Geoffrey Condit Read Free

much his face was shaped like a leopard, a beast of prey.
        His golden eyes were distant, his face set hard.  The edge of his mouth turned down as though a thought troubled him.  The light pressure on Catharine’s hand did not change.
        She glanced at the blue-veined priest.  He intoned,  “In nomine Partris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
        Moments later, with sharp agony, she heard Peter plight her his troth.  The words, filled with music, somehow edged the distress, cutting to the quick of her soul, leaving it exposed without refuge.
        “I, Peter Trevor, do take thee Catharine Clifford in Holy Church, as my wedded wife, forsaking all others, in sickness and health, in riches and poverty, in well and woe, till death us do part, and there to I plight thee my troth.”  His voice, deep and melodious, carried across the silent crowd.
        She raised her eyes to the sky and sun, now reaching its zenith, and said a silent prayer for help.
        Then everything slowed like a dream.  As a little girl she’d played at wedding with her playmates.  Now, facing Peter, she spoke the well known words.  “I, Catharine Clifford, do take thee Peter Trevor in Holy Church, as my wedded husband, forsaking all others, in sickness and health, in riches and poverty, in well and woe, till death us do part, and there to I plight thee my troth.”
        The ceremony went all too fast.  The handsome knight of her dreams was instead a scared monster.  Tears welled in her eyes, and she bit her lip.  Buckingham used her as a tool of spite.  He’d forced her into a loveless union without care or consideration.
        The priest said,  “You have the ring, Lady Bess?”
        Lady Bess stepped forward with the ring.  The priest turned, and held the ring up before the throng of towns people and soldiers.  A roar of approval went up.  The tumult last for several long seconds and ended with applause.  Then the aging priest blessed the ring and gave it to Peter.
        Peter took Catharine’s left hand and went to each finger, slipping the ring part way on and off, saying, “In nomine Partris, et Felii, et Spiritus Sancti.”  Then he slipped the ring onto her third finger, and said,   “With this ring, I thee wed.”
        She stared down at the ring.  Black.  Unyielding.  An ugly black ring.  Iron, not gold.  A cruel joke.  But when she looked into Peter’s face, she knew it was anything but a joke.  This was a profound act of creation, an act of shaping, whose life and death lay in their hands.  Then the priest gave his blessing, and a door slammed shut in her heart.
        The Duke of Buckingham smiled, and moved forward to offer his congratulations.  He handed Peter a scroll.
        “The House of York,”  the duke said, “wishes only the happiness of its subjects.  Catharine was raised for a time with the King’s own son, Edward, Earl of Salisbury.  His Grace, for the love his son bears this lady, would not see her family lands leave her.   He graciously grants you the Clifford Barony of Westmoreland.  It will now be part of the Trevor holdings.  Be pleased he is so generous.”
        Catharine tried to think.  “Where are my belongings?”
        “Even now a wagon rumbles on the road to this castle with your belongings and servant.”   Buckingham fastened the collar of his black, gold trimmed cloak.  “His Grace, the King will be pleased.”  He examined his black velvet cap with gold thread, and smoothed the small peacock feather before he set the cap on his head at a rakish angle.  “You have one of the finest holdings in England, Lord Trobridge.  How long has it been in your family?”
        “Over eight hundred years, Harry,”  Peter said.
        “Let us hope it stays that way,”  Buckingham said.
        “I have no intention otherwise.”  Peter held his voice even, and his face impassive.
        “I remember that Sir William