16

16

When Aimee woke the next morn, Lord Kentigern was gone and so was all trace of her shredded gown. She checked under the bed and behind the bed curtains, but there was no sign of it. With dawning embarrassment, Aimee hoped that Golda had not come across it and taken it for the rag bag or even worse, for mending. It was quite beyond repair, she was sure, but the thought of anyone else laying hands on it was mortifying, especially when she thought about the places the garment had – well – been.

When her maid brought her hot water half an hour later, no mention was made of the ill-treated garment, and Aimee decided against enquiring after it. Instead, she washed thoroughly and dressed in a sage green gown. She arranged her dark hair with great care, adding a small veil with pretty edging to cover the pinned braids.

In her mind was the idea that if she took the time over her appearance now, then she could appear below looking a picture of decorum and dignity in direct contrast with how she had behaved the previous day. Her cheeks flamed hot when she thought of how she had conducted herself, and she clapped her hands to them, gazing unseeingly into her looking glass. For a moment, when her husband had flung back the bedchamber door revealing the remains of that wretched gown, she had thought she would die of mortification on the spot.

She let her hands drop from her face and frowned. Certainly, Lord Kentigern had not reacted to her act of passionate vandalism at all how she had expected. She relived the moment now in her mind’s eye and marveled at the strange culmination to her day. She had been publicly disgraced, been shown great royal favor, had committed an act of blatant destruction, and been ravished by her own husband all in the space of one day! In the aftermath of their spent passion, he had even given her an explanation of sorts.

No sooner had he freed her from the shredded gown, then he had rolled onto his back and drawn her down on top of him. Aimee had needed no prompting to run her hands over his magnificent chest, and he had lain passive while she had run her palms all over the mighty muscles in his upper arms and shoulders.

“I should probably explain about the tourney crown,” he had said at last in a voice that cracked slightly.

Aimee made no reply, just waited. She was too sated and exhausted to make any gesture of resistance by this point, so she remained slumped over his chest as he gave his justification.

“I always give it where it will cause the most strife,” he had admitted bluntly.

She had lifted her head at that. “What do you mean?” she had croaked.

He had looked irritated at having to spell it out, perhaps even guilty. “Such as awarding it to my competitor’s spouse.”

She regarded him doubtfully. “You mean … like a poisoned chalice?”

“I’m not the only one that does it,” he had said defensively. When she had made no reply, he had asked “What?” in a testy manner.

“Oh, ’tis nothing,” she had managed. “It’s just … Well, I thought that it meant something else. When a knight awarded it to a lady, I mean.” When he didn’t speak, she had quickly added awkwardly, “I daresay you know much more about it than I.”

He had made no rejoinder to this, though he had lifted a large and hesitant hand to press her head back into his chest. Not long after that, Aimee had fallen fast asleep. She told herself it did not matter how long he had tarried before leaving her bed.

Before, when she still foolishly thought herself in love with her husband, she would have cared about such things. Not now though. Now, she took an entirely practical approach to her marriage.

She drifted downstairs and found Magnatrude and Freda both stood before the fireplace in some low-voiced conversation. They turned and greeted her hastily. “Were you waiting for me?” she murmured, taking her seat at the table. “I apologize. I was dallying this morning.”

For some reason, her words seemed to freeze the words on their tongues. They both gazed at her in seeming dismay. Aimee leaned forward to help herself to a piece of bread and could not help but wince in discomfort. Her muscles were stiff this morning, particularly her thigh muscles which burned. Her husband’s lovemaking had been extremely vigorous, and in truth, she was not sure you could call it love-making at all. She wished her own reaction to it had not been so … enthusiastic.

“Oh dear,” said Freda with a muffled sob. “Was he very brutal?”

Aimee nearly dropped her cup of ale.

“Freda!” Magnatrude upbraided her. “It is not our place to –”

“Oh, really, Trude?” Freda rounded on her. “It was not I who jumped out of my seat and begged dear Konrad not to beat his own wife!”

Belatedly, it occurred to Aimee that her in-laws had misinterpreted the nature of their Lord Kentigern’s punishment for his recalcitrant wife. “No, no,” she said weakly. “Of course, he did not. I am quite well this morn, I assure you.”

Magnatrude bent her neck and fiddled with her napkin. “Aimee,” she said, taking a deep breath before lifting her head. “I owe you an apology.” Aimee was so surprised she didn’t know what to say for a full minute. “I realize it will take time for you to determine my sincerity, but I hope that one day, in the not-too-distant future, you will give me another chance to be your sister.”

“Of course,” Aimee replied, and Magnatrude’s shoulders relaxed.

