by Tamara Leigh
VIRGIN BRIDE
❖
Tamara Leigh
Prologue
England
Autumn of 1156
She was a vision in virginal white, from the top of her bowed head to the toes of her shoes peeking from beneath the bridal habit she wore. Save for her vast silvery eyes, there was simply no other color about her.
Thinking to calm her racing heart, she lifted a hand and pressed it to her breast, her gaze straying as she gathered her courage.
"Be still!" the novice mistress reprimanded, her deep, masculine voice jolting her charge's slender frame.
Stiffening her spine with well-learned obedience, Graeye sighed—a lack of deference for which she immediately repented. Though not of late, she had more than once felt the sting of Mistress Hermana's strap, for that part of her spirit which had not been broken picked the most inopportune times to declare that this life was not of her choosing. Of the three vows she was about to take, she knew obedience would be the most difficult to keep.
Digging her short nails into her palms, she lifted her chin and slowly slid her gaze up the black-clad woman.
She needn't have gone farther than that square, unmoving chin to know of the novice mistress's displeasure, but she did.
Issuing an unflattering snort of disapproval, Hermana reached forward and tugged on the wimple where it passed from beneath Graeye's chin up to the stiffened band around her forehead.
Her heart sinking further, Graeye lowered her eyes and forced herself to stillness. Over the years she had become painfully accustomed to such ministrations—a in an attempt to conceal the faint stain marring the left side of her face. Starting just shy of her eyebrow, the mark faded back into the hairline at her temple. Though it was not very large or conspicuous, it might as well have covered her entire face.
It was the mark of the devil, Hermana often pointed out. Always the devil in Graeye was responsible for the trouble she got herself into. What might otherwise have been viewed as simple, childish pranks or the foolishness of youth, the superstitious woman attributed to evil.
When the other novices skipped matins, or devised tricks against one another, their punishment was a verbal reprimand and prayers of repentance. With Graeye it was that and more—a strap across her back, long hours on her knees scrubbing floors or pulling weeds, and always humiliation before her peers.
Though she did not believe it was the devil in her that was responsible for her penchant for trouble, Graeye knew too well the curse her physical flaw afforded. It was, after all, the shape of her destiny thus far.
When she was seven, her father, unable to bear the sight of her any longer, had dedicated her to the Church—only days after the death of her mother. The handsome dowry he had provided the convent at Arlecy had insured her acceptance no matter what mark she bore, and no matter her own feelings. And now, too soon, she was to wed—not to a mortal as she might have wished, but to the Church.
On this, the day of her Clothing, she would become a nun, her profession made, her hair sheared, and her only garment a black habit. It burdened her, though her passing into sisterhood would finally free her from Hermana's severe dominance, and that was a blessing. Though Hermana was not a nun, for she had once been wed and her chastity forever lost, she had held the esteemed title of novice mistress for as long as Graeye could remember.
Now, however, Graeye would have a new and kinder master to serve—the Lord. If only she could rejoice in that and be content ...
The faint sound of music from within the chapel indicated the commencement of the ceremony.
"Eyes forward," Hermana snapped.
Obeying, Graeye began a mental recitation of her prayers—not those devised for a novice preparing to take the veil, but her own pleadings that she be freed from this obligation.
Minutes later, the large oaken doors to the chapel groaned inward.
Squaring her shoulders, Graeye pressed her bouquet to her abdomen, her fingers crushing the delicate stems and leaves. Though she commanded her legs to take that fateful step forward, she found she could not. However, a sharp nudge from Hermana was all that was needed.
"Halt!" The command sliced the cool morning air.
As if joined, Graeye and Hermana whirled about to search out the intruder.
Though the half-dozen knights who emerged from between two of the outlying buildings came disarmed, as was the only permissible entrance to this holy place, a. small group of clergy were vainly trying to halt their determined advance.
"You dare enter consecrated ground without permission?" Hermana's voice rose as she stepped forward and placed herself in the path of the intruders.
"Forgive us," a tall, thin knight apologized, though he sounded anything but repentant. He withdrew a rolled parchment from his belt and handed it to the novice mistress. "I carry an urgent message from Baron Edward Charwyck."
Graeye sucked in a breath. A message from her father? Had the letter of appeal she'd written brought about a change of heart? Anxiously, she watched as Hermana turned to put the sun at her back to better read the missive.
The woman's thick eyebrows drew ever closer as she read. Then, abruptly, she lifted her eyes to stare over the top of the parchment at her charge.
Suppressing the desire to wrap her arms around herself, Graeye shifted her gaze to the right. There a young, fair-headed knight stood beside the messenger, his eyes intent upon her. Graeye lifted a hand to the wimple, insuring it was in place and the telling mark covered.
The resounding crackle of parchment broke the silence. Stiffly, Hermana traversed the stone walkway and mounted the steps to the chapel. At the top the abbess waited, having come outside to discover the cause for delay.
The exchange between the two women was hushed. While the abbess, a woman Graeye regarded with affection, listened, the other gesticulated wildly. With a few words the abbess calmed Hermana, then she examined the parchment. More words were exchanged, then the novice mistress descended the steps.
