“Where are you going?” St. Alban demanded.
Brogan grabbed the iron latch on the door, so hard that he partially dislodged it. Realizing his frustration had translated into unnatural strength, he rattled the broken latch a couple of times.
“I am going for a walk,” he rumbled.
The door flew back on its hinges and he disappeared into the dim corridor beyond. As quickly as his tired old body would allow, St. Alban stood up and hobbled to the open door. The cat scooted under the bed.
“Stay away from the river!” he shouted down the hall.
The only reply that came back was an unintelligible grunt.
Strangely, neither her aunt nor uncle had said anything to her about being with d’Aurilliac. From the moment Inglesbatch escorted her back to the apartments, Anne and Richard had been oddly silent on the matter. They spoke of the feast that night, of the duke’s enormous holdings, a minor skirmish in France, and little else. The lack of condemnation for her actions had translated into a very odd afternoon.
Avalyn sat most of the afternoon in the bed chamber she shared with her cousins, listening to the girls rattle on about the feast that night. Isobel, the lovelier of the two, literally took hours to plan her wardrobe. As Avalyn tried to concentrate on the needlepoint framed on an elegant loom, she alternately paid attention to the butterfly she was sewing and to Isobel’s fussing. Petite and curvaceous, with brown eyes and brown hair, Isobel looked a great deal like her mother whereas Anne, a little taller and very thin, had the reddish hair of their father.
“Avie,” Isobel’s tone could sound as if she was whining at times. “What do you think? The dark blue or the Aubergène?”
Over at the wardrobe, Anne snorted. “It is a normal shade of purple.”
Isobel’s dark eyes flashed at her sister. “Aubergène!”
Avalyn grinned as she put another yellow stitch on the butterfly. “I like the purple.”
Isobel’s nostrils flared. “Aubergène!” she corrected her cousin and sister imperiously. But her manner softened as she picked the surcoat up and examined herself in the mirror of polished bronze. “It is rather comely, isn’t it? Fit for a duchess?”
Avalyn paused at her loom. “Most definitely. You are very beautiful in it.”
Isobel smiled at her reflection and finally at her cousin before going on a rampage and yelling for servants. Even though it was several hours yet until the feast, she was convinced it was never too early to begin dressing. Avalyn and Anne exchanged amused glances and went about their tasks, watching as Isobel had fits and seizures because something wasn’t exactly to her liking. It was pure entertainment.
Serving women brought rosewater and heating irons and other beauty implements for Isobel. The lady had very long, straight brown hair that did not hold a curl very well and she would howl when her hair fell straight after so much work. Eventually, they were able to force her hair to hold a curl and she was quite pleased with the results so long as she didn’t touch it. Touching it was grounds for immediate collapse of the hair. She was ready for the feast long before anyone else.
Anne was the next to dress, in yellow brocade, while Avalyn finished shortly thereafter. She was dressed in a dark green satin with softer green wool surcoat, the color which set of her magnificent eyes. Her hair was pulled away from her face with a green-painted comb and a belt of rough uncut green stones with gold links hung around her slender waist. As much as her cousins tried to fancy themselves, they could not complete with Avalyn. No woman could. She was, in a word, breathtaking.
When the dressing was complete and the girls gathered in the lavish sitting room to await escort, Richard and Anne appeared from their own bedchamber. The great double-doors from their bedchamber opened outward into the sitting room and they appeared resplendent in their finery and jewels. Nothing but the best for the de Nevilles, as Richard wore a very heavily embroidered tunic over the finest woolen hose. A heavy chinked belt hung about his waist and a beautiful bejeweled dagger hung from that. He looked every inch the sixteenth Earl of Warwick, the latest in a long line of Warwick nobles. Anne, beside him, wore the latest fabric from Italy, a divinely soft and luxurious material called velvet. It was new to England and only the very rich had access to the spectacular bolts form across the channel. Anne’s surcoat was extremely heavy, in a rich burgundy red, and she was sure to be the envy of every woman at the feast.
