Joining

  “Unfortunately it is, Mili. If a man cannot control his own daughter, how can he expect to command men or have their respect? Not once have you ever done as you were told. Well, I am asking something of you this one last time, ere you leave my house for good. Honor this contract that was made for you in good faith, and that does you such honor. Do this for me if not for yourself.”

  How could she refuse? Yet how could she willingly condemn herself to marriage with a man she truly did not like?

  Her dilemma must have been obvious, because Nigel added, “You need not wed him on the morrow. Will a time to know him help? A month, mayhap, when you can come to see that he will indeed make you a good husband?”

  “And if that is not my conclusion after a month’s time?” she asked.

  Nigel sighed. “I know you, daughter. You have an uncommon stubbornness. Can you set that aside and try this afresh? Can you be fair and truly give him a chance to change your mind about him?”

  Could she? Feelings were hard to ignore, especially when they were so powerful. She could not honestly answer him, and said so. “I do not know.”

  He smiled, if only slightly. “That is at least better than a nay.”

  “And if I can never like him?”

  “If I know you have tried, really tried … well, we will see.”

  That was small hope to offer her, but she was afraid it was the only offer she would be getting from him, as set as he was on this joining.

  Nine

  Milisant went down to the kitchen after leaving her father, not because she was still hungry but only because that was what she had intended to do. She had utterly lost her appetite, not surprising when she now had so much bile churning around in her belly.

  In fact, she found herself standing in the center of the kitchen with no idea why she was there. She did not even recall walking there, so full was her mind with what she had more or less promised to do.

  Give him a chance? Had she really agreed to do that? When she already knew what he was like? Boys did not outgrow their natural tendencies when they were men. She’d seen the proof of that this very morn, for Wulfric’s tendency was still to lash out with his superior strength, and woe betide the one he should wield it against.

  “So this is where you didst hide all day?” Milisant whirled around, incredulous. He was standing there in the doorway, filling it with his great size. The room was warm with the many ovens banked for the night, but dimly lit, making his large figure all the more ominous, his shoulder-length hair blackest black, his blue eyes shadowed so that they appeared black as well. It was the broad shoulders, though, and the thick arms, that made him so menacing.

  Roland was taller, maybe half a foot taller than Wulfric, a true giant like his father, yet he did not inspire fear in her. She hated that this man could make her afraid when she was usually so bold. It was the pain he had put her through in her youth—it had to be only that and the vivid memory of it, yet that was enough to make her tense and near tremble in his presence.

  She was to give him a chance to prove he was worthy of her regard? Sweet Mary, how could she do that? He paralyzed her. The only time she hadn’t feared him today was when she’d shouted at him this morn, and only because she had been so furious with him for not chasing after those men. Anger had been the buffer that had let her deal with him. But she could not use that as a defense, not if she was to do as her father had asked.

  “Are we adding selective hearing to the list?” he said into the silence that had greeted his first question.

  Milisant stiffened. “A list of my faults? Aye, add it, for it does sound like a good one. And nay, I was not hiding here. But what do you here? Were you not fed today?”

  “I had no stomach for food earlier. Now I do. Ask me instead why I had no stomach for it.”

  Milisant frowned, clearly sensing his anger now, and aware that he was blaming her. Mayhap she was at fault. He had certainly been to blame for her own lack of appetite today.

  She said as much. “If you are as upset as I over our joining, I understand.”

  He nodded. “I see.”

  Instead of feeling insulted, Milisant took hope. If he was as displeased with their upcoming marriage as she was, he might speak to his father about it. Speaking to hers had not helped, but he might have better luck. Mayhap they could even work together to get out of this dilemma. If that was possible, then honesty might be the best way to deal with him just now.

  Carefully she tried it. “You may have gathered that I do not want to wed with you.” To lighten the blow, she added a little lie. “’Tis not you in particular—but that I love another.”

  That did not lighten the blow enough, apparently. His expression grew darker. “As do I, but what difference does that make? So we will have a typical marriage.”

  “My parents’ marriage was not like that,” she informed him curtly. “I expect better.”

  He snorted. “Your parents were a rare exception, not the rule. You know as well as I that the marriages of nobles are political alliances and naught else. Love is never once taken into consideration.”

  “It should not be that way!”

  “But it is, and you are childish to think it would be otherwise.”

  “Childish! You like this no better than I,” she pointed out. “So why do you just accept it? Why do you not speak to your father about undoing it?”

  “Think you I have not already?”

  She felt her hope dwindle. He had already spoken out as she had, and by the sound of it, he’d had no better luck.

  “Do you ask me, you gave up too easily,” she mumbled bitterly, aware that she had as well.

  “I did not ask you, wench, nor would I, when your behavior shows you to still be a child. The opinions of children carry little weight with me.”

  This was the man she was supposed to give a chance to? A chance to insult and belittle her? Aye, he’d make a worthy husband—about as worthy as the slop pigs that were penned near the kitchen.

  Her face suffused with angry heat, she asked him, “You’ wouldst recognize an opinion if you heard one? Strange. Men like you tend to only hear their own thoughts.”

