“That is only idle gossip. No one pays attention to such talk. And it will be far better if you simply accept that you have no choice and try to make the best of it. What else can you do?”
“What else can I do?” Evangeline’s voice rose in near-hysterical tones. “Accept that I have no choice?” Sobs choked off further speech as she kept her back to Muriel. Muriel would think she was selfish not to do as the king asked, and Muriel would stop loving her if she thought she was selfish. But it hurt so much to think of losing any chance of contentment and throwing herself away on Lord Shiveley.
“I shall leave you alone for a while.” Muriel turned and her footsteps receded to the door. Then she seemed to hesitate and said, “I am truly sorry, Evangeline. But God will sustain you.” The door clicked open, then shut again.
If she were like other women, she would let the king use her as a gift, a favor, a pawn. But she would do something no other noble ladies that she knew of ever did. She would refuse to marry Lord Shiveley. If necessary, she would run away, take on another identity, lose herself in the English countryside. She had imagined it many times, had thought long and hard about the different ways she might escape.
All her life Evangeline had lived in various royal residences—mostly at Berkhamsted Castle—wherever the king sent her to live. The king was so afraid she might be kidnapped and held for ransom he had ordered her to stay inside the walls, only allowed to venture out occasionally when she had guards nearby. Most people in England probably did not even know the Duke of Clarence had a second child or that her name was Evangeline.
When the king visited, he and other special guests would accompany her on a hunt in the adjacent deer park or a walk around the gardens. She obeyed, accepting that she was not the master of her own fate. Evangeline had rarely done anything courageous or unexpected.
Tonight was a good time for a change, to see if she was brave enough to carry out her fantasy of running away.
Westley le Wyse thanked the servant girl for the water.
Above him in the castle window, a young red-haired woman was staring down at him. Was she the one who had been singing just moments before? He had been listening, rapt and still, to that voice, the one singing a rustic ballad with such refinement and grace, until it suddenly went silent. As soon as their eyes met, she disappeared from the window, almost as if someone had snatched her back.
He only glimpsed her, but he got the impression she was not a servant by her clothing and hair, and that she was quite lovely. The rumor was that the king had a ward living at Berkhamsted Castle, a young woman with an ethereally beautiful voice. Some said she was the illegitimate daughter of the king’s dead uncle, Lionel of Antwerp, which meant she was the granddaughter of King Edward. But she might be only a myth. Legends often were created from some tidbit of gossip.
“Did you hear the news?”
He shifted around to face the servant girl who lingered in the bailey with her bucket of water.
“King Richard is coming to Berkhamsted Castle tonight.”
That would be a sight. Even Westley’s father had never seen the king.
“We are all busy with preparations for the king and his retinue. What provisions did you and your men bring for us?” The girl was standing on tiptoe, trying to see over his shoulder.
“Wheat flour, oats, malt, and some large cheeses.”
It had been a good year for several crops in Glynval and the surrounding land. Westley had come to Berkhamsted Castle with his father’s servants to sell their excess.
“This is my little sister.” The servant girl indicated the golden-haired child playing behind her. “I have to watch her today since my mother is sick.”
The little girl looked to be about six years old. She was squealing and grunting as she leapt and spun about, trying to catch a bright-yellow butterfly that fluttered just out of her reach.
A horse’s angry neigh drew Westley’s attention to the other end of the bailey.
“Steady,” said a man holding the horse’s bridle. Its neigh grew into a high-pitched screech. The horse leapt straight up, snatching the bridle out of the man’s hands. The horse’s hooves touched the ground and the animal bolted forward. The cart knocked the man to the ground as it jolted past him.
The horse galloped across the bailey—heading straight for the little girl.
“Get out of the way!” Westley pushed the servant aside as he raced toward the little girl, willing her to move out of the path of the horse.
The girl suddenly seemed to hear the noise of the horse’s hooves and the clattering cart barreling toward her. She froze and stared, her mouth open.