“Thank you,” she breathed, looking relieved. “I wish you would call me Trude, then, as my family do.”

As Magnatrude had not seemed particularly reconciled to this informal shortening of her name, Aimee was again surprised. “I would be happy to, Trude,” she said truthfully and remembered the string of coral beads still sat in the cabinet. She rose and fetched the package, setting them down by her sister-in-law’s plate before returning to her own seat.

Magnatrude opened them and slipped the handsome string of beads immediately over her head. “Thank you, sister,” she said politely. “I am afraid that, well, the family jewels were lost during the late war, and there are none left to bestow on you.”

Aimee’s hand flew to Freda’s brooch which was pinned to her chest. “I have this one,” she said looking across at Freda who looked highly gratified.

Magnatrude blinked. “Oh yes,” she said. “Of course, that is a handsome piece, though it could not possibly compare to the Bartree diadem which was exceedingly famous.” She turned to her cousin. “Is that not so, Freda?”

“Oh yes, dear,” Freda answered absently. “Though they say it is women with golden hair who desire opals, and Aimee is so very dark.”

“Golden hair?” Magnatrude repeated sounding irritated. “What are you talking about, cousin?”

“I am sure I am right,” Freda said. “For a particular friend of my youth was mad for them.” Freda’s eyes glazed over with the effort of recollection. “She always said opals would prevent a golden head from fading or darkening.”

Magnatrude looked taken aback by this information but soon rallied. “There were not only opals on the diadem but also emeralds,” she pointed out sternly. “Emeralds would look very fine against the black of Aimee’s hair.”

Aimee’s thoughts wandered as the cousins debated the properties of various jewels. If the diadem was gone, it was gone. She could see no point in debating it. Instead, she wondered what time Lord Kentigern had risen from her bed. She had slept so soundly; she had not stirred once. Had he only waited for her to close her eyes, or had he tarried longer? She cupped her chin in her hand and let her thoughts drift away. Directly after she had broken her fast, she would place the signet ring on his pillow, she decided. Then he would find it there when next he returned home.

A sharp rap on the door recalled her to her surroundings. All three of them turned as one to regard Golda coming through the door, her eyes wide and her breathing labored. “There’s an invitation here, miss – I mean, milady. From the palace!”

Aimee stared in astonishment as a smartly dressed youth strode through the door in a royal blue tunic with scalloped sleeves. He bowed smartly and looked quizzically at the table occupants. “Lady Kentigern?” he enquired politely.

“That is me,” Aimee replied, and he bowed and introduced himself as one Gordon Fairfax, emissary of her majesty, Queen Armenal.

“I am come to extend the queen’s royal invitation for you to join her this afternoon at the Summer Palace, my lady. The queen has had a pavilion set up and has her temporary court of love and beauty set up along the south lawns.”

“Love and beauty?” Aimee repeated with misgiving.

Gordon cleared his throat. “The ladies are mostly employed in embroidery,” he admitted. “While a bard sings to them many famous tales of romance.”

“Embroidery!” Aimee exclaimed with dismay. She was far from confident in the art. Recalling herself to the honor being done to her, she mustered up some hurried semblance of gratitude. “H-how very kind of her highness, to be sure. Am I to accompany you now?”

He bowed again with a flourish. “I will both escort and return you in good time,” he promised, beaming at Freda and Magnatrude.

“Should we accompany you?” her sister-in-law asked, and to Aimee’s mind she looked willing though not particularly enthusiastic. Wondering if Magnatrude had been intending to visit with northern nobles again today, she turned back to young Gordon with an enquiring look.

He spread his hands wide. “The invitation is ostensibly only addressed to you, my lady, but the queen would not be surprised to find you accompanied and would not turn anyone away, I am sure.” He smiled seraphically at Magnatrude, who obligingly rose from her seat.

“Oh dear,” said Freda. “Would you mind terribly, dear Aimee, if I did not accompany you?” She bit her lip. “Only I am lamentably short-sighted these days, and my embroidery was never as good as Trude’s.”

“Of course not,” Aimee assured her soothingly as she and Magnatrude made haste to depart. She squeezed Freda’s bony shoulder in passing. “Only, make sure you bid Golda to light a fire if you remain in one room, for it can grow quite cold in the shade.”

She hurried upstairs to fasten her gold chain about her neck and replace her thin slippers with a pair of smart ankle boots with cross lacings down the front. She tarried only to fetch the gold signet ring from the hidey-hole in her cupboard and carry it into her husband’s bedchamber. This she placed in the middle of her husband’s pillow bearer, still in its velvet pouch. After stepping back to survey the effect and check he could not miss this latest gift, she turned and flew down the staircase to join those waiting for her below.