By His Majesty's Grace. Jennifer Blake
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of the bread slabs and ladle onto these a savory concoction of sweetmeats flavored with spices, chopped vegetables and cubed bread soaked in broth.
Isabel put out her hand toward the wine goblet that sat between her place and that of her future husband, but immediately drew it back. Sharing a place with one of her younger sisters, as she usually did, it was her right as eldest to drink first or offer the wine, as she chose. Now that she shared Braesford’s table setting, this was his privilege.
He noticed her movement, as he seemed to notice most things. With a brief, not ungraceful gesture of one hand, he made her free of the goblet. She took it up, sipped gingerly.
The wine was new, raw and barely watered, so went down with difficulty past the tightness in her throat. That first taste was enough to let her know she could not face food. The smell of it, along with wood smoke, hot oil from the lamps and warm male bodies in stale linen, brought back her earlier illness. It would be enough, she hoped, to merely pretend to eat. The last thing she wanted was to appear to spurn Braesford’s hospitality. Meanwhile, manners and common sense dictated that she converse with her future husband, to establish some semblance of rapport that might yet serve her in avoiding intimacy this night.
She could think of nothing to say. Soon enough the feasting would be over, and what then? What then?
“My lady?”
Braesford was offering her a succulent piece of roast pork, taken from the large, golden-brown trencher set on a silver salver between them. She glanced at it on the razor-sharp tip of his knife, met his dark eyes an instant, then looked away again. “I…couldn’t. I thank you, sir, but no.”
“A little crust, then, to go with the wine.” Taking the meat from the knifepoint himself with a flash of white teeth, he carved off a piece of their trencher and held it out to her.
She took the bread, nibbled at it and sipped more wine. Even as she lifted the goblet to her lips, however, she realized she was monopolizing it when it must be shared between them. Wiping the rim hurriedly with the edge of the tablecloth draped over her lap for that purpose, she pushed the goblet toward him.
“Your finger pains you,” he said, his gaze on what she was doing. “I’m sorry. There is a woman in the village, as I told you before, a healer who can make an infusion of willow bark, which might be useful. I’ll send for her at once.”
“Please don’t concern yourself.” She lowered her lashes. “A night of rest will be sufficient, I’m sure.”
“Will it, now? And I imagine two nights, or even three or four, would be better.”
“Indeed, yes,” she began eagerly, but halted as she looked up to catch the silver shading of irony in his eyes, the tightening at the corner of his firmly molded mouth.
“Indeed,” he repeated, putting out his hand for the wine goblet, rotating it in a slow turn and drinking from where she had sipped. “Did you never notice that the things you dread are seldom as bad as feared once they are behind you?”
“No,” she said with precision.
“It’s so, I promise. No doubt the reflection will prove a solace in the morning.”
He reached to take her good wrist, removing the bread slice she had been toying with and dropping a light kiss on her knuckles before popping the crust into his mouth. She sat quite still, feeling the warm, tingling imprint of his lips on her hand, shivering a little as it vibrated through her, watching in peculiar wonder the movement of his jaw muscle as he chewed and swallowed.
“God’s blood, Braesford,” Graydon called from his place near the dais with Viscount Henley next to him. “’Tis a habit you caught in France, I don’t doubt, kissing a lady’s hand. An Englishman can think of more interesting places to put his mouth to work.”
Henley, being somewhat less coarse than her stepbrother, coughed and ducked his head rather than joining in the scattered guffaws. His face turned scarlet, regardless, in reaction to the lewd suggestion.
“But not, I think, at table,” Braesford answered Graydon, before his tone hardened and he speared Henley and the rest of the company with a look, “and not while thinking of my lady.”
Quiet descended, free even of the thump of ale beakers hitting the trestles. In it, the nervous uncertainty in Graydon’s snort was plainly heard. Isabel felt suddenly sorry for her stepbrother, reprimanded twice by Braesford in the space of an hour. Though she had endured countless variations on his lewd wedding humor during the past days, had longed fervently for someone to shut his mouth for him, she could not enjoy his discomfiture.
“Aye, no disrespect intended,” Graydon muttered. Henley rumbled a similar answer, as did half a dozen others along the boards.
Braesford drank a mouthful of wine and set down the goblet. “I trust not. Her honor is mine now, therefore must be protected by my sword.”
“Oh, aye, as it should be,” her stepbrother agreed. “Pious Henry would have it no other way, seeing as he gave her to you.”
“And I value his gifts above diamonds, plan always to hold them firmly in my grasp.”
Her future husband turned his head to meet her gaze as he spoke. What Isabel saw there made her draw a sharp breath. Then she reached for the wine goblet he still held, taking it from him in her two hands before draining it to the dregs.
The meal continued with all manner of dishes, requiring three removes of the cloths covering the tables as they became too soiled for use. Beyond the usual pottages flavored with spices, they were served meat pies, vegetables dressed with vinegar and simmered in sauces, oysters served in various ways, great platters of roast piglet, snipe, lark tongues and even a swan roasted, then clad again in its feathers. The master of Braesford had gone to great lengths to gather such victuals for his bride and honored guests, but Isabel refused to be impressed, just as she ignored the trio of musicians who played from the gallery above her, the dancers who twirled around the tables, the jugglers and mimes who made the men laugh. She was used to such things at court for one thing, but also knew well that ample feasting and merriment often had more to do with status than the appeasement of anyone’s hunger or the need to be entertained.
It was some time later that the melodious salute of a trumpet sounded above the clatter and merriment. The signal indicated someone of importance approaching Braesford’s outer gate.
The tune played by lute and harp trailed into silence. Voices stilled. Everyone turned toward the entrance doors. The commander of Braesford’s men-at-arms rose from a nearby table. He nodded at a half-dozen men and left the hall in their company.
“You are expecting visitors?” Isabel asked in quiet tones as she leaned toward her future husband.
“By no means, but don’t be distressed. It can be nothing of import.”
He suspected a neighboring landowner and his men on local business, mayhap, or else a latecomer to the feast. Still, she knew as well as he did that it could also be a command to join the king’s army, to ride out to control some uprising or defend a border. Only a mounted troop or king’s herald would have triggered the trumpet salute of warning.
They had not long to wait. The clatter of hooves on the stones of the inner court and the jingling of tack came faintly to where they sat. Booted feet sounded upon the tower stairs. Serving men threw open the doors, allowing a cadre of soldiers under the king’s red-dragon banner to march inside. They tramped down the open area between the trestles until they reached the high table. The order to halt rang out and their commanding officer stepped forward, saluting with a mailed arm and gloved fist.
Braesford came to his feet with a frown between his dark brows. “Welcome, William, as always, though I thought you settled at Westminster. What brings you this far north?”
“The order of the king.” The man addressed as William pulled a paper from the pouch at his side and passed it across the width of the high table to Braesford.
Isabel recognized the newcomer as