Wicked

by Jill Barnett

  A moment later the door crashed open. In came the Poleaxes.

  “We are here to help you dress, Sofia,” Mavis said, then she dropped thick-toothed combs, fillets and ribbons in a heap on Sofia’s bed.

  Jehane marched past Mavis, grabbed Sofia by the arms and began to pull off her robe and linen shift. “Stop dawdling, girl. You need to be bled, I swear to Saints Peter and Paul. Come. Come. The Queen will be here soon.” She tossed Sofia’s clothing out the door as if they were rags and called for the hot water and tub.

  Sofia sagged and groaned, “Not again . . . ”

  After being painfully scrubbed, pulled and pinched for what seemed like hours, Sofia looked up to see Eleanor enter her chamber. The Queen smiled. “You are beautiful, child. Though I suppose I should not call you ‘child’ any longer. Today you will be a wife and chatelaine to de Clare’s estate and your dower castle.”

  She turned to the Poleaxes. “You have done a fine job. Sir Tobin will be the envy of every young knight here this day.”

  Sofia was wearing a gown of a rich, deep violet silk that made her eyes look dark purple and huge. Snowy ermine trimmed the sleeves, the hem, and her black cloak, which was also embroidered with silver falcons, the same design as in the de Clare seal. Silver ribbons flowed through her hair, which was nearly to her shoulders now, but still had some curl, so the ribbons twined in and out softly, picking up light and making her hair look as if some archangel had tossed a handful of stars over it.

  Eleanor came over and looked at Sofia, her head cocked slightly. She frowned. “The emerald collar is wrong.” She reached up and unclasped it from Sofia’s neck. “Here.” She handed it to Mavis and turned back to Sofia. “Where are your mother’s pearls?”

  “I cannot wear them. They always look wrong.”

  “Let me see them,” the Queen said.

  Sofia walked over and took them from a walnut box on a table, then handed them to the Queen.

  “Sit here.” Eleanor pointed to a small bench. Sofia was taller than Eleanor so she sat, stiffly. She could feel her mouth tighten and it was all she could do to keep her hands on her lap instead of in tight fists.

  She knew what would happen. The same thing that always happened. The pearls would not become her.

  Eleanor undid the clasp and then slid one end about Sofia’s long neck, and she began to wrap them, ’round and ’round in a high collar. “There.” The Queen fixed the clasp. She stepped back and studied her.

  Sofia did not move. She did not breathe. She sat there, waiting for Eleanor to shake her head, to see what Sofia always saw.

  Eleanor handed her the polished glass. “Look. ’Tis perfect.”

  Perfect? Sofia closed her eyes as she lifted the round glass. She took a deep breath, then opened them.

  She could not speak for a moment. Her voice had gone.

  Her hand drifted up to touch the even and perfect pearls, strung in tight-fitting circles that coiled up her neck. She looked so lovely. For a moment she almost could not comprehend it. She stared at the image in the glass as if she could not pull her eyes away, as if she were seeing herself for the first time, and liked what she saw there.

  She turned toward the Queen. “They look perfect.”

  Eleanor nodded. “That was how Rosalynde always wore them, wrapped around that lovely, long neck of hers. Did you know they called her ‘the swan’ because of her height and elegance. Her skin, like yours, matched those pearls. Looking at you now, it fairly glows with the same depth of color.” The Queen gave a small smile and she looked Sofia in the eyes. “I’ll never forget the first time I saw her in those exquisite pearls, with all her black hair. Heads turned and the room grew silent when she came into it.” Eleanor lifted Sofia’s chin a little and looked at her, then released her.

  Sofia looked back at her reflection, trying to see the image of her mother.

  “No one would doubt that you are her daughter, Sofia. She would be very proud.”

  But by then, Sofia could no longer see the image staring back at her. Her eyes swam with tears. She looked away, swallowed, and put down the looking glass, then she stood and crossed over to the window.

  She could feel the heaviness of her wedding cloak, the weight of the embroidery that almost all but covered it, dragging behind her. It felt strange, as if she were carrying something heavy or as if something were trying to hold her back.

