by Cheryl Holt
He firmed his grip, weaving an arm around her waist to keep her close.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” he coaxed, heading for the altar. “You’re about to marry the lord of the castle. You should be happy.”
“Why are you doing this? You don’t want to marry me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t!”
She persisted with her grappling, and for a moment—a very brief moment—he felt sorry for her. He’d make an awful husband; he knew that he would, and he hated to foist himself on her when she so clearly loathed him.
He considered relenting, but decided against it. He’d picked her to be his bride. He was very stubborn, and when he settled on a course of action, he pursued it with a vengeance.
They approached the altar, where his priest, Father John, was ready to conduct the ceremony. Hugh had instructed that there be no prayers, no Bible readings, or Mass performed. He no longer believed in any of it anyway, and he wanted the affair accomplished as rapidly as possible.
“We are gathered here to join Lord Hugh in holy matrimony,” the priest began. “Is there anyone who objects to this union? Let him speak now or forever—”
“I object,” Anne said.
“Thank you for sharing your opinion,” Father John replied. “Lord Hugh, will you—“
“I don’t consent!” Anne complained. “I despise Lord Hugh, and I have no desire to wed. I’m bound for the convent. You’re a man of the cloth. Surely, you can understand my calling.”
“Lord Hugh”—John ignored her—“take her right—“
“Are you deaf?” Anne keened. “I don’t consent, and my mother is not at home. She’ll be here very soon. Please let me talk with her before this goes any further.”
“Lord Hugh,” the priest inquired, “do you wish to delay until her mother can arrive?”
“No. Let’s get it over with.”
“Very well. Take her right hand and repeat after me.”
Hugh reached for it, but Anne lurched away. She peered to the rear of the church, as if expecting a hoard of champions to burst through and affect a rescue. Unfortunately for her, no one would come to her aid.
Even if there were occupants in the castle who pitied her, they wouldn’t be foolish enough to intervene. Hugh was their lord and master. He could hang any man who interfered.
And besides, no man in the kingdom would protest a wedding. Women were held in such low esteem, their problems so inconsequential, that no male would consider it. Hugh had granted Anne the favor of marrying her. He was raising her up above everyone. If she tried to protest her elevated position, people would laugh.
She pulled her gaze away from the door and faced him. Her striking green eyes sparkled like diamonds, and he thought they might be flooded with tears. Did she truly detest him that much that she would cry over it?
She looked so lovely, so young and forlorn, and his heart raced at the notion that, shortly, he would be able to call her wife. To his surprise, he was thrilled.
“May I speak with you?” she asked. “Privately?”
Hugh shrugged. “I suppose. But just for a moment. I’m hungry, and I’ve had our wedding feast prepared. I want to get to it.”
She spun and marched over to an alcove off to the side of the altar. He grinned at his men, who bit down snickers of amusement, then followed her.
When he entered the small area, she was pacing, grumbling to herself, nervously tugging on her veil. She was dressed in a plain brown shift, a linen gown over the top, and he remembered the chest of fabric he’d brought as her bride gift. It was filled with bright reds and greens and yellows, of such soft, delicate weaves that she would never wear any of her old clothes again.
He couldn’t wait until she’d had a chance to sew something new, until he could see her in a vibrant color that would accent the auburn of her hair or the emerald of her eyes.
“Yes?” he said.
He wondered what she was about to tell him and knew that—no matter what it was—he would be greatly humored.
“I have a confession to make.”
“Should I summon the priest? Would you like to confide in him? He’s used to dealing with sinners. He never gives out much in the way of penance.”
“Would you be serious?”
“I’m extremely serious. Confess away. What have you done?”
“Well…ah…” She paced again, back and forth, back and forth. “Promise me you won’t be angry.”
“I promise. Whatever it is, I won’t be angry.”
“When you arrived…I…ah…might have played a trick on you.”
“What sort of trick?”
“My sister and I were afraid, and Blodwin was gone, and we…switched places.”
“You switched places?”
“Yes. I’m not Lady Rosamunde. I am Anne.”
“I appreciate your telling me.” He nodded to the door. “Now let’s return to the wedding.”
She frowned. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard you.”
“I’m not Rosamunde. I am Anne, Ranulf’s natural daughter with his paramour, Bedelia.”
“Yes, so you said.”
“But…but…you can’t marry me.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Because I’m Anne!” she practically shouted. “I’m not Rosamunde.”
He chuckled. “I suppose I should let you in on a little secret.”
“What is it?”
“I know you are Anne. I’ve known all along.”
“You…what?”
“I know you’re Anne. While you were tricking me, I was doing the same. I was curious to see how far you’d take your ruse.”
She shook her head in denial. “You don’t mean it.”
“Yes I do, and I need you to understand that you mustn’t ever involve yourself in such games. I don’t like lies or foolery from those who serve me. Swear to me you won’t attempt anything this idiotic ever again.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she sagged against the wall. “You know I’m Anne,” she mumbled to herself. “You’ve known all along.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to marry you. I want to go to a convent.”
“It’s not going to happen, Anne. I can’t allow you to make such a terrible mistake.” He extended his hand. “Come. Let’s finish this.”
