Wicked

by Jill Barnett

  Sharp pain shot through the top of his wine-abused head, rang clear through his teeth, and landed squarely in the backs of his eyes, a twanging, piercing pain that felt as if a broadsword had struck him there. He gritted his teeth, his jaw so tight it went numb, but a groan escaped anyway.

  Tobin shielded his eyes, head down.

  She plopped into the chair with so much vigor that it scraped again, then she grasped the seat and began to hop forward, still sitting in the chair so its legs clattered and clopped on the floor.

  Jesu! He drew back, flinching, then seized the chair, and lifted it straight upward with her in it. He placed the chair softly, ever so softly, before the table.

  “Why, thank you, sir.” Her voice was all honey. Then she waved a hand in a careless motion and knocked over her pewter goblet; it landed against the rim of a silver platter, and sounded like the hammering of a smithy. She fumbled with it three more times and finally he leaned over and grabbed the thing, turned it upside down, and gently set it down on the table.

  Tobin sank lower into his chair, unseeing, but not unfeeling. He felt something all right. Pain.

  A servant righted Sofia’s goblet and filled it, then moved to Tobin’s cup. He slammed his hand over it, shook his head slightly, then moaned under his breath.

  She turned to him, fighting a slight smirk. “What? No wine this day, Sir Tobin?”

  He grumbled something useless about not being thirsty in a low tone that about killed his ears.

  “I am thirsty.” She drank some of the wine, then turned and leaned forward. Right into his face, she said, “I am about to die of thirst. See how very much I drank?” She jammed the goblet beneath his nose.

  The hair of the dog bit him.

  Hard.

  His belly lurched. He shoved the wine from his face and turned away, just as a servant placed a platter of pickled eels before him.

  His belly tumbled and turned like an acrobat.

  “Pickled eels, sir?” Sofia asked all too sweetly. “This batch has been aged . . . months I believe. Smell them.” She motioned for the servant to lift the platter. “They are a special delicacy that I ordered just for you.”

  He stood so quickly that his chair flew backward. Its back banged hard against the floor. He heard his men groan in unison. But he couldn’t see them, because he saw nothing, only a green blur as he slapped a hand over his mouth and made for the door.

  “Did you know, Edith, that the word bride comes from an old word used for cook.” Sofia sat under the huge old apple tree, her back against the trunk and her knees clasped in her threaded hands. She stared dismally at an abandoned bird’s nest. “Cook!” She made a snorting sound. “Disgusting, is it not?”

  “I do not think it disgusting at all.”

  “That is because you want to be wed. I do not.”

  “I think that day at the Miracle Plays you would have wanted to be wed to Sir Tobin. You just did not know who he was.”

  “Perhaps. But that was before I knew his true and vile nature.”

  “He made a stupid mistake. That bet was cruel. But you have made mistakes, too. Think of how you treated Lord Geoffrey and that Spanish prince. You were not kind, Sofie. Can you not forgive Sir Tobin?”

  “He hasn’t the wit to ask for forgiveness,” Sofia shot back, quickly angered because the oaf had not even tried to apologize. “Why would I want to marry someone who is so cocksure, obnoxious, and a drunk?”

  “He is not a drunk and you know it.”

  “You should have seen him hanging from the tower last night.”

  “He was celebrating your betrothal and drank too much wine.” Edith paused and her eyes grew distant and dreamy. “I would love it if a man risked life and limb to climb a tower just for me. How perfectly romantic.”

  Sofia gave a dry laugh. “Romance had little to do with his motives. I am certain it was not me he was thinking of when he climbed that tower, but himself and what he alone wanted. In fact, I would wager he was not even using his head, but thinking with something else altogether.”

  “Well, that certainly makes no sense. Why would he climb a tower if there was no one there? Of course he was doing so for you. And what else can one think with? We only have our head with which to think.”

  Sofia shook her head and drew a circle in the dirt beneath the tree. “It does not matter.”

  Edith looked up. “Did you ever find out how he finally got down?”

