Chapter 10
Alys’s ruddy face contorted in a grimace. Gwen dropped the lock of hair she’d been furiously twisting and clasped her hands together.
“You’ll ruin it if you don’t stop,” Alys said, hands on hips.
“It won’t happen again.” Gwen started twisting the end of her chemise. Two days had passed with alarming speed. Today she would become the wife of Black Hawk de Claiborne.
And tonight, he would make her his wife in deed as well as name. Tonight, she could not escape him.
Gwen shivered.
Alys worked in silence, twisting Gwen’s curls around her fingers until small ringlets fell in a thick tangle of molten fire.
When she finished, Gwen stood. Alys nodded appreciatively at the way the white silk of the chemise clung to the soft curves of Gwen’s body.
“Your handsome lord will certainly enjoy seeing you in that, Highness.”
Gwen pouted even as she felt the color rising in her cheeks. Since Richard had kissed Alys’s hand, the woman had nothing but praise for him. “Nay, Alys. The English completely strip the bride and groom before the bedding.”
Alys’s eyes widened. “Barbarians!”
Gwen nodded, pleased she knew something Alys did not. Elinor had explained that particular custom to her.
Alys helped her into a red silk undergown, buttoning the sleeves at her wrist. Next came a forest green overgown, embroidered with the red dragon of Wales. Fitted at the waist and bosom, the skirt draped softly over her hips, swaying seductively when she walked.
The long sleeves trailed almost to the floor and Alys knotted them to keep the velvet from getting soiled, then retrieved a golden girdle studded with precious gems. She wrapped it around Gwen’s waist, arranging it so its gilded chains tinkled musically with every movement.
When Gwen had donned the jeweled slippers and flowing green mantle, Alys settled a golden circlet on her curls. “You are sure to take any man’s breath away today, child. I wish your mother were here…”
Gwen swallowed. She gazed into the polished silver mirror the King had provided. Touching one of the crimson dragons emblazoned on the velvet gown, her fingers lingered over the fine needlework.
“’Tis just you and me, Alys,” she said softly. “Like always.”
The cathedral entrance was blocked from Gwen’s sight as King Edward led her up the human path that magically cleared before them.
Onlookers thronged the grounds, waiting for a glimpse of the bride. Every man, woman, and child in Shrewsbury was here today, and others besides. ’Twas not often a town got to host a wedding for the highest nobility.
Leaden clouds blanketed the sky in misery. The wind was slight, but chilly. A lock of Gwen’s hair lifted, fluttering across her face.
In the distance, she heard the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep. She focused on the cathedral. Stained-glass windows adorned the gray facade. The arch above the door was in the new Gothic style, suggesting the church had undergone a recent renovation.
Richard waited in the entryway, his face impassive. Gwen’s feet felt like standing stones. She forced them to keep moving.
He extended his hand without a word. He did not smile, or lift an eyebrow, or show any emotion of any kind, and that disappointed her.
Perhaps she’d hoped for some sort of comfort from him, some sort of camaraderie. After all, neither of them wanted this marriage. She supposed he had every right to be sullen.
When their hands touched, a lightning bolt of sensation rippled along her nerve endings. She looked at him in surprise. If he’d felt it, he wasn’t showing it.
His presence filled her senses. He wore crimson and black, as usual. The hawk device was embroidered over his heart and the great, jeweled sword was strapped to his hip.
He towered over her, and she schooled herself not to look up at him. Her face burned just remembering what had passed between them.
The bishop’s voice droned in her ears and she let her mind wander. It didn’t go far, just to the man beside her.
Who was this man called Black Hawk anyway? Standing next to him in this setting, it was almost hard to believe he was capable of the violence attributed to him. Why could he not be ugly, with a wart on the end of his nose and a fat belly to boot?
Mayhap evil always used beauty as a facade. If so, then this man was full of ugliness. Gwen closed her eyes.
His hand was warm on hers. He smelled of soap and spice and danger, always danger. When he spoke, his rich voice slid over her like a velvet caress.
From a great distance, she heard her name, but it was not Richard’s voice that spoke it. Her eyes shot open.
“Princess Gwenllian?” the bishop was saying. “Your vows?”
The crowd murmured. Richard squeezed her hand. She looked up at him then. Fury masked his handsome features.
Gwen turned and stammered her vows. The noise of the crowd trickled off.
