Wicked (26 page)

She wondered what he was thinking, what he would say.

He looked away for a long time and there was nothing but angry and taut silence between them.

When he turned back to her his expression was no longer controlled. “God’s eyes, Sofia!” He slammed his fist down on the chair arm.

She jumped.

“I should lock you up in the tower and swallow the bloody key!”

She said nothing.

“You are my ward. You are betrothed to a powerful family. You are most fortunate that the de Clares have not used this act of stupid defiance to break the betrothal.”

“I am most fortunate or you are most fortunate, sire?”

“Ah . . . you speak, with your usual bitterness, I see. Apparently seeing men and women cut to shreds has done nothing to curb your defiance.”

She looked down, then, staring at her clasped hands and trying not to shake.

“You seem to believe that your bond to the de Clares is not to your fortune.” He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “I had not thought you were stupid, cousin. Foolish, but not stupid. We have no need to bind you to them. Do you truly not see? I already have Gilbert de Clare. He is my vassal and he will not break his vows to me. His son is young and strong. You should be praying to heaven that you are not wed to someone like Alfred de Bain.”

She flinched at that name.

Edward paused, then said, “I see your skin pale at that suggestion. It should, for we both know what kind of man he is. Did you not know that he wants you? He made a most generous offer for you when you were but three and ten. I dismissed it, even though he continued to make offers. He has buried another wife since then, I believe.”

She could feel her lips thin. Her hands were still clenched at her sides.

“But that matters not. However this does. Hear me, well, Sofia. I swear to you now, that should you do something to destroy your betrothal with de Clare, I will give you to de Bain, and then I will turn my back and let him do with you as he wishes.”

Sofia stood there, fighting to keep from showing him that she cared, but she knew she could not hide from that threat. It was terrifying.

“Do you have any understanding of what you have done?”

“Aye.”

“I want to hear you tell me what you did. I want to hear it from your lips. I want to know what in the name of God you were thinking.”

She stood straighter then. “I ran away. Alone.”

“We are aware of that.”

“As I am aware, sire, that I am a female. Females have no freedom. We have no choice. Men make the choices for us. So I chose to live as a man. I chose freedom, and even if it had only been for a day, for an hour, ’twas my freedom. If you lock me up and swallow the key, even if you throw the key into the Thames, at least I shall always know that, for a fortnight, I had no man who controlled me.” She poked her finger into her chest. “
I
controlled my life for those days. And no one else.”

“And from what I hear you almost got yourself killed.”

“I was not with them.”

“I swear to you, cousin, this is the last time you shall have an opportunity for such folly.” He stood. “The
very
last time.” He clasped his hands behind his back and he stood with his long legs slightly apart, staring at her, waiting or watching, she did not know which.

She refused to ask what he would do. She just stood there as he was, staring and waiting.

He shook his head finally and said, “You will go to the convent of Grace Dieu, in Leicestershire. There you will spend your days praying for humility, meekness, obedience, and sense. And you will stay there until de Clare returns.”

“Returns? Where is he going?”

“He has already gone.”

Sofia felt something inside of her die, just wither away as she stood there. He was gone. Gone again.

“He has duties elsewhere,” Edward continued. “You will stay at Grace Dieu until he returns to wed you.”

He had left her. He did not even say farewell. Nothing. She was feeling as confused and as hurt as she had before she escaped.

“I sincerely hope that you have learned a vital lesson from your scampering all over the countryside.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Sofia said.

“Then tell me. I want to hear the words from your mouth.”

Sofia took a deep breath, then exhaled and cocked her head when she looked back at him. “I have learned that freedom is truly a wonderful thing.”

BOOK TWO

Sofia closed Eleanor’s journal and stared down at it for the longest time, resting her hand on the heavy silver cover. The entries and her memories were fresher and clearer than she’d have ever thought they could be, when so much time had passed.

And people said time made you forget. She did not forget, even though that part of her past seemed now like another lifetime ago. She laughed to herself. Perhaps it was.

