Wicked (12 page)

“You cannot expect me to rejoice when Edward pays someone to take me off his hands.” Sofia could not keep the bitterness from her voice and she did not try. Let Eleanor see how she felt. Perhaps the guilt would haunt her to her grave.

“That is how this is done, as you well know. You have no power without a dowry. It has nothing to do with selling or buying.”

“How much gold is that old man getting?”

“Old man?” Eleanor looked at her.

“Aye. He winked at me. While he may not seem old to you, he is very old to me. I know what is happening here. I am not the castle idiot. I do not have to feel the breeze to know which way the wind blows.”

Eleanor was quiet, glancing at her as they walked and turned at the end of the table.

Sofia refused to look at her. She walked up the steps to the dais. She was hurting inside because she could not believe that the Queen, one of her favorite people in the whole world, had betrayed her. She always thought Eleanor loved her in her own way. She had claimed to.

After a moment the Queen said, “Edward wants to see you wed.”

“Edward wants. Edward wants. ’Tis not fair. Why should he have a say over my wedding? I had no say over his.”

“He had no say either, Sofia. He married me because his father said he must.”

“But you are a saint. How could he not love you? He had God on his side. And you were not an old woman.”

“He is the King. You are his ward and his subject. No one gets away with all the mischief and mayhem for as long as you have. You are ten and seven and you must wed soon. I could not speak on your behalf any longer. The offer came. It is a fine match. Edward has made his decision.”

Sofia wanted to run. She was marrying an old man and they called it a fine match. Certainly he was a handsome old man, but he was still an old man and not a young knight: She would have to sleep with that old man. She would have to bear his babes. He would see her naked and touch her. She would live with him forever and ever.

She could never tell her secrets to an old man. She could not feel the thrill of excitement with him. She would not welcome his kisses. She would not have her blood speed through her veins the way it had once, only once before.

No, she could not. She had no heart left inside of her. It had been destroyed two years before.

Her steps were slower and her feet felt heavier. She could not look at him or anyone else. She stared at the pointed toes of her shoes.
Oh dear Lord in heaven, my life is over. Please, just let me die young. Preferably before the wedding.

They moved toward the King, where there were empty chairs. All the men at the table rose in unison. Sofia frowned when Eleanor stopped before she arrived at the empty seat near her future husband.

Why was she not sitting next to the old man? It was tradition to share a trencher with your betrothed. She stared at the chair before her, at its carved arms and back. There was a red cushion on the seat.

A sudden chill ran over her.

A tall man stepped up from the side curtains and onto the dais. A second later Sir Tobin de Clare was standing there. He was turned away and saying something to the Archbishop of Canterbury.

She closed her eyes for just one weak instant and felt her knees start to give out. Luckily Eleanor grabbed her shoulder. Sofia steadied herself, her hands gripping the edge of the table and the back of the chair. She felt Eleanor’s hand slide up and hold onto her upper arm. Support. She could feel Eleanor’s look of concern, but she dared not look for fear she would do something completely humiliating . . . like cry.

She stared at her feet and tried to gather her composure, then exhaled a deep breath she had not known she had been holding. The room stopped spinning and she was suddenly aware again that she was the center of attention.

Sweat broke out on her brow and her belly turned over twice, thrice. She took another breath. Everything inside of her screamed that she should turn and run as fast as she could. Run far, far away to the French or the Germans or the Scots, some enemy of Edward’s. ’Twould be easier to do than what she knew was ahead of her.

Eleanor leaned close and whispered, “You will be fine. See? He is not an old man. He is young and handsome. You are strong, Sofia. Look up. Smile. Find your pride and show it to all.”

It took everything Sofia had to raise her head higher and higher. But she did, and did it with Eleanor’s requested smile pasted onto her tight and dry lips.

“Milady.” Sir Tobin took her hand in his. The shock of his touch made Sofia want to scream. He made a slight bow. She stared at his bent head. She felt the sudden urge to grab a pewter wine goblet and bash him with it.

Show him you do not care. Show him what he did to you does not matter. Show him.

