To the Lady Born (14 page)

More valets greeted them at the door to collect the lady’s cloak.  Weston unfastened the ties around her neck, handing the enormous cloak over to the servants as he took his wife by the hand and proceeded into the great entry hall beyond. 

Amalie was a little uncomfortable leaving the cloak behind because it was one more layer of clothing to hide her growing stomach, but Weston kissed her hand, softly reassuring her that she did not need the cloak.  She looked like a goddess with her flowing golden gown that quite cleverly disguised her belly and he was as puffed up as a peacock.  As they moved into the great hall, they ran headlong into the crème de la crème of Suffolk and Essex society.

The wedding was planned in the great formal gardens to the rear of the manse, unusual given that weddings were almost always held in churches.  The weather was cooperating and beneath the bright blue sky, blooming flowers were daring to show their faces. Roses and camellias bloomed in colors of pink, yellow and white, while great stalks of purple foxgloves reached for the sky.  The great entry of Brundon ran the width of the house with its swept wood floors and oak-paneled walls, and Amalie could see the garden as she and Weston navigated deeper into the room.

Weston didn’t know the nobles of Essex and Sussex like Amalie did so he didn’t feel the apprehension that she did as she faced her peers.  There was a massive table laden with flowers and food against the wall while servants passed around fine wine in cut crystal chalices. 

As Weston took a chalice for both himself and Amalie, passing a cup to his wife, he couldn’t help but notice that no expense had been spared for the wedding; the monstrous room was full of flowers and finery, smelling of fresh rushes and smoked meat. It was truly a sight and he began to feel bad that he and Amalie had been married without fanfare or luxury.  He had fairly forced her into a dull wedding in a nunnery.  He tried not to feel too guilty as he took his wife to the food table.

“Look at all of this food,” he muttered, collecting a pewter plate handed to him by a hovering servant girl. “What would you like to sample, my angel?”

Amalie looked over the table, smelling and visually inspecting all of the wonderful foods; there was a roast swan with the feathers replaced to make it look like a living bird again, peacock that was dressed with boiled fruits, different types of fish in spiced milk, rice with grapes, almond milk puddings with rose petals, an almond subtlety that was shaped to look like Brundon Manor down to little flags flying from the battlements, plus a variety of cakes and honeyed sweets.  It was truly a display of wealth and luxury.

Amalie went along the table, tasting everything before she would allow it on her plate. Fortunately, the nausea that had plagued her for the first few months had vanished, leaving her constantly ravenous. Weston simply held the plate and dished up the food she wanted while Heath and John, dressed in their knightly best tunics bearing Bolingbroke’s colors, followed behind.  The knights ripped legs off peacocks and dug their fingers into the chicken dishes until Amalie admonished them on their manners. Contrite, they tried to be less beastly about it as they licked their fingers and devoured the meats.

“Lady Amalie,” came a rather loud and pompous female voice. “What a surprise to see you here, my dear.”              Amalie heard the voice, a piece of chicken half-way to her mouth, and turned to the source.  On the approach was a round, well-dressed woman with her pale blond daughter in tow.  The round woman was rather plain looking but it was apparent she was wearing every jewel she owned.  She was covered in them. Her quiet daughter was lovely in a pale sort of way, smiling and waving at Amalie when their eyes met. Amalie put the chicken back on the plate and smiled weakly at the pair.

“Lady Ovington, you are looking well,” she indicated Weston. “I do not believe you have met my husband, Sir Weston de Royans.”

Lady Ovington’s hawk-like eyes zeroed in on Weston; he could feel her calculating stare. “Sir Weston,” she sounded rather imperious, as if she was sizing him up.  She pointed to her daughter. “My daughter, the Lady Laurel.”

Weston nodded politely. “My ladies, it is a pleasure.”

Lady Ovington’s old and shrewd gaze drifted over Weston a moment as she put her hand on Amalie’s arm. “My dear, he is quite attractive, is he not?” she commented. “We had not heard that you were married, Amalie.  Were we not invited?”

