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‘What do his soldiers say of him?’
‘They call him Softsword behind his back because he always runs from a fight. He’s accused of cowardice and despised for employing mercenaries.’
‘Which he pays for by levying fines and increasing taxes at home.’ Laurent had finally finished drinking. ‘My father’s estate is almost in ruins and he’s not the only one. Everyone knows John’s the worst King we’ve ever had, but our families still suffer for his incompetence and corruption. The time’s come to make a stand.’
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t discuss this so openly.’ Matthew threw a pointed look at the gallery. ‘These are dangerous words.’
Roul looked mildly offended. ‘You’ve nothing to be afraid of here. I vouch for everyone under my roof.’
Which would be no help at all if they were accused of treason, Matthew barely stopped himself from replying, though the others looked reassured.
‘It’s incredible to think that John and the Lionheart were brothers.’ Jerrard heaved a sigh. ‘King Richard was a born leader of men, but John’s ineptitude only emboldens our enemies. If we’re not careful, he’ll bring a French invasion down on our heads. We’ve had forty years of peace in England, but these are dangerous times.’
‘Then what is it you want of me?’ Roul gulped his wine with the look of a man fortifying himself for the answer.
‘Nothing for now,’ Matthew answered as Jerrard hesitated. ‘But the barons have had enough. Some are already in open revolt, others are biding their time, but all agree that John’s behaviour needs to be curbed. There’s talk of a charter limiting his powers so that he can’t act as he pleases any more. We’re gathering support, approaching those we think might stand with us if it comes to a confrontation.’
‘What kind of a confrontation?’ Roul looked anxious. ‘You know when I arranged your marriage to my niece I thought I was providing a secure future for her. I never imagined I was marrying her to a rebel.’
‘I’m not a rebel.’ Matthew held the other man’s gaze squarely. ‘I’m a loyal subject of England and the Crown, which is why I don’t want to see John destroy it either. With any luck, he can be made to see reason.’
‘And if he can’t?’
‘If he can’t, then the barons together will decide what to do. All I know is that abuses of power need to be challenged and bad kings held to account if necessary.’
‘I agree, but there are some who might not. Your own father, for example.’
‘My father has no more interest in politics.’
‘But he used to be a close confidant of the King, did he not?’
‘Once.’ Matthew clenched his jaw, holding his temper in check as Jerrard threw him a warning look. He supposed he could hardly blame others for suspecting that he might have divided loyalties, however much the suggestion offended him. In their position, he would probably suspect the same, but then none of them knew the full extent of, nor the reasons behind, his estrangement from his father. ‘Which is why I haven’t told him anything about this and have no intention of doing so. My father and I disagree on a great number of subjects. John is the least of them.’
Roul nodded solemnly. ‘You’re certainly very different in character, no matter how much you look alike, though I confess we haven’t had much communication since his marriage last year.’
‘He’s married again?’ Laurent sounded incredulous. ‘How many stepmothers have you had now, Matthew?’
‘This is the fourth.’ He scowled at the thought. Another poor woman, doubtless little older than his own bride...
‘So what’s that? Five marriages and four wives dead? You’d think they’d be too scared to marry him in case they’re next!’ Laurent started to laugh and then clamped his mouth shut abruptly. ‘Sorry Matthew, I didn’t think. The wine...’
‘Your mother is still greatly missed,’ Roul interceded tactfully, ‘and I’d say that you take after her in character.’
‘I hope so.’ Because he didn’t want to consider the alternative...
‘Because of that, I’ll trust you. If you make a stand against the King, then I’ll support you, too. You have my word and my silence.’ Roul clapped a hand on Matthew’s shoulder, smiling as if the subject were over and dealt with. ‘And now that’s settled, we have pleasanter matters to discuss. My wife is planning a banquet tomorrow to celebrate your reunion with my niece. I think you’ll be pleased. Constance has grown into a fine and accomplished young lady.’
‘I look forward to it,’ Matthew lied, finally accepting a cup and raising it to hide his underwhelmed expression. She could be the finest, most accomplished young lady in the whole of England for all it mattered to him, but marriage vows were marriage vows and it was his duty to keep them.
