~ 4 ~

As had long been her habit, Anlin was up before the sun. In Rennic, long before the men arrived at first light, she would have stirred the kitchen fire to life and made porridge. If the steading was fortunate enough to have a few dairy cows, she would have milked the animals and seen to their needs. She had learned to embrace those pre-dawn moments that belonged to her alone. They gave her the illusion of freedom.

The chores themselves hadn’t been that onerous. The biting air of winter had been refreshing after the stench of smoke and unwashed bodies that permeated the house. She liked making new tracks in the snow as she made her way to the barn. She found comfort with the animals themselves, with their easy acceptance and warm, mournful eyes. In summer, watching the dew catch the sun’s new rays and turn a meadow into a sparkling landscape filled her with peace.

This morning she wished she were out walking through that wet grass instead of watching the sliver of sky visible through the arrow slit change from black into a pearly gray. She never thought she would find anything to miss from her captivity, but she missed those stolen moments when she belonged to no one but herself.

If she now decided to walk outside in the pre-dawn hours, men-at-arms would appear to shadow her progress, and later, her father and brother would attempt to reason with her, explaining that any erratic behavior could only fuel more rumors of her mental instability. Ladies of her standing did not scamper about barefoot in the dew. So, she could only pace her chamber and fret as the sky began to lighten.

Today she’d sell herself to a man, as surely as she’d been sold at the slave market in Hightor. But this time she would willingly do so, in the hope that her son, Telm, would be reunited with her. He’s been Cheelum’s gift in her darkest time. His return would mend the hole in her heart, and she could move forward.

Of course, Faulk would also be constantly at her side. That was the price she would pay.

Faulk was the unknown in her plan, a tumbling die that could change all the other equations. She was sure he’d entered the tournament solely to possess the fief. Marrying her would simply validate the transaction. She was not the prize.

She now owned a mirror. The woman reflected there was fey looking, still too thin for any consideration of beauty, the puckered scar on her forehead and the white streak in her hair marking her as different, odd.

For this reason, she didn’t understand his insistence that vows of fidelity be included in their wedding ceremony. She’d neither expected nor wanted that to be the case. She little cared where the man sowed his seed. She would remain faithful to him simply because she wanted no man, but she would put up with Faulk’s invasion of her body to hold Telm in her arms again.

She stopped pacing and leaned her head against the cool stones of the wall. Her heart fluttered, and her breathing was shallow. She would not think of that bestial act. She would not remember the pain and the fear. She would put it out of her mind as she’d learned to do. When the time came, as it surely would, she would escape to a place where dew sparkled on the grass and leave her body to be handled as it would.

She took a deep breath and centered herself. She had nothing to fear. Regardless of what happened, she’d mentally be gone. Later, it was a simple matter to wash away the smell and stickiness left from a man’s rutting. She would then find herself again and go on, as she had always done.

She heard the light tap on the door. Straightening, she called, “Come.”

Gilda, one of the serving women, entered, her face wreathed in smiles. “Oh, my lady, you’re already up.” The woman chuckled. “But that’s to be expected on such a happy day. Exciting, isn’t it. The wedding and all. I’ll go down and tell the kitchen staff to hurry up your breakfast. You’ll want to eat before you bathe and that will give us time to get the big tub in here and filled. And have you chosen yet what you want to wear? The yellow, perhaps? It has those pretty, little flowers sewn around the neck. I bet we could find some flowers to put in your hair. You’ll look so lovely. And then…”

“Breakfast first, if you please.” Anlin felt washed away by the torrent of words. She’d never known Gilda to be so loquacious. The woman was like a child’s toy wound too tight. Excited. Yes, that was it. Gilda was excited about Anlin’s wedding. How could the woman think being married was a cause for rejoicing? But most women in Fallucia seemed to think a wedding was a woman’s crowning achievement. She wondered if it held true in Rennic, but she had no basis of comparison. The whole time she’d been there, she’d not met any wives, or even those destined to be one.

Gilda was taking a breath, obviously readying herself for another deluge of words. “Breakfast,” Anlin said again, this time with the arrogant authority she’d often heard in her father’s voice. It worked. Gilda scuttled out the door.