It was a bold question and Weston already didn’t like the woman.  He looked at Amalie, wondering how she was going to deal with this type of question. It probably wouldn’t be the last time she heard it today.   But Amalie merely smiled, a forced attempt, and replied politely.

“Had we been married at the castle, you would have most certainly been invited,” she said evenly. “However, we were not. Weston is the garrison commander for Hedingham.”

Lady Ovington’s fuzzy brow furrowed. “Garrison commander?” she repeated, looking to Laurel. “Had we heard about this? I seem to recall hearing something about a garrison commander and Lady Amalie….”

Laurel, a truly good and gentle girl, cut her mother off. “I believe we did hear of a wedding, Mother,” she said, her nervous eyes moving to Amalie. “You were married at Bolingbroke, were you not?”

It was a lie to throw her mother off the scent; Amalie could see what Laurel was doing and she appreciated the help. Lady Ovington was one of the worst gossips in the shire.

Amalie nodded quickly. “My husband comes from a very old and distinguished family,” she told the pair. “His grandfather is Baron Cononley, Constable of North Yorkshire and the Northern Dales.  Weston will inherit the title.”

That seemed to impress the old snoop somewhat.  But it was evident that she wasn’t finished yet; she clutched Amalie’s arm companionably.

“And your brother?” she asked leadingly. “We heard such awful things about him, Amalie. I pray they were not true.”

Amalie’s smile tightened. “What did you hear?”

Lady Ovington lowered her voice. “That he fled to Ireland in disgrace,” she said, clucking softly. “I am so sorry for you, my dear. To have such ties with the king and now… well, now your castle belongs to Bolingbroke and the de Vere name is no longer favored. I am very sorry for you.”

Amalie had about all she could take; she pulled her arm away from the probing old gossip and wrapped her hands around Weston’s forearm.

“No need,” she said evenly. “Weston and I are very happy and all is well. I would not worry if I were you.”

Lady Ovington looked surprised. “But… my dear,” she began to feign distress. “You do not need to pretend….”

Amalie turned her back on her. “Good day, Lady Ovington,” she said crisply. “Come along, Weston. We have better things to do.”

It was a direct insult against Lady Ovington, who stood there with her mouth gaping as Amalie and Weston walked away.  Weston took his wife’s lead, his free hand over hers as it clutched his elbow.  When they were at the opposite side of the table, well away from the Ovingtons, he collected another small crystal glass of wine for Amalie.  She took it gratefully and downed it all in one swallow.  He smiled.

“Excellent, Lady de Royans,” he said softly. “You had no problem handling that old cow.”

She eyed him, licking her lips of the sweet wine. “She is one of the worst,” she hissed. “If any rumors get started, they will come from her.”

“Then let us lose ourselves in this crowd,” he said. “Surely there are nicer people to speak with.”

“There are.”

“Then let us find them.”

They did.  Amalie ran into several people she knew right away; the mayor of Castle Hedingham was in attendance, a round man with bad teeth who greeted her fondly.  Weston had already met the man, months ago on one of his daily trips to the nunnery when Amalie was still in residence.  They were also greeted by the mayor’s daughter, a young lady who had just crossed the threshold into womanhood, a pretty girl with long red hair that Amalie knew well. 

When Heath and John pressed their attentions on the young woman, whom they had also met during their months at the castle, Amalie shooed them away.  In her opinion, the mayor’s daughter was much too young for either of them; at thirteen years of age, she was still a child.  Dejected, the knights found sport elsewhere.

While Amalie chatted away with an old widowed noblewoman by the name of Lady Henny, Weston went back over to the food table to retrieve some edibles.  Amalie had left her plate on the table when she had departed from Lady Ovington, so Weston reclaimed the plate and piled fresh food upon it.  He took it back over to his wife, who was speaking quite companionably to old Lady Henny.  The old woman had her by the hands, speaking of her something trivial and laughing at her own story.  Amalie was laughing with her and Weston took a moment just to watch her; she was such a glorious creature to watch.  His heart softened at the sight of her, smiling as Lady Henny suddenly grabbed Amalie by the arm and peered flirtatiously up at him.