Westley ran and grabbed her around her middle with one arm, then dove to the side. He held her above him as his shoulder and back collided with the ground.
Chapter Two
When Muriel left her room, Evangeline wandered back to the window that faced the bailey.
While she watched Alma talk with the handsome young man, a horse broke away from its handler and careened toward Alma’s little sister.
The child saw the horse coming. Why didn’t she run? She seemed frozen.
Evangeline screamed, “Run!”
The young man leapt toward the girl, grabbed her, and pulled her out of the way just in time.
The horse galloped on and crashed the cart into the stone wall around the well. The cart now in pieces, the horse kept going and finally stopped at the opposite wall of the bailey.
Evangeline clutched her chest as air seeped back into her lungs.
The little girl was crying. The young man set her on her feet, and Alma ran to her and hugged her. Was the stranger hurt? He took quite a hard fall as he protected the child in his arms.
He got to his feet as the other men with him rushed to his side. He must have spoken to Alma and the little girl because they turned toward him. How Evangeline wished she could hear what they were saying! She leaned out of the window but couldn’t catch their words. She imagined he asked the kitchen maid if the child was uninjured and imagined her replying, “Yes, only frightened,” as the child’s crying lessened.
The man’s friends brushed him off and clapped him on the back, their eyes wide as they seemed to be congratulating him on his act of bravery.
He gave them all a smile, and her stomach flipped at his gentle expression.
After a few moments, he approached the little girl and squatted to look her in the eye. They seemed to be having a quiet conversation, then the child stepped close enough to put her arms around his neck. The man put his arms around her.
Evangeline’s heart turned to wax and melted into her stomach.
“If only I were a peasant,” she whispered. “I could fall in love with him, someone kind and brave and strong. Though he was poor, if he loved me, I would give him my heart.”
He walked away with his friends, and she sighed.
What hope did she have to enjoy such a love as portrayed in the traveling minstrels’ ballads? She was a king’s granddaughter, even if her birth was illegitimate. She would never be free to go wherever she wanted, to work and play and live in the sunshine. If she ever wanted to be free to marry for love, she had no choice but to run away from Berkhamsted Castle and never return.
After an afternoon of bathing, dressing, being fussed over, and sitting still until her neck ached while a servant prepared her hair in loose curls, Evangeline could feel her self-control slipping. They dressed her in a patterned Flemish cotehardie of pale-green-and-pink flowers with an elaborately embroidered hem. Then they placed a jeweled circlet on her head over a sheer headrail. But every minute, she was thinking of the bag she had begun to fill with necessities—clothing she had taken from the servants’ quarters, money, and a pair of sturdy shoes, also pilfered from the storage closet where the head house servant kept a surplus.
She was getting dressed up for the king and Lord Shiveley when she did not even know exactly when they might arrive. The only thing that mattered was pleasing th
e king and his important guests.
She might as well be that poor horse who had broken away from its owner in the castle bailey earlier. Was he so tired of the bit and bridle that dug into his soft, tender mouth that he could take it no longer? Was he in pain in some other part of his body? Did he want to eat? Sleep? Find his mate? No one knew, no one cared, and the horse had had enough of it.
Evangeline knew just how he felt. But if she bolted, just like that horse, would she also be recaptured? Forced into doing her duty to the king after all?
Muriel burst through the door. “The king is here!” Her voice was brisk and breathless. “He is asking for you, Evangeline, just as I knew he would.”
“He wants me to come to the Great Hall for the evening meal?”
“He wants you to come now to the solar.”
“To sing for Lord Shiveley.” Evangeline’s stomach sank to her toes. She sat staring at the door.
“What are you waiting for? Go, Evangeline.”
“Will you come with me?”
“Of course.”
Evangeline stood. “If you are there as my witness, Lord Shiveley cannot do anything vile.” She grabbed Muriel’s arm. “Promise me you will not leave my side.”
