Wicked

by Jill Barnett

  But the truth was she had not really cared that he was angry. Life was terribly unjust and someone had to change it Men could ride across the hillsides freely. Women were supposed to plant their hind ends on plodding mules or in pillion chairs where you wobbled precariously atop a mount that was about as close to dead as a horse could possibly be.

  Why, a whole lifetime could pass you by before you even got where you were going.

  She, Sofia Howard, did not ride on ancient mules or ride pillion. She had learned to ride astride at age six, when her guardian was off to London to deal with his newly established Parliament, a body of men who would make laws for all the land and probably despotically decree over their wine goblets that women were to have the ugliest of duties like stitchery and meal planning and laundry.

  By the time Edward had returned from telling all of London and the rest of the world what they should do, she could already outride his squires. Thankfully, Queen Eleanor stepped in on her behalf and Sofia was allowed to ride as long as she was escorted by one of her keepers—a man-at-arms.

  Always a man.

  Why were there not such things as women-at-arms? Everyone thought men were strong and courageous and honorable. The Church and most men claimed that women were weak creatures.

  It did not seem fair that all women must suffer because once, too long ago for it to truly matter, Eve handed Adam one small apple.

  What Sofia wanted to know was, if women were so weak, why did strong, brilliant, and honorable Adam, the man, eat that apple?

  As far as she was concerned, Eve was only feeding her man. Was that not a woman’s duty?

  When Sofia said as much to the Archbishop of Canterbury, she was accused of blaspheming and had to spend a fortnight at a nunnery outside of Avon, where she was to pray with vigor for a pious heart, a sweet mind, and a quiet tongue.

  Instead she vastly entertained the novices when she made wax candles in the shape of the Archbishop and Mother Superior in flagrante delicto.

  But this was not a nunnery. She was still pacing along the upper wall of Leeds. She stopped near the edge of the western steps and braced her hands on a low crenel, peering through the square opening and looking off into the distant west, far on the horizon where she was certain all of her dreams lay waiting for her.

  Aye, she thought. Out there somewhere was the life she was supposed to live, while she languished at Leeds under the tyrannical rule of her cousin, the cruel, cruel King of England, who made her behave like a lady just to torture her.

  What she did not understand was why she felt so different inside. Different from everyone else. Did the rest of the world not see these things that drove her moods?

  Once, not so long ago, when she was perhaps three and ten, she had lit twenty candles, knelt on the cold stones in the chapel, and asked God why.

  Why God? Why does my heart feel like it is going to fly right from my chest? Why does my blood turn hot and cold when I’m angry and sad? Sometimes, when I want something very badly or when things move slower than honey in winter, I feel like there is a whole hive of bees just buzzing through me, trying desperately to get out.

  God had not answered her. She knew God did not talk to people. She had not expected a huge voice from heaven to boom overhead and tell her what was wrong with her, but she had secretly hoped for a sign, or a change.

  Neither had happened.

  She looked down at the scene below, her eyes on her cousin Edward.

  She raised her chin and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She wanted to ride across the hills as fast as a charging army. She wanted to practice archery, to hit a target dead center. She wanted to learn swordplay. She wanted to walk outside the castle walls freely and unescorted. She wanted to wear braies and chausses so her legs would have the freedom of movement that a man had.

  Now that, Your Majesty, would be true entertainment!

  A moment later a raucous cheer drifted upward from below as if everyone agreed with her thoughts. She looked down over the edge of the parapet, scanned the lists outside the castle where the crowds had grown thick, almost cattle-like. They were milling in a huge herd toward the stage where jugglers and acrobats wore their clothes backwards in honor of All Fools’ Day, performed magic while musicians played jaunty tunes, then caught copper pennies in their broad-brimmed hats.

  Another excited cheer filled the air. She stood high and away from the rest of the castle, her back straight as an elm, her palms flat against the stone wall. The music grew louder and the crowd in the lists laughed and sang. She craned her head slightly so she could better see.

  Now people were dancing on the grass to viols and hurdy-gurdies near the stage platform.

  She loved to dance, even if it meant she had to hold the damp hands of some young courtier just so she could spin ’round and ’round and ’round, as fast as she could, until her head swam and she felt as if she were a bird, flying, until her breath came fast as the tunes the musicians played.

  She spotted Edith, her friend, as well as Princess Eleanor, her young cousin. Eleanor was four and ten and was the eldest of Edward’s five daughters and would soon be married to a foreign prince. Everyone was down there amid the day’s amusements—everyone but the men guarding the battlements.

  And her.

  One more swift glance down and she lost her need to teach the world a lesson by completely ignoring it.

  Sofia gripped the skirt of her silk gown and took the stairs in hurried steps, then moved outside the castle gates, over the moat and into the glade, her long black hair floating out behind her like the curling ribbons of a Maypole.

  Brightly colored tents of scarlet and green spotted the field behind the stage where the actors would perform their play based on the religious miracles of Christ or the saints and prophets.

  She walked along, munching on an apple she’d plucked from a basket No sooner had she swallowed a bite than her heart suddenly picked up speed and her skin began to tingle as if touched by an icy wind. She spun around swiftly, the apple poised at her lips.

