The Silent Songbird (Hagenheim #7)(5)

“What song do you prefer? They can play anything.” Richard was smiling and leaning toward her.

All eyes were on Evangeline. She had sung for the king and his retinue before, but the thought of Lord Shiveley watching her with those squinty black eyes, thinking she was soon to be his bride . . . Her cheeks burned.

Evangeline named a song, and the musicians began to play. She cleared her throat and closed her eyes, willing her voice not to shake, but to be clear, strong, and defiant.

It was a warm day, and the window was open. Evangeline imagined that her voice was carrying straight out that window and into the ears of people who would not only appreciate it, but who did not expect her to be their pawn, plaything, or anything else she did not wish to be.

As she sang several verses, Evangeline kept her eyes focused out the window on the trees well beyond and the sky and clouds above those trees. Singing made her feel free. If she kept her mind on faraway places and people, she couldn’t think of Lord Shiveley, so she continued to sing to the trees and the clouds and the birds, to the invisible masses in her mind, her heart swelling with the notes, soaring into freedom.

When the song ended, tears pricked her eyelids. Her heart seized at the way Richard was staring at her, at the thought of facing Lord Shiveley.

“Sing another, if you please, Evangeline,” King Richard said.

She gave the musicians the title of another song, grateful for the distraction, even though it would only postpone the inevitable.

Could anyone hear her out that window? Inexplicably, in her mind she saw the young man who saved the little girl from the runaway horse. Could he hear the desperation in her voice? Would he be willing to come to her aid and help her escape from the prison that was her life?

But that was foolish. No one could help her. She had to save herself.

When the song was over, she glanced in Lord Shiveley’s direction. He smiled.

King Richard was speaking. “We shall have a short ceremony here tomorrow with my own priest. We will have the banns cried afterward to satisfy the Church, but Lord Shiveley is eager to have the formalities over. I’m sure you cannot mind, since Lord Shiveley is well able to take care of you. His country estate in Yorkshire is even larger than Berkhamsted Castle.”

Blessedly, Evangeline’s mind went numb. She took the time to swallow. He would not even allow her time to accustom herself to the idea or to try to persuade him not to force her to marry Lord Shiveley. What could she possibly say that would change his mind?

“It is sudden, Your Majesty. You had only mentioned this once before.”

Richard’s eyes widened, then his brows lowered. “But you have no reason to object.” He was not asking her; he was telling her.

Instead of replying, she simply lowered her head, a cross between a bow and a nod. She steeled herself against looking at Lord Shiveley. She did not want to see whatever expression he might have at her reluctance to acquiesce to their wedding on the morrow.

“Very good, my dear cousin. Now tell me how you have fared. Are you in good health? Have the servants been treating you as they should?”

“Yes, I have been in very good health, and the servants have been as dutiful and obliging as they have ever been. And you? How has Your Majesty’s health fared?”

“Very well, except for a fever I suffered for a few days. I am quite restored now. Shiveley had some lemons sent to me, and they quite cured me. Lemon juice and honey will cure nearly any ill. I am convinced.”

Yes, Lord Shiveley was quite the perfect friend and ally, no doubt. And now he must be rewarded. He must get whatever wife he wished, even though he was old and disgusting and—

“How is the hunting this time of year?” the king asked.

“I do not know. Your steward often provides us with venison and pheasant, so I believe the hunting is good.”

“Have you still not taken up falconry and hunting stags, my dear?”

“I do not wish to disappoint you, my king.”

Richard laughed. “You always did have a mind of your own. Behind that pretty face, you have the mind of a man—though not a man’s taste for hunting, I see.”

She cast her gaze down at the floor to hide her rebellious eyes in the hopes of looking demure. “I hunt as often as I am allowed to, Your Majesty.”

“Evangeline, if I may ask,” Lord Shiveley said, his voice as smooth and oily as his hair. “What do you enjoy doing, if not hunting? I know you sing beautifully. Do you also play an instrument? Or perhaps you prefer painting or embroidery?”

It was probably regular and polite conversation, but somehow Lord Shiveley sounded as if he were placing her beneath him by naming these strictly feminine pursuits.

“I do not paint.” She disdained telling him that she rather enjoyed embroidery. “I play the lute, and I sing for the servants every Sunday evening.” Shut away here in this stone prison. “When I am fortunate enough, the steward allows me to roam the gardens, where I enjoy identifying plants and small animals and insects. Muriel helps me by drawing the specimens, and we have started compiling them into a book.”

“I see. That is most interesting.”

“But I am planning to start training in sword fighting, archery, and knife throwing.” She could not resist the rebellious declaration, even though she knew she should pretend to be demure.

Lord Shiveley peered at her while stroking his thin black goatee.