  The others in the room chattered for a moment. But she had nothing to say. She took deep breaths and just stood there for what seemed like forever.

  “We should go now, dear one,” Eleanor was saying. “Edward is waiting. You know how impatient he can be.”

  Sofia looked out the window one last time, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then left with the Queen and her ladies.

  It took the King’s provost almost an hour to recite all that was Lady Sofia Howard’s dowry. Afterward, the doors to the church were thrown open. From inside, the candles flickered like hundreds of stars, casting light against the stained-glass windows that also picked up the late morning sunlight and gave the church an almost heavenly glow.

  The King led Sofia’s white palfrey to the church steps. He handed Tobin the silver reins, a gesture symbolizing the gift of this woman to him.

  Tobin glanced up at her. For a moment he could not see her, such was the sparkle of the silver in her hair and the embroidery on her cloak. Both caught the flickering of the candlelight from inside.

  He had drunk too much the night before, and had little sleep. He was sorry now, for this was not the time or the occasion to be feeling the effects of last night’s rowdiness. He put his hands on Sofia’s waist and lifted her down from the pillion chair.

  As he swung her she planted her hands on his shoulders and looked down at him, her eyes wide and her lips full and moist. Something sharp and tangible shot through him. ’Twas a shock that made his senses come alive.

  She was so damned beautiful.

  He wondered, then, at that very instant, what she was thinking, what thoughts hid behind those purple eyes. He knew what he was thinking: he wanted her. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his entire life.

  But there was something else there, something he could not name, a fleeting thing like the wind, something that was hard to see, but he felt it go straight through him. It was inside his mind and body. All of it was somehow tied to this woman whom he held in his hands.

  He set her on her feet, then clasped her hand. He looked down at it in his own—her pale skin against his hard and sun-bitten hand. He threaded his fingers through hers, then found himself looking into her eyes.

  She tilted her head and stared back at him, her face unreadable.

  He gave her a quick wink. He could not have explained why, but he just did. She looked as if she needed a wink, something from him. He was glad he did it, too, for she smiled, a true and bright smile, one that almost brought him to his knees.

  Without thought or plan or a single word, he released her hands and went to where the ladies of the court stood holding posies of flowers they would throw when he and Sofia left the church.

  He scanned the bouquets, did not see what he wanted, then looked up and took a long silvery-blue rose from a festive garland above the chapel eave. He turned back to her, this woman who would become his wife.

  She looked confused, her brow slightly knit.

  And here he thought he was the only one who was confused.

  A moment later he went down on one knee and held out the rose to her, his eyes never leaving hers.

  Her stunned gaze darted from him to the rose he held out to her. She looked like a bird that had suddenly found itself falling from the nest, only to learn it can actually fly. Her look softened.

  She reached out and took the flower.

  What he saw in her face made him wish the wedding, the merriment and the feasting were over. He wanted be alone with her, just Sofia and him.

  A cheer went up from the crowd. All including himsel
f were surprised at this gesture: him on his knees to this woman on the church steps, in front of the world, and before God.

  She lifted the rose to breathe in its scent, and gave him the softest of smiles. A true smile, which was worth everything. He rose and took her arm, and together they entered the church.

  Tobin seated her next to him on a small bench in the choir. His hand rested on his thigh, which was barely touching hers. The King and Queen came in, as did his father with his current wife. Next was Earl Merrick and his wife, the Lady Clio, and Sister Judith.

  When all were seated the Archbishop began the solemn Mass of the Trinity with his blessing over them. “Let this woman be amiable as Rachel, wise as Rebecca, faithful as Sarah.”

  Tobin reached out and took Sofia’s hands.

  She cast him a quick glance, then tightened her fingers around his.

  “Let her be sober in truth, venerable through modesty, and wise in the teaching of heaven.” The Archbishop turned and all inside chanted the Agnus Dei.

  Tobin rose and advanced to the altar, where he received the kiss of peace. He turned toward Sofia, who would, in one more moment, become his wife in truth and in the eyes of God.