  As a rebounding insult, it hit its mark. His face was now as red as hers felt. But he also took several steps forward, bringing him too close for comfort. She had forgotten how he dealt with what he did not like hearing—with his fists.

  She did not cower back from him, though, was still too angry for that, even when his hand rose and gripped her chin, not hurting, but a strong grip. She found she could not escape the warning look he gave her.

  “You will learn, wench, to talk sweetly or not at all,” he told her.

  “Will I?”

  He smiled at the quaver in her voice. ’Twas not a pleasant smile, though; it spoke of wicked and dastardly things that put a queasiness in her belly.

  This close, his size overwhelmed her. Why did she never feel this small when she stood next to Roland, who was actually taller? Mayhap because she had never been so aware of Roland as she was so intensely aware of Wulfric.

  He leaned even closer to answer her bravado. “Aye, you will, since what you will learn quickest is that I am not your father. So do not presume that you can have your way, as you have had with him.”

  “You know naught of what I have been allowed.”

  “I can see what you have been allowed, and I like it not. I will expect you to be dressed properly when next I see you. I cannot tell what I am getting when you look like the veriest beggar.”

  She gasped and shoved her way past him, rushing out of the room. Behind her she heard a chuckle and the question, “What? You are not going to fetch your future husband something to eat?”

  She waited until she had reached the stairs leading back up to the hall before she shouted back, “Only if ’tis your own tongue you would like served!”

  Ten

  “’Tis time, m’lady.”

  “Is it?” Milisant mumbled into her pillow.


  “Aye, look yonder out the window,” the maid said. “The sun rises.”

  “You look yonder, Ena, while I sleep a bit more.”

  “But you never sleep late.”

  The cover was being tugged on. Milisant grabbed it back with a low growl. “I never miss sleep either, but such was the case last eventide, and since I got none then, I’ll have some now. Be gone, Ena. Come back in an hour … or two … or three. Aye, three sounds about right.”

  There was a tsking sound, but then the door closed behind the servant. Milisant sighed and went promptly back to sleep. But it was not long before her cover was being insistently tugged on again.

  “If you do not rise now, you will miss dinner,” she was warned.

  Milisant sat up with a gasp. “Dinner? You let me sleep this late?”

  Dinner, the larger of the two main meals of the day, was served a bit before noontime. She had never in her life slept passed Terce, let alone nearly to Sext.

  The servant was giving her a long-suffering look, as if to say, I tried, but you did not. Young Ena made an excellent maid, had been serving both sisters for many years now, but she did often have a condescending air, due to her long years of service.

  Milisant ignored her and pushed her way out of the big bed she shared with her sister. Jhone, of course, would have risen at a normal hour and had no doubt been entertaining their guests all morning, one of the many tasks that fell to the lady of a keep. And Jhone was considered the lady of Dunburh, since Milisant had never aspired to that distinction, and there was no other to take it since their mother had died.

  She dropped the bed robe she slept in during the winter months on her way to the garderobe, where she snatched up a clean tunic and braies. She was half dressed when she recalled that she should be dressing in something other than her normal attire today. In fact, she had promised her father. But she quickly shrugged off that thought and continued wrapping the silver cord to cross-garter her leggings. Dress differently just because Wulfric had ordered her to? After the way he had insulted her with that remark about looking like a beggar?

  She snorted to herself before she looked around the chamber for her footwear. Not spotting them, she asked Ena, “Where are my boots?”

  “Under the bed where you left them.”

  “I never leave them there. I leave them at the washbowl. You know I cannot sleep with dirty feet. You heat the water for me yourself.”

  That had been a quirk of hers ever since she had removed the boot from her mended foot those many years ago and had been treated to the stench of it after wearing the boot for three months. Ever since then, she had been unable to get to sleep at night unless she washed both her feet just before getting into bed.

  Ena bent down by the bed and rose with the missing boots in hand and a told-you-so smirk on her lips. “Mayhap that is why you did not sleep last eventide?”

  Milisant blushed. She had been so upset last night that she had forgotten something like that. She recalled wanting, nay, needing to talk to Jhone, but her sister had been fast asleep and she had been loath to wake her. So she had gone to bed without sharing her worries, and thus they had preyed more heavily on her mind.

  Her belly reminded her, loudly, that she had not been kind to it yesterday, so she hurriedly finished dressing, eager to rectify that. When she reached for her thick woolen cloak, though, the maid held out another.

  “If you are not going to dress as your dear papa would like, at least wear this in honor of the guests below,” Ena suggested.

  She was holding out a long mantle better suited to be worn over a bliaut. But it was a fine piece of rich blue velvet trimmed in black fur. Milisant supposed she could concede that much and nodded, letting the maid drape it over her narrow shoulders and fasten the golden clasps and chains that would keep it from falling off.

  It did not do what the maid had hoped, though, which was let her lady realize that it would look much better with the light blue bliaut it had been designed for. So Ena was left sighing as Milisant rushed out of the chamber.