Richard accepted the ring the bishop handed him, then turned to her. His voice was clear, but Gwen sensed the hard edge of anger beneath the surface.
“With this ring I thee wed.” He slid it over the tips of the first three fingers of her right hand. “And with my body I thee worship.”
Gwen felt a chill ripple over her.
“And with all my worldly chattels I thee endow.” He slid it onto the third finger of her left hand. “In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”
She tilted her face up to accept his kiss. The contact was brief, but at the last moment his tongue darted over her lower lip. Gwen shuddered.
The horde of onlookers cheered.
Richard led her into the church for the nuptial mass. They knelt side by side before the bishop as the gathered nobles filed in behind them.
The air was cooler inside the cathedral than out.
The vaulted chamber soared high overhead.
The sounds of people shuffling in and talking quietly rose to become a dull humming.
The light of thousands of candles flickered, seeming lifelike in their joyful dancing.
Despite whatever recent work had been done, the church still smelled old.
Not musty exactly, just old, as if the air was subdued by the solemn stones surrounding it.
A hush fell over the gathering as the bishop began to speak. His voice rose, distinct and clear, to float disembodied over the crowd.
Gwen slanted a look at her husband from beneath her lowered lashes.
His face seemed carved from a block of stone, the short beard doing little to soften the chiseled angles.
She caught herself thinking she was glad it didn’t cover half his face.
Instead, it hugged his jawline, emphasizing the rough masculinity that was his alone.
His midnight hair shone blue-black in the candlelight. Gwen remembered the feel of it between her fingers. Soft. Crisp. Velvet. It was shorter than most men’s, not even reaching his shoulders, but she found she liked that too.
It occured to her that his profile did indeed resemble the hawk he was called after. Fierce, proud, and noble.
Her stomach fluttered. For a moment, she felt like the young girl who had been smitten with the handsome knight. And, if she dared admit it, this was exactly what she had wanted back then.
But that was so long ago, and he was not who she’d thought he was. She felt a little pang of remorse for her lost dreams.
Her gaze trailed down his body to his hand. It hung at his side, motionless. Gwen shivered. It was powerful, containing the strength to choke the breath from her if he so wished it.
And yet it was beautiful. Well-shaped from large palm to tapered fingers, sinews capable of great strength now lay still in silent supplication to God.
Gwen knew the feel of his hands already. Knew the palms, calloused from battle and strenuous training. Knew the smooth fingertips, capable of eliciting pleasure where she had never experienced it before. She blushed and glanced at his face.
He was watching her. One corner of his mouth quirked in a mocking grin. She jerked her gaze away, staring at the floor and cursing herself for getting caught.
When at last the mass was over, Richard stood and then bent to help her up. His hand clamped over her elbow and when he raised her, he pulled her to him.
“Was that desire I saw on your face, my sweet?” he whispered.
“Definitely not!” Gwen prayed he couldn’t hear the thundering of her heart.
“I’m going to enjoy proving you wrong.”
The husky tone of his voice sent her stomach fluttering again. She turned and started down the aisle ahead of him. She stumbled, but his strong hands closed over her arms.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nay, my lord. My legs ache, but I will be fine. You may let me go.”
“As you wish,” he said.
Gwen’s legs buckled again. This time, Richard swept her into his arms. There was a collective gasp from the crowd. Gwen buried her face in his shoulder.
Cradled against his chest, she felt the steady beat of his heart, felt taut muscle flexing beneath her as he carried her down the aisle.
She expected him to put her down when they got outside, but he did not. “I can walk, my lord.”
“Nay, I think not.”
“My lord, you must not carry me all the way to the castle.”
“The peasantry does not seem to mind.”
Indeed, they did not. People cheered, patting each other on the back and pointing as the Earl of Dunsmore stood on the steps with his bride in his arms. Many of them had jostled for a position all morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bridal couple as they left the cathedral.
They’d been too far back to witness the ceremony, surging forward as the lords and ladies entered the church for the nuptial mass.
“What is the matter, Richard?” the King asked as he came up behind them. He was resplendent in royal purple. A jeweled crown sat upon his head, tilting jauntily to one side.
“That bishop is an interminable bag of wind. The mass was too long. Even my legs ache.”
“Poor child,” Queen Eleanor said, laying her hand on Gwen’s arm. “Why don’t you ride in the litter with me? ’Twill be more comfortable.”