  He held out his hand to her.

  She rose with grace, this woman who was now his, and moved to join him, her shimmering beauty enough to make him wonder if she were real. And there, right at the foot of the great crucifix, he took her in his arms and transmitted the kiss to her, his wife.

  Tobin released her and everything before him suddenly blurred. For just a moment. He blinked, because the only thing he could figure was there must have been something in his eye.

  Chapter 28

  After the tense anticipation of the wedding, after a morning of the Poleaxes, and two hours of almost silent ceremony, Sofia stood by Tobin’s side at the reception tent where the bridal gifts were presented and chattered like a magpie with all who came up to kiss and to congratulate them.

  Tobin’s hand rested possessively on the small of her back as he spoke with some baron, his lady wife and son. For just a moment Sofia looked down at the blue rose in her hand. The image of his face came back to her, the expression in his eyes, the way he was looking up at her as he knelt, like some romantic courtier and not the arrogant man she had thought him to be. She felt a small, fluttering joy as she remembered that moment all over again; it was as if a butterfly were there right inside of her heart.

  “Sofie.” Edith rushed up to her. “You are wed! Truly wed! ’Twas so lovely!” She gave Sofia a huge hug and whispered, “I could not believe it when he gave you the rose! ’Twas it not the most wonderfully romantic thing? The jongleurs are already singing of it! Who would have thought it of Sir Tobin de Clare!” Edith seemed as nervous as Sofia felt, at least more nervous than was Edith’s normal state.

  Sofia glanced over her friend’s shoulder.

  A stocky man with brown hair, graying at the temples, and dark eyes stood behind her. He was richly dressed in golden silk, but not overly so with jewels and furs and too much ornament, as were some of the more wealthy of Edward’s noblemen.

  Edith looked up at her, then stepped back and shyly reached out to the man, who came instantly to Edith’s side.

  “Lady Sofia, this is Lord Robert of Gavanshaw, my betrothed.”

  Sofia looked into a pair of the kindest brown eyes, eyes that seemed to look with nothing but doting love on her dear friend. Lord Henry had chosen wisely for his little sister. Now she better understood Edith and her willing acceptance of this alliance with such an older man.

  Sofia held out her hand. “Lord Robert.” She smiled genuinely, because Edith was looking at him as if he were her whole heart. ’Twas the sweetest thing. “I am truly happy to finally meet you. Edith has spoken so much of you.”

  “Has she? She does not speak much whenever I am ’round.”

  “I do too speak,” Edith said quickly, then realized that she had just naysaid him. She grew suddenly silent and stared at her toes.

  Lord Robert frowned, as if he wanted her honest reaction, not a feigned meekness that was demanded of women by so many men. He looked at Sofia almost as if to say, “Help me with her.”

  He was a swift thinker, for he laughed. “I suppose you have not had much chance to speak when I keep your mouth occupied with other things, my fiery one.”

  Edith’s head shot up and her eyes grew wide. She turned so bright a red that Sofia burst out laughing.

  Sofia slapped Lord Robert playfully on his arm. “You are terrible to tease her so, milord. She is all that is kind and good and sweet in this world.”

  “Aye, that she is.” He grinned. “But I find I must tease her, milady, for I have found that the scarlet on her cheeks is my favorite color for her to wear.”

  Sofia and Robert laughed together and talked with ease, until each tried to out-embarrass Edith, just to see who could make her flush the more.

  “Enough!” Edith finally raised her hands in mock protection. “Both of you are horrid! My cheeks are so hot I need some mead to cool them down.” She grasped Robert’s arm and clutched it close to her. “Come along, milord. I find I am famished as well as thirsty. ’Tis your duty as my betrothed to see to all my needs and wants. And remember, you must feed me all the very best morsels.”

  “I think the very best morsel has my arm clutched to her side.”

  Sofia laughed and watched as Edith happily dragged a grinning Lord Robert toward the huge blue tent where the wedding feast was just beginning.

