The Overlord's Bride

Her uncle guffawed. “You, keep quiet? What was all that talk in there, then?” he asked, gesturing at the solar. “God’s wounds, woman, you talked plenty enough when you would have done better to keep silent, as befits a mere woman.”

“If I had kept silent, I could be riding out the gate this very moment instead of getting married today. I meant, Uncle, that I know when to keep quiet, and when to speak.”

“I hope so,” he muttered, “or it could go ill for you, even if he seems to want you now.”

Elizabeth moved closer to him. “What do you mean?”

“He may not have objected to your boldness today, but he might once you are his wife. You should remember that, Elizabeth. Lord Kirkheathe is not a kindhearted man, and there are things you do not know about him.”

She stiffened. “What things?”

Chapter Three

H er uncle’s expression grew more guarded. “Nothing to prevent the marriage, I assure you.”

“Because you want to be allied with him—is that it?” Elizabeth demanded, wondering if it was possible that she had misread Lord Kirkheathe completely. Perhaps she had been so determined not to return to the convent, she had seen in him what she wanted to see rather than the truth. “Is it that even if he is evil incarnate,” she continued, “you would overlook it for the sake of the connection between our families, yet you would generously spare a word of warning to the sacrificial bride?”

“No, no, no!” her uncle protested. “I mean that you have a penchant for annoying people, Elizabeth, and you should not annoy him. You cannot deny that he is not exactly a friendly man. I meant nothing more.”

“Yet there is something,” she insisted. “I can see it in your face.”

“Would you rather go back to the convent?”

She thought of the convent, and the pinched, yet satisfied look that would appear on the Reverend Mother’s face if she returned.

Surely she had not been wrong about the man she was to marry. Even in the convent they heard tales of evil men, and Lord Kirkheathe had hastened to her aid when she had been overcome with relief. If he were a cruel or selfish man, he would not have done that.

Nor had he quarreled about the dowry, although he would have been within his rights to do so.

To be sure, he did not appear to be happy, but had she looked any happier to him?

She knew better than to judge solely by outward appearances, too. She had learned that lesson bitterly and well only a few short months after her arrival at the convent, when she had told the pretty and oh so-agreeable Gertrude of her plan to steal some apples from the nun’s pantry. Gertrude had been quick to commend her, and even urged her on—only to go running to tell the Reverend Mother in a bid to gain the woman’s approval. The fate of her supposed friend had been far less important to Gertrude.

Had there been a sign of Gertrude’s duplicity in her face or expression? Perhaps if Elizabeth had looked harder, or been wiser.

She had looked carefully at Lord Kirkheathe, and she was wiser. “No, Uncle, I do not wish to return to the convent.”

They heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs above, and Lord Kirkheathe appeared, bearing a bundle of dark blue cloth. “A wedding gift,” he said, shoving it into her hands. “I will send a servant to take you to my chamber to change. My lord, come with me.”

Before Elizabeth could respond, he was already moving down the stairs. Without a word to her, her uncle immediately followed him, leaving Elizabeth alone on the stairs.

She fingered the cloth. It was as soft as a rose petal.

A grim, middle-aged maidservant quickly arrived, slightly out of breath. “I am to show you to my lord’s bedchamber.”

Elizabeth nodded, then followed the woman up ward past the solar.

“This is my lord’s bedchamber,” the woman said, opening the heavy wooden door at the top of the tower.

Elizabeth entered the chilly room. A single plain oil lamp on a table near the bed provided some extra illumination, and the scent of sheep’s tallow hung heavy in the air.

“I’ll light the brazier.” The woman moved swiftly to take the bundle from Elizabeth. She set it down on the large, equally plain bed made with plain linens and a worn fur coverlet.

“Thank you…?”

“Rual, my lady. My name is Rual.”

Elizabeth hesitated a moment, then her curiosity compelled her to continue. “Have you been here in the castle a long time?”

“I came here nigh on ten years ago, my lady.”

“Lord Kirkheathe—is he a good master?”

The woman shrugged as she took the lamp toward the brazier near the narrow window and proceeded to light the tinder beneath the coal.

Elizabeth almost wished she hadn’t asked. She also remembered Lady Katherine’s admonition that a chatelaine should never get too friendly with the servants, lest they lose respect. Despite that advice, Elizabeth wanted to know more. “I would not wish to marry a cruel man.”

“Nobody would,” Rual answered as she returned the lamp to its place on the table.

It seemed Lord Kirkheathe’s servants were as reticent as the man himself. “I saw the scar around his neck. Was he injured? Is that what happened to his voice?”

Rual went to the bed and picked up the bundle. “His throat was crushed,” she replied matter-of-factly as she shook out the fabric.

A crushed throat. It sounded horrible, and she was amazed that such a thing had not killed him. But then, he looked to be a very strong and otherwise healthy man. “When did it happen?”

“Before I came, my lady.”

“And how…ooooh!” Elizabeth breathed as the bundle proved to be a gown of indigo velvet, the round neck and long cuffs richly embroidered with gold and silver thread.

It was the most beautiful gown she had ever seen. “He has excellent taste.”

The maidservant didn’t respond as she carefully laid it on the bed.

Did Rual think his taste had failed him in the choice of wife, or that Elizabeth was expecting a compliment? At that thought, Elizabeth very nearly laughed aloud. The day she expected a compliment would be a day of miracles.

But then, she thought as she glanced at the gown upon the bed, perhaps today was indeed such a day.

Rual cleared her throat. “I believe we should not tarry, my lady.”

“No, of course not,” Elizabeth replied. Especially since I was the one urging haste.

She took off her cloak and gave the wet garment to Rual, who laid it over a chair that was as plain as the ones in the solar. Elizabeth removed the scarf and wimple she detested and rubbed her scalp for a moment before running her fingers through her hair to untangle it. Then she took off the plain gown of gray wool, the sort of garment she had been wearing ever since her arrival at the convent. Fortunately, her linen shift was dry enough.

Despite the need to hurry, she approached the gown slowly, reverently, suddenly afraid to touch it, it seemed so rich and fine—too rich and too fine for her. “Here, my lady, I’ll help you,” Rual said, holding it up.

Elizabeth stood still as Rual put it over her head and gently tugged it into place. She glanced down, to see the bodice gaping.

“It’s a little large,” Rual noted, “but I’ll pull the laces nice and tight—”