“I don’t want to be a wife. And I most especially don’t want to be your wife. I want to be a nun.”
“I’m sorry,” he gently said, “but that dream is over.”
He went to her and guided her out into the church.
She seemed lighter, insignificant, as if some of her life force had leaked out and floated away. She moved as if paralyzed, as if blind, but she followed where he led her.
They walked to the altar, and Father John recited the vows. Hugh answered yes and I do in the appropriate spots. Anne didn’t answer, so Henry answered for her.
Then it was over.
Hugh peered down at her, saddened to see her weeping and hoping that her maudlin condition didn’t last long. He was a man who—from the day of his birth—had been ruled by duty and obligation. He’d always done precisely what he was ordered to do, what he was expected to do. No person was permitted to choose his own path. No woman ever had a say in her fate.
Anne was a lord’s daughter and a maiden. How could she have presumed no husband would ever be selected for her?
She was being silly, but she’d get over it. If she didn’t, if she continued to mourn and lament, he’d have Blodwin speak to her. The older woman would explain the facts in a way that Hugh never could.
The tears dripped down her cheeks, but she didn’t wipe them away. He leaned over and wiped them for her. He took her arm and pulled her to the back of the church, where he signed the Bible, adding both their names, having no idea if she could read or write and could have signed herself.
He knew so little about her and had never asked if she’d been educat
ed. He imagined that she hadn’t been. Who would have deemed it important?
He strolled on to the great hall, his contingent of knights bringing up the rear.
Anne didn’t look at him. Anne didn’t say a word.
CHAPTER FOUR
“What is the meaning of this?”
“We didn’t know what to do.”
Blodwin glared at her two children, and her blood boiled. They were a foolish pair who took after their deceased, disgraced father in nearly every way. They even resembled him physically, rather than her.
While they were blond and blue-eyed as their father had been, she had brown eyes and hair that—at age thirty-six—was already threaded with silver. While they were slender and willowy like their father, she was plump and dowdy.
She’d never been happy with her husband, with her children or her lot in life, and she felt no genuine connection to them.
“How could you let him marry Anne?” she seethed.
“We couldn’t stop him,” Rosamunde insisted.
“You don’t understand what he’s like, Mother,” Cadel added.
“He killed your father, didn’t he? What more need I learn about him?”
But in fact, Blodwin knew quite a bit about Hugh of Manche. She’d seen him once, years earlier when Ranulf had allowed her to accompany him to London. The king had held a tournament, and the most famous knights in Christendom had participated.
Sir Hugh had been sixteen, and Blodwin twenty-two. He’d blazed like a youthful shining star, flaming brighter than any of the other dolts in the competition. He’d fought and jousted and battered to the final round, ending up with a parade of horses, armor, and weapons that he’d won as trophies.
Every girl in the city had fallen in love with him, including Blodwin who—by observing Hugh and discovering what a valiant hero he was—had been forced to accept that her own husband was about as low of temperament and quality as a woman could stoop.
Her father had arranged her marriage to Ranulf. He’d been much older than she was, and her mother had told her that he’d make a good husband, that age imparted character and wisdom. As she’d found out in the hard experiences that followed, it was more likely to impart imprudence and stupidity.
If Blodwin’s father had been shrewder, if she had been more mature, she could have demanded he select someone like Hugh of Manche. Instead, she’d been stuck with treacherous, lazy, unfaithful Ranulf who’d constantly shamed her with his loose women, gambling, and drink.
She hated Anne for being the daily proof of how her husband had failed her. And she hated Lord Hugh for having the revenge against Ranulf that Blodwin had always wished she, herself, could have had.
If she’d been a man, skilled at swordplay, she’d have cut him down a hundred times over. She was saddened by Ranulf’s death, but only because his duplicitous habits had landed them all in such jeopardy.
The castle and lands now belonged to Lord Hugh, and he’d married…Anne? It boggled the mind. What would become of them?
For months, she’d been on pins and needles, aware that Hugh was on his way to Morven, that he could arrive at any moment. She’d finally gotten tired of waiting for him, tired of being frozen with panic while he strolled across England at a snail’s pace.
She’d gone off with her dearest Eustace, and wasn’t it just her luck that Hugh would appear the instant she was away?
She’d like to wring someone’s neck. Perhaps Anne’s? No doubt the entire debacle would turn out to be her fault.
“The ceremony is concluded?” she asked.
“Yes,” Cadel said.
“Have you seen Anne?”
“No,” Cadel and Rosamunde answered together.
She scowled at Cadel. “But you’re sure there’s been no bedding?”
“I heard that it will occur after Lord Hugh is done feasting and drinking himself under the table with his knights.”
If Blodwin had had any kind feelings for Anne—which she didn’t—she’d have worried about her being mounted by a bumbling, witless drunkard, but she had no kind feelings for anyone except Eustace. A horrid, violent bedding was no more than Anne deserved for landing herself in such a preposterous mess.
“We must hinder Lord Hugh,” she said. “We must halt the consummation and set this fiasco aside.”
“Can we, Mother?” Rosamunde inquired. “I feel terrible for Anne.”
