The Bridegroom by Darby York Page A

face and down my back to my knees.
    When my stomach complains loudly I wonder if others
hear. I glance at those standing near and place a hand against the
folds of my surcoat, as if that gesture will ease my hunger pangs.
I have not broken my fast. Now, with heat suffusing my face, I feel
lightheaded.
    Servants have prepared the broad open space of the
upper-story hall for the wedding. Rough timber floors have been
swept clean, strewn with fresh rushes and sprinkled with dried
herbs—spicy basil, sweet-smelling balm and lavender, and refreshing
hyssop. Tallow candles impaled on iron candlesticks flicker,
casting splotches of stark light that fail to brighten the
cavernous hall or alleviate the sudden chill in the October air. I
sidle nearer to the roaring fire.
    “He comes, my lady,” my maid whispers.
    My breathing falters. At the far end of the hall, my
bridegroom halts, hard-pressed by a crush of castle folks hailing
his arrival.
    Watching him from under my lashes, I see the black
knight at ease with the servants and the lesser tenants, who have
been summoned to the castle for the event. His laughter sounds
effortless and genuine. How dare he win over my people so
readily?
    As if he hears my thoughts, his gaze finds mine,
focusing on me like a raptor fixed on its doomed prey. I suck in a
breath. His black eyes cut into me like talons. That dark stare
penetrates my inner soul, almost as if he sees my hate. We are
enemies. Without mother or father, I must do as the king
commands.
    My bridegroom breaks away from the crowd and, with
the sweep of his black cloak, closes the distance between us in
long strides. Everyone in the hall pauses to watch. His footsteps
echo in the expectant silence.
    He stops just inches from me, dressed from head to
foot in black with no ornamentation except for the sapphire broach
clasping his cloak together across his broad shoulders.
    ‘Tis as if we are alone in the midst of all the
wedding guests and servants.
    My heart racing, I pretend to be shy. I can but
glance at him, hastily, and then lower my gaze, as any demur
maid.
    “Ah, sweetheart, you are lovely,” he says so softly
that only I hear.
    My head jerks up. “I am not your sweetheart!”
    He assesses me, silently, his face unmoving. What is
he thinking? Pinpricks of tension hold me erect. I lift my chin and
glare back at him.
    “I warn you, as well.” His words, when they come,
are a quiet hiss between his teeth and meant for just me. “You will
act the part of my wife, if only for the sake of your good people
here.” He sweeps an impatient hand, indicating the assembled
crowd.
    I draw a sharp breath. His threat is not idle. I see
it in his resolute stance and in his eyes, those black, raven’s
eyes.
    “I will do my duty, sir, for I know my obligation,”
I say, letting him see by my own icy gaze that having his way with
me will not be easy.
    “The priest awaits.” He takes my right hand gently
in his. “Come, let us both do our duties.”
    Before the sixth hour, the ceremony begins inside
the tiny chapel. The clergyman announces the terms of my dower and
the dowry. I pay scant attention, not caring what is said nor
promised. I concentrate solely on the way my bridegroom’s massive
grip swallows my hand.
    His fingers are long and tapered, strong and tanned
from days in the sun. Still, I feel no safety with my small hand in
his. Conversely, I feel faint, my face hot and flushed. ‘Tis as if
smoldering embers somehow extend from his fingertips, shooting up
my arm and down my body, and bursting into flame somewhere near the
core of me being. That place where last night I’d yearned for
him—nay, lusted for him—the flower of my maidenhead.
    We stand side-by-side, facing the priest, who
crosses himself and glances pointedly at me. I stare up at him as
he begins slowly, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together in the
sight of God to join together this Man and this Woman in holy
Matrimony.”
    Jolted by the gravity of the