Sofia looked up slowly, gathering her pride, and gave him the brightest smile, a smile that she wanted to bring him to his knees. A smile that would slay him and never let him know he had hurt her so badly she could hardly bear to look at him. A smile that would never let him see that she cared or that she even remembered the past.

“Sir Tobin,” she said in a sweetest of voices, one that dripped with honey and came from that place where she stored her courage. She sank into a deep and respectful curtsey, quelling the urge to kick his shins while she was down there.

I will not let him see me grow faint of heart. I will not!

“Lady Sofia,” he said aloud, then added quietly, “Sweet Sofia.” His voice was the same, that deep and unsettling sound that she remembered. It made her breath catch in her throat, and for all of her reserve, for all of her bitter need to hate this man for humiliating her, she could not stop her powerful reaction to him, and it frightened her terribly, to have so little control over something so important. She could feel it down to her very toes.

“Come, meet my father.”

He led her past Edward and Eleanor to the older handsome man and now she knew why his face was so familiar. She was looking at Tobin’s features, only perhaps twenty some-odd years older.

His father stood and bowed, then straightened to his full height and looked down at her. He smiled; it was a kind and surprisingly less carnivorous smile than his son had. “A pleasure, Lady Sofia, to meet such a lovely and spirited lady. My son is most fortunate.” He raised her hand to his lips, bent over it and pressed a soft, lingering kiss there.

She thought she heard Tobin mumble something. His voice had an irritated sound to it, and she cast him a quick glance. He was scowling down at his father’s head, still bent and still kissing her hand.

She turned back at looked at the Earl of Gloucester, who straightened and gave her another sly and devilish wink that made her frown for just long enough to think clearly.

Why that wicked old devil! He was flirting with me.

She smiled a bright and honest smile, then cast a glance at Tobin, who was glaring at his father.

“My lord. ’Tis an honor to meet you.” She dipped into a deep curtsey, looking directly into the earl’s eyes. She would not play a game with him, not when he had the most wonderful twinkle in his eye and pure fun in his grin.

“I had heard of your beauty, milady, but mere words cannot capture such a glorious face.”

A flirt. Tobin’s father was a charming flirt.

Before she could thank him, Tobin made some sound of disgust. “Come,” he grumbled. “No one else may eat until we sit down.” He all but dragged her back to her seat.

She stood by her chair, then willed herself to calmly sweep her gown away with one hand and sit serenely, observing all as if she were not bothered the least by this day’s events. She was succeeding well, when Edward leaned over and ruined everything.

“You are wise to do us proud, Sofia.”

She turned and looked at the King. “Your Majesty. Cousin.” Then she gave him a smile that should have worried him. It did not work. Edward was not looking any longer because he was leaning close and talking quietly to Eleanor.

Sofia turned back and faced the room. Her eyes caught Edith’s at the table just below. Edith looked worried, guilty, and frightened, which was an intelligent thing for her friend to feel because Sofia was going to wring her neck when they were alone.

One of the King’s drummers banged on a kettledrum so loudly that the room grew suddenly still; it was as if everyone’s voices had been stolen. Even the dogs lying by the huge fire did not move.

Edward stood. He raised his jewel-encrusted wine goblet high in the air, where the rubies and emeralds and pearls caught the light from the fire behind him and seemed to glow and glint and make the moment appear all that much more important. “We have good reason for celebration this day! We feast in honor of two great events. Sir Tobin de Clare has broken through the siege at Brookwood on the northern borders and gained the release of Earl Wynton.”

There were loud cheers of
A de Clare
! and toasts in Sir Tobin’s name. Shouts came from all over the room and many of the de Clare men stood, raising their cups to him.

Sofia sat there stiff and tense and scared and feeling completely helpless, which she hated.

Edward drank along with the others, then he raised his goblet again. “We have gathered here to celebrate that victory today, along with another reason for celebration.” Edward paused meaningfully and looked at Sofia.

She tried to look nonchalant.