“Very well, I shall try.” A flash of sympathy passed over Muriel’s face, which only made Evangeline’s stomach sink even more.
They made their way through the castle and up the stairs that led to the solar. Evangeline had never noticed before how gray the stones were, gray and hard and cold.
When they reached the room, two guards stood outside the door. The guards opened it, then closed it behind Evangeline and Muriel.
Richard was lounging in the largest chair, leaning back against the cushions. Evangeline and Muriel curtsied, bowing their heads.
“My cousin, little Evangeline! Come here.” Richard held out his hand to her.
Her heart beat fast as she approached her childhood friend. But she hardly recognized him anymore. Richard was the same height as Evangeline. His blond hair was darker, less yellow than she remembered. Having just turned eighteen years old, he had lost his soft, childlike facial features. Already he had dealt with killings and uprisings, not to mention he had been married for two and a half years.
There was a hardness around his eyes and mouth. Richard had seen the fighting during the Peasants’ Uprising three years before, had actually witnessed some of his close advisors murdered. It must have been very hard for him. He was not without feeling. At least, not when he was a boy.
He squeezed her hand, then motioned to her right. “Lord Shiveley wishes to greet you.”
Evangeline barely glanced at Lord Shiveley before sinking into a quick curtsy.
“My dear Evangeline. What a beauty you are, and always have been.”
He bowed over her hand. His wet lips touched her skin and her stomach turned. She tried to pull her hand out of his grasp, but he held on.
The Earl of Shiveley had a head full of black hair streaked with white. His lips were thick and shiny.
“My dear,” King Richard said, “Lord Shiveley and I are eager to hear you sing. Shiveley especially has told everyone in London about your exceptional voice and ability.”
Evangeline glanced at Lord Shiveley and couldn’t help but see the predatory look in his dark, deep-set eyes—something between masculine and animalistic. She shuddered.
“And just in time, here are the musicians.”
Three men entered the room, one carrying a hurdy-gurdy, another a lute, and another a flute.
“What song do you prefer? They can play anything.” Richard was smiling and leaning toward her.
All eyes were on Evangeline. She had sung for the king and his retinue before, but the thought of Lord Shiveley watching her with those squinty black eyes, thinking she was soon to be his bride . . . Her cheeks burned.
Evangeline named a song, and the musicians began to play. She cleared her throat and closed her eyes, willing her voice not to shake, but to be clear, strong, and defiant.
It was a warm day, and the window was open. Evangeline imagined that her voice was carrying straight out that window and into the ears of people who would not only appreciate it, but who did not expect her to be their pawn, plaything, or anything else she did not wish to be.
As she sang several verses, Evangeline kept her eyes focused out the window on the trees well beyond and the sky and clouds above those trees. Singing made her feel free. If she kept her mind on faraway places and people, she couldn’t think of Lord Shiveley, so she continued to sing to the trees and the clouds and the birds, to the invisible masses in her mind, her heart swelling with the notes, soaring into freedom.
When the song ended, tears pricked her eyelids. Her heart seized at the way Richard was staring at her, at the thought of facing Lord Shiveley.
“Sing another, if you please, Evangeline,” King Richard said.
She gave the musicians the title of another song, grateful for the distraction, even though it would only postpone the inevitable.
Could anyone hear her out that window? Inexplicably, in her mind she saw the young man who saved the little girl from the runaway horse. Could he hear the desperation in her voice? Would he be willing to come to her aid and help her escape from the prison that was her life?
But that was foolish. No one could help her. She had to save herself.
When the song was over, she glanced in Lord Shiveley’s direction. He smiled.
King Richard was speaking. “We shall have a short ceremony here tomorrow with my own priest. We will have the banns cried afterward to satisfy the Church, but Lord Shiveley is eager to have the formalities over. I’m sure you cannot mind, since Lord Shiveley is well able to take care of you. His country estate in Yorkshire is even larger than Berkhamsted Castle.”
