That was if she agreed to marry him.
The look on her face when he’d told her about Etton made him wonder. He hadn’t wanted to mention it at all—hadn’t wanted to sway her answer—but she needed to know the truth. If she refused the Earl’s command he wasn’t likely to let her go home.
For the first time he found himself wishing she were more selfish, like Maren. If she only thought of herself then at least he’d know what she wanted. He knew she felt a strong sense of duty towards her people. It would be typical of her to agree to the marriage just to protect them. It certainly wouldn’t prove anything about her feelings for him.
Well, their marriage would be based on duty—not love. Hers to her people, his to the King. He wasn’t about to succumb to temptation and let her make a fool of him again. He’d marry her for Redbourn, nothing more.
The oxhide swung open again and he tried his hardest not to react. She was dressed in an emerald-green gown, cinched at the waist with a tasselled belt, showing the curve of her hip to tantalising perfection. Her dark hair was covered with a veil, held in place with a copper headband that made her eyes seem even bigger and brighter, flickering like jewels in the candlelight.
‘Is this better?’
She ran her hands over the fabric self-consciously and he felt his blood surge with desire. Better? He’d found her alluring enough when she’d been dirt-stained and tattered, so this was almost more than he could bear. She looked stunning—more beautiful than any woman he’d ever laid eyes on. He felt himself harden just looking at her. If it weren’t for the Earl expecting them they’d get no further than this hall...
‘Better.’
He offered an arm gruffly and she took it, resting a hand on his bicep as they crossed the bailey in strained silence.
The hall itself was a riotous assault on the senses, crowded with knights and a scattering of ladies, and all eyes swivelled like magnets as they entered. Svend clenched his jaw fiercely. Every man in the room was looking at her with undisguised admiration, most of them hardly bothering to hide what they were thinking. He raised his spare hand to cover hers on his arm, saw her glance at him in surprise.
‘Lady Aediva—at last!’ FitzOsbern’s gaze swept over her approvingly as they approached the dais. ‘There seems to have been some confusion regarding your identity, my lady.’
Svend felt her hand tremble slightly on his arm, though her face showed no trace of fear as she dipped into a low, graceful curtsy.
‘Apologies, my lord. The fault was all mine.’
‘Then I hope you’re here to make reparation? I trust you’ve been informed of my wishes?’
For a moment she didn’t answer, and Svend felt himself tense. If she were going to refuse the marriage then it would be now. And suddenly he wanted very badly for her to agree.
‘I understand that you wish for us to marry?’
His heart sank. Her voice was loud and clear, carrying to all four corners of the hall, too bold, too defiant, as if she were preparing to refuse the Earl after all.
‘Indeed.’ FitzOsbern stood up expectantly. ‘So, Lady Aediva, we’re here for a wedding. Are you willing?’
‘If it pleases you, my lord, I am.’
Chapter Thirteen
Aediva sat miserably at the high table, trapped between the Earl and her new husband, keeping a rictus smile on her face. If she smiled any harder she thought her face would crack. Or she would.
She winced as a seemingly endless array of dishes were paraded past her trencher: duck drenched in honey, chicken stuffed with egg yolk, kidney and liver, woodcock and wild boar—more food than she usually saw in a month. She wondered where it had all come from. The Conqueror’s army had plundered the land, leaving the Saxons starving, but here at the Earl’s court there was no sign of shortage. The contrast would have turned her stomach even if his presence had not.
Absently, she twisted the copper band on her finger. How had it happened? She was married. To her enemy. Not by force, not against her wishes, but willingly, without so much as a murmur of protest, and in the presence of the Earl himself. What would her father have thought of her now?
But she was protecting Etton, she reminded herself. That was the reason she’d done it—the only reason that made any sense. She didn’t care for Svend...not after every insult and accusation he’d heaped on her. She was protecting her people, acting the part of Saxon lady and willing bride. That was her duty. Even if it meant life with a man who despised her.
She cast a sidelong glance towards her new husband, but his whole attention seemed riveted on the entertainment before them—a brightly coloured collection of jugglers, dancers and musicians. He’d been politely attentive all through the meal, loading her trencher with an array of delicacies, though he’d barely spoken a word, the smile on his lips never reaching his eyes.
Well, it wasn’t as if she wanted to be there either. She felt more alone in this crowded hall than she ever had at Etton. At least there she’d been amongst her own people, but now she could see nothing but strangers. Who were they? Who was she? Was she still Saxon or was she now Norman by marriage? Or Danish? Whoever she was, she felt surplus to requirements. This feast had been planned for de Quincey and Cille. Her marriage to Svend was just an excuse. If she slipped away she doubted anyone would notice. Probably not even her husband.
She chewed her lip resentfully. She wasn’t exactly sure what she ought to be doing on her wedding night, but she was quite certain that she shouldn’t be doing it on her own.
‘Did you know your husband plays the lyre?’ FitzOsbern’s voice broke through her reverie.
Svend’s head snapped round at once. ‘Not well.’
‘Passably well.’ The Earl’s smile was teasing. ‘When he came to Court he knew nothing of music or culture. I told him a knight had to do more with his hands than just fight. Come, Svend, honour us with a tune. A song for your new bride.’