“I am not your husband. I am Sir Guy de Blasis, one of Lord Graelam’s knights. At your service, my lady.”
Guy bowed to the slender young girl before him. It had not occurred to him that she would mistake him for Lord Graelam. But then again, she had never even seen his master.
Kassia swayed where she stood and Guy quickly caught her arm to steady her. “There is no reason for you to be afraid, my lady,” Guy said gently. “Lord Graelam is within and he is not yet wed. Your timing, in fact, is exquisite. The wedding is tomorrow.” As he spoke, the enormity of the situation broke over him. Poor Joanna! Poor Blanche! He wanted to laugh, but he saw the pain of utter weariness in Kassia’s eyes, and gently cupped her elbow, pulling her forward. He spoke to one of Lord Graelam’s men and motioned him toward Stephen.
“Your men will be taken care of, my lady. Now it is time for you to meet your husband.”
Kassia felt the warmth of his hand through her cloak. But still she felt cold, icy to her very bones. Pride, my girl, she wanted to shout. Her feet obeyed, yet each step upward was a terrible obstacle to overcome. She stepped into the massive hall. It was darker and cooler within, and for a moment she could see nothing for the dim light. She shook her head, allowing Guy to lead her toward the end of the hall. She saw a man seated in an ornately carved high-backed chair. Next to him, seated in a smaller chair, sat a young woman with blond hair so light that it looked nearly white. There were at least fifty men and women standing about, some richly garbed. She became aware suddenly that all the voices were dying away. Closer and closer they came to the man. She could see him clearly now. He was as dark as Guy was fair. He appeared huge, even seated, and his face looked stern and forbidding. Oh no, no! she thought frantically. Not this man!
“My lord,” Guy said in a loud voice, “may I present your wife, Lady Kassia de . . . Moreton, to your guests.”
The young woman seated beside Graelam let out a shriek and jumped to her feet. Lord Graelam merely gazed at her, his face telling her nothing.
There was a suddenly furious babble of voices, all of them raised, all of them outraged. Kassia was vaguely aware of an older man, richly garbed, stepping toward her.
It took a moment for Guy’s words to sink in. Graelam looked at the slight girl, covered from throat to toe in a dusty cloak. He saw the short curls capping her small head. He ignored the strident, angry voices about him, ignored the cries from Joanna and the guttural moans from Joanna’s mother, Lady Eleanor. Slowly he rose from his chair, his eyes never leaving her face. It was the short, curling chestnut hair that made him believe it was Kassia de Lorris, for he could not place this girl into the wraith’s body he had seen at Belleterre.
Suddenly he could not help himself. He threw back his head and roared with laughter. Laughter at himself
, laughter at the uproar this girl had caused, laughter at the sudden inevitable turn his life had taken.
Kassia gaped at the huge man whose whole body was convulsed with laughter. She felt the hostility and the blatant disbelief of the people around her.
“I carry your ring, my lord,” she said in a loud, clear voice.
She slid it off her finger and thrust it out toward him.
Graelam stopped laughing. He stared down at his ring, banded with thick horsehair to keep it on her slender finger.
He heard Lord Thomas shrieking like an idiot woman, demanding to know the meaning of this outrage. He heard Joanna or perhaps Blanche, he couldn’t tell which, yelling insults at the girl. Another woman, likely Joanna’s mother, was wailing with piercing loudness.
“Graelam,” the Duke of Cornwall said in a voice of awful calm, striding forward, “perhaps you will tell me the meaning of this? Who is this girl?”
Graelam ignored him. He stepped closer to Kassia and gently cupped her chin in his hand, drawing her face upward.
Kassia felt his dark eyes searching her face. She could not bring herself to look up at him. Why did he not say something?
“My lord,” Joanna cried, “I will not allow you to have your whore here! How dare you!”
Blanche was laughing, her eyes alight with malicious joy on Joanna’s contorted face. “Well, my lady,” she said softly to Joanna, “it appears your wedding must be to another.”
“You bitch,” Joanna said furiously, turning on Blanche, “she is but a whore! She will be gone soon, and forever! My father will not allow her to remain!”
Kassia was not deaf. A whore! She turned angry eyes toward the women, but no words came to mind. Her husband still had said nothing. She felt herself again begin to tremble. What was going to happen to her? The light seemed to grow dimmer. The terrible women seemed to weave before her eyes.
“I . . . I am sorry,” she gasped, her frantic eyes going to her husband’s face. For the first time in her life, she welcomed the blessed darkness that was welling up within her, letting her escape from this nightmare. For the second time in her life, Kassia collapsed where she stood.
Kassia felt great weariness, but the blackness that had engulfed her was receding, forcing her back to consciousness. Slowly, fearfully, she opened her eyes. For many moments everything was a blur. Then she saw a man—her husband—beside her, his dark eyes expressionless on her face. She made a small gasping sound and tried to pull herself up. She felt covered with shame that she had fainted like a silly sheep in front of all those people.
“Nay,” Graelam said, “lie still.”
She obeyed, heeding more his tone than his words. His voice was gentle, unlike his roaring, mocking laughter.
“Where am I?” she asked, hating herself for her pitifully wavering voice.
“In my chamber, or rather I should say, our chamber. Are you still ill?”
His voice was still gentle and she managed to meet his eyes. She could read nothing. His face was impassive, giving her no clue.