‘To Lady Constance.’ He raised his cup in what he hoped was an enthusiastic-sounding toast. ‘My wife.’
Chapter Two
Constance sat on the edge of her bed, barefoot in a cotton shift as Isabella ransacked her coffers.
‘You have to make a little effort to dress up for him.’ Her cousin was adamant as ever. ‘What about your red gown? The one with the white beads?’
‘No.’
‘But it suits you.’
‘Absolutely not!’
She shook her head, nibbling on the jagged remnants of her fingernails and averting her eyes from the rich crimson fabric. It was true that red was her best colour, complementing her colouring and making her olive complexion seem to glow, but it made her painfully self-conscious, too. That particular gown had been a birthday gift from her uncle and aunt, but she preferred to blend into the background rather than stand out quite so dramatically and the prospect of seeing her husband was nerve-racking enough. Aside from the fact that she had no desire to dress up for him, as Isabella put it, she didn’t want to see him again at all! The banquet her aunt had arranged was only a few hours away and she had to fight the temptation to dive back under her bedcovers and refuse to come out.
‘Why not the red?’ Isabella was pouting now.
‘Because it’s too bright. My green bliaut and surcoat will suffice.’
‘But they’re so drab! That surcoat looks like a sack on you.’
‘It’s just loose, that’s all.’ The way that she liked it. Tight-fitting gowns only drew attention to her curves...
‘No.’ Isabella put her hands on her own narrow hips emphatically. ‘As your cousin I refuse to allow it. He’s your husband. You want to make a good first impression, don’t you?’
‘Second impression.’
‘Well, the first one was too long ago to count. You admitted you barely spoke to him on your wedding day.’ She smirked. ‘Although now I see why.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that the rest of us met him in the hall this morning when you were still asleep and he was so stern. Emma tried to flirt with him and he gave her such a scathing look! Served her right, but she’s still sulking about it.’
‘Oh.’ Constance blinked, uncertain about what to make of either his or her younger cousin’s behaviour. ‘But why didn’t you wake me this morning?’
‘Because you were tossing and turning for most of the night and Mother said we ought to let you rest. Wait, I know!’ Isabella snapped her fingers. ‘Mother’s blue gown. The one you wore to the Michaelmas feast last year. I’ll ask if you can borrow it again.’
‘No!’ Constance raised her hands in panic, gesturing awkwardly at her chest. ‘It was too tight...here.’
‘I know.’ Isabella giggled. ‘That’s why he’ll like it. Half the men in the hall couldn’t take their eyes off you that day.’
‘It was horrible.’
‘They were like dogs slobbering over a piece of meat. I’d take it as a compliment.’
‘You weren’t the meat.’
‘Well, this is different. Your husband’s allowed to slobber, isn’t he? Besides...’ Isabella tilted her head to one side speculatively ‘...you’ve lost weight since then. You aren’t feeling unwell, are you?’
‘No, just nervous.’ Constance averted her face to hide her expression of guilt. Since the summer, she’d been making a concerted effort to eat less, not that it had made any difference to her hips and breasts. Only her face and arms had ended up looking thinner.
‘It’ll be all right.’ Isabella sat down and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. ‘Father would never have married you to a monster.’
‘I know. And I know he only did what he thought was best, but I just wish he hadn’t married me to anyone.’
‘But he had to, you know that. Lacelby was practically besieged with suitors after your parents died. They would never have left you alone, not until you’d chosen between them, and there was a danger the King might have made you a ward and kept all your inheritance for himself. He’s done it before, Mother says. He puts unmarried women in the Tower, claiming it’s for their own safety, but really to make sure they never marry and have heirs so then all the land becomes his. You’re lucky the Wintours are such a powerful family or it might have happened to you, too. Without your husband’s protection you might have lost all your inheritance.’
‘So I ought to thank him for taking it instead?’
‘No—’ Isabella sounded chastened ‘—I just meant that it could have been worse.’
