Bound to the Warrior. Barbara PhinneyЧитать онлайн книгу.
were alone and the masks fell away?
Nay! A carefully hooded evil was still evil. Ediva yanked back her arm and marched out as quickly as she could for her body still ached from the horrid ride into London. And with no deference to the king who’d ordered this marriage.
Expecting to be hauled back for her insolence, Ediva found herself stomping from the Great Hall to the sound of William’s hearty and satisfied laughter. He cared naught of her impudence. He had her lands.
She skidded to a stop when she spied a military chaplain holding a small prayer book. The nearby soldiers kept one hand on their weapons. She muffled a sarcastic snicker. Were they so afraid of one small woman that they needed weapons? She could scarcely lift a sword, let alone stab it into one of them. She was hardly a danger to them.
But then it hit her, fully, with the force of a terrible storm.
Her freedom was gone. She was facing another marriage, this time to a man as obscure to her as the sun on this late winter’s day.
Another example of how God had turned his back on her.
Chapter Two
“Are these guards necessary, Poitiers?” Adrien snapped at the chaplain as his squire returned his sword. He saw no need for soldiers.
“My men brought your betrothed down here. They needed to drag her here with great force.”
Adrien couldn’t help but laugh. “Obviously your men require more exercise if two are needed for such a weak task. Have them report to me, and I will train them properly.”
Behind them, Eudo snickered. The red-faced Poitiers growled, “I’ll handle my men. You’ll soon have your hands full with this Saxon wench. She’s lived a strong life in some castle in Essex not far from your brother’s holdings. Farm stock, no doubt. She’s no timid maid.”
Eudo slapped his brother’s back, his grin merry as he strolled past. “William wants me to build a keep in Colchester with the rubble left from some pagan temple. I won’t be far. You’ll be able to come next winter, Prado,” he said, using that annoying childhood name. “Mayhap we can celebrate Christmas together, with wives heavy with child?”
’Twould do no good for Adrien to rise to his brother’s goad, for the man had no wife yet and was simply mocking him. Adrien took his newly betrothed’s arm again.
She yanked herself free. “I can walk of my own accord, sir,” she answered in French.
Irritated by his brother, his king and this woman who apparently knew his mother tongue, Adrien swept his arm sarcastically toward the chapel. “As you wish, my lady. Let us get this unpleasantness over.”
She pulled up her wimple and followed the chaplain down the corridor. Adrien watched her take her leave, her soft sashay not enough to disguise a slight limp. Had Poitiers’s men caused that? His jaw tightened. For better or for worse, this woman would be his wife and was therefore under his protection.
At least she was pleasing to the eye. And he was more than a little surprised by her ability to speak French, albeit with a sharp, Saxon accent that seemed in contrast to the smooth, gentle features. But her accent was nowhere near as sharp as her obvious displeasure over their match.
Give me strong babes that look like you.
William’s words echoed in his head. But he doubted that this woman, Ediva Dunmow, would open her bedchamber to him, and Adrien refused to bend his pride and insist. He watched the woman walk stiffly behind the chaplain as if she was walking to her death.
To her death? Insult bristled through him. And despite the interest in her beauty, he had no desire to marry any more than she did. She needn’t act as if all the disadvantage lay on her side. But ’twas far better to obey than to incur the king’s wrath. So he hastened his own steps toward the chapel.
This would preserve her lands, at least. ’Twould be hard enough for England to accept a Norman king, but if this woman remained on her land, married and settled, there may be some measure of peace for her people. Surely even she would see the logic in that.
He followed Ediva into the chapel, all the time aware of the soldiers at his heels. But wisely, the armed men kept to the back, propping open the heavy oak door and allowing the wind from the river to dilute the potent odor of burning wax. The old chaplain stopped at the front, offering respect to the altar before turning. He cleared his throat as he opened his small leather-bound book.
The ceremony was short and in Latin, and Adrien was again surprised to find Ediva completely fluent in yet another language.
When Poitiers ordered them to seal the nuptials with a kiss, Adrien turned to face his new wife.
His wife! He’d never considered this day, always expecting to live out his lifespan as a bachelor and a soldier. Now he’d pledged to God that he would devote himself solely to this woman, a stranger not even of his own country.
And judging by her regal bearing, this woman was in a class far above his. Poitiers’s insult of farm stock was foolish. She was obviously higher in status. Aye, his family had influence with William, but Adrien was happy being only in the king’s service. Would his wife despise him more for his Norman heritage or for his low upbringing?
Ediva blinked up at him, her arrogance gone and now revealing smoldering, stubborn fear that was, oddly enough, tempered with a slow swallow.
’Twas just a kiss ordered by the king through Poitiers. Yet her pale eyes were awash with tears and her lips clenched so tightly together they must have hurt.
He pulled back his shoulders. He wasn’t in the habit of forcing himself on women.
“Seal this union, Adrien,” Poitiers growled. “It has the king’s license.”
Behind him he heard the chink of half-drawn swords hitting mail. Ediva tilted up her chin and that fine, steel backbone stiffened as if prepared for an accursed death.
He lowered his head and deftly leaned to one side. He would kiss this woman and quite possibly save both their lives. A brief kiss, barely a brushing of lips, a touch light enough to feel the breath of her gasp as she realized what he had also realized.
They were now husband and wife.
* * *
Ediva could no longer control the emotions roiling within her. There was hatred for her situation, yet no revulsion, certainly not like during her marriage to Ganute. When Adrien gave her the barest kiss, she’d shuddered with an expectancy of more.
But no more came and her nerves danced like the traveling acrobats who’d entertained last year.
“’Tis over, madam,” Adrien’s low voice whispered close to her parted lips. “You may open your eyes now.”
Heat scorched her cheeks, and her eyes flew open. “I was expecting more, ’tis all. My first wedding was a more extravagant affair.”
“Alas, we have no fanfare.”
“Not unless you consider the chink of weaponry in case I fussed. Much different than the sound of trumpets.”
Adrien lifted his eyebrows. “Trumpets?”
“A chorus of them from the battlement of Dunmow Keep. My mother wanted my wedding heard a league away. My ears ached for a week, but she was as deaf as a stone and cared little for me. Much like those here in London.”
She stepped back. She hadn’t thought of her mother in years. Like Ganute’s mother, her own mother hadn’t seen the end of that year due to an outbreak of fever. They had been peas of the same pod, and neither cared enough for Ediva to notice that Ganute abused his position of husband. They wanted only that the monies of the two families stay within the county.
Ediva tried to relax. ’Twould do no good to stew upon her selfish mother’s actions or on the memory of her kinder father, who had been the first to succumb to the fever weeks