Wicked (42 page)

She refused to see him. She refused to talk to him.

He had even stood there and shouted through the door. It did no good.

So he took action. He sent everyone away. He paid the servants double a year’s wages and told them not to come back until Michaelmas, when the babe was due. He paid off the cook, kept only one kitchen helper who could bake as well as put together a decent, but light fare. He sent some of his men-at-arms home, and kept only the men he needed to guard the gates and the castle walls. He removed every obstacle except her bedchamber door, and now he even had the key to that.

He came up the long flight of stairs, balancing a tray on his arm. It was filled with soup and bread and milk, which she was supposed to have according to what he’d been told. He had memorized her diet and meals, the same way he would memorize a map or battle plan. Her schedule was the same as the changing of his guards. He had learnt Sofia’s routine.

He almost tripped on a stair and had to grab the tray with both hands. “Damn,” he muttered, then switched the tray and gave the door a sharp rap.

He took out the key and unlocked it, then juggled the tray and stepped inside.

She stared at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought your supper.”

“Where is Adela?”

“I sent her home.”

“Is she ill?”

“Nay.” He set the tray down on the bed.

She shifted away, as if she could not possibly touch him, she who carried his child in her belly. They had touched each other in too many intimate ways to count, but she was scooting over in the bed as if he had the plague.

“I shall be feeding you from now on.”

Her lips thinned and she shook her head. “I do not want you here. Send me my maid.”

“I told you she is gone.”

“Then send in Peg.”

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

“I sent her home, too.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You sent home Adela and Peg?”

He nodded and lifted the soup spoon toward her. “Open and I shall feed you.”

She clamped her lips shut.

He sighed. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You decide.”

She eyed him for a long time, then sighed and opened her mouth.

He spilled half the spoonful on her.

She held out her hand. “Give me the spoon. I can feed myself.”

He handed her the spoon.

“I suppose that you have sent all my maids away.”

“Aye.” He sat back against the bed post and crossed his arms and watched her eat. “I sent everyone away.”

She choked on her milk. “You did what?”

“I sent everyone except John the baker—I don’t do bread well—and the guards, because I will not jeopardize our safety.”

“So there is no one except you and me?”

He shook his head. “Nary a soul. I will see to your every need, wife. If you are hungry, I will cook and feed you. If you need to be bathed, I will wash you. If you need to be held, I will hold you.” He paused, then added, “The same way I have held you in my heart every day for as long as I can remember, at least back to that game of hoodman blind.”

She looked at him as if he were lying.

“’Tis the truth. I just could not admit it to you before.” He gave a short laugh that was bitter. “In the same way I could not tell you the truth about why I married you when you asked me. I was a fool, sweet, such a bloody fool. I married you because you were the only woman I have ever wanted. It had nothing to do with the King and everything to do with the fact that I loved you from the first.”

He looked away for a moment, then turned back to her. “This is not an easy thing for me to admit, but I think that was why I made the wager. Why I left you sitting in that garden. I was too proud and too vain to admit that I was already in love with you. I hurt you because I could not understand why you haunted me all the time. I am sorry. I vow I will never hurt you again. I know now why I did not admit how much I loved you.”

“Why?” She whispered as if she were afraid to believe him.

He took her hand in his and stared down at it, rubbed his thumb over her knuckles and her palm. “Because of my father.”

She frowned.

He tried to explain, but it was all still new to him, too. He was afraid he would say the wrong thing, but he learnt from his mistakes that he must not be afraid anymore. “I was afraid of what I feel for you, Sofia. I was always afraid to feel, because I did not want to be like him. Like my father. He loves every woman he meets, then he leaves them and loves another. That was all I knew of love between a man and a woman. So I decided long ago not to ever feel that particular emotion.” He gave a sharp laugh. “Then you came along, a wee thing of barely twelve, with no bosom and—”

“I had a bosom!”

“Aye.” He grinned. “A small bosom.”

“How did you see through that blindfold?”

He grinned. “I will never tell.”

She was trying not to smile. He could see it.