‘You’re right.’ Constance tipped her head sideways, resting her cheek against her cousin’s shoulder apologetically. ‘I’m sorry I snapped. I know that you’re right, but I still can’t help resenting him for it. He took my inheritance and sent me away from Lacelby as if I were just a child. He never even spoke to me, let alone asked what I wanted. Even if he isn’t a monster, what if I can’t stop resenting him? What if we just make each other miserable for the rest of our lives?’
‘That’s a risk for any marriage. Sometimes I worry about Tristan.’
‘You do?’ Constance lifted her head again in surprise. Isabella had done nothing but enthuse about her betrothed ever since they’d met. ‘But you love Tristan. You said he was perfect.’
‘No, I said that he seemed perfect. That doesn’t mean he is. Anyone can seem perfect.’
Anyone except for her husband, Constance thought bitterly. He hadn’t even seemed pleasant. If only she could have waited a few years to marry, then she might have chosen a husband for herself, one who she might have liked and respected, who wouldn’t have treated her like a child, but allowed her a mind of her own. Then perhaps in time there might have been affection. Fondness. Maybe even love, just like in the songs... She bit down hard on another nail. One glimpse of Matthew Wintour and it was impossible to imagine feeling for him the way Isabella felt for Tristan.
‘We just have to hope for the best.’ Isabella jumped off the bed, dispelling the sombre mood. ‘Now I’m going to fetch Mother’s dress and I don’t want to hear any more arguments. It makes your eyes look turquoise.’ She stopped halfway across the room. ‘Do you know what’s funny? That we’ve shared a room for five years and I’m still not certain what colour your eyes are.’
‘Grey.’
‘Not quite. They change colour depending on the light. Right now, for example, they look green.’
‘So I should wear my green surcoat?’
‘Nice try. I’ll throw it on the fire if so.’
‘All right, you win, I’ll wear the blue,’ Constance smiled, appreciating her cousin’s efforts to cheer her up, however futile. ‘Isabella?’ she called out as an afterthought. ‘You’ll come and visit me at Lacelby, won’t you?’
‘As long as you come to my wedding.’
‘You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back tears as Isabella went off in search of the gown. Of course she wanted to go to her cousin’s wedding, to visit her often as well, but so much depended on their husbands and what they would and would not permit. Tristan seemed smitten enough to allow Isabella anything, but she had no idea about Matthew, the man who’d claimed her inheritance and, with it, all control over her life.
A fresh burst of anger coursed through her, so hot and fierce that she felt positively feverish by the time Isabella came back with the gown draped over her arms. It was undeniably beautiful, the colour of the sky on a warm summer’s evening with a square neckline, tight bodice and long fitted sleeves that flared out at the cuffs, though at that precise moment she felt like hurling it to the ground and stomping all over it.
‘I found a gold belt, too.’ Isabella gestured for her to stand up and then hauled the silk over her head. ‘You’ll look lovely, I promise.’
‘Of course she will.’ Her aunt followed Isabella into the room, giving Constance a swift look of appraisal before starting to tug at the intricate side lacings. Just like her daughters, she was blonde, beautiful and slender, even after five children. ‘Your parents would have been proud of you.’
‘Do you really think so, Aunt?’ The words brought a lump to Constance’s throat.
‘I know so. You’re a virtuous young lady and a credit to your family. What more could a man want?’
Quite a lot, Constance thought silently. Beauty for a start...
‘If only my daughters would stop thinking about their appearances long enough to behave the same way.’ Her aunt pursed her lips at Isabella. ‘Now we need to hurry. He’s waiting in my solar.’
‘Already?’ Constance felt her stomach swoop. ‘I thought the banquet wasn’t for another few hours?’
‘It isn’t, but your uncle and I thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to get reacquainted first.’
‘You mean just the two of us?’ Her mouth turned dry at the thought, the words emerging as a kind of stricken croak. ‘But we were never acquainted in the first place!’
‘Well, here’s your chance.’
‘But—’
‘Why couldn’t they meet yesterday evening?’ Isabella interrupted. ‘What was he talking to Father about?’
‘Important matters that don’t concern you.’ Her aunt’s tone was brisk.
‘What can be more important than seeing his wife after five years?’
