Knight of Seduction (7 page)

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.

When they’d walked in, the crowd had clapped and cheered—for Hugh, she assumed; she didn’t know why they would clap for
her
—and she was incensed that he’d been accepted so easily.  Or perhaps he hadn’t been.  Perhaps they’d simply been cheering for the fact that he was hosting such a fancy meal.

She scanned the throng, eager to locate Rosamunde, but she wasn’t present. Had Cadel brought Blodwin to the castle?  Anne didn’t suppose Blodwin would help her, but she hoped that the older woman would show some mercy and, at the least, tell Anne how to get out of her predicament.

Henry was on her right, and Lord Hugh on her left.  Two other knights stood behind them, guarding Hugh’s back.  She considered leaping to her feet, shouting that she refused to participate in such a farce, then stomping off, but Hugh would never let her leave.  And if Anne shamed him on his wedding day, in front of so many spectators, she couldn’t predict how he might retaliate.

She dawdled, paralyzed with grief and fear.  Her mind was racing, urging her to
do
something, but what?

Hugh leaned in, turning slightly so that he blocked her view, so that she could see only him.

“Have your tears stopped?” he asked.

“My tears shall never stop.  I’ll cry until I’ve filled the oceans with water.”

At her comment, he chuckled, which enraged her.

“It won’t be so bad,” he claimed, and he surprised her by giving her hand a tight squeeze.

“Won’t it?”

“Women love me.  You will, too—eventually.”

“Your vanity knows no bounds.”

“No, it doesn’t.  It’s part of my charm.”

He flashed a grin that had probably incited females from London to Jerusalem, but it didn’t work on her.

“May I be excused?” she inquired.  “May I go to my bedchamber?”

“And miss your wedding feast?”

“I don’t feel like celebrating.”

“Don’t be surly,” he said.  “It’s unbecoming.”

“I most humbly apologize for ruining your day.”

“You haven’t ruined my day.  You couldn’t.”

He smiled a smile that confused her.  It was so warm and genuine, as if he was…
happy
to have wed her.  His eyes were brimming with what seemed to be understanding and a touch of pity.

He’d caused her such misery.  Did he realize how distraught she was?  Was he sorry? 

He couldn’t be.  He was too conceited, and she wouldn’t flatter him by imbuing him with traits she was certain he’d never possessed.

He’d married her for unfathomable reasons:  because he could, because
she
hadn’t wanted him to.  He’d married her to prove that she couldn’t defy him and expect to get away with it.

“I hate that you’re so sad,” he murmured, frowning.  “Promise me that you won’t cry for the rest of the meal.”

He looked hopeful, eager, as if her mood mattered to him. 

For the briefest moment, he appeared young and unsure.  She had a glimpse of what he must have been like as a boy, when he’d still been sweet and innocent and some mother’s dearest son.  That would have been long before war and fighting had altered him into the brutal knight he’d grown to be.

She caught herself saying, “I’ll try to enjoy myself.”

With her capitulation easily obtained, he winked and stole a quick kiss.  Several men in the immediate vicinity saw him.  There were claps and hoots of laughter.

Henry scolded, “No kissing at the table, you two!”

Someone else shouted, “Head for her bedchamber if you can’t wait to have her!”

Her cheeks flushed bright red, and he squeezed her hand again.  He could have tossed out some risqué replies, but he didn’t, and for that small blessing, she was enormously grateful.

A servant hastened up and set a trencher between them.  It was made from the best bread, filled with a thick, creamy soup that Blodwin and Father Eustace often ate, but that Anne and others were rarely allowed to sample.

“A special treat from the cook,” the boy said, bowing, and rushing away. 

Hugh nodded and signaled for the serving to commence, first to the dignitaries in the front, then to the crowd in general. 

Anne watched in a glum silence.  She felt ill and needed to quell her roiling stomach.  Courtesy demanded that she not start until all the dignitaries had their food, but she couldn’t wait.  She furtively pulled at a piece of the bread. 

Before she could slip it into her mouth, Hugh reached over and took it, dropping it on the floor.

She scowled—would he dictate when she could eat and when she couldn’t?—but said nothing as a commotion erupted at the rear of the hall.  He spun away to see what was happening.

Blodwin swept in, flanked by Cadel and Rosamunde, with Father Eustace tagging after them.  They appeared imperious and aggrieved, as if the castle was still theirs and they hadn’t been invited to the feast.

The walked down the center aisle to the head table.  As they passed, the room quieted, everyone excited to view the exchange so that they could gossip later.

“Is this your family?” Hugh whispered.