“Today, we are proud that two great houses will unite to form one strong and loyal noble family. We shall witness the betrothal of our ward, the Lady Sofia Howard, daughter of our cousin, the late Baron Rufus Howard, Lord of Torwick, Boden and Runworth.” The King stopped for just a hair’s-breadth of a moment, then added, “
Finally
.”

The room seemed to explode with laughter. Sofia sat straighter, plastered a brittle smile on her face as she tried to look as if she didn’t want the stone floor to open and swallow her. She wanted to look emotionless, despite the fact that every emotion she could feel was raging though her. But to the room, to those all about her, she wanted to look as unaffected as the hounds that lay asleep by the great fireplace. She watched a smirk of satisfaction spread across the King’s sharp-featured face, which made the slight droop in his eye disappear.

He looked overly pleased with his perfectly vile wit. “As I was saying, Lady Sofia Howard will
finally
be betrothed this day to Sir Tobin de Clare, son of Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, Lord of Berkeley, Mowbray, Sutton, and Greyfolk, Rudler, and Saltease.” He drank a toast to Tobin’s father. “May the young couple be as pleased as we are at this moment! For we are pleased . . . and
relieved
.”

The laughter rose again.

Sofia sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap and her eyes straight ahead, staring past the crowd below to a flickering sconce on the south wall, focused, so she would not give away the ache of embarrassment she was feeling.

Queen Eleanor nudged the King in the ribs and whispered, “Enough. You are humiliating her. This is difficult for her. Have some pity for the girl.”

The King grumbled something, but heeded his queen and stopped making fun of Sofia and her reputation.

Sofia did not want his pity, or anyone else’s. That was the last thing she ever wanted. Her pride was too wounded, her world crumbling around her so quickly that pitying glances would only make it all the worse. She was afraid to look at Edith, her true friend, afraid of what she would see in her eyes, afraid to look at Eleanor.

“Stand and say something kind about her,” Sofia heard Queen Eleanor whisper to the King.

After a moment, Edward stood again and raised his cup. “May our cousin, Sofia,” the King nodded toward her and their eyes met for the briefest of moments, enough for them both to acknowledge that he had won this long-standing battle, “be fertile and give de Clare an army of sons!”

A loud cheer went round the room; it seemed to swell on forever. Many men shouted comments about the joy of sons, so no one heard when Sofia swore under her breath, swore the most vicious word she knew. No one heard, that is, except God and Tobin de Clare.

Chapter 9

Tobin leaned back and out of the way as a royal servant placed a washbowl studded with sapphires in front of them on the high table. One of his twin squires, Thwack of Camrose, stood nearby, flanking his chair and waiting with a soft towel. From the corner of his eye he could see the lad shifting from one foot to another and could occasionally hear him muttering something to himself; he had yet to learn much about patience.

Another of the King’s servants dressed in royal scarlet and gold stepped between Sofia and him, then raised a bronze aquamanile in the shape of a fire-breathing dragon and poured water over her pale hands. He almost laughed at how symbolic the shape of that particular vessel was. When Edward wished them many sons, her resolve slipped and she looked angry enough to spit flames. Instead she had spit a flaming curse.

Tobin had been watching her since then. Once the crowd had quieted, she had quickly regained her control, then made a huge effort to look everywhere but at him. So it did not surprise him when she washed her hands thoroughly, taking her own sweet time with each finger and nail, rubbing the rose petals from the water over her wrists and palms, and never once looking up, acting as if washing her hands were the most important thing in the world. And she well knew he was watching her the whole time.

He leaned closer. She did nothing. He leaned closer still and saw his breath ruffle the small locks of damp black hair near her temple. To her credit she acted numb, which could not have been easy with his mouth a few warm inches from her ear.

So he leaned an inch closer and blew into her ear.

She whipped her head around and faced him, scowling, but not before he caught the sudden shiver that went through her.

Now that he had her undivided attention, he said, “I have to wonder where a lady of noble birth ever learned that particular word.”

Her chin went even higher and her eyes grew narrowed and intent. “So you heard.”