Venturing a look past the stern-faced woman approaching her, Graeye was startled by the abbess's serene countenance. Though she could not be certain, she thought the woman's mouth curved into a smile for the briefest of moments.
When Hermana stopped before her, Graeye raised expectant eyes to her face.
"Tis your brother Philip," the woman began, unexpected emotion in her voice. "He is deceased." As the words passed her thin, colorless lips, she crossed herself.
Surprised by the news, Graeye could only stare for a moment. Then, remembering herself, she also made the sign of the cross.
Philip dead. Though there was an odd fluttering in her chest, she felt little else.
Contrite over her lack of deep emotion, she offered up a silent explanation that she might not be condemned for her un-Christian reaction. She'd hardly known her half sibling, for he'd been a good deal older than she, and her few remembrances of him were seeped in pain.
She had seen little of him while he'd been in training, first as a page, then as a squire, at a neighboring barony. However, she'd seen enough to dislike the loud, foul-mouthed boy with whom she shared a father. He had taunted her mercilessly about her "devil's mark," and played cruel pranks on her whenever he caught her out from behind her mother's skirts.
God forgive her, but she could not mourn one whose memory dredged up old pain, and whom she had not seen for nigh on ten years. He was a stranger, and now would forever remain one. Still, she would pray for his soul.
"Your father has requested you attend him so that your brother might be given a proper burial," Hermana went on, her voice choked, her eyes grown moist.
Graeye wondered at the woman's peculiar behavior. She had never known Hermana capable of any emotion other than anger and displeasu
re.
"And as you are now his only hope for a male heir," she continued, "'tis not likely you will be returning to us."
Leave Arlecy? Forever? Graeye's heart swelled as she stared into that wizened face, her hand reflexively opening to release the ravaged bouquet. With a soft rustle it fell unheeded to the cold stones.
Her prayers had been answered. She was to be freed of this obligation. A moment later her wavering smile faded. Why had God waited until the last possible moment to grant her desires? Had He been testing her? Had he—
"You are to leave immediately," Hermana said. "I will have your possessions packed and sent on later."
"I must change," Graeye whispered, smoothing the skirts of her bridal habit.
"There is to be no delay," the woman snapped. "You are to leave now, that you might complete the journey ere nightfall."
Graeye had no intention of arguing the matter. Bobbing her head, she grasped the skirt of her habit and stepped around Hermana without another word. Trembling with excitement, she walked quickly to the knight who had delivered the message.
The gaunt man was much older than he had appeared from a distance. In fact, he looked well past twoscore years, every telling groove in his hard face stark against his chalky complexion.
"Lady Graeye," he said, "I am Sir William Rotwyld, Lord of Sulle, vassal to Baron Edward Charwyck." His eyes shone with a coldness Graeye did not care to fathom, though it was impossible to ignore.
Inclining her head, she clasped her hands before her. "Sir William."
"Come." He grasped her elbow. "Your father awaits you at Medland."
Stealing one final look behind, Graeye swept her gaze past Hermana and settled it briefly upon the abbess. This time there was no doubt that the woman smiled.
Chapter 1
A broom in one hand, a dirty rag in the other, Graeye took a rest from her labors to cast a critical eye over the hall. Through her efforts this past month, the castle had seen many changes both inside and out, but none were as obvious as those to be found here.
Gone was the sparse, putrid straw that had covered the floor and that she had slipped on her first day at Medland. In its place lay fresh rushes smelling sweetly of herbs. Immense networks of cobwebs and thick layers of dust had been swept away. The dark, tattered window coverings that had permitted nothing but an icy draught within had been replaced with oiled linen that let the day's light spill beams throughout. The trestle tables and benches that had threatened to collapse beneath a man's weight had been repaired, though they did not look much better for all the effort. Even the old, threadbare tapestries had been salvaged by days of cleaning and needlework.
Still, no matter how hard she worked, Medland would never be grand, Graeye conceded with a wistful sigh. At least it was finally habitable. And it was the castlefolk she had to thank for that. Determined as she had been to set the dilapidated castle right, she could not have accomplished any of it without their help.
It had taken persistence, and a considerable show of interest in the reasons behind the sorry state of the demesne, before the people began opening to her. Finally, setting aside their superstitions about the mark she bore, they told her what had transpired over the past several years.
Four years earlier her father had relinquished the responsibility of overseeing Medland to Philip, and it had proved a poor choice. Unconcerned for the welfare of his people, the young lord had frivolously squandered both time and money.
By the second year his neglect had led to diminished stores of food for the castle inhabitants. Hence he had appropriated livestock and grain from the villagers to meet the demand within the walled fortress. That had greatly weakened the once prosperous people and resulted in winter famine.
Philip had been a cruel master, too, doling out harsh punishment for minor offenses and using his authority to gain the beds of castle wenches and village women alike. There were even whispered rumors that his cruelty had extended to the taking of lives whenever he was displeased, and that was how his late wife had met her end.