“Yes.”  Anne didn’t bother explaining how they weren’t.  Not really.  She’d never been welcomed by them.  She’d always been alone.

“It’s Blodwin and Cadel?” he asked.

“Yes, with Father Eustace behind them.”

“How has your life been with them?  Have they been kind to you?”

“Kind enough,” she replied, having no idea why she’d lie.

He stood and tugged Anne up with him.

She was embarrassed to be standing at his side.  She studied the floor, not wanting to stare at Blodwin and witness the condemnation in her gaze.

Lord Hugh noticed and murmured, “Don’t glance away from her.  Look her straight in the eye.  You’re mistress here now.  You needn’t bow to anyone.”

She smiled wanly and peered out at Blodwin, flinching at the wave of malice Blodwin directed back at her.  But Blodwin’s spite was swiftly masked.  She stopped below the dais, but showed no sign of deference to Lord Hugh.

“Hello, madam.”  Hugh greeted her politely.

“Lord Hugh,” Blodwin arrogantly chided, “you’re sitting at my table, and you’ve had my kitchen servants prepare a meal without my permission.”

“It’s not your table, and they’re my servants.”

“I see you’ve married Anne.”

“Yes.  I would hear your congratulations.”

“You have them.”

At the paltry accolade, Anne bit down a snort.

“May I present my son, Cadel,” Blodwin continued, “along with Father Eustace.  I’m told you’ve met my daughter, Rosamunde.”

“I had the pleasure yesterday,” Hugh responded.

“So you realize that you wed the wrong girl.”

Hugh shook his head.  “No, I didn’t wed the
wrong
girl.  I picked the one I absolutely wanted.”

He unnerved Anne by taking her hand.  It was a tender gesture, a possessive gesture, telling the onlookers—but Blodwin in particular—that he was glad to have her.

With his claiming Anne so openly, Blodwin scoffed.  “Don’t be absurd.  They played a juvenile trick on you.  If I’d been here, I’d have straightened it out immediately.  I request an audience so we may discuss the situation.”

“As you wish,” Hugh said.

He’d uttered the words tossed to Anne when he’d promised to select another bride, so clearly, he was lying through his teeth.

She peeked up at him.  “You have no intention of discussing it with her, do you?”

“No.  You’re mine.  The matter is settled.”

“Lord Hugh!” Blodwin snapped.  “I demand an audience.”

On hearing her strident tone, Hugh stiffened, and Henry came to his feet.  The knights behind them stepped nearer to Hugh, as if expecting an attack.

Blodwin was used to being in charge, was used to bullying everyone and having her own way—just as Lord Hugh was used to it.  She didn’t know that he could be dangerous, that he might strike back without warning.  He wouldn’t be slighted or snubbed, and his men would allow no insult. 

Would she hold her tongue?  Or would she scold him, then be dragged out?

Anne was anxious to diffuse the tension, and she touched Hugh’s arm.

“Let’s not quarrel,” she pleaded.

“Of course we won’t, my dear bride.”  He gazed at her with great affection.  It was calculated, but effective.  The women in the room sighed.

“Blodwin, please,” Anne said, “join us up at our table.”

“Yes,” Hugh concurred, “join us.  Master Cadel, you’ll dine with me and share my trencher.”

Blodwin blanched and glanced at Cadel.  He had paled and appeared to be trembling. 

“I’d rather not, my lord,” Cadel muttered.

“I insist,” Hugh sharply retorted.

The family hesitated, then approached the dais.  Servants hurried about, pulling out benches, arranging space for them.  Blodwin, Father Eustace, and Rosamunde sat on the other side of Henry.  Cadel sat next to Hugh.

Hugh grabbed the trencher he would have shared with Anne, the one he wouldn’t let her nibble on, and pushed it to Cadel.

“Have a bite, Master Cadel,” Hugh said.

Cadel stared and stared, his cheeks aflame.  “Ah…Lord Hugh, I believe this soup has grown very cold.  I would hate to have you try a dish that’s not our cook’s best effort.”  He handed it to a servant.  “Perhaps you could bring Lord Hugh another,” he suggested.

The boy ran off, as Hugh leaned across Anne and glared down the table at Blodwin.  “I have decided that I will take
all
my meals with Cadel.  He will sample all my food for me.”

“What are you implying?” Blodwin had the nerve to inquire.

“There may be people in the castle who wish me ill.  I wouldn’t want anything to happen to me, and if there is a misguided soul out there—one who might attempt to
poison
me for example—I’m sure they wouldn’t care to have Master Cadel suffer any injury in the process.”