The Velvet Promise (5 page)

Gavin's fatigue was catching up with him. He slipped off his braies—a tight garment of hose and underpants—and his boots, then slipped into the water. It stung his recently blistered and cut body. A young servant girl appeared out of the shadows and began to wash Gavin's back.

"Where is Miles?" Raine said between mouthfuls.

"I sent him to Revedoune's. He reminded me that the engagement was to take place today. He went as my proxy." Gavin leaned forward, letting the girl wash him. He did not look at his brother.

Raine nearly choked on a piece of pork. "You what!"

Gavin looked up in surprise. "I said I sent Miles as my proxy for the engagement to the Revedoune heiress."

"Good God, haven't you any sense at all? You can't send someone else as if you were purchasing a prize mare. She's a woman!"

Gavin stared at his brother. The firelight showed the deep hollow in Gavin's cheek as his jaw muscles began to flex. "I am well aware that she is a woman. If she weren't, I wouldn't be forced to marry her."

"Forced!" Raine leaned back against the chair, incredulous. It was true that while Gavin's three younger brothers were traveling freely about the country, visiting castles and manors in France and even the Holy Land, Gavin had been chained to a ledger. He was twenty-seven and in eleven years, except for the recent uprising in Scotland, he had hardly left his own home. Gavin did not know that his brothers often made allowances for what they considered his ignorance of women other than the daughters of the lower classes.

"Gavin," Raine began patiently, "Judith Revedoune is a lady—an earl's daughter. She has been taught to expect certain things from you, such as courtesy and respect. You should have gone in person to tell her that you wish to marry her."

Gavin held out his arm as the servant girl ran a soapy cloth over it. The front of her coarse woolen dress was wet, and it clung to her full breasts.

He looked into her eyes and smiled at her, beginning to feel the first risings of desire. He glanced back at Raine. "But I don't want to marry her.

Certainly she cannot be so ignorant to think I'm marrying her for any reason besides her lands."

"You cannot tell her that! You must court her and—"

Gavin rose out of the tub and stood while the girl climbed on a stool and poured warm water over him to rinse him. "She will be
mine, "
he said flatly. "She will do as I tell her to. I have seen enough highborn ladies to know what they are like. They sit in their upstairs solars and sew and gossip while they eat honeyed fruit and grow fat. They are lazy and stupid; they have had everything they ever wanted. I know how to treat those women. I sent to London a week ago and ordered some new tapestries from Flanders—something silly like a nymphet cavorting about a woods so she won't be frightened by scenes of war. I'll hang them in the solar and give her access to all the silk threads and silver needles she can use, and she will be content."

Raine sat quietly and thought of the women he had met in his journeys about the country. Most of them were like Gavin's description, but then there were women of intelligence and fire who were more like companions to their husbands. "What if she wishes to have a hand in the estate affairs?"

Gavin stepped out of the tub and took the soft cotton towel the girl handed him. "She will not interfere in what is mine. She will tend to what I tell her, or she will repent it."

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Sunlight streamed through the open windows, slanting across the rush-covered floor, playing with little dust motes that glittered like specks of gold. It was a perfect spring day, the first of May, the sun shining, the air filled with the sweetness that only spring can bring.

It was a large, open room, half of the entire fourth floor of the half-timbered house. The windows facing south admitted enough light to warm the room. It was a plain room, for Robert Revedoune would not part with money for what he considered frivolous, such as carpets and tapestries.

This morning, though, the room did not look so sparse. Every chair was covered with a splash of color. There were garments everywhere; beautiful, lush, brilliant garments, all new, all part of the dowry of Judith Revedoune. There were silks from Italy, velvets from the Orient, cashmeres from Venice, cottons from Tripoli. Jewels winked everywhere: on shoes, belts, circlets. There were emeralds, pearls, rubies, enamels. And all of it was laid upon a background of fur: sable, ermine, beaver, squirrel, curly black lamb, lynx.

Judith sat alone amid this splendor, so quietly that someone entering the room might not have seen her except that Judith's person outshone any fabric or jewel. Her little feet were encased in soft green leather, lined and bordered with white ermine, spots of black dotting the fur. Her dress fitted her body tightly about the bodice, the long sleeves draping from wrist to past her waist. The waist was snug, revealing its tininess. The square neckline was low; above it, Judith's full breasts showed to advantage. The skirt was a soft bell that swayed gently when she walked.

The cloth was of gold tissue, fragile and heavy, iridescent and shimmering in the sun. Her waist was encircled with a narrow belt of gold leather set with emeralds. On her brow was a thin cord of gold, a large emerald suspended in the middle. A mantle of emerald-green taffeta hugged her shoulders, fully lined with ermine.

On another woman the sheer brilliance of her green and gold gown might have been overwhelming. But Judith was more beautiful than any gown. She was a small woman with curves to make a man gasp. Her auburn hair hung down her back to her waist, ending in heavy curls. Her strong jaw was set and she held her chin high. Even now as she thought of the dreadful events to come, her lips were full and soft. But her eyes were what riveted attention. They were a rich, deep gold that grabbed the sunlight and reflected it off the gold of her gown.

She turned her head slightly and looked outside at the beautiful day. At any other time she would have been pleased by the weather, wanting to ride across the fields of fragrant flowers. But today she sat very still, careful not to move and crease the gown. It was not the dress that kept her so still, but the heaviness of her thoughts. For today was her wedding day

—a day she had long dreaded. This day would end her freedom and all happiness as she knew it.

Suddenly the door burst open and her two maids entered the large room. Their faces were pink from just having raced back from the church where they had gone to get an early look at the groom.