Graeye had chosen not to delve too deeply into that last matter, for it weighed heavily upon her conscience. Instead she set herself the task of righting wrongs, and that more than anything else brought the castlefolk and villagers to her side. It had taken courage, but she had opened the stores of grain her father had been hoarding and distributed a goodly portion among the people. Though he and his men had grumbled over her actions, none had directly opposed her.
When she had toured the village and fields outside the walls of the castle, she was relieved to discover that the villagers' crops were in far better shape than their lord's, though she kept this to herself for fear her father might lay claim to the harvest once again.
Through her efforts the harvesting of the lord's sparse crops and the plowing and sowing of the fallow fields were set in motion, though not without a great deal of prodding and coaxing. Still, she knew that even if the fields yielded late crops, it was unlikely there would be enough to last through the long winter that the brisk autumn winds promised. Though the changes she'd wrought were great, there was still so much left to do.
With that thought Graeye straightened and drew the back of her hand over her warm, moist face. She was tempted to remove the stifling wimple, but she immediately squelched the impulse. Several rimes during the past week she had contemplated discarding it altogether, but the familiarity and security it provided prevented her from doing so. She was not ready to expose herself to greater curiosity than what she had endured thus far.
"Lady Graeye," a voice broke into her reverie.
Propping her broom against the wall, Graeye turned to face the man who crossed the hall toward her. It was the young knight who had caught her notice at the abbey—Sir Michael Trevier. During her first days at Medland he had been instrumental in bringing about the changes to the castle, and helping her gain acceptance among the people. He had been all smiles for her then, always at hand to assist in whatever task she undertook. But that was in the past.
A fortnight earlier he had issued a challenge to the knight Graeye's father had chosen to be her husband. He wanted her for himself and had been prepared to do battle to win her hand. However, Edward Charwyck had remained adamant that Sir William Rotwyld, the messenger who had been sent to escort Graeye from the abbey, was to be her husband.
Angered, Michael had hurled insults it William, pointing out his flaws and great age, which might prevent him from fathering the heir Edward wanted so badly.
Although Graeye would have far preferred marriage to Michael than to the repulsive man Edward had chosen, to avoid bloodshedi she had stood and declared she was content to wed William.
Though she had been successful in preventing the two men from taking up swords, Michael was no longer her champion. He had no more smiles for her, nor kind words to ease her misgivings. He had become conspicuously scarce, practically a stranger. She missed him.
"There is a merchant at the postern gate who says he has cloth for you," he said, coming to stand before her.
"Cloth?" Graeye frowned, trying to remember when, and for what purpose, she had ordered it. "Ah, yes, for the tables." She swept a hand to indicate their bare, un-sightly tops. "Don't you think coverings will brighten the entire hall?"
Mouth set in a grim, flat line, he nodded and turned on his heel. "I will send the man to you," he tossed over his shoulder.
Pained by his indifference, she hurried after him and caught his arm. "Michael, don't you understand why—"
"Perfectly, my lady," he said, his gaze stony.
Nervously, Graeye shifted from one foot to the other. "Nay, I do not think you do . Won't you let me explain?"
He shrugged her hand off his arm. "A lowly knight such as myself deserves no explanation."
So that was what he thought. That she had rejected him because of his rank. "You are wrong," she said.
"Excuse me, but I have other tasks to attend to," he interrupted. Bowing stiffly, he turned a
nd walked away.
With a heavy heart Graeye watched him go. Though she could not say she loved him, he was every bit the brother she had once fantasized having. Perhaps love would have eventually grown from that, but how she would never know.
"He is the one you want, is he not?"
Gasping, she spun around to face Edward."F-father," she stammered, embarrassed at having been caught staring after the knight.
Edward's lips twisted into a knowing smile.
Trying to gauge what kind of mood he was in, she took in the sour smell of alcohol that ladened his breath, the sound of his shallow, labored breathing, and the gray, sagging features set with reddened eyes. He presented a common enough sight, for he was more often drunk than sober, but she had yet to become accustomed to it.
His mood was harmless, she decided. With every passing day he became more and more genial toward her, but it had not been like that when she'd first come to Medland. Then he had been half-mad with grief over Philip's death. He had called her the devil's daughter and forced her to ...
She did not want to think of that first night, for it chilled her to relive any part of the memory. Pushing it aside, she nodded to the tables. "The cloth has arrived," she said, hoping Edward would not pursue the matter of Sir Michael. "By tomorrow eve the tables will all be covered."
Edward chose not to let the matter drop. "William will make you a good husband," he slurred. "That pup Michael thinks only of what is between his legs. He knows nothing of responsibility or loyalty. And I assure you he knows little of breeding."
Graeye blushed at his blunt remarks. "Aye, Father," she said, averting her gaze.
"But still you want the young one, don't you?"
She shook her head. "I have said I am content with Sir William. That has not changed."
"Content." He spat the word. "But you would choose Michael if I allowed you. Do not he to me."
Reminding herself of the vow she had made weeks earlier not to cower, she lifted her chin. "It is true that Sir Michael is young and handsome, and that he is kind of heart, but—"
