Suzanne Robinson Read Free Page A

Honor said hastily. She gestured toward the four knights who formed the vanguard of their procession. “Lord Isidore’s men will do that, but I pray you accept my deepest gratitude for your chivalry.”
    Chewing his lip in frustration, Sir Lionel bowed and pulled his horse out of line. Lord Andrew dragged his eyes from the wagon that carried Honor’s waiting woman, her cook, and a casket of jewels. He saluted his would-be bride and without a farewell trotted after Sir Lionel. Honor waited until they were out of sight before she dismounted and led her horse off the road to stand beneath the ancient hawthorn. A few moments later Isidore’s chief knight joined her.
    Honor nodded to him. “God assoil your soul, good Sir Frederic. We’ve reached my father’s demesne, and I shall await his men here. You may begin your journey home at once.”
    “Impossible, my lady.”
    “I pray you, good sir, don’t dispute with me. Look.” Honor pointed to a line of mounted men crossing a stream that wandered down from a line of forest-covered hills. “My escort is here, so there’s little need to tarry.”
    “I must—”
    “No, you mustn’t.” Honor took off her gloves and flapped them at the man. “Go away! I’m done with Jennings affairs and Jennings men. Oh, now you’ve made me lose my temper, may God forgive me. And I’ve only just taken my vows.”
    “Forgive me, lady. I didn’t mean to.”
    “Then save me from a more grievous transgression and go away, Sir Frederic.”
    The knight hesitated.
    Honor rolled her eyes. “I can vouchsafe that my father’s men will be here before you’re out of sight.”
    “Very well.” Sir Frederic took her hand and kissed it. “May God protect you, good lady.”
    “And you, good sir.”
    The Jennings escort separated from Honor’s retinue and went slowly down the path. Sir Frederic paused at a turn and watched until the Stafford banner appeared through the trees. Honor waved her gloves at him. He kicked his destrier into a trot, and he and his men disappeared. Honor counted to one hundred. Down the road her father’s men approached.
    “Ninety-nine, one hundred.”
    Gripping her veils, Honor tore them from her head. She ripped the barb off and flung it away. A cheer erupted from her lips as it flew into the limbs of the hawthorn. Whirling around, she danced in front of her mare, who backed away from her with pricked ears. Honor laughed and twirled around. Her hair came loose from the net confining it, and it tumbled in copper waves down her shoulders. As she danced, her waiting woman scrambled down from her wagon and hurried over to her.
    “Jacoba, I’m free,” Honor said. “I’m free!”
    “I marvel they didn’t see through your disguisings, I do.” Jacoba crossed her arms and beamed at her mistress. Taller than most men, she was a woman of middle years whose chief concerns were finding a dye mixture that would cover the gray in her hair and trying to keep her mistress out of trouble.
    Honor laughed, and soon she was surrounded by her servants—Dagobert the page, Father Theodoric the clerk, and Wilfred the groom.
    Theodoric frowned and scratched under his cap. He was a former soldier and even after fifteen years as a cleric and secretary had yet to shed his warlike temperament. He was constantly trying to cultivate a virtuous attitude to make up for his faults.
    “If I may embolden myself, my lady. Taking vows and not keeping them …”
    “Oh, I’m going to keep them,” Honor said. She stopped capering and grew serious. “Did I not tellyou privily that this was the only way we could avoid being packed off to some lord? Did any of you wish to call another Jennings, or Sir Lionel, master?”
    They shook their heads violently.
    “No, my lady,” said Theodoric. “I’d have sinned grievously if that happened. I’d have been forced to lop off Sir Lionel’s head, may God forgive me.”
    Jacoba poked him with her elbow. “I’d have put nightshade in his