“Dearest Amalie, your husband is quite comely,” she said as if it was some great secret. “I do believe he is more handsome that my dear Edward.”

Amalie winked at Weston as she answered. “Weston is quite comely, that is true,” she agreed. “I do believe I shall keep him.”

“You do not want to give him up? I shall pay a handsome price for a handsome man.”

Amalie laughed. “Nay,” she assured her. “He belongs to me and I do not wish to relinquish him.”             

Lady Henny giggled like a girl; it was really quite funny to watch. “Pity,” she sighed. “Perhaps if you grow weary of him, you will let me know.”

“You would be in for a very long wait.”

Lady Henny laughed again, putting her arms around Amalie to hug her but her left arm brushed against Amalie’s firm belly.  The old woman’s laughter faded and her eyes bulged as she put a warm, gnarled hand on Amalie’s rounded stomach.

“My goodness,” Lady Henny gasped as she felt the warm firmness beneath the material. “I did not know you were with child, my dear.”

Amalie’s smile vanished. “Aye,” she began to stammer, suddenly very uncomfortable. “It is not something I wish to….”

Lady Henny put two hands on Amalie’s belly, interrupting her. “I can feel the child,” she announced. “Why have I not heard of this before?”

Amalie tried to discreetly pull away from the woman, grasping one of the old hands so it would not probe her any longer. “We do not wish to announce the child yet.  Please do not....”

The old lady pretended not to hear her. “This is such a wonderful blessing, Amalie,” she insisted. “Surely you should like to shout this to the world.”

The old woman opened her mouth in an apparent attempt to make such an announcement but Amalie grabbed the old arms, forcing her to quiet, forcing the old woman to look at her.  There were tears in Amalie’s eyes as she spoke.

“Please keep this to yourself,” she begged in a whisper. “I do not wish to announce it yet. The pregnancy has… has not been good and I do not even know if I will be able to carry this child to term. Please keep this to yourself and tell no one until I make the announcement. Do you understand me?”

The old woman’s expression slackened as Amalie’s words began to sink in. She could see that Amalie was verging on tears and she threw her arms around her, kissing her cheeks.

“I will not tell a soul,” she whispered reassuringly. “I swear it. I am sorry to have upset you so. But if you need me, do not hesitate to send word. I shall be at your side quickly.”

Amalie forced a smile, wiping at the tears that were starting to flow. Weston stood by, watching the old woman comfort her, until finally reaching out to take his wife’s hand. He had been close to taking the old woman’s head off until Amalie had convinced the old bird to shut her mouth. Still, he was struggling with his anger towards the old woman for upsetting Amalie so, but he pushed it aside in order to comfort his wife.

“Come along, Ammy,” he said softly. “It looks as if they are about to begin the ceremony.”

Lady Henny clutched Amalie’s arm from the other side. “She must have a chair, Sir Weston. She cannot stand in her condition.”

Weston nodded to agree but Amalie shook her head firmly. “Not if I am the only one sitting,” she declared. “I do not want to be the only one sitting.”

Lady Henny patted her hand. “’Tis all right, my dear,” she said. “You do not have to sit if you do not want to.”

Weston was thinking seriously on chasing the old woman away; although she seemed genuine, he didn’t know her and was therefore wary of her intentions. Amalie seemed to be comfortable with her, however, so he allowed the woman to remain. She was matronly and caring, a manner that Amalie responded to.

As they made their way through the crowd that was gradually filtering out into the brilliant garden beyond, Amalie noticed that Cecily’s betrothed was already outside. She pointed him out to Lady Henny.

“Look,” she said. “There is Sir Michael Hollington, Cecily’s intended. He is a knight for Thomas de Mowbray.”

Weston glanced over at the man they were pointing at and his brow furrowed. “That man?” he clarified.

Amalie nodded. “Do you know him?”

Weston’s dark blue gaze settled on the man, inspecting him at a distance; he was much older than Cecily and his once-muscular body had gone to fat. In fact, he was very old and very fat, and Weston recalled that Cecily had told them he had been married before.  From the looks of him, he could have been married several times before.  After a moment, he simply shook his head.