"Oh, my lady," Maud said. "He is so handsome! He is tall with dark hair, dark eyes and shoulders… !" She held her arms out to their fullest extent. She sighed dramatically. "I don't see how he managed the doorways. He must turn to the side." Her eyes danced as she watched her mistress. She did not like to see Judith so unhappy.

"And he walks like this," Joan said as she threw back her shoulders until the blades nearly touched and took several long, firm strides across the room.

"Yes," Maud said. "He is a proud one. As proud as all those Montgomery men. They act as if they own the world."

"I wish they did," Joan giggled, then rolled her eyes at Maud, who tried hard not to laugh with her.

But Maud was more interested in her mistress, and for all their teasing, Judith had not given even a hint of a smile. Maud held her hand, signaling Joan to be silent. "My lady," she said quietly, "is there anything you wish?

There is time before you leave for the church. Perhaps—"

Judith shook her head. "I am past help now. Is my mother well?"

"Yes, she is resting before she must ride to the church. It is a long distance and her arm—" Maud stopped, sensitive to her mistress's look of pain. Judith blamed herself for Helen's broken arm. Her own conscience was enough without Maud's clumsy reminders. Maud could have kicked herself. "You are ready, then?" she asked gently.

"My body is ready. It's just my thoughts that need more time. Would you and Joan see to my mother?"

"But my lady—"

"No," Judith interrupted. "I would like to be alone. It may be my last moment of privacy for some time. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?"

She looked back toward the window.

Joan started to reply to her melancholy mistress's words, but Maud stopped her. Joan could not understand Judith. She was rich, this was her wedding day and, best of all, her husband was a young and handsome knight. Why was she not happy? Joan shrugged her shoulders in dismissal as Maud pushed her through the doorway.

For weeks the preparations for Judith's wedding had been taking place.

It was to be a sumptuous and elaborate affair, and would cost her father a year's rents. She had kept the books for every purchase, noting the thousands of ells of cloth to be used for the massive canopies to shelter the guests, totaling the food to be served; a thousand pigs, three hundred calves, a hundred oxen, four thousand venison pasties, three hundred tuns of ale. On and on the lists went.

And all for something she desperately did not want.

Most girls were reared to think of marriage as part of their future, but not Judith. From the day of her birth, Judith had been treated differently.

Her mother had been worn out from miscarriages and years spent with a husband who beat her at every opportunity when finally her daughter was born. Helen looked at the tiny bit of red-haired life and lost her heart to it.

Whereas she never fought her husband, for this child she would risk hell.

She wanted two things for her little Judith: protection for her against a brutal and violent father, and guaranteed protection from all such men for all Judith's life.

For the first time in her many years of marriage, Helen stood up to the husband she feared so much. She demanded of him that her daughter be given to the church. Robert couldn't have cared less what was done with the girl or her mother. What did a daughter matter to him? He had his sons from his first wife, and all this groveling, mewling creature could produce were dead babies and one worthless daughter. He laughed and agreed to allow the girl to go to the nuns when she was of age. But to show that sniveling creature who was his wife what he thought of her demands, he tossed her down the stone stairs. Helen still limped from where her leg had been broken in two places from that fall, but it had all been worth it.

She kept her daughter to her in complete privacy. There were times when Helen might not have remembered she was married. She liked to think of herself as a widow, living alone with her lovely daughter.

They were happy years. She trained her daughter for the demanding career of a nun.

And now it was all to be thrown away. Judith was to become a wife: a woman who had no power other than what was given to her by her husband and ruler. Judith knew nothing about being a wife. She sewed poorly and knit not at all. She did not know how to sit quietly for hours, allowing her servants to work for her. But worst of all, Judith did not even know the meaning of subservience. A wife must keep her eyes lowered to her husband, must take his advice in all things; but Judith had been taught that she would one day be a prioress, the only woman considered to be an equal by men. Judith had looked at her father and brothers with level eyes, never flinching even when her father raised his fist at her, and for some reason this seemed to amuse Robert. She had a pride that was uncommon in women—or even in most men, for that matter. She walked with her shoulders back, her spine straight.

No man would tolerate her quiet, even voice which discussed the relationship of the king to the French or talked of her own radical views as to the treatment of the serfs. Women were supposed to talk of jewels and adornments. Judith was often content to let her maids choose her clothing; but let two bushels of lentils be missing from the storehouses, and Judith's wrath was formidable.

Helen had gone to great pains to keep her daughter hidden from the outside world. She was afraid that some man might see her and want her and Robert would agree to the match. Then her daughter would be taken from her. Judith should have entered the convent when she was twelve, but Helen could not bear to part with her. Year after year she'd selfishly kept her daughter near her, only to have all the time and training come to nothing.

Judith had had months to prepare herself for marriage with a stranger.

She had not seen him, nor did she care to. She knew she'd see enough of him in the future. She had known no men besides her father and brothers and therefore anticipated a life spent with a man who hated women, who beat them, who was uneducated and unable to learn anything except how to use his strength. Always she'd planned to escape such an existence, now she knew it was not to be. In ten years' time would she be like her mother: shaking, eyes shifting from side to side, always afraid?

Judith stood, the heavy gold gown falling to the floor, rustling prettily.

She would not! Never would she show her fear to him; no matter what she felt, she would hold her head high and look him straight in the eye.

For a moment, she felt her shoulders droop. She was frightened of this stranger who was to be her lord and master. Her maids laughed and talked of their lovers with joy. Could the marriage of a nobleman be like that? Was a man capable of love and tenderness, just as a woman was?