  “According to the castle guard who was watching him, he worked his arms from his tunic, I guess it took a while, and then he shimmied down the rope. When I awoke, the tunic was still caught in the shutters. I dared not open them, just in case he was still there. But after I dressed, I went belowstairs and checked from the outside.” Sofia grinned. “The tunic was dangling there; it looked like a blue and white flag of surrender.”

  She crossed her arms in a pleased way and grinned with wicked glee. “’Twas certainly one of my better moments, slamming those shutters. That, along with telling the kitchen that Sir Tobin demanded those eels this morn to break his fast.”

  “You know something?” Edith shook her head. “I do not believe I have ever seen someone truly turn green before. The man’s skin was the color of a cabbage.”

  “Aye.”

  “I feel rather sorry for Sir Tobin.”

  “Sorry for him? After what he did to me? You are supposed to be my friend.”

  “That’s why I feel sorry for him. You will keep making him pay for his mistakes.”

  “Then perhaps he should work harder at not being such an idiot so he does not have so much to pay for.”

  Edith turned and looked at her for a long time. “You really are in love with him, aren’t you?”

  Sofia did not answer readily, but closed her eyes. “I do not want to be.”

  “But you are.”

  Sofia turned to her friend. “I don’t understand him.” Her voice had turned quiet, serious.

  “What do you not understand?”

  She stared down at her clasped hands. “Why he does the things he does.”

  “He is a proud young man, always has been, perhaps too proud. I have heard stories that he had trouble when he was fostered. My brother says ’twas Earl Merrick who turned him ’round.” Edith paused and then added, “He is much like you, I think, in that he likes things done his way. He is stubborn and full of pride.”

  “Is that what you think of me? Stubborn and full of pride?”

  “Sofie, you are like the sister I never had. I love you. But you have to admit that you are sometimes . . . strong-minded.”

  “Aye. I am proud if it, too. I will never simper. I like having a mind of my own.”

  “I know you do. And sometimes I wish I could do what you do. I wish I could be like you. But I cannot. I do simper.”

  “You do not. You are not weak, Edith. Your nature is sweet and kind and gentle and everyone loves you.”

  “Aye, but I can disappear in a room. You never do, Sofie. Everyone always knows when you come into a room.”

  “Does Sir Tobin? I am not certain.”

  “His eyes are always on you. ’Tis just you are so busy trying to look elsewhere that you do not see it.”

  “I still do not understand why he acts as he does.”

  “Mostly he is reacting to what you do. You are not easy, Sofie. You know that. You make people work to be close to you, as if they have to prove to you that they truly care. That they are worthy. Look at what you do to the King.”

  Sofia scowled at her, not liking the way that sounded. “Aren’t you the perceptive one today.”

  “I am your friend. I am simply telling you the truth. Would you rather I lie?”

  “Like you did about the betrothal feast?”

  “I did not lie.” Edith chewed her lip. “Not exactly. The Queen made me swear not to tell you anything.”

  “Even if you had told me, I am not sure it would have mattered.” Sofia stood and dusted off her gown and hands. “Whic
h is why I have forgiven you.”

  There was a moment of thoughtful silence. Sofia grasped a low branch and stood there looking about her and seeing nothing but the questions she still had. She sighed. She would probably never know what his motives for marrying her were.

  “What was that huge sigh for?”

  “Because I still cannot understand this betrothal. Why me?” She looked at her friend. “Why does he want to marry me?”

  “Sofia, almost every young knight in the land has wanted to marry you at one time or another. You have to ask why? You are so beautiful. Look at yourself!”

  Look at herself? Look at the outside. Could not one person look to see what was inside? Sofia hung there, her hands grasping that tree branch and her arms stretched taut as she stared at the ground for the longest time. For just a moment she thought she might cry. She could feel the tears rise into her throat and her eyes.

  “There is the bell for None. I must meet the Poleaxes.”

  Sofia groaned. “I am so sorry.”

  “Oh. Don’t be. They are going to teach me all those things I need to know to run my husband’s castle. Today I shall learn to card wool.”

  Sofia wondered if Edith’s betrothed would ever return to marry her. But she did not say anything, because she knew it bothered Edith, too, even though she tried to hide it.