There were servants in the sitting room, lighting fat white tapers that cast the opulent room in a golden glow. The sun had nearly set and night cloaked the land, entertaining shadows from the half moon. As two ladies in waiting helped Anne with her equally heavy cloak, several maids brought forth cloaks for the girls. Isobel fussed with her hair as the maid tried to strategically position the collar of her cloak, while young Anne simply slung hers over her shoulder.
Avalyn settled her green brocade cloak over her shoulders, tying the strips of fabric at her neck to keep it secure. All the while, she kept her gaze on her aunt and uncle, wondering when they were going to explode at her for disobeying them. But they pretended as if nothing in the world was wrong. Uncle Richard even took Avalyn’s hand upon his arm and escorted her from the apartment. Inglesbatch and his men were out in the hall, an escort already formed. Though William politely greeted her, she deliberately ignored him.
The Martin Tower was not far from where they were residing. The grounds of the Tower could be a confusing maze of halls and rooms so it was fortunate they did not have to travel far. As their party approached, Avalyn could see the warm glow from the windows of the downstairs hall, inviting them in. Already she could hear the laughter and the clink of cups and pitchers as the drink flowed freely. When they finally crossed a small courtyard and entered the hall from the outside, they were met with the warmth and fragrance of a grand banquet already in progress.
Soft music played. Servants took their cloaks and whisked them away. Richard dropped Avalyn’s hand and went to his wife, and the two of them lowered their voices and wandered into the crowd beyond. Anne followed her parents while Isobel hung back with Avalyn, wrapping her hands around her cousin’s arm and leaning in close.
“Look, Avie,” she whispered. “When I marry the Duke, all of this shall be mine. Is that not exciting?”
Avalyn smiled at her very materialistic cousin. “Of course, my angel,” she said. “But… are you truly happy about this? After all, the Duke is… well, he’s old. And I’ve heard he can be unpleasant. Does that not concern you?”
“Of course not. He can be whatever he pleases so long as he gives me money to spend and doesn’t expect too much.”
Avalyn lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Isobel wrinkled her nose. “You know… wifely things. I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
Apparently, her cousin had a rather twisted view of marriage. “It does not matter how you feel. He is your husband and may do as he pleases.”
Isobel just snorted. “Perhaps I will get pregnant on our wedding night and he will leave me alone thereafter.”
An idiotic plan, Avalyn thought, but she didn’t say anything. She looked around the room, noting the rich and powerful therein. Slender tapers burned bright in the faces of the gathered nobles, most of them men but some of them women. A few husbands and wives sat about. Her gaze fell on a particularly amorous couple.
“But what of love?” Avalyn asked softly, her eyes lingering on the distant pair. “Do you not hope to love him some day?”
Isobel looked at her as if she was mad. “I will not love him. Perhaps I will take a lover over time, but he shan’t know about it.”
Avalyn looked sharply at her. “A lover?” she shook her head. “Why on earth are you marrying him, Issi?”
Isobel turned her nose up. “There is more value to money and power than love, Avie. You know that better than any of us.”
Avalyn fell silent. Aye, she knew that up until last night. She’d never thought of loving a man in her life until she met
Brogan. Not that she loved him; at least, she didn’t think so. But he made her feel differently than anyone ever had. He was kind and warm and powerful, and his deep blue eyes made her heart leap crazily. She was coming to understand that, perhaps, things such as love and romance could be possible. She honestly never thought she was capable of such thoughts because she’d never had anyone stir them in her.
The family took their seats at one of the three massively long tables that lined the dining hall. The Duke of Clarence sat several chairs away, surrounded by his favorites, his small brown eyes focused on De Neville’s girls. She recognized the man on his right, Thomas Howard, the Earl of Norfolk, but she vaguely recognized the man on his left. It took her a moment to realize it was Sir Charles Aubrey, a land-wealthy baron from Merseyside. She had seen him before at different gatherings, a young man who looked far older than his years due to his poor diet and fat belly. She caught him staring at her several times but she made a point not to react. She didn’t like the way he stared at her and she did not want to encourage him.