* * *

Poked, prodded, curried, exclaimed over—Anlin felt like a prize ox being readied for a fair. Gilda and several other women finally decided Anlin was resplendent enough to descend to the hall and leave for the ceremony in White Ford. She wore the yellow tunic but had drawn the line at a circle of flowers that one of the women offered. Seeing the servant’s disappointment, Anlin felt a moment of hesitation, but enough was enough. The farce had gone on for as long as she could stand it. It was time to be off.

She thought the final ridiculousness had come when Gilda pulled her aside as she was about to exit the room. “Is there anything that you’d like to ask me about…eh…this evening, my lady? I mean about the…eh…marriage bed. Since your mother isn’t here, may she rest in Cheelum’s arms, I thought you might have some questions of an older, more experienced woman. I mean, there’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s all quite natural. Once you get the rhythm, it’s like a dance, a happy dance. Just let your husband do the leading.”

“Enough!” Anlin shouted. Startled faces looked at her. “I’m sorry,” she said in a softer tone. “I just need to leave if I’m not to be late.”

What were these women thinking? Did they have no idea what had happened to her in Rennic, or did they just choose not to know? Certainly, all her ordeals had not been made public, and there had never been any mention of a child, her father believing either Telm would never be found or he was dead. But to tell any bride what she faced was a happy dance… Anlin could barely control her fury.

Seething with anger, she marched down the narrow, winding stairs into the hall. Her father looked at her with a smile that quickly vanished. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

Anlin wanted to tell him that he was ten years too late with his solicitous enquiry. Instead, she gritted her teeth and said, “I think it is best that we’re off.”

Totally misunderstanding, her father said, “I know it would have been easier to have the ceremony here, but I can see why Sir Faulk wanted it to take place at his own fief. I think it was wise of him.”

Anlin made no response. She just strode through the hall and out into the courtyard. Grooms held eight horses at the ready. A small wedding party to be sure, but decidedly a wedding party. And then the final indignity—her horse had green ribbons and bells braided though its mane. Bells! Sweet Cheelum, bells! Was this to be the music used as a prelude to the happy dance?

Rounding on her father and those who had hurried to keep pace with her, she asked, “Who did this?”

“What?” Her father stopped abruptly, eyes darting to see what was amiss.

“The horse. The ridiculously decorated horse.”

Her father looked confused, so she transferred her suspicions to her brother, but he too appeared perplexed.

“Sir Faulk,” said one of the grooms, his voice nervous. “Sir Faulk gave me money to buy the ribbon and bells and paid me to braid them in. He said it was something that he’d seen as a boy in Jarburgh.”

Faulk? Faulk had spent good money for this mummery? Anlin had a sinking feeling that she’d totally misjudged the man that she was bargaining herself away to get. She needed a strong man, a knight who would kill without compunction. She needed someone who could overcome any threat they might find in Rennic. She needed to belong to such a man, for her own safety and the safety of her son. But instead of a warrior, she seemed to be tying herself to a man who decorated horses. Sweet Cheelum!

She fought the urge to yell that this was all a mistake, to run back into the keep and hide. And then what would happen? Her father would marry her off to someone else, probably Sir Kenteth. Her father still wanted a blood tie with Sir Kenteth’s family. He’d lost that when Sybil died birthing remarkably unattractive twin daughters. For all his mixed blood, Anlin had safely borne a son, something her nearly perfect sister had failed to accomplish.

Schooling her features to reflect a bland good humor, Anlin walked to the horse and ran her hand gently over the bells. “How interesting,” she said, unable to think of any other word. But she felt those around her relax. Lord Giffard’s crazy daughter wasn’t going to make a scene on her wedding day.

She allowed a servant to lift her into the saddle, and she followed her father out of the courtyard and through the streets of Giffard’s Crest. People gathered at intersections and hung out of windows to see the procession pass, calling out good wishes and the blessings of Cheelum upon the bride. The damned bells tinkled and Anlin smiled—smiled as others expected her to.

Once they’d cleared the town, the group picked up speed, but that only made the bells ring more frantically. Villeins waved and called from the fields. Never had the ride to White Ford taken longer.