  Edith turned to leave. She took a few steps and swept back the low branches of the tree, but stopped and turned back to Sofia. “If you want to know why Sir Tobin is marrying you, then why not just ask him?”

  Chapter 11

  The last thing Tobin expected was a message from Sofia. He thought she would go out of her way to avoid him, figuring she had exhausted herself and inflicted enough pain for one day.

  Instead she sent a servant with a message to one of his squires, Thud, who came directly from the stables where he had been tending Tobin’s favorite mount.

  Tobin listened silently, then glanced up from polishing his sword. “She requests that I meet her in the chapel?” He kept polishing.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “When?”

  “Before Compline.”

  “Odd . . . ” he murmured, rubbing a cloth over the steel of the blade. He tossed the cloth onto his shoulder, then rubbed a hand pensively over the rough stubble on his chin, wondering what she was about now.

  He said nothing, but held up his sword; it caught light from the window and shone bright enough to blind any opponent he faced, with the possible exception of his betrothed. He took his time and checked the blade, running his thumb down the edge while he tried to convolute his mind into thinking like she did.

  He gave up and stood, then jammed his sword into its scabbard. “Tell the Lady Sofia I will meet her now, not at Compline, and not in the chapel, but in the court below the Gloriette tower.”

  Thud stared at him as if he were mad.

  “What is it? Have I grown a second head?”

  His squire mumbled something.

  “Speak up, lad. I cannot understand you.”

  “Should you not meet her as she has asked? Lady Clio says a chivalrous knight does his lady’s bidding with a free and happy heart.”

  Tobin laughed in a dry tone. “And Earl Merrick does so with Lady Clio? He follows her everywhere like a lovesick swain, ready to do her every whim? I have seen that is not the case, as have you. Remember what things were like when Merrick first came to Camrose?”

  Thud winced. “Aye. ’Twas not a quiet time.”

  “Understand this.” Tobin stood and faced Thud. “Women are as different from each other as are weapons of war. There are maces, picks, swords, axes, lances and crossbows. Merrick’s Lady Clio is more of a sword. You can clearly see her coming at you. But my Lady Sofia is more dangerous. You have to watch your back with her. She is like a crossbow fired at you from high in a tree. You never see what’s coming until it is too late. Then you are standing there pierced clear through.”

  Tobin crossed the room to the lavabo and washed the oil from his hands. “The trouble is,” he continued, “we men need women as much as we need our weapons, as much as we need our mounts and our armor. But the singular truth is, you are better off to love your sword, your armor and your horse before you ever give your heart over to a woman.”

  He dried his hands and turned back around. “As for my lady, were I to be chivalrous, she would make my life a misery. Just go now, and do as I bid.”

  Tobin tossed the towel aside and by the time he had turned about, his squire had left.

  “In the courtyard?” Sofia whirled around and stared at Tobin’s squire. “Now?”

  The squire stood in the doorway nervously shifting from one big foot to the other and watching her warily as if he expected her to suddenly draw a weapon and smite him right there.

  She paced the room. This was not part of her plan. Why was he doing this? She stopped and crossed her arms over her chest and tapped a foot impatiently. Now what?

  She raised her chin and turned. “Tell your master that I cannot come now. I am far too busy.” She waved a hand in the air. “Tell him I shall be finished in a while, say two hours. We will meet then. At the well near the eastern wall.”

  “Aye, my lady.” The lad made a slight bow and left.

  Sofia plopped down in a chair and rested her chin on one fist. Two full hours. What in the name of heaven above was she going to do for two whole hours?

  “The stable after Sext? He actually thinks I will meet him in the stable?” Sofia leaned back in her chair near the glass-paned windows of the solar and stared at the squire.

  The Poleaxes had gone down to the storerooms to fetch a basket of freshly shorn and washed wool. Edith was sitting nearby concentrating on carding a clump of knotted fleece with a flat pair of bristled wool carders. Sofia sat in a wide chair, a long thread of yarn swirled in a pile near her red leather slippers and a hand spindle rolled easily between her palms.