“As I was saying . . . here you come along and my life has never been the same since.”

“What is it you think you feel?”

“Oh, I know, not think, my love.”

“What?”

“That I love you with all my heart. That you are the other half of me. That a day or night does not go by that I don’t think of you. There is not another woman in the world who could ever replace you in my heart. You are there as surely as the blood is in my body. If I have to wait on you hand and foot, if I have to send away every servant or grovel on my knees to prove it to you, I will. I will spend the rest of our lives trying to prove how very much I love you.”

She was crying, tears were pouring down her cheeks and spilling onto her shift.

He leaned forward and kissed her, lightly, tenderly on the lips. No passion in the touch, just love. Pure and perfect love. “I love you, Sofia. I love you.”

He was like a
storm that blows in and sweeps you away. Tobin was relentless. He told her how he felt at every moment. He told her things she did not know men told women.

He set out in every way to prove to her that he was true. That his love was hers. One night he brought her a plate of mutton, spelled out in the stringy meat were the words, “I love you.”

Each night he sat by her bed until she fell asleep. Just that day she had taken his hand and placed it on her distended belly the way her mother had done with her so long ago and she saw the awe on his face and wondered if she had worn that same look.

That night she had fallen to sleep, then awakened in the night. She did not know why, until she opened her eyes.

Her husband’s head was near her belly, his hands softly on top of it as he felt their child kick and turn.

Tobin was crying, great long sobs that ripped through her. She began to cry, too. And she whispered his name.

He looked at her through red and moist eyes, eyes that carried all the hurt they had ever given each other. The pride and the arrogance, the need to win, the defiance, the banter, the battles and even the leaving.

She reached out with her hand and touched his cheek. “’Twill be fine. Trust me, love.”

“I do not want to lose you, Sofia.”

“You are not going to lose me, or the babe. ’Tis our child inside of me. Do you truly think that a child that is yours and mine would ever not be born into this world kicking and screaming for all it was worth?” That made him laugh. And she laughed with him.

It was a month later
that a royal messenger rode through the gates of Torwick Castle. Tobin sat on the bed with Sofia. They were playing draughts, for they had discovered that her belly made the perfect table for the draught board. Instead of money or jewels or clothing, they were wagering with honeyed figs and sweet dates, two of the many things Sofia seemed to crave constantly.

She wanted pickled eels and eggs for breakfast, and hot beef pies and turnips for lunch, and strawberries and clotted cream made her sick.

When the messenger arrived, the guards sent him straight to the chamber. The poor lad came rushing inside, not expecting to see Sir Tobin de Clare lying on his wife’s bed and playing games.

The boy looked at him as if he had grown horns. Then he held out a roll of parchment with the royal seal.

Tobin stared at it with a blank look.

Sofia could feel her hands tighten into fists. She watched him rise slowly and take the missive. He untied the red ribbon and broke the seal. He read the message, then walked over and handed it to her.

It was a royal order for Tobin to come to Parliament immediately. There was a rumor of trouble with the Scots and Edward wanted all his nobles there, as a show of force.

This was not a request. It was a royal command.

Sofia closed her eyes and felt the tears come. Every time the King wanted Tobin he had gone. She looked up at him, knowing her pain and fears were in her eyes but she could not help it. They did not hide what they felt from each other anymore.

Tobin picked up the parchment and handed it back to the King’s boy. “Tell Edward I cannot leave my wife.”

The boy gaped at him. “But sir . . . ”

“You have my answer,” Tobin said in a stern voice, but he tossed the boy a gold guinea. “Ride swiftly lad, for Edward will need to find his support from somewhere else. I have none for him.”

The boy left and there was an awkward and silent moment; it just hung there in the room.

“Tobin,” Sofia said quietly. “He is the King. You must go.”

“I will not go. I have run off every single time he has asked. I have served him enough, Sofia. He can behead me, he can throw me in the Tower or he can draw and quarter me if he wishes, but I will not go,” Tobin said stubbornly. “I will not leave you again.”

He sat next to her, her hands in his strong ones. He raised them to his lips. “I will not leave you.”