They arrived to find what appeared to be the entire population of the fief crowded around the squatty little temple. There was a festive feel about the crowd, and everyone wore their market-day best. Faulk—tall, broad-shouldered, and smiling—stood next to the temple door. He wore the same moss green tunic he’d worn the previous day. Anlin suspected it was the only good tunic he owned. She also realized that the ribbons woven through her horse’s mane were nearly the same color green. She had an uncomfortable feeling that he had chosen the ribbons to show his ownership even before the ceremony.

With this in mind, her frozen smile slipped from her face. She noticed that his smile also slipped some, but he came forward and lifted her from her horse. “My lady, are you ready to begin?”

No, she was not ready to begin, but she would go forward. Just as long as the end included Telm being back with her. “Yes,” she said, placing her hand lightly on his arm so he could lead her into the temple. The wedding party from Giffard’s Crest and the crowd from in front of the building filed in behind them. She could hear everyone rustling and shuffling behind them.

The priest’s face held the same beatific smile as had been carved on the statue of Cheelum that sat on the altar. The similarity of expression and the mob of people in attendance lent a feeling of unreality to the proceedings. If, as a girl, she’d ever dreamed of her wedding, she couldn’t remember it, but she was sure this wasn’t what she would have imagined. She wondered if Faulk felt the same, but standing next to her, he appeared relaxed and sure of himself.

Faulk repeated his vows in the same low, serious voice that he’d used when he’d sworn fealty to her father the day before. Anlin must have followed the proscribed wording since there was no confusion in the ceremony, but when it was swiftly concluded, she really had no memory of what she’d said. The only thing that surprised her was the ring that Faulk slid on the middle finger of her right hand. She wondered when he’d had time to get one. It hung loosely on her finger and she had to fist her hand to make sure that it didn’t fall off.

They had to wait until the crowded temple cleared, then Faulk led her out and lifted her onto her horse. He walked, holding her horse’s bridle, back to White Ford manor house. The entire throng followed then.

“Why are all the people following?” Anlin quietly asked as Faulk lifted her down. She was curious, that was true, but she also needed to distract herself from the alarming feeling of her body sliding against his.

“For the wedding feast, of course.” He flashed her a quick smile. His teeth were white and straight. He looked different from yesterday, younger. Then Anlin realized he’d shaved. No stubble glinted red in the sun. “When I arrived yesterday evening and told the people here we’d be wed today, they dashed into a flurry of cooking and baking. They wanted to welcome us and wish us well.”

Of course, the people of White Ford wanted to make Faulk welcome. He was their new lord and held their lives and livelihoods in his hands. But for herself, she suspected the people were simply curious to get a good look at Lord Giffard’s odd daughter. She didn’t look forward to another stoic performance.

But what was done was done. She felt her face slide into its impassive mask. She took little notice of the manor’s hall and let the throng that filled it drift into an unfocused kaleidoscope of colors. Faulk spoke to her throughout the interminable meal, but his voice seemed to come from a distance, and she wasn’t sure exactly what he said.

Anlin was surprised when her father came to her and kissed her on the cheek. “I wish you happiness, daughter,” he said. Her brother followed, but simply took her hand and mumbled something about hoping this was for the best. And then they were gone.

Faulk took her chin in his hand and turned her face toward him. “You may retire to the solar now if you wish. I know this has been a tiring day.”

Unease threaded through Anlin’s numbness. Retire? Now? Sunlight still slanted through the hall’s windows. It was only late afternoon. Did Faulk think to assert his rights while there was yet light in the sky and the hall still filled with people? Could he not wait until the decent cover of darkness? Her breath quickened and she felt her heart pound in her chest.

“I don’t know where the solar is,” she said.

Faulk beckoned a woman forward. “This is Hilmar. She’ll act as your maid for now. If you’d prefer to have one of your old retainers come from Giffard’s Crest, I’ll make some sort of accommodation with your father. Until then, Hilmar is yours to command. She will see you to our chamber. I need to stay and get acquainted with the villeins and freemen of the fief. But I’ll be up later.” He said the last with a smile and squeezed her hand.

Anlin felt dismissed and couldn’t decide if she were relieved or angry. Faulk rose from his seat when she stood. Anlin gave him a slight nod and followed Hilmar. Anlin walked with her back straight and head high. She was sure that no one could tell how franticly her heart beat.