  The lad swiped a forelock of damp hair, from his eyes and stood with his shoulders back, his hands somewhere behind him and his big feet together. “Aye, my lady. He must attend his horse, which became lame and needs care and supervision. He begs . . . nay . . . uh . . . rather, he asks, nay, that is not right either,” he mumbled looking down.

  The lad stood there, muttering and shaking his bead as he searched for his word. Finally he looked up. “Sir Tobin says that you may meet him there.”

  “Oh, he does, does he?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well I, too, have plans and duties.”

  “Sofie,” Edith warned in a half-whisper.

  Sofia whispered back, “I know what I am doing.” She turned and faced the boy, whose flat woolen cap was askew and the bright colored pheasant feather decorating its side drooped lower every time he brought a new message. “Tell Sir Tobin I cannot meet him at Sext. I will be busy then. You may tell him I shall be waiting for him before None, say an hour before. We will meet at,” she paused, then turned around and chewed on her lip for a moment’s thought, while Edith was waving her hands at her in protest. Sofia ignored her and turned back. “We will meet at the entrance to the herb garden near the kitchens.”

  The lad hung his head a little and his shoulders drooped. “Aye, my lady,” he said on a sigh. “I shall tell him.” He turned slowly, then shuffled out of the room.

  “You are playing with fire. Just go meet him wherever he wants.”

  “I shall not. He is being stubborn.”

  “And you are not?”

  She waved her hand in the air. “That does not matter. Everyone well knows I am stubborn. Besides which, it was my idea to meet in the first place. I should be the one to dictate where and when.” But she set aside the spindle and stood, then stepped over the pile of spun wool. She crossed the few steps to the window, braced her hands on the ledge and waited until the squire came out of the tower entrance. She watched him run across the bailey and head for the stables, the feather in his cap bobbing as he ran.

  “The st
ables at Sext,” she muttered. “Humph! What does he think I am . . . a dairy maid?”

  “The west wall before Sext?” Tobin shook his head and stared at his horse’s hoof. He took a hoof pick off the wall and began to clean the area until he could see that there was no stone there, nothing that would make his mount lame.

  He stood and ran a hand up the horse’s leg, over the fetlock and up along the tendons, checking for swelling or tightness. There was none.

  He straightened. “Outside the smithy’s hut, an hour after Sext.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Just give her the message.” Then Tobin turned and strode from the stall.

  Before long, the whole castle knew what was going on. Some had come out into the bailey to pass Thud, the poor bedraggled squire, a bit of cheese or a tankard of ale as he traversed back and forth, up the tower stairs and down again, then around the castle more times than most could count.

  By nightfall, Squire Thud had collapsed from overexertion and was lying facedown in the middle of the bailey, his tunic sodden with sweat and the feather in his cap broken and floppy. He was carried to a bedchamber by some of Sir Tobin’s men and given a cool bath and a fine meal of the King’s rich Bordeaux wine and fat, succulent beef pasties.

  ’Twas not long afterward that King Edward summoned Sir Tobin to the mews, where the King’s falcons and hawks were kept fat and happy. At the same time Queen Eleanor requested Lady Sofia’s presence in those same mews.

  Edward and Eleanor stood at the entrance, waiting when Sir Tobin came in the west side, and Lady Sofia from the east.

  They both stopped at the arched entrance, then looked to the King and Queen.

  Edward pinned each with a black look and said, “You two are meeting here in the Mews at . . . ” He paused and the bell sounded for Vespers. “Ah, there it is . . . Vespers.”

  He turned to Eleanor. “Shall we go my dear, and leave the lovebirds to their cooing?”

  “Aye, sire,” Eleanor said with a smile, taking the King’s arm. “Perhaps we should have used the dovecote instead. More cooing and all.”

  “Do you think so? Hmmm. I do believe this is best. Here they can peck at each other all they want.” Edward raised his long arm into the air and made a fist, as he did whenever there was a battle to be fought. Then he shouted for all to hear, “Let the feathers fly!” And the King and Queen walked out the door.