The servants brought wine, filling everyone’s chalices to overflowing. After a good deal of liquor and conversation, the food was finally brought forth and had all of the earmarks of a lavish party; painted peasant, almond-milk puddings with raisins and raspberries, almond paste subtleties, boiled vegetables, and a variety of white breads. It was a feast of uncommon proportions.
When the breads were brought around, Avalyn thought of Brogan’s mother. Compared to what she made, these loaves were tasteless and dull. But she ate what she could, not having much of an appetite. Isobel, however, was stuffing herself silly and young Anne would eat only the puddings. Avalyn sat between the two of them, eventually just nursing her wine and wondering how she was going to break free from this pack. She wondered if Brogan would even be there to meet her after her rude departure that afternoon. She couldn’t imagine that he would not be, but he may have decided she was too much trouble. De Nevilles usually were.
Even if he was not waiting, she still planned to leave. She really did want to see an entertainment, though it would be considerably less enjoyable without Brogan to share it with. More wine was brought out, and even more food, this time in the form of pastries. Everyone was loud, eating happily and laughing. Avalyn’s gaze scanned the room, as was habit with her; she liked to see who was around, who was friend and perhaps who was foe. Uncle Richard had instilled that particular trait in her. From what she could see around the well-lit, warm room, everyone was a friend. She recognized most.
She began to lose track of time as the evening and the wine flowed freely. In spite of all of the people, she felt isolated and lonely. Everyone was having a good time but her and she realized she would have much rather been sitting in Mama Starke’s shop than in this extravagant hall. It was an unusual thought, as this was quite normally her element. But not tonight.
Eventually, her uncle stood up and went over to the duke. He whispered something in the man’s ear, to which Clarence nodded. The movement caught Avalyn’s eye simply for the fact that she knew they were conspiring. Something was about to happen; she’d seen those expressions too many times before not to know that. Richard set down his cup and held up his hands to quiet the room.
“My lords,” he said in his loud, distinctive voice. “My ladies. Our host has asked me to welcome you tonight in honor of a very special occasion.”
Beside Avalyn, Isobel perked up. Young Anne just looked bored. The room quieted to a dull rumble and Richard continued.
“There comes a time in life when all children must leave their homes, whether it be to foster or to join the cloister, to seek fame or fortune, or to marry,” he said. “Tonight, I am both saddened and gladdened to be losing one of my children, for my eldest daughter, Isobel, is to become the future Duchess of Clarence.”
A small cheer went up in the room and a hearty round of applause lifted into the warm, stale air. Isobel, puffed and gloating, acknowledged the congratulations and went to her father when the man extended his hand to her. Richard made a big show out of placing Isobel’s hand in Clarence’s hand, and the room cheered loudly. It was a presentation spectacle and all the while, Avalyn couldn’t help but feel that both her cousin and the duke were in the marriage for completely different reasons and not one of them good. Isobel wanted money; the duke wanted the throne. Perhaps in reflection the two selfish people were indeed made for each other.
A throne the duke was well on his way to getting. Months of planning, of rumor mongering, were beginning to pay off. Avalyn had helped counsel her uncle, sensing things that perhaps he did not. He had congratulated her on her foresight and she should have been proud. But what should have been a rewarding moment for her was something of a distraction. All she seemed to want to think about was a lowly soldier she had met the night before and of his weeping mother who made such wonderful bread.
Her uncle was speaking again, distracting her from her thoughts. She heard his first few words and snapped from her trance, turning to focus on him yet again. This time, he was gesturing to Aubrey beside him.
“This is indeed a night of joy,” he was saying. “For not only do I have the pleasure of announcing one betrothal, I have the pleasure of announcing two.”