  Her gaze lit on him the moment she turned, a tall and richly clothed knight with a strong build and an unreadable face. She cocked her head and frowned. Odd, how she had felt his presence before she ever saw him.

  She glanced back.

  He stood a head above the milling crowd, his features partially hidden by the wavering shadows cast from a royal pennant that flew overhead. His arms were crossed so she could not read the design on his blue tabard.

  She stepped up and onto a shallow wooden bucket someone had dropped nearby, pressing her ankles together and rising on her tiptoes just a bit so she could better see his face.

  And see him she did!

  The apple fell from her suddenly limp hand and plopped on the ground, forgotten.

  The breeze died suddenly, as if the midday sun had upped and melted it away. The pennant hung still, its angled tip like a sign from God, an arrow that pointed directly to the knight’s dark head.

  In the sudden brightness, his face showed clearly: strong, so deeply angular that the dark, icy shadows on his cheeks and creased brow looked as if even the sun itself was not bright enough to melt them.

  Beneath a dark slash of thick brows, his gaze wandered lazily over the crowd. He looked bored, expectant, knowing, as if he had seen this all before and found it not to his refined taste. He wore his arrogance the same way warriors wore their colors, proudly and prominently, a challenge for anyone and everyone to dare not notice.

  Sofia found this fascinating, having spent so much time watching grown men grovel at her feet and praise her fine features as if they had no pride at all.

  She had truly thought most men were a sorry lot, until she had looked upon this man. He was not sorry in any way. In fact, she would wager her dowry that the word “sorry” never crossed his lips.

  No. He surely would not grovel at her feet. Or anyone else’s feet from the look of him.

  His gaze flitted around the crowd, ran over he
r and past her, then stopped, and he turned back for another look.

  For the first time in her life she was grateful for the fine features that made men stare at her. She could feel this knight’s eyes on her, watching her closely, intently, for the longest time. The day grew even warmer as she stood there. The sun seemed to shine with more intensity. Her blood sped under her skin as if it were in the greatest hurry.

  Then the oddest thing happened. Sofia suddenly wanted to disappear into the crowd. ’Twas unlike her, for she prided herself on the fact that she could face anyone’s stare with an icy coolness, without feeling any fear, even the King himself when he was furious with her.

  But now, when this man looked at her, the skin on her arms prickled with gooseflesh and her lips grew dry from the quick breaths she took. Something inside of her belly crawled ’round and ’round and made her head feel light as if she had been dancing in circles for hours.

  He was different; his look was different. For one thing he was young for a knight, perhaps eight and ten, but better than that was his expression. ’Twas not awe at her beauty that made him stare at her, for she knew that kind of look all too well.

  No, it was as if he were trying to see inside her mind, right through to that place where she let no one in, that place where dwelt her hopes and secrets, her dreams and her fears, those thoughts no one knew but her.

  Some part of her wanted to turn away so he could not see too much, but she knew if she did so then he would win this contest of cool looks. She would appear weak if she looked away first, and too, there was the fact that she truly wanted to keep looking at him in spite of what he made her feel. He was a handsome devil for all his cool and superior look.

  He was also the first man who could make her feel something other than disgust in too many months to count. He would not grovel at her feet as other men had.

  Men would seldom look at her face for very long; it seemed to have some odd ability to render the most confident and strongest of men into babbling idiots and bowing fools, their expressions rapt and rather like that of pilgrims who traveled the countryside for a glimpse of a miracle and had, to their surprise, suddenly found one.

  Knights and lords and warriors looked at her and the next thing she knew they were at her feet, kissing her hem or other such foolishness. She could now spot most courtiers merely by the backs of their heads, since that was all she usually saw of them.

  Her sheer stubbornness aided her well, for she refused to look away from this handsome man who made her burn inside. She played a coy game and smiled, a small smile, one she knew could and had sent men panting after her. A come-hither-you-fool kind of smile, but before she could gauge his reaction, someone called her name from behind her and made her blink. Still, she did not turn away.

  Not first. She would not be the first to break this spell. ’Twas a challenge between them, one she would win. So she kept looking at him, smiling that barest of smiles.

  He cocked his head slightly. Curious, or perhaps giving her something more than a mere challenge.

  The stage players began to sing a loud and bawdy song, typical of the Miracle Plays, and the crowd around her cheered, then shifted suddenly, moving forward to catch pennies the actors were throwing from the stage. She was jostled and jabbed and lost her balance. But when her feet hit solid ground, she was still craning her neck to keep up the staring game with the wonderfully intriguing knight.

  She used her elbows to try to move back where she could see, jabbing at the crush of bodies swallowing her. But it did no good. She could not see him even when she jumped up and down; there was nothing before her but a mass of bobbing heads.

  The song ended and the Miracle Players took their numerous bows. The crowd cheered and applauded and called out to them to do more skits.

  God in heaven above . . . no more, she prayed, still wedging her way through the crowd.

