Wicked (33 page)

Sofia looked at her friend and could see the joy in her face. Edith knew she was cherished by the man she was to marry.

For just one moment Sofia felt a pang of envy and emptiness, too, for something she would never know, then she smiled for Edith. “I am so pleased for you. Truly. Have you and Lord Robert had a chance to be alone together since he has returned?”

“Aye.” Edith would not look at her. “Almost every day.”

“Did he finally kiss you?”

She nodded and smiled a huge smile, one Sofia recognized. Oh, he had kissed her. Edith wore the look of a woman who was well-loved and well-kissed.

“Why, Edith. You love him!”

“Of course I love him. He is to be my husband.”

“Oh, not duty love. I mean you truly love him.”

“He is a good man, Sofie. We will wed before Lent.”

“But that is so long away. How can you stand to wait?”

Edith smiled. “I can wait.”

“Aye, I suppose. You have patience.”

“I have a man who shows me his heart.”

Sofia realized that Edith was right. If you had no doubt you were loved and adored, it would not matter as much if you were apart.

How simple a thing that was. Knowing you were loved. Was it all so easily done? Was that how love bound you together?

She would never know, for Tobin did not love her. All they had between them was a passionate and elusive thing that neither of them could control, but one that seemed to catch fire and burn even hotter whenever they were together.

But that was not love. That was desire. That was want. That was need. But it was not love.

“You shall meet him, today,” Edith was saying to her. “Lord Robert is here.”

“I should like to meet him.” Sofia stood there, awkwardly, feeling alone because she could not talk to Edith about Tobin. She could not bear to tell her what was so painful to her—that she loved Tobin de Clare but he did not love her back.

“I think all of England is here for your wedding! Have you seen the crowd?”

“Crowd?” Sofia shook her head. “We just arrived last eve.” She frowned. “There is a crowd?”

Edith nodded.

How many were here for the wedding? She had not thought of throngs of people watching her wed Tobin de Clare. Her belly tightened and she turned suddenly quiet at the prospect of her wedding.

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 himself 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.”