Joining (8 page)

Nigel snorted. “I doubt me he will ever do that. And be honest, daughter. You choose to provoke him, so the choice is in fact yours, whether you live with him in harmony or not.”

“I do not want to live with him at all! I want to marry Roland Fitz Hugh of Clydon instead. I know him well. We are friends.”

“Is that not Lord Ranulf’s son?”

“Aye.”

“And is he not one of Guy de Thorpe’s liege men?” “Aye, but—”

“You would have me wed you to the son of one of his vassals, when you could be wed to his own son instead? Do not be a fool, Mili.”

“If you were not friends with the earl, if you had not saved his life, I would
never
have been considered for his precious heir! You know that.”

“All the more reason to be honored that you were considered. He made the offer himself. ’Twould have been the gravest insult to refuse such an offer. You should be pleased with it. You will be an earl’s wife.”

“What would I care for titles when I know I will be miserable? This is what you want for me? To condemn me to a life I will hate?”

“Nay, I want you to be happy, Mili. The difference is, I know you will be, once you get over this silliness of thinking you cannot love Wulfric. There is no reason for you
not
to love him.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to give him one very good reason, that in the space of mere seconds, Wulfric had not only killed one of her pets, but nigh crippled her for life. But since her father had never known about her broken foot, with Jhone going about pretending to be her during those three months she had stayed to her chamber to recover, so she would not be missed, he was not like to believe her. And even if he did believe her, he would still discount it, because Wulfric had only been a boy at the time,
and boys could be forgiven for their childhood misdeeds.

So she gave him another reason, albeit one that was not true as yet, but she had every confidence that it would be. “I cannot love Wulfric de Thorpe when I already love Roland and know I can be very happy with him. I would not fear him, because I know that he would make me a good, tolerant husband, as you have been a good, tolerant father.”

Nigel shook his head slowly. “You speak of feelings you developed as a child. That is not love—”

“It is!”

“Nay, you have not even seen him for nigh two years—aye, I remember his visit here. A fine lad. I was much impressed by his manner. No doubt he would make a tolerant husband. But I have done you no good favor, being tolerant of your preferences all these years. More tolerance is
not
what you need now. ’Tis time for you to accept what you are, a woman, soon to be a wife, soon after that to be a mother, and to conduct yourself accordingly. Or do you intend to shame me for the rest of my days, as you have shamed me thus far?”

She blanched. She had never heard him speak so before—nay, that was not exactly true. He had mentioned many times the embarrassment she brought him with her unnatural tendencies, but he had not seemed to really mean it. She had not taken him seriously. But now …

“You are ashamed of me?” she asked in a small voice.

“Nay, child, not ashamed, just very disappointed
that you cannot accept your lot, what the good Lord decided you should be. And very tired of not being heeded. You do not realize how disrespectful it is when you disobey me, or how others perceive it and lose respect for me also—” “Nay, that is not so!”

“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?”