Sofia looked over at the window and she knew she would never stand there waiting again.

Rosalynde Eleanor Judith
Clio de Clare was born the same day that the Michaelmas daisies bloomed in the garden at Torwick Castle. At the first light of dawn, she came into this world, into her father’s hands, kicking and screaming, just as her mother had predicted.

’Twas a month later, when all were at Torwick for Rosalynde’s christening. The skies were as blue as her infant eyes and the clouds as white as her skin. In the chapel, near where her grandmother and namesake was buried, stood the godparents: Earl Merrick and Lady Clio, and the King and Queen of England.

When the bishop poured a small handful of holy water on Rosalynde’s dark head, she squealed in protest, kicked furiously and made her tiny hands into fists that splattered the water all over the bishop’s vestments and her cousin, the King of England.

And just behind the bishop stood another godparent, who laughed at Rosalynde. Sister Judith, prioress of Grace Dieu, leaned upon her crutch and adjusted her robes, so they hid her gift, a small bow and a quiver of tiny arrows. She looked heavenward, made the sign of the cross, and said, “Thank you, dear Lord in heaven above, for giving the world another warrior.”

THE WEDDING

Sofia closed the heavy book and set it back in the box with the other one. She did so just in time, for a second later the door to her chambers burst open and her daughter, Rosalynde, came running inside.

“Mother, look! Look at my bridal gift!”

Sofia stood and walked over to the bed, where her daughter had plopped down a lovely pearl circlet with a huge amethyst in the middle that perfectly matched her bright purple eyes.

Rosalynde placed the circlet on her head and then grabbed her mother’s looking glass from the table. “’Tis from Edward. Oh, Mother, is it not the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?”

Sofia smiled. “Aye, sweetheart, ’Tis perfect. Your future husband has his mother’s tastes.”

“Clio? Aye. I suppose he does. Everyone is here. Edward’s parents, Clio and Merrick, the King and Margaret, Maude and Sir Paul, Tildie and Sir Peter. I still cannot believe they were called Thud and Thwack, Mother. Why such silly names for two of the bravest knights in the land?”

“Bravest and most noble?” Sofia laughed. “So they tell you.”

“Can you believe it is almost time? My wedding day is finally here. I did not think it would ever come!”

“Come, sweetheart. I have something for you.” Sofia took her daughter’s hand and led her to the small dressing table. “Sit. Here.” Sofia laughed and placed her hands on Rosalynde’s shoulders. “And try to hold still.”

Sofia opened a box and took out a long strand of perfect pearls.

“Oh, Mother. Grandmother’s pearls.”

Sofia smiled and began to wrap them around her eldest daughter’s long and elegant neck. She fastened them just as Eleanor had done for her so long ago. “There. What do you think?”

Rosalynde was crying. “I think this is the happiest day of my whole, entire life!”

“Your whole, entire life? All seventeen years of it?” Tobin stood in the doorway, giving them a smile that still made Sofia weak.

“Papa!” Rosalynde was out of the chair and into her father’s outstretched arms.

“Let me look at you.” Tobin stepped back and eyed his daughter, who preened this way and that just for him. Her Papa.

Sofia laughed and shook her head. There was such love between those two.

“You are beautiful. Almost as beautiful as your mother.”

“Truly, Papa?”

“Truly.” Tobin placed a kiss on her forehead.

“I must run now and show my sisters all this finery. Judith will be simply green!” Rosalynde barreled out the door and off to torment Judith, Elizabeth and Alinor, her younger sisters. Her two brothers would not care, for Merrick was only five and John was eight.

He stood there looking at her for the longest time.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Because you are still so incredibly beautiful.” He shook his head. “I don’t think you look any different now than the day I fell in love with you.”

“Me?” she sighed. “Today I feel old.”

Tobin drew her into his arms and said, “You could never be old, sweet. This is where you belong. Lying beside you is the perfect place. I see you and know there is nothing more beautiful in my world.” He stepped back and looked down at her, then he took her hand and threaded their fingers together. “Are those tears I see in your eyes, wife?”