‘Was it about the King losing so much territory across the Channel?’ Constance lowered her voice discreetly. She’d overheard enough rumours to guess what the ‘important matters’ might be, though as usual her uncle refused to discuss any of them with her.
‘Hush, child.’ Her aunt gave her a pointed look. ‘It’s men’s business, not ours.’
‘But why not ours? He’s our King, too.’
‘Enough!’ Her aunt closed the subject by pressing a hand to Constance’s cheek. ‘Do you remember what we discussed the other evening?’
‘Yes, Aunt.’ Although Constance wished that she didn’t. That conversation had made her feel a hundred times worse about her husband’s return. The marital bed had been a place of mystery before, but now it was one of positive horror. Not to mention that her monthly courses had started the day before. As if her stomach hadn’t been churning enough, now she had cramps to contend with as well!
‘Good.’ Her aunt patted her cheek again. ‘Now just remember that most brides find it painful at first, but there’s no need to be afraid. Best to get it over with so that you can enjoy the banquet later. There.’ She gave one last tug on the lacings and then took a step backwards, seemingly oblivious to the rush of panic her words had just created. ‘I think that you’re ready.’
‘But...’ Constance had the distinct impression that her feet had just rooted themselves to the spot. The last thing she felt was ready! Best to get it over with? Was that what getting reacquainted meant? She’d only just come to terms with the idea of seeing him again, never mind anything else! She’d assumed that the rest would happen later, when they were back at Lacelby maybe...or hopefully never...
‘Well, go on then.’ Her aunt was starting to sound impatient. ‘And remember to let him do the talking. Be modest and obedient and agree with everything he says.’
‘What if I don’t agree?’
‘Then he’s the last person you should tell.’
‘But...’
‘No more buts! A good wife doesn’t keep her husband waiting. Just do your best and make your uncle and me proud.’
‘Yes, Aunt.’ Constance pressed a hand to her roiling stomach, torn between resentment, dread and a powerful urge to run as far away as her legs would carry her. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Chapter Three
Half an hour. Matthew tapped his foot irritably. He’d been standing around for half an hour, staring into the fire and waiting for his wife to make an appearance. Where the hell was she?
She hadn’t been with the rest of the family when they’d broken their fast that morning, though it had come as something of a relief at the time. The situation was irksome enough without an audience watching them, too, but now he wished they’d simply got the reunion over with. If they had, then he wouldn’t have had to be here now, waiting and wasting his time when there were much more important matters he could be discussing elsewhere. If she was acting coy, thinking it would somehow increase her appeal, then she was very much mistaken. He wasn’t in the habit of waiting for women.
For his wife, however, he conceded that he ought to make an exception. Just this once, though he had no intention of letting it happen again. As a knight in the King’s service, he’d found it was best to let new soldiers know from the start how they were expected to behave, though he supposed he’d have to moderate his language for a lady. He probably ought to have used the time waiting to think of some gallant-sounding way to explain it, but now he was far too annoyed to try.
He glanced at the daybed in the middle of the solar and then marched across to the window. Judging by the number of artfully arranged cushions on top of the coverlet, not to mention the pitcher of wine set on a table alongside, the pair of them were expected to consummate their marriage sooner rather than later. It was distinctly unsettling, the presumption of intimacy with a complete stranger he was none the less committed to spending the rest of his life with. What was he expected to do, woo her straight into bed with sweet words and compliments? Even if he’d known any, which he didn’t, in his current mood he would have preferred a nap. If he’d known how late she would be, he could already have had one.
The blunt truth was that he didn’t know the first thing about being a husband. His father had never been much of a role model—quite the opposite, in fact—so that at least he knew how not to behave, but as for the rest, he was in the dark. He was used to living among men, to sleeping in a tent and talking about military tactics and supply routes, not cavorting with ladies. He had no idea how to talk to those and his unmarried companions hadn’t been able to offer much helpful advice either. According to Laurent, however, the most important thing was not to frown. Which was particularly difficult when frowning was his customary expression, but he’d been told the effect could be quite intimidating and he was supposed to be getting to know the woman, not frightening her.