Now, when so many years had passed, she no longer had Eleanor, the mother she had but never truly realized until she was much older and much wiser. Sofia missed Eleanor terribly. It had been too many years since the Queen had died. The country had mourned, but no one had mourned her more than Edward. The King brought her body through the countryside, marking the path of her majestic funeral with white crosses, symbols of his love and respect for his wife and queen. The crosses were still there and whenever Sofia saw one, she remembered and she cried.

She glanced at the clock again. There was time before she had to go belowstairs, before all began and she had no more time to sit up in her room and reminisce like some old woman.

Sofia set Eleanor’s ornate book aside and picked up the other one, the one with the plain wooden covers and the simple leather ties.

Like the other book, these pages had illumination, but not as much, and there was no colored pigment to the ink, just a few scrolling lines that made a square design in black on creamy but thinner parchment pages. Here were the words of the other woman who had so influenced her life, a mother too in her own way, for she taught things Eleanor could not. But Judith was no queen, though there was no doubt in Sofia’s mind she could have been.

Sofia flipped back the cover and began to read.

She came to me on a dismal and rainy day, the young woman who would brighten my life, and bring joy and no little furor to what I had foolishly thought would be my quieter years, for one does not think there would be anything but

peacefulness and passive quiet within the ivy-covered, fieldstone walls of a nunnery in Leicestershire, particularly a convent such as Grace Dieu.

But the sky was black and churning that day, spitting rain angrily down upon the earth, where it pocked the ground and drenched all who traveled, as if the Lord Himself was trying to flood the land clean, as He had once done, in those days long ago when He told Noah to build his ark. I have oft times thought that my Lord God does work in mysterious and amusing ways. Surely He must have a wicked sense of humor to be able to look down upon mankind day after day and not laugh at what we do to ourselves? What other explanation could there possibly be as to why Lady Sofia Howard would come into her exile at Grace Dieu in the middle of the worst storm in two decades?

Nay, God has a sense of humor, and fortunately, so do I.

Chapter 21

Sister Judith skimmed through the newest entries of the convent’s books, where Sister Katherine of Shrewsbury had meticulously entered not only each birth of the keeping cattle and swine but also their ages.

5 boars, i.e.—two ages three years, two ages two, and one, born on the Fifteenth day of April, and now aged one; ten sows, i.e.—nine at three years, and one aged one; ten porcelli lactantes sub matribus (suckling pigs) . . .

Sister Judith looked up from the precisely recorded pages and pinched the bridge of her nose, her fingertip rubbing the puckered skin of an old and ugly scar that cut down the side of her face and neck and even slashed downward over one shoulder.

My eyes are getting old and weak. Must be from too many years in that hot desert sun.

She cast a quick glance up at Sister Katherine, who was standing before the small desk, her hands clasped in front of her and her look expectant.

Judith dropped her hand to the books, stared at them for a moment, then closed them before she faced the other nun. “Well, sister. Should the bishop need to check the books you so finely documented, there would be no doubt that pork is the chief food consumed at Grace Dieu—youthful pork, middle-aged pork, and/or elderly pork.”

“Aye, sister,” Katherine said with vast pride and absolutely no awareness of Judith’s cynicism. ’Twas like a wind went whistling right past Katherine’s ear. Her kind and innocent mind never understood the nuances of Judith’s acerbic wit, not that sweet and pious Sister Katherine of Shrewsbury would have understood such had she heard it. She had a purity of spirit, a sweet kind of simpleness and a dedication to God’s work like no other of the fifteen Augustinian nuns who lived at Grace Dieu.

The bell outside the walls of Grace Dieu rang loud and long and frantically. Judith placed her large hands on the table edge and pushed up on her good leg. She leaned down, picked up her crutch and tucked it under one arm. “Come.” She hobbled toward the door. “We must meet this visitor.”

“Are we expecting someone?” Sister Katherine raced after her, for Judith could hobble on her crutch and one good leg faster than any of the other nuns could run.