Blessedly, Evangeline’s mind went numb. She took the time to swallow. He would not even allow her time to accustom herself to the idea or to try to persuade him not to force her to marry Lord Shiveley. What could she possibly say that would change his mind?
“It is sudden, Your Majesty. You had only mentioned this once before.”
Richard’s eyes widened, then his brows lowered. “But you have no reason to object.” He was not asking her; he was telling her.
Instead of replying, she simply lowered her head, a cross between a bow and a nod. She steeled herself against looking at Lord Shiveley. She did not want to see whatever expression he might have at her reluctance to acquiesce to their wedding on the morrow.
“Very good, my dear cousin. Now tell me how you have fared. Are you in good health? Have the servants been treating you as they should?”
“Yes, I have been in very good health, and the servants have been as dutiful and obliging as they have ever been. And you? How has Your Majesty’s health fared?”
“Very well, except for a fever I suffered for a few days. I am quite restored now. Shiveley had some lemons sent to me, and they quite cured me. Lemon juice and honey will cure nearly any ill. I am convinced.”
Yes, Lord Shiveley was quite the perfect friend and ally, no doubt. And now he must be rewarded. He must get whatever wife he wished, even though he was old and disgusting and—
“How is the hunting this time of year?” the king asked.
“I do not know. Your steward often provides us with venison and pheasant, so I believe the hunting is good.”
“Have you still not taken up falconry and hunting stags, my dear?”
“I do not wish to disappoint you, my king.”
Richard laughed. “You always did have a mind of your own. Behind that pretty face, you have the mind of a man—though not a man’s taste for hunting, I see.”
She cast her gaze down at the floor to hide her rebellious eyes in the hopes of looking demure. “I hunt as often as I am allowed to, Your Majesty.”
“Evangeline, if I may ask,” Lord Shiveley said, his voice as smooth and oily as his hair. “What do you enjoy doing, if not hunting? I know yo
u sing beautifully. Do you also play an instrument? Or perhaps you prefer painting or embroidery?”
It was probably regular and polite conversation, but somehow Lord Shiveley sounded as if he were placing her beneath him by naming these strictly feminine pursuits.
“I do not paint.” She disdained telling him that she rather enjoyed embroidery. “I play the lute, and I sing for the servants every Sunday evening.” Shut away here in this stone prison. “When I am fortunate enough, the steward allows me to roam the gardens, where I enjoy identifying plants and small animals and insects. Muriel helps me by drawing the specimens, and we have started compiling them into a book.”
“I see. That is most interesting.”
“But I am planning to start training in sword fighting, archery, and knife throwing.” She could not resist the rebellious declaration, even though she knew she should pretend to be demure.
Lord Shiveley peered at her while stroking his thin black goatee.
Richard suddenly laughed. “She has quite the humorous streak, Shiveley. A bit of rebellion, perhaps, but Evangeline is as sweet as honey. Aren’t you, my dear?” Richard’s lip quirked up in a smirk, but a brittleness shone in his eyes.
Heat rose into Evangeline’s cheeks. Thinking of her half-packed bag in the bottom of her trunk allowed her to smile. “I enjoy music, my lord. And decorative sewing and reading. I am afraid I have no other talents.”
Lord Shiveley lifted his thick lips in what must have been an attempt at a smile. “Your modesty becomes you. And if you wish to learn archery, I am sure that can be arranged.”
How magnanimous of you.
“And His Majesty has graciously agreed to allow you to bring any servants you wish to take, anyone you are attached to, and of course, as your personal companion, Muriel will accompany you.”
They carried on a three-way conversation until Richard began talking with Muriel. He had known her since he was a child and always remembered her name. Most of the other servants would have been struck speechless, and possibly senseless, if the king spoke to them. Muriel was amazingly unintimidated by him. She spoke with the confidence of a duchess, and he seemed to like that.