He only hoped she wasn’t anything like her female cousins. They were both fashionably beautiful, he supposed, albeit a little insipid-looking for his own tastes, but altogether too aware of their own attractions to be truly attractive. The younger one had batted her eyelashes so coquettishly that morning that he’d been forced to scowl back—a response which, now he thought of it, probably explained Laurent’s advice. Personally, he’d settle for a wife who wasn’t a flirt. The last thing he needed was another woman like Blanche...
There was a brief tap on the door, mercifully distracting him from his memories, before it opened a crack and a woman’s face appeared in the gap.
‘Come in.’
He turned away from the window, noting the momentary hesitation before she stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her, as if she’d been considering making a run for it instead.
His first, favourable impression was that she was nothing at all like her cousins. So different, in fact, that it was hard to see any family resemblance, not just in looks, but in manner, too. There wasn’t the faintest hint of coquettishness about her, not in the steady way that she walked, nor in her face which was striking rather than beautiful with strong, definitely not insipid features and thick brows framed by dark hair twisted into a seemingly endless braid over one shoulder.
He let his gaze follow the braid downwards, over a vibrant blue gown that put him in mind of a summer’s meadow. For a confusing moment, he thought he actually caught a scent of wildflowers, as if a breath of fresh air had blown into the room with her, though the very idea made him frown again. It wasn’t like him to be poetic. Or to think of flowers for that matter. Or to be pleased simply because a woman had lustrous dark hair and was far, far more appealing than he remembered. Suddenly the daybed didn’t seem like such a bad idea...
‘My lord?’ Her footsteps faltered briefly before she dipped into a curtsy and then stood stock-still like a soldier awaiting inspection.
‘Lady Constance?’
‘Yes, my lord.
He clasped his hands behind his back and made a concerted effort to unclench his brows, surprised to find that her face wasn’t as far away as he would have expected. Most women were a good head shorter than he was, but her eyes were on a level with his chin. She’d certainly grown over the past five years, not just upwards but outwards, too, her low curtsy allowing him to judge just how much. He’d lifted his gaze away from her generous cleavage and back to her face just in time, surprised to find that her eyes were blue rather than the grey he remembered. For a moment he’d actually wondered if there had been some mistake, but then she’d answered to Lady Constance...hadn’t she? He was so distracted by the sight of her that it was honestly hard to remember.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.’ Her voice was low and measured, though with a distinctly brittle edge.
He opened his mouth to confirm it and then changed his mind. Her hands were clasped together so tightly at her waist that he could see the whites of her knuckles and her stance was tense, the way soldiers looked before a battle. Was that how she thought of their reunion, as a battle? Perhaps he ought not to reprimand her for tardiness this time after all, although as to what else he might say... He cleared his throat awkwardly. He hadn’t expected to be quite so—what was the word?—speechless...
‘You’ve grown.’
They were the first words that came into his head, though judging by the immediate flash in her eyes, they were also the wrong ones. Oddly enough, however, he found the defiant spark reassuring. Those frightened grey eyes—he’d thought they were grey anyway—from their wedding day had haunted him ever since.
‘It’s been five years.’ Her retort sounded even more brittle.
‘I suppose so. You were just a child when we last met.’
Another flash, even brighter this time. ‘I was fourteen.’
‘As I said, just a child.’ He inclined his head as she jutted her chin forward slightly. ‘Or do you not think fourteen young?’
‘I think it depends. Some ladies run households at fourteen.’
‘Not many, I should think, and not on their own.’
‘That doesn’t make it impossible.’
‘No—’ he wasn’t quite sure why they were arguing ‘—but perhaps not advisable either.’
She thrust her chin out even further, looking as if she were on the verge of arguing some more, before changing her mind and dropping her eyes instead. ‘I’m sure that you’re right, my lord.’
‘You’re nineteen now?’ He decided to move the conversation on to safer territory.
‘Yes, my lord, and you twenty-four?’
‘Twenty-five.’ He lifted an eyebrow at her forthrightness. A man’s age wasn’t something a lady would usually ask, but then he had just asked hers. Fair was fair. ‘It was my birth date last month.’