She watched him go. Too brazen for a thief, too assured for a scullion, the Lady Emeline wondered who, in this castle of grandeur and disdain, dared prance in borrowed clothes, play the fool, and climb from windows. She had seen little of him, and more of his legs than his face, but thought she would recognise him if seen again. The profile had seemed elegant in its shadows beneath the absurd maiden’s bonnet. But then he had turned his head. She had seen the flash of sky blue eyes, but also the pitted crevice of a scar slashing from lower lid to earlobe and dividing the flesh, a rut as deep, it seemed, as that along the winter paths. One blue eye was part drowned in iced milk. A disfigurement that, even from the shadows, marked a face as forever memorable.
“My son,” said the earl, “apologies for his absence. Unavoidably called away. Sadly, since my elder son’s death, the estate claims more of our time than we’d like, and Nicholas – well, Nicholas is Nicholas. I trust he’ll return – eventually.”
There was the very best Trebbiano, the sweeter Malmsey for the ladies, tansy cakes and candied raisins soaked in honey displayed on silver platters. Refreshments were served in the great hall, draughts retreating behind the thick tapestries, the fire blazing on a hearth almost as wide as the road from the forest to the drawbridge. It was a great carmine splendour. It also smoked and smelled of soot.
Baron Wrotham looked down his nose. “Your courtesy is much appreciated, my lord,” he said and did not look as though he meant it.
The earl waved long plump fingers. “You’ll be tired. The journey – the unpleasant weather – the roads were at least passable, I see. Good, good. You’ll be needing to rest, of course. You’ll be shown to your quarters.”
Her ladyship tottered upright and curtsied. Her legs barely held her and she wished indeed to rest. She took her elder daughter’s arm, and, effectively dismissed, they followed the bowing steward from the hall. Avice scuttled behind them. His lordship the baron remained. He had a great deal to say. It was some considerable time before he took to his bed.
But Emeline had very little to say before closing her eyes. The bed was wide and warm and soft but being squashed between her mother and her little sister, she was less comfortable than she had expected. Waiting until she heard her mother’s gentle snores, she then quickly mumbled into Avice’s ear. “I’ve no doubt the wretched Nicholas was sulking in his bedchamber. Scared of meeting me because I know he murdered his brother.”
Avice sniffed, avoiding the sudden movement of elbows. “How does he know you know? And how do you know he knows you know? And if he’s wicked, he won’t care what you know. Wicked people don’t sulk. I sulk. You sulk. He wouldn’t.”
“I don’t sulk.”
“You’re sulking now just because your beastly betrothed isn’t showing the slightest desire even to see what you look like.”
“Go to sleep,” said Emeline.
Chapter Two
It rained again on her wedding day. There was thunder in the west, and its echoes rolled across the battlements.
They helped the bride into her gown. Emeline shivered, goose skinned. Her mother tightened the wide satin stomacher and Avice sat on the window seat, hugging her knees as she watched. Nurse Martha was combing her mistress’s hair and the two dressers, who had been attending the baron’s daughters since they were in netherclothes, shook out the great sweep of the velvet sleeves, brushed down the short train, and nodded with eager approval.
“Oh, mistress, you’re as pretty as one of the good Lord’s own precious angels,” murmured the maid Petronella. “His lordship will be so proud.”
Emeline opened her mouth and her mother pinched her sharply. “One word, Emma – one wrong word and I warn you, I shall tell your husband to thrash you on your wedding night.”
“If he bothers to attend his wedding at all.” Emeline gazed at the wilting stranger in the long silvered glass before her. The gown was more beautiful than any she had ever previously owned; gold embroidered satin and rich saffron velvet trimmed in murrey and laced with golden ribbon.
“Don’t be absurd, Emma,” sniffed her ladyship. “The bride price is agreed, and a shockingly high price it is. But the earl was adamant. Your Papa was quite worn out after the negotiations were complete.”
Martha continued to comb Emeline’s hair, which she would wear loose for the last time. She shook her head, and the russet curls rippled. “You mean he’ll come for the money if not for me? But we were visiting here nigh on six days last month, and he hid the entire time. None of us met him and I’ve still never set eyes on him. He didn’t even come to wish us goodbye. It wasn’t normal. It certainly wasn’t polite. And now this time – the wedding imminent yet no sign of him last evening after we arrived. He didn’t even join us at supper. Does he eat with the scullions in the kitchens? Is he frightened of me? Or merely a clod with the manners of a donkey?”
“You will meet him at the chapel doorway,” said the baroness. “Which is perfectly proper.”
There were a hundred candles smelling of beeswax and sweet perfumed honey. The small altar was draped with silver cloth and the great silver cross, heavily embossed, reflected the candlelight. Outside the wind howled and the narrow arched window, its haloes and suffering saints momentarily sullen, rattled in its leaden frame with no sun to brighten the colours. The priest stood holding his bible, and around him the families had gathered in two small gossiping groups.
Just before the alcoved doorway, a tall man stood alone. He was dressed in black velvet, the doublet laced in gold, his hands clasped behind him, his head uncovered, and his face turned towards the corridor as though waiting for someone.
The baroness escorted her daughter. From the cold passageway Emeline entered the great golden aureole of candlelight, and recognised the man waiting there at once. The deep disfiguring scar which divided the left side of his face seemed more profound in the fluttering light, the long pit drawn black by shadow, but scarlet by candle flame. He did not smile nor did he greet her, but turned as she came beside him, now facing the priest at the chapel entrance, and there, in a cool, quiet voice he took her for his wife, speaking the simple words of contractual intention. Mistress Emeline accepted, answering in whispers as prompted. The small ring was blessed, the castle chaplain nodded, murmuring confirmation in nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, the families and a handful of friends clucked, adding blessings of their own, and the earl announced it high time they gathered in the hall for the feast to begin, or half the dishes would be cold as the stone.
The great hall was well warmed and well lit, the minstrels’ gallery was filled with music and joviality, the tables were heaving with steaming platters and the twenty or so guests were already wellnigh cupshotten. Nicholas was drinking heavily. Emeline sat to her husband’s right hand beneath the tasselled awning, ate very little, and drank nothing at all until his beringed fingers grasped her cup and filled it from the flagon, saying, his voice soft and lazy, “If you are to face me later, my lady, with anything remotely suggesting pride and composure, you should probably first drink everything on offer. And this being my father’s castle, I promise the wine on offer is both palatable and plentiful.” And then he refilled his own cup, drained it, and again looked away to talk to others.