“Anne, bah!” Blodwin spat. “I don’t care about her. It’s the insult I can’t abide.”
“What insult is that?”
“He should have wed you, Rosamunde.”
“Me!”
“Yes. You’re Ranulf’s lawful daughter. Despite your father’s perfidy, Hugh was willing to marry into the family. I would have been happy to let him.”
Rosamunde looked as if she might faint. “You can’t mean it.”
“Why wouldn’t I? What’s to become of us, you foolish child? Will you use your brain for once?”
“I did what I could to shield myself from him. I pushed Anne forward, and it worked. I saved myself! You should be glad!”
“I didn’t want you to save yourself. Months ago, he wrote that he was considering a proposal, and I replied that we were amenable.”
“How cruel!” Rosamunde complained. “I don’t understand you.”
“What’s to understand? You could have been his bride. You could have been mistress of the castle, but no. We’re at his mercy, and Anne has been raised above all of us.”
That was the biggest sin in Blodwin’s eyes. Anne’s mother, the whore Bedelia, had always stood in her house in the village, covetously gazing up at the castle. Ranulf had allowed her to act in any brazen fashion, so she’d never shown any deference to Blodwin.
Bedelia had yearned to supplant Blodwin. She’d dreamed and plotted to oust Blodwin, but she’d never succeeded.
Now her daughter, her beautiful, red-haired witch of a daughter, had accomplished what Bedelia had never been able to achieve after years of trying.
Eustace was in the corner, listening to their private discussion.
He’d come to Morven as a devout young priest, and his arrival had been a godsend to Blodwin. She’d been so unhappy, and he’d noted her misery. They’d grown close, their relationship deepening as Ranulf’s bad behavior had intensified. Eustace was the only one who’d ever empathized over Blodwin’s shame.
He’d been a handsome boy, and at age forty, was a distinguished man. With short white hair and neatly trimmed beard, he was stern and studious and rotund from the life of ease he’d enjoyed at Morven.
“If there’s been no bedding,” she asked him, “we can get the marriage annulled, can’t we?”
“Of course. It will take some legal wrangling, probably even a dispensation from Rome, but it can be done.” He puffed himself up in a manner Blodwin detested. “I’d have to examine her.”
Blodwin was irked by his comment. “Why would you?”
“I’d need to ensure that she’s still chaste so I could certify any petition.”
“A midwife could see to it.”
“I’d have to be present. It’s the proper way.”
At the thought of him drooling over Anne’s private parts, watching as some midwife lifted her skirt and probed her innards, Blodwin fumed.
Did he think she was a dunce? Did he think she didn’t know what he was planning? He was extremely pious, but celibacy was a yoke around his neck. Before any examination was concluded, he’d likely have his own hand where it didn’t belong.
She glared at Rosamunde. “I will speak with Lord Hugh immediately about rectifying this mistake. We’ll have Anne sent away, then Rosamunde, you will begin charming him.”
“I won’t.”
“You will. Once she’s out of his sight, he won’t miss her, and he’ll be glad to have you instead.”
“I won’t marry him. You can’t make me.”
“I can’t make you?” Blodwin scoffed. “You are such a stupid, stupid child. If I
hadn’t seen you born with my own two eyes, I’d never believe you were mine.” She peered over at Cadel. “I want you to go to the kitchen. Find out what the cook has prepared as Lord Hugh’s first course for his wedding feast.”
“Am I to handle it as you suggested?” Cadel asked.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps there will be no need for Rosamunde to worry,” Cadel mused.
“Perhaps,” Blodwin concurred.
They exchanged a significant look, and Blodwin said, “After you’re through, meet us outside the great hall. We’ll enter the banquet together. Lord Hugh may be the new master, but this castle is still our home. It’s time he learned who’s truly in charge.”
* * * *
Anne sat on the dais, staring out across the hall. Word of the wedding had spread quickly, and the large room was packed.
People were anxious to assess Lord Hugh, and they were whispering that, yes, he really had married Anne. Was he mad? Had he lost his mind? Yet, they were also smiling, imbibing, and furtively glancing at the high table in a way she didn’t like.
The men were leering, trying to decide what Lord Hugh had seen in her. The women were studying Hugh, ogling his manly form and handsome face. If Anne hadn’t hated him so much, she’d have been very jealous.
She knew from her own bitter experience what it was like to have a husband who strayed. Blodwin had been worn down by Ranulf’s constant infidelities. She was bitter, jaded, aged beyond her years. Would that be Anne’s life? Would Hugh be an adulterer? She had no idea.
She was wed to a stranger, and the notion alarmed her. She remembered the stories of the saints, most particularly Saint Lucy. She’d dedicated herself to Christ as Anne had yearned to do, but she’d been burned at the stake, had had her eyes cut out, then been slain with a sword.
That’s how Anne viewed herself. As if someone had taken a sword and pierced her through her heart.
Lord Hugh had escorted her directly from the wedding to the banquet. She’d tried to slip away, had tried to plead fatigue so she could hide in her room and lick her wounds—she felt so aggrieved, so wronged—but she couldn’t escape. The servants were waiting for them, the food ready to be served, and they’d proceeded to the head table.
