A Dishonorable Knight(4)
Casually glancing in her lord's direction, she discovered him still seated in the middle of the great hall, but now his hair was tousled, his cheeks were flushed, and he seemed engrossed in a very private discussion with a shapely brunette, their heads nearly touching as they spoke. Something the woman said must have amused him because he threw back his head with laughter before grabbing the woman's hand and pressing a fervent kiss to her knuckles.
Elena scowled in anger. Men were so simple, she thought. Out of sight, out of mind, wasn't that what her cousin Sarah always said? Just this morning when Elena had walked with him in the orchard, he told her that hers was the most beautiful laugh he had ever heard and all other women's laughter would forever fall discordantly on his ears. Fortunately, she was not naive enough to believe everything men told her.
Upon first coming to court, she had quickly fallen in love with one of the king’s advisors, Lord Marchon. He was polished and worldly, handsome and dashing. They spent hours in the king’s private gardens, talking about books and kingdom politics, music and poetry. He sent her crystal bottles of perfume, posies of flowers, handkerchiefs of silk. Elena had believed his devotions of love and his promise for a beautiful life together. So fervently had she believed that she did not cry out when he woke her in her bed. The court was in York and Elena’s bed was but a hard pallet in a curtained alcove off the main hall. It scarcely offered privacy, but Marchon’s kisses were persuasive and if they could be married immediately, there would be no real harm in consummating their love, could there?
“Married?” he asked, a confused frown marring his handsome brow. “But I thought you understood, my sweet.” And in cold hard terms, he spelled out his idea for their “future together.” She would become his mistress and live in a rented house in London, available to him at his every whim, forbidden, unfortunately, from being seen with him in public, much less at court.
Elena was so angry, she shrieked and struck at him, raking his face with her nails. When she reared back to throw her fists at him again, she succeeded only in throwing herself out of the bed, out into the main hall where men were drinking, serving wenches on their laps. The uproar her arrival started only intensified when Lord Marchon stepped out of the alcove, adjusted his clothing, and left. For the rumors that flew through the court over the next fortnight, she may as well have given her virtue over. And just when she thought her shame could grow no heavier, Margaret told her about his wife.
“His wife?” Elena asked, her hopes crumbling about her hem. Margaret nodded sympathetically.
“She’s related to the Duke of York’s wife. She will be arriving in the next day or two.” Not only was she related to the Duke of York, she was beautiful and wealthy, and Elena was assigned to wait on her while she was at court. Humiliation had burned through Elena’s veins, pulsing her hurt and her anger through every fiber of her being.
Since that time, Elena had vowed she would not be fooled again. She perfected the art of flirtation, never taking seriously a word uttered by a courtier, making sure she would not appear the fool for any man. But the damage to her reputations was done. She was never sure if there was a knowing leer behind the flattering smiles of her fellow courtiers. Lord Edgeford was the first man who seemed to believe the best about her. Whether or not he’d heard the gossip, Elena felt sure he did not believe it. When they were married, she would finally be free of the malicious rumors--free to be the gracious, powerful noble lady she was born to be.
Lord Edgeford was different and her flirtations were no game: she meant to marry him. But she would not permit herself to care too deeply for him.
Elena realized that she was still staring at Edgeford and the dark-haired woman. Quickly turning her head, her gaze collided with the gray eyes of a man several tables over. Brushing a lock of thick brown hair out of his eyes, the man smiled and bowed his head at her. Elena was just about to glare her disapproval over such familiar behavior when the king's booming voice called to her.
"Lady Elena, my dear child. Come bid your sovereign good even!"
Smoothing her skirts, Elena approached the raised dais that held the king's table, and curtsied.
"No, no. Come around here and let me introduce you to someone."
Elena ascended the steps and approached the king, nodding to those lords who glanced at her and curtsying deeply to Richard.
"Your Grace," she murmured, hoping Lord Edgeford would see her up here and on such close terms with the king. Despite her assurances to Margaret, Elena was still not sure that the king of the York household would totally dismiss her father's distant relationship with the Lancastrians. Her grandfather had, after all, been granted his land in northern England from that formidable Lancaster, Henry V.