For some reason, fear as sharp as the strike of an arrow blazed through Avalyn. She looked at young Anne, who gazed back at her with equal fright. Both girls realized something was up and suspected that one of them was somehow involved. Avalyn took her cousin’s hand, already clammy in her grasp, and held it tightly. Uncle Richard was a deal maker, a king maker, and a surprise of this magnitude was not an unusual thing. Avalyn held on to Anne mostly so she wouldn’t bolt from the room when her father made the announcement she suspected was to come. Poor Anne! Tension exploded in her chest as her uncle focused on his family of women.
“I am pleased; nay, very pleased, to announce the betrothal of Sir Charles Aubrey,” Richard focused on Avalyn, “to my niece and trusted advisor, the Lady Avalyn Arabella de Beauchamp du Brant.”
At first, Avalyn did not quite grasp what he had said. It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, her eyes widened to the point of bulging from her skull. She could hear young Anne beside her, muttering words of comfort, but she did not heed him. She simply could not believe what she had heard. Over the roar of applause, Uncle Richard was holding out a hand to her, encouraging her to come to him, but she simply sat there until young Anne gave her a timid shove.
Woodenly, she stood up and took a few steps towards her uncle. Her head was swimming and somehow she felt betrayed, belittled, castigated. A hand reached out to grasp her; looking down, she saw that it was her aunt. The brown eyes were surprisingly hard.
“Had you not disobeyed us today, we would not have had to take such drastic measures,” came Anne’s soft, even tone. “You have brought this on yourself, Avalyn. Now you will heed your husband where you have failed to heed us. He will guide you properly.”
Avalyn stared at her aunt. Damn them! No wonder they hadn’t said a word to her all afternoon. They had already passed judgment and sentence. Now she was to be married off, corralled by a husband, watched over by a master. Her knees began to shake and it was an effort not to respond to her aunt, an angry response that would have only shamed the family. She was, after all, a de Neville. She had been raised in the finest house with the finest resources available. She was a loyal family member and a trust member of the inner core. One act of disobedience, no matter how innocent and small, had earned her a drastic punishment. She simply could not believe it.
Somehow, she made it to her uncle. She did not even remember how she got there. He took her hand, kissed it, and turned it over to the sweaty grip of her puffy betrothed. Aubrey stood up and faced her politely.
“My lady,” he said in a quiet, deep voice. “I realize this is something of a shock, but may I say that I am most pleased at the prospect. I promise I shall endeavor to make a very fine husband.”
She jus
t stared at him. She couldn’t seem to manage anything else. Her gaze moved over him; he had reddish blond hair that flowed past his shoulders and he secured it at the nape of his neck in a ponytail. His face was round and very red, his eyes a clear shade of blue. He was neither handsome nor ugly, but somewhere in between. He was a big man, too, with an enormous belly and muscular arms and legs from what she could see. Truthfully, she’d never looked closely at the man; ever. She’d never even been this close to him. Now, the reality was staring her in the face and it was a struggle not to choke.
“My lord,” she managed to stammer.
He was trying to be very kind. He held out his chair to her. “Will you sit?”
Haltingly, she lowered herself into the chair. Someone had brought him another chair and he pulled it up next to her, yelling for more wine. Avalyn put up her hand; her head was spinning already. She did not need more wine.
“My lord,” she was laboring to find her tongue. “When… did you speak to my uncle about a marriage?”
Charles didn’t seem like a brute or a dullard; he seemed like a truly mild man. “Only today, my lady,” he said. “Your uncle proposed this match to me and, having seen you in the past, I must say that I was very pleased with the prospect of marrying into the House of de Neville. I will try to make a very fine husband.”
“You already said that,” she eyed him. Then she realized that she sounded cruel. It wasn’t his fault if her uncle had brokered her like another would broker a mare. “I am sorry, ’tis simply that this is something of a shock. I never heard a word about it.”
He looked at his hands. “I know,” he said. “Your uncle told me that it was a surprise. It would seem that your birthday is coming soon and he felt it would be a proper birthday present. He said that you are getting too old to be without a husband.”
Romantic Legends Page 8