  The Great Hall was noisy, the castle folk already gathered for the midday meal. Milisant nearly ran down those last few steps in the north tower, her rumbling belly prodding her to haste. But she came to an abrupt halt as she entered the hall and found Wulfric right there at the bottom of the stairs, as if he had been waiting for her. And so he had been, she realized, when his eyes moved over her slowly, then his head shook just as slowly.

  “Only half done, wench. You will take yourself back upstairs and finish the other half.”

  Her back went stiff. Her jaw set stubbornly, her eyes flashed. She was about to retort when he continued.

  “Unless you would like my assistance. So go now and dress yourself properly, or I will dress you myself.”

  “You would not dare,” she hissed at him.

  To that he chuckled. “Would I not? Ask your priest about marriage contracts, and you will learn that we are all but wed, verily, missing only the bedding ceremony. Which means I have rights where you are concerned, wench, that supersede your father’s rights. When you were contracted to me, that gave my family the control of you if they so wanted it. My father could have dictated your education, where you would live, and aught else to do with your upbringing, could even have put you into a nunnery until the wedding. That he left you in your family’s care was obviously a mistake, but one I am in a position to rectify. So you will honor me today by looking like the lady you are supposed to be. If I must help you to do so, so be it. Do you need my help?”

  Milisant stood there in shock. Furious beyond common sense, she opened her mouth to heap invectives on him, but noticed her father across the hall frowning at her and closed her mouth again. To Wulfric she gave the most baleful look she could manage, but she did indeed turn on her heel to remount the stairs.

  This was intolerable. The man had no sensitivity, no tact, no understanding. Everything he said to her was intended to provoke her to argument. Was he hoping she would fly into a rage so he would have an excuse to use his great strength on her again? She did not doubt it. Nothing too despicable was beneath his doing, the churlish lout.

  Eleven

  Wulfric smiled to himself, well pleased. Lord Nigel had been correct after all. The girl would obey him, simply because she did not know him, and so did not know how much he would tolerate from her. She also did not know what means he would use to force any issue between them; thus she would not be eager to find out.

  He still was not happy with her, doubted he ever would be. She would never give him the tender care he could expect from a wife. Jesu, she actually admitted she loved someone else. So she would never be happy in their marriage either, and she was not like to let him forget it. Her ways were abrasive. He could expect a never-ending battle with her. But he would make a lady out of her. She would not embarrass him.

  The lady Jhone rushed past him and up the stairs, her expression concerned, so she had likely witnessed her sister’s upset. He sighed, regretful that she had not been the eldest daughter, for she was lovely in every way, would have made him a fine wife indeed. Compassionate, soft-spoken, eager to please—everything her sister was not.

  Nigel tried to summon him to table, but Wulfric declined for the moment. He was not leaving his position by the stairs so that the wench could sneak past him again and be gone for another entire day. However, he was reminded that she had gone up these stairs yesterday, yet had disappeared from the keep without coming down them. He asked a nearby servant if there was another exit and he moved to the stairs next to the chapel instead.

  Sure enough, he soon heard the light steps of a woman coming down the other stairs. She was a crafty one, he had to admit, one with a sharp wit. He had actually gone to bed last night somewhat amused over her parting remark. Serve him his tongue indeed.

  But he was wrong about who was coming down the stairs. He was surprised to see that it was Jhone instead—and then not so surprised as another thought occurred to him.
br />   “’Twould seem I moved to this location too late,” he said to her when she reached the bottom step. “She was not up there, was she?”

  “She?”

  “There is no need to stall for her, Jhone, by playing dense. So she thinks to hide from me for yet another day? She will not—”

  “You are mistaken.”

  “Am I?” He frowned and indicated she should precede him up the stairs. “Then you will show me—”

  “I already have,” she said cryptically, and slipped past him to hurry into the hall.

  His frown got much darker. He did not like riddles, which was what he had just been served. He debated whether to climb the stairs himself to search out his betrothed, when he was already sure she would not be up there, or to follow her sister to find out what she had meant.

  With a low sound of aggravation, he entered the hall to follow the lady, only to find that there were … two of them. He stopped short and simply stared at the two women sitting on either side of their father, both wearing gowns of light blue velvet with a darker blue chemise, both wearing blue wimples, both—identical.

  ’Twas the lighting, of course, it had to be—yet daylight streamed in the windows, casting no shadows. He took a few steps closer and could still see no difference. They were shaped the same, dressed the same, both incredibly lovely, both—identical. A few more steps and he noted one gown was embroidered about the neck and sleeves with gold thread, the other with silver, but that was the only difference. Their faces were the same—identical.

  Why had he not seen it sooner? But then he knew why. Each time he had looked at Milisant Crispin he had seen the outrageous clothes she was wearing and looked not much further. He’d seen her legs, clearly defined by tight leggings, and had been annoyed that every other man could see them as well. He’d seen her dirtstained skin and had not seen what was beneath the dirt. And he’d been clouded by anger each time, that she was just as he had feared she would be.