours, Alianor decided her body might be abused, but her mind need never be touched. The King might ravish her physically, but he would have no pleasure from it. She knew his enormous ego would demand he find fault with her, real or imagined, and tire of her quickly. She would be free of the King perhaps, but not her husband.
She frowned. Quintin de Lacy was another matter. The King was easily enough distracted; all toys, whether animal or human, bored him after a time. He was like a toddler, forever wanting what he could not have. Once he conquered Alianor, the challenge ended, and he would move on. Not so with de Lacy. His obsession went far deeper.
He was even willing to stomach the King enjoying his bridal night in his stead, rather than lose her again. Alianor suspected he intended punishing her for the King’s lust, but no matter. Again she would blank her mind of de Lacy and substitute Liam’s visage, as she had during the ceremony.
Imagining she awaited Liam instead sent a tingle through her. How different everything would be — anticipation replacing dread, and joy replacing dis
gust. Her imagination was so strong, she envisioned Liam slipping into the candlelit room, his eyes gleaming with the soft promise of passion. There would be no need for pretense with the Irishman who held her heart. She might scream, aye, but it would be from pleasure, and the thunderous aftermath would leave them both limp, sated, spent.
Lilith shattered her reverie. “Milady, a message has come from the King. You are asked to join the procession to the tournament within the hour.”
“Ordered, not asked,” Alianor said, realizing she had been so caught up in thoughts of Liam she had not even heard the messenger at the door.
With a sigh, she rose from the bed. Lilith trailed anxiously after her, asking, “What will you wear, milady?”
“One of my black gowns will serve well enough.”
“Oh, but they are all so plain, milady, and make you look so …”
“Dull? Severe?” Alianor laughed, but no humor touched the notes. “Aye, that’s the whole point.”
Disappointment showed on Lilith’s face; nevertheless, she brought one of the black gowns and dressed her charge. When Lilith moved to replait her hair, Alianor waved her hand and said, “Leave it — the plain silver circlet shall suffice.”
Alianor knew it unseemly for a married woman to leave her hair unbound like a maiden, but did not care about convention. Lilith’s years in service had disciplined her to keep personal opinions to herself, so she merely nodded and placed the simple band about her forehead. In truth, Alianor resembled more a peasant maid than a noble bride, and this pleased her for the simple fact it was sure to displease de Lacy.
Within the hour, both women were en route to the field where the tournament had been planned; first, however, the games would commence.
The women and their guard escort moved from the bawn onto the parade grounds. A throng of people swarmed about, excitement high in the air. Lackland had done little during his reign to gain the love of the Irish, but he did know how to celebrate in style.