  ’Twas the first prayer God had answered in months. Suddenly those actors turned and skipped off the stage like leaping lords, the ones warbled about by minstrels during the Twelve Nights of Christmas. The crowd calmed down, then finally moved back and broke up, heading for the amusements of the jugglers and booms. Finally, she could see across the lists. But by then, the knight was gone.

  Chapter 2

  “Sofia!”

  She turned around at the familiar sound of her friend’s frantic voice.

  “Wait!” Lady Edith ran so quickly to catch up with her that her golden chaplet slipped down into her eyes and the thin veil that covered the back of her hair came unpinned and drifted behind her and onto the ground.

  Bright red curls fell into her friend’s eyes. Edith stopped suddenly as if blinded by those bouncing curls, patting her head for a moment, then she frowned, turned and looked down as a group of wild lads trampled over her thin and proper veil. She picked up the small, square swatch of saffron-colored silk, then shook it out, chewing on her lower lip in a moment of indecision.

  Even from a short distance Sofia could see the footprints; it was ruined.

  Edith looked up at her, caught her gaze, then shrugged and tossed the veil over her shoulder as if it were a chicken bone. With both hands, she grabbed the gold chaplet that crowned her head in such a cockeyed manner and shoved it back down over her flaming hair and brow as she scurried to catch up to Sofia. Her breath was swift and short when she came alongside.

  “You missed the dancing, Sofia!”

  “There will be more dancing after supper.” Sofia looked left, then right. Where was he?

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “I am in no hurry.” Sofia slowed her steps to a saunter, but she still could not keep from watching the crowd for a glimpse of a sky-blue tabard.

  “I thought you were going to stay in the tower all day to annoy the King.”

  “I changed my mind. I decided I could be more annoying down here among the throngs.”

  Lady Edith frowned at her, then followed her searching gaze. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Looking for?” Sofia whipped her head back around and gave her as innocent a look as she could muster. “Me?” She paused. “Why, you of course!”

  She linked her arm with Edith’s, forced herself to look straight ahead and smiled brightly when she added, “See this huge crush of people here today? I was afraid I would never find you. There was so little room I could not even get near the booth where they sold honeyed figs and dates.” Sofia paused. “Can you imagine?

  “I am famished!” she went on. “’Tis hard work to call down dire curses upon Edward’s golden and hard head.” She looked away from Edith’s stern face and added fiercely, “Now do not look at me so, he deserved those curses!”

  “I do not know if I should be envious of your sheer courage or happy I am not so foolhardy.”

  “That is because Edward does not make your life miserable. You are fortunate to have a brother who cares about you.”

  “The King cares greatly about you, Sofia.”

  “Aye. It amuses him to destroy my life.” Sofia kept watching the crowd for the man. When she saw nothing, she tugged on Edith’s arm. “Come along. The races will be starting soon. We shall go first to the date seller’s booth. I will pay.” She grinned and patted the small silk purse that hung from her belt. “I still have all my coins from Candlemas, the ones Edward gave me to be silent during the wrestling match between his man and Lord Giles.”

  Edith groaned. “I still cannot believe that you actually called the King’s champion puny, a man who had no more strength than the fleas on the kitchen hounds. Sofia, the man is huge.”

  “A veritable giant.” Sofia was still smiling. “With an ego as big as his ham-sized hands.”

  Edith shivered and muttered, “I have not the courage to do such foolhardy things.”

  “’Tis not foolhardy, but necessary, Edith. And I shall continue to speak for myself whenever I feel I must.”

  Edith shook her head, her expression a mix of awe and envy. �
�’Twas a foolish thing to test the King so.”

  “Not too foolish, for I left the Great Hall that night with five coins tucked inside my shoe. Two golden marks from Edward and three pieces of silver from my wager with Sir Lowell.”

  Edith stopped so suddenly it was almost as if she had hit a wall. “You placed a wager?”

  “Aye. On the opponent.”

  Edith quickly made the sign of the cross.

  “Why should I not place a wager?”

  “But it is a sin.”

  “That did not stop Bishop Culbert and Father John from betting,” Sofia added in a wry tone. “Just because we, you and I, happened to have had the vile misfortune to be born women should not mean we cannot have the same amusements as do men.”

  “Of course we cannot. We are not men. We do not have their strength and power—”

  “If you say their sharpness of mind, I will leave you here and now.”

  “Well, even I would not go that far, but Sofia, you go on as you have been and you are asking for something terrible to happen. Truly. The King will not let you keep pushing him. He cannot like it. Even Eleanor will not be able to speak for you if you keep this up. What if he gets truly frustrated with you and marries you off to someone awful like . . . like . . . ” She lowered her voice and whispered with horror, “Like Lord Alfred?”

  Alfred De Bain was a lecherous man of five and forty, with hands the size of oxen and small, beady, brown eyes that promised cruelty. He had one and twenty children and had buried seven wives, and none of his offspring ever made it to the ripe old age of fifteen.

  “If Edward tried to fob me off on someone horrid, I would stab myself in the heart, damn my soul forever, and then spend eternity haunting him.”

  “You should never jest about taking your own life. ’Tis a mortal sin.”

  “Who is jesting?”