My Lady's Choice. Lyn Stone
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heap such praise on a man undeserving.
Sara knew Sir Richard would recover. All because of her. He would probably hate her then for arranging this marriage while he lay helpless and had no say in it. But his honor would bind him to her, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter.
He would be obliged to defend Fernstowe against all enemies, especially the fierce Scots who raided time and again. And wedding him would disabuse Lord Aelwyn of the notion that he could take by might what was not his by right.
The whole arrangement made good sense to her, and the king appeared to agree. Hopefully, Sir Richard would be compliant.
Sara brushed absently at the dreary brown gunna she wore over her chemise. She grimaced at the stains it bore, the knight’s blood, the dirt around the hem where she had knelt over him when they had lowered his stretcher to the bailey. She should change before the ceremony. But what did it matter? The king had already seen her so. And in his fog of pain, Sir Richard would never notice or care.
Even did the sight of her register in his fevered brain, her manner of dress would not make much difference. Ugly and ungainly as she was, even the cleanest and richest of clothing could hardly conceal her frightful looks.
Once her new husband grew hale enough for the task, she might have to drug him to consummate their union. The thought stung, but Sara accepted it. She was as she was, and he must deal with her appearance as she had always done.
At least he was tall enough to look her eye to eye, which was more than most men she met could ever do. The scar from brow to chin might put him off as it did many, but there was naught she could do about that.
Sara caressed his sleeping face with a longing gaze. Oh, to be as perfect as that man, to draw sighs and tender looks from a lover, to be desired as he surely was. To be loved by him as he must have loved that poor, dead wife the king had mentioned.
’Twas not a fate she could ever look forward to, Sara thought wryly. But for a tower of a woman with a damaged face and no hopes in that direction, she had done right well for herself. The king had seemed pleased to grant her this man. And she had earned him. If not for her care, Richard of Strode would now be dead.
She dismissed the childish wish for a love match and rummaged in her herb basket for the extract that might revive Sir Richard enough to agree to the vows.
“Do it and have done!” the king whispered angrily to the priest.
The holy man, called Father Clement, argued. “But Sir Richard has no wish to wed, sire. I beg you wait until he can tell you this himself. He holds constant to the memory of that perfect Lady Evaline, has done for some three long years now! Why, in his confession—”
“Do not dare repeat a word you hold in holy confidence! Not even to me!” King Edward appeared ready to do bodily harm to the cleric.
Sara held her breath.
“Never, sire! But Sir Richard—”
The king drew himself up to full height, which was considerable, rested his fists on his hips and glared. “—will wed this woman! Marry them now or get you from my sight! Permanently!”
The portly cleric jerked open his prayer book and quickly shuffled to the side of the bed. The king grasped Sara by one arm and dragged her to stand betwixt him and the priest.
So there they stood, three in a row, so close they were touching, as they peered down at the knight, who shifted beneath his sheets and groaned with pain.
Sara reached out and took one of the clenched fists in her hands, trying to soothe him. She barely heard the drone of the priest’s voice until he stopped for a response.
The king leaned forward a little and commanded, “Sir Richard, say you aye or nay.”
The knight grunted harshly as though trying to fight his way out of the fog, “I—”
“There. You have an aye, Father. Continue.”
The priest chewed his upper lip, apparently decided not to anger the king by refusing, and rattled on.
He paused for Sara to answer his query and then snapped the book shut. “You are man and wife together.” Another short spate of unintelligible Latin followed. “Amen.”
She and the king responded in unison, “Amen.”
Sara watched King Edward lay a parchment on top of Sir Richard’s body, then place a quill pen in the knight’s hand and guide it to mark. He handed the feather to her and pointed. She quickly signed where he indicated.
When he removed the paraphernalia and stepped away from the bed, Sara bent over and planted a brief kiss of peace on Richard’s lips. “Rest now, husband,” she whispered. “’Tis done, and all will be well.”
King Edward went to the small table near the window and beckoned the two of his retinue whom he had selected to attend the ceremony. They joined him and the priest to sign as witnesses of the marriage.
When the royal party and the priest left to sup in her hall, Sara remained secluded with Richard in the master chamber. He was her husband now. Her place was by his side. Heaven grant he would see the truth of that once he regained his senses.
Richard’s eyes protested when he tried to hold them open, but he finally succeeded long enough to determine that he had survived. For certain, this place was not heaven. Nor was it hell, for he felt frozen.
The soft bed beneath him reminded him of the one he had left in Gloucestershire. The hangings appeared rich, though likely older than he was. He sniffed the strong odor of camphor. His body ached right down to the marrow of his bones and his head seemed certain to split should he move it.
He sensed someone nearby. Someone humming. A woman.
“The king—?” he rasped, unable to complete the query.
A hand brushed over his brow, but he could not see the owner of it for she stood near the head of the bed, out of his line of sight. “Your king lives because of you, sir. He is well, and off to York these four days past.”
“Aah, good,” he said. “My throat…”
“Sore from ranting, no doubt. The fever held you longer even than I feared it would. You should drink all you can manage of this. I know ’tis not tasty, but you must.”
Richard’s eyes closed of their own accord as he accepted the cup she put to his lips. A foul brew she offered for one who sounded so sweet, he thought. Her low, honeyed voice drifted through and soothed his aching head like a balm.
Once she lowered the cup from his mouth, he asked, “Where is John of Brabent, my squire?” By all rights, that young man should be performing this task for him.
“Gone to York with the king, sir. It seems his father would attend there and the lad wished to see him. I did promise him I would see to your care in his stead.”
“Ah, well, then…since no one stayed to cart my body home, I suppose I shall be obliged to live.”
“Aye, you will mend, though you did give us quite a fright for a time.”
“I think I can move my arm,” he mumbled, more to himself than to her. He raised it a little and grunted. “Though it hurts like hell.”
She ran a soft damp cloth over his brow and jaw, cooling him. “It will be fine eventually. I wager you will be up and about in a fortnight. Back to your full strength in twice that time.”
“Thanks be to God,” he growled, “and to you, I should imagine.”
He sensed she leaned near now and wished to see the face of this angel who had tended him. With all his remaining strength, he forced open his eyes again.
Richard had thought her wellborn by the words she had spoken. She had used the Norman French employed by nobles to converse one with another. Her appearance belied that station.
She wore a rough-spun