  As wedding feasts went, Tobin thought this one had all the makings of a disaster. He sat there, stabbing chunks of finely cooked meat onto his dagger, jamming them into his mouth and chewing the bloody hell out of it before he swilled back a full goblet of French wine.

  It was not a simple thing to ignore the fact that your own father was actively and publicly wooing your new bride.

  He watched them dance to the tunes of the minstrels, watched Sofia innocently smile and laugh at his father, who was at his charming best. His latest stepmother, whoever she was, a pale-haired woman of two and twenty called Arden or Anne or Arkin, one of those “A” names, had left the feast early. The poor woman was probably so used to his father’s fickle ways that she did not want to be there for what was surely to be another humiliation with some other woman this night. The thing was, it should not have been with the bride. But it was so like his father. He could make a conquest and humiliate his son at the same time.

  His father put his hands on Sofia’s waist and lifted her high in the air. Tobin’s hand tightened on the thickly carved stem of the gold goblet. He could feel the falcon design cutting into his fingers, he could feel the blood leave the knuckles on his hand, he could feel rage race through him.

  A hand on his shoulder startled him enough to tear his angry gaze away from the scene.

  Merrick stood behind him. “Go take her from him, lad.”

  “I will not give the bastard the satisfaction of letting him know he can get to me.” Tobin took another drink.

  “Then you are a fool, for this is not about you. This is about Sofia. She is the only person you are hurting by trying to act as if what he is doing out there does not matter. She is your wife. She does not know. She is only dancing, as a bride should at her own wedding celebration. Have you ever told her about him?”

  “Why? He does not deserve the breath it would take to tell her.”

  “Clio thought as much and told me to tell you to explain to her. She needs to know, if for no other reason than to protect herself.”

  Tobin frowned and looked over at Lady Clio. She was looking at him sternly. His gaze flicked back to his wife, and he realized Clio was right.

  “Go rescue her, lad. This is not the time to be stubborn.” Merrick gripped Tobin’s shoulder. “Go.”

  Tobin took one last drink of wine, then put down the goblet. Without ever taking his eyes off Sofia and his father, he gave Merrick a slight nod, then he shoved away from the table and stood.
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  He moved toward them, stepping around the people seated at tables who leaned back and raised their wine goblets, who called out or who clouted him with their good wishes on the arm and back and shoulders. A minor skirmish broke out, petty nobles who were so far into their cups that their horseplay was ribald, but suddenly escalated to where one hit the other with his drinking cup.

  Tobin shoved one of them aside and stood between them. Parcin and Merrick were there in an instant, holding the two men and dragging them outside before they could draw their swords.

  Then he was standing at his father’s back, listening.

  “My son is fortunate, Sofia.” His father slid a hand on Sofia’s back.

  Tobin’s fist tightened, but he did not move.

  “I have yet to have a bride as lovely as you.”

  “You have had so many brides, Father.” Tobin gripped his father’s shoulder and stilled him from moving closer to Sofia. “I believe you have a wife abovestairs now.”

  His father turned, his expression said he was caught off guard.

  Tobin stepped between them, using his size and height as a shield to his bride. He gave Sofia a smile that he knew was false, then leaned toward his father’s ear and said with quiet menace, “Get the hell away from mine, old man.”

  Tobin did not wait to see his father’s reaction. Instead he grabbed Sofia’s hands and pulled her into a circle of dancers. The circle grew larger now that Tobin and Sofia were dancing together. The dancers stood and clapped their hands and feet, while Tobin held tightly to his bride’s soft hands and spun her ’round and ’round, watching her face. The smile she wore grew. She called his name, but he spun her faster until she was dizzy and laughing. The sound of it rippled clear through him, washed away for just that moment his father’s lechery, and everything else but the thought that this woman was truly his.

  He slid his arm behind her back and bent, then swept her off her feet, turning and spinning with her in his arms as she locked her hands behind his neck and threw back her head.

  “Stop! Stop! Husband!” But she was still laughing. He turned and walked outside the ring of dancers, past the musicians and across the room and out the doors to the echoes of cheers and bawdy jests.