“Aye. Were I to venture a guess, I’d say that is the King’s escort, with his young cousin, the Lady Sofia Howard, who is to reside here until the King or her betrothed sends for the girl.”

“But, sister, we do not take in highborn children any longer. Not since Sir Thomas Hunt’s young sons set fire to the altar, then buried the reliquary containing our sacred piece of the True Shroud in the vegetable garden.”

From the corner of her eye, Judith saw Sister Katherine churn her arms to keep up, so she slowed her step a tad.

“Beside the turnips, they buried it! Turnips! I still cannot fathom it,” Katherine muttered.

“Aye, ’twas a sacrilege to be sure, but Lady Sofia is no child. No cruel lad. She is seven and ten, betrothed to Gloucester’s eldest son, second cousin to the King, who paid enough gold that we could rebuild seven altars, travel to Jerusalem and purchase the rest of the True Shroud were she to take it into her head to destroy Grace Dieu’s treasures, which I doubt, since she is not a lad of seven or of nine and spoilt silly, as Hunt’s brats were.”

Judith opened the door that led to the courtyard and moved under the cloistered walkway toward the front gates.

Two of the other sisters were already there. Sister Alice of Avon said, “’Tis a royal guard, sister.”

“Aye, I figured that would be them.” Judith balanced on her good leg and pointed her crutch at the iron bar that secured the wooden gates. “Open them, now. Swiftly, sisters, before the poor souls drown out there waiting in this devil of a rain.”

The bolt slid open and a troop of armed men, wearing royal colors of scarlet and gold emblazoned with a
lion passant
, rode into the courtyard of the convent, the horses’ hooves clopping a dull sound on the flooded stones.

Within a few moments all had taken refuge inside and Judith watched the men part as a tall young woman walked from the center of the troop toward where Judith was standing. The girl’s face was partially hidden by the wide hood of her blue cloak, but she walked tall and straight and with the manner of a queen, something Judith could respect and came as a bit of a surprise, since she expected a mealy-mouthed, simpering young girl.

The girl stopped before her and shook her head.

The hood fell away.

Judith gave her credit for that action, especially when the nuns gathered nearby gasped at the sight of the proud young woman who stood before them.

They all stared at pure proof of God’s perfect hand. The girl’s features were breathtakingly lovely—the small but straight nose, the white skin and fine bones, her full mouth, and the shortly cropped hair that was so deep a black it shone like the onyx candle holders that decorated the altar. But it was her magnificent skin that caught Judith’s eye and appreciation, white, white skin that appeared untouched by the harshness of an intense sun.

Even before she had gone to the East, Judith had not the pure creamy skin of this young woman. For the first time in years she felt envy.

She stepped forward. “Lady Sofia. I am Sister Judith of Kempston, prioress of Grace Dieu. We welcome you, and may His Lord bless you and keep you well while you are within our walls.”

“My thanks, sister.” The girl nodded, quickly averting her eyes, but by the time she raised her head up again she had returned immediately to the straight look she had been giving Judith.

No, Judith thought, this was no simpering lass. She adjusted her crutch and raised her free hand, gesturing toward the hallway beyond. “Come. I shall show you to your room.”

“Thank you.”

Judith looked at the King’s men. “Please bring the lady’s belongings.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Judith turned back to the girl with a questioning glance.

“This is all I have brought.” She pointed to a small handled trunk that one of the guards held easily and lightly in his large hands.

“You travel light for a noblewoman, Sofia.”

“I have all I need,” was all she said.

“Then follow me.” Judith walked down the long, dark and cavernous hallway that led to the small cells used by the nuns of Grace Dieu.

Sir Tobin de Clare
rode north toward the Scots border, on one of Edward’s more useless missions. He was to take papers of some kind of agreement between Edward and his sister’s husband, King Alexander of the Scots, to a meeting place near Carlisle.

Tobin was still bent in half about it. ’Twas a puny messenger’s mission, not one for a knight and half of his men-at-arms.