Hilmar led her to a wooden stairway at the back of the hall. Of course, the solar would be up the stairs. At the top, she gazed back over the length of the hall. Faulk’s green tunic stood out among the more common browns. He’d left the dais and was standing by the lower tables.

Hilmar pushed open the door. “Here, my lady,” she said.

The solar was pleasant. Two carved chairs stood on either side of a now empty fireplace. Other small benches were scattered around the room, and there was a large expanse of windows on one side, their openings covered with real glass. White Ford must be a prosperous holding indeed. Faulk had to be pleased with his bargain.

“You can see the ford from here,” Hilmar said, leaning over the window seat and pointing. Anlin looked where she was directed and saw the shallow rapids that allowed easy travel across the Milk River.

“And here’s the Lord’s chamber,” the woman said, scurrying to open a door on the same wall as the fireplace.

This chamber was as spacious as the solar and had a matching, large, glass-covered window, this one overlooking the courtyard below. It was a much more comfortable room than any available at her father’s keep since the manor house had not been built with defense in mind. Besides the abundance of light, the room boasted its own fireplace for winter comfort. Chests dotted the walls and a large bed with the hangings pulled back held pride of place on the longest wall. It was a room that Anlin would have liked very much had she not had to share it. The problem was…she did.

“Your belongings were brought over from the Crest while you were at the temple.” Hilmar said, “and I put them in here, next to Sir Faulk’s.” She opened one of the larger chests.

Faulk’s chest was significantly smaller, but his mail had been installed on a T-shaped support in the corner. It brooded there like an unfriendly ghost, as if to remind her this was the Lord’s room and not really hers.

Anlin suddenly wanted to be gone from this room with its big bed and man-shaped mail. “I’ll think I’ll wait for Sir Faulk in the solar.” She turned and quickly exited, Hilmar at her heels.

“Do you want me to brush out your hair? I couldn’t find a night robe when I put your clothing in the chest, but if you have one elsewhere, I’ll retrieve it.” Hilmar was obviously trying to think of any way she could be helpful, perhaps fearing that her position would be taken by someone from Giffard’s Crest. Anlin looked carefully at the maid. She was young with a wide peasant face that might coarsen with age but was now appealing in its youth and freshness. Anlin felt old and used by comparison.

“I want for nothing,” she said. Then a grumble from her stomach gave the lie to her statement. She hadn’t been able to force down a morsel at the wedding banquet. “Actually, I’d like to have some bread and cheese and a flagon of ale.”

“I’ll get it immediately,” the girl said, giving Anlin a wide grin that showed a slight gap between her front teeth. “Shall I bring enough for Sir Faulk as well?” Hilmar’s face suddenly flushed. “You are most fortunate, milady. Sir Faulk is such a handsome man.”

She whirled and was gone before Anlin could tell her to bring food and drink for only one. Oh, well, it made little difference. At the worst, there would be some food left over—and additional ale might be welcome. In Rennic, Anlin had never had access to any type of liquor. She wondered if she could drink enough to make her numb.

She settled into one of the carved chairs, thinking it would be more comfortable if it had a pad on the seat. The solar would be her room, where she met with her ladies to do needlework and to make things like attractive pads for chairs. She wondered if Faulk cared her needlework was limited to the strictly functional. Did he imagine that she would create lovely wall hangings to soften the walls? Did he picture her as being something other than she was?

Hilmar thought Faulk handsome. Strangely, Anlin couldn’t remember what Faulk looked like as a whole. She thought of him in pieces—the odd green of his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders, the whiteness of his teeth when he flashed an unexpected smile. But as a complete person, his appearance eluded her. Perhaps because his looks made little difference to her. But they had obviously intrigued Hilmar.

Anlin wondered if Hilmar’s mother had told her the lies about what transpired between men and women, if Hilmar too had been told the myth of the happy dance. People told such lies to make the bitter draughts of life taste more palatable.

Anlin laid her head against the back of the chair and watched the sky through the window. Eventually, the sun would set. Was that when Faulk would come to claim his marital rights, to prove he was master of her? It made no difference. He would come, and all she could do was wait.