The Silent Songbird (Hagenheim #7)(4)

The man’s friends brushed him off and clapped him on the back, their eyes wide as they seemed to be congratulating him on his act of bravery.

He gave them all a smile, and her stomach flipped at his gentle expression.

After a few moments, he approached the little girl and squatted to look her in the eye. They seemed to be having a quiet conversation, then the child stepped close enough to put her arms around his neck. The man put his arms around her.

Evangeline’s heart turned to wax and melted into her stomach.

“If only I were a peasant,” she whispered. “I could fall in love with him, someone kind and brave and strong. Though he was poor, if he loved me, I would give him my heart.”

He walked away with his friends, and she sighed.

What hope did she have to enjoy such a love as portrayed in the traveling minstrels’ ballads? She was a king’s granddaughter, even if her birth was illegitimate. She would never be free to go wherever she wanted, to work and play and live in the sunshine. If she ever wanted to be free to marry for love, she had no choice but to run away from Berkhamsted Castle and never return.



After an afternoon of bathing, dressing, being fussed over, and sitting still until her neck ached while a servant prepared her hair in loose curls, Evangeline could feel her self-control slipping. They dressed her in a patterned Flemish cotehardie of pale-green-and-pink flowers with an elaborately embroidered hem. Then they placed a jeweled circlet on her head over a sheer headrail. But every minute, she was thinking of the bag she had begun to fill with necessities—clothing she had taken from the servants’ quarters, money, and a pair of sturdy shoes, also pilfered from the storage closet where the head house servant kept a surplus.

She was getting dressed up for the king and Lord Shiveley when she did not even know exactly when they might arrive. The only thing that mattered was pleasing the king and his important guests.

She might as well be that poor horse who had broken away from its owner in the castle bailey earlier. Was he so tired of the bit and bridle that dug into his soft, tender mouth that he could take it no longer? Was he in pain in some other part of his body? Did he want to eat? Sleep? Find his mate? No one knew, no one cared, and the horse had had enough of it.

Evangeline knew just how he felt. But if she bolted, just like that horse, would she also be recaptured? Forced into doing her duty to the king after all?

Muriel burst through the door. “The king is here!” Her voice was brisk and breathless. “He is asking for you, Evangeline, just as I knew he would.”

“He wants me to come to the Great Hall for the evening meal?”

“He wants you to come now to the solar.”

“To sing for Lord Shiveley.” Evangeline’s stomach sank to her toes. She sat staring at the door.

“What are you waiting for? Go, Evangeline.”

“Will you come with me?”

“Of course.”

Evangeline stood. “If you are there as my witness, Lord Shiveley cannot do anything vile.” She grabbed Muriel’s arm. “Promise me you will not leave my side.”

“Very well, I shall try.” A flash of sympathy passed over Muriel’s face, which only made Evangeline’s stomach sink even more.

They made their way through the castle and up the stairs that led to the solar. Evangeline had never noticed before how gray the stones were, gray and hard and cold.

When they reached the room, two guards stood outside the door. The guards opened it, then closed it behind Evangeline and Muriel.

Richard was lounging in the largest chair, leaning back against the cushions. Evangeline and Muriel curtsied, bowing their heads.

“My cousin, little Evangeline! Come here.” Richard held out his hand to her.

Her heart beat fast as she approached her childhood friend. But she hardly recognized him anymore. Richard was the same height as Evangeline. His blond hair was darker, less yellow than she remembered. Having just turned eighteen years old, he had lost his soft, childlike facial features. Already he had dealt with killings and uprisings, not to mention he had been married for two and a half years.

There was a hardness around his eyes and mouth. Richard had seen the fighting during the Peasants’ Uprising three years before, had actually witnessed some of his close advisors murdered. It must have been very hard for him. He was not without feeling. At least, not when he was a boy.

He squeezed her hand, then motioned to her right. “Lord Shiveley wishes to greet you.”

Evangeline barely glanced at Lord Shiveley before sinking into a quick curtsy.

“My dear Evangeline. What a beauty you are, and always have been.”

He bowed over her hand. His wet lips touched her skin and her stomach turned. She tried to pull her hand out of his grasp, but he held on.

The Earl of Shiveley had a head full of black hair streaked with white. His lips were thick and shiny.

“My dear,” King Richard said, “Lord Shiveley and I are eager to hear you sing. Shiveley especially has told everyone in London about your exceptional voice and ability.”

Evangeline glanced at Lord Shiveley and couldn’t help but see the predatory look in his dark, deep-set eyes—something between masculine and animalistic. She shuddered.

“And just in time, here are the musicians.”

Three men entered the room, one carrying a hurdy-gurdy, another a lute, and another a flute.