Chapter 20
Bad weather finally came to the castle. It wasn’t cold, just buckets and buckets of rain. Fay could barely see the boys sloshing around in the mud through Anne’s window, but she appreciated that Sir Knobby kept them busy, therefore giving her something to watch on those long, dreary days.
“Is it forty days of rain, yet?” Anne asked, squinting to see through the droplet-spattered windows.
Marjorie snickered from her corner and Batty let out a gusty sigh. Anne furrowed her brow. “I daresay I can’t recall the last time we’ve had a day without a drop of rain,” she said. “I know Father’s worried about the crops getting flooded.”
Fay had wondered why Sir Walter had been acting so distracted. He’d actually been a bit short with her at supper a few nights before, but Fay assumed it was because she was dragging her feet on giving him a definitive answer about whether she would be Lady Drayton or not. Spring had come and gone, and he’d visited one more time, being both charming and annoying. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him. If she didn’t have a curse to worry about appeasing, he might have been a good option as long as she was stuck in the fourteenth century.
She’d read a bit about arranged marriages back in her own time and some of them seemed to work out fine. The couple grew to respect each other and, eventually, many of them found love. Lord Drayton wouldn’t beat her, he respected her opinions, at least as far as she’d voiced any, and he was handsome and kind. Every time she made up her mind to give it a try, her heart would sink instead of flutter and her stomach would twist up with anxiety rather than flip with anticipation. She did have a curse to appease. And she had a feeling it would see right through her ruse.
She also had someone else she couldn’t get out of her head. Someone who seemed to have completely forgotten about her. She hadn’t heard a peep from their neighbor to the north. If it hadn’t been for Sir Walter’s men returning from successfully helping to vanquish yet another attempt to wrest Sir Tristan’s land from him, she might have thought he was dead.
And Batty had received two letters from Brom, one of which had a song he’d written for her in it. She’d listened while Batty slowly read it to her and Catherine. The words were so lovely and romantic she’d wanted to weep. Catherine had said it was the prettiest thing she’d ever heard and pronounced the squire in the wrong profession.
“I do think he wanted to be a bard, but as he’s so strong and tall and, of course, he was raised to be a knight …” Batty blathered on about him for at least five minutes longer while she let baby Robert gum on her pinky finger.
Fay hadn’t thought she was upset about Brom’s blatant affection and ability to show it through correspondence, until poor, wee Mary squeaked uncomfortably and she realized she’d been holding her too tightly. Catherine tsked, thinking she was hungry, but Fay had been ashamed at her jealousy. It was the letter she was envious of and Batty must have seen it, for she patted Fay sympathetically.
“It might be that Sir Tristan isn’t good with words,” she said. “It doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.”
It raised her spirits for about a second, until she realized that was exactly what it meant. If Brom had the time and the inclination to write multi-paged missives, Tristan could put a few words to parchment himself. If he wanted to, which he clearly didn’t.
Dragging herself back to the present, she pushed herself forcefully out of her chair and looked at her sister, who poked at a bit of embroidery. She longed to go outside and splash in the puddles and twirl in the downpour with her arms outstretched. But Batty was fussier than a hen when it came to water, and Fay didn’t want to risk Anne getting a chill. She eyed Marjorie with some hopefulness, but knew it would be a waste of time to ask her.
“When is the tournament?” she asked, giving up on going outside and deciding to talk about an adventure they all looked forward to instead. “Will we still be able to go if the weather stays like this?”
“Will they still have it?” Batty worried.
“That’s still a month from now,” Anne said, then paused to think. “Wait, how long exactly have we been cooped up in here with this weather?”
“Ages,” Marjorie said. “But you forgot about when you were so terribly ill. You slept a great deal of the spring away. If it’s not cancelled, the tournament is in but a fortnight.”
“Did they shear the sheep without me?” Anne asked, looking devastated.
“No, you haven’t missed that,” Marjorie assured her, breaking into a smile. “I can’t wait to see the lambs. Ugh, this weather. We’ve barely been to chapel it’s so wet everywhere.”
“Yes, it’s terribly negligent of us. We should wrap ourselves up and go say some prayers.” Anne sounded diligent enough, but didn’t move from her chair.
Fay thought about the trek through the outer bailey that seemed a mile long, leading to the leaky chapel. It was beautiful in sunny weather when the light hit the two stained glass windows, but in the damp or cold, it was a dreary place. Still, she would happily goad them with fear for their everlasting souls if it got her out of that room for a while.
A timid knock made the four of them turn to Anne’s door. A tousled, ginger head inched its way around, revealing one of the pages.
“Weren’t you out training?” Fay asked him, almost sure his name was Clive. “You look too dry to have been scuffling out there today.”
He shook his head. “Kitchen today, Lady Fay. I was just serving Sir Walter some fresh ginger pancakes that Cook was quite proud of when he asked me to bring you to him.”
“Me? Oh, okay, let me find my shawl.” Fay had a feeling her time was up. Her mind thrashed around, still trying to make a decision her heart and the curse could live with.
“Where are our cakes?” Anne asked teasingly.
“I’ll ask Cook, Lady Anne, and bring them up at once.” He bowed and then gazed at her as if she were the Madonna.
“Never mind, Clive. We were just looking for a reason to leave this chamber. And I think you’ve given us the perfect one.”
“Glad to be of service, Lady Anne.”
Fay told them to save some for her, not sure if she’d have any appetite. She followed Clive to her father’s throne room. The giant chair was pushed close to a desk. Sir Walter leaned over some letters, straining to read by the light of a lone candle.
“Let me read them for you,” Fay said. “It’s so dark, you’ll strain your eyes.”
“No matter, Fay,” he sighed. “I’ve worked out the gist of it. Have a seat, dear child.”
“Is the letter from Lord Drayton?” she asked, diving right in.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, making his somewhat bushy eyebrows ripple up and down. “Unfortunately no. This is from Lady Alise. You met her when you were a small child, do you remember? She is the owner of the bit of land that runs between ours to the west and the village of Cambrey.”
“I don’t remember her, no. Is there something I can do for her?” The thought of a possible trip to meet someone new perked her right up. Maybe this wasn’t about Lord Drayton at all.
“No. She was writing to express her good wishes for your marriage.” He rubbed his whole forehead now and ran his hands through his white mane of hair. “It seems Lord Drayton has been spreading it around the countryside that your engagement is official.” Fay gasped. What did that mean? Her father continued, and she worried for his hair follicles the way he was clutching at his scalp. “I do not like having my hand forced like this. Please don’t cry again, Fay.”
Oh, she wasn’t on the verge of tears this time. She was too occupied with deciding where to punch Lord Drayton the next time she saw him. She prayed she’d never have to see him again and, the way she felt right then, she thought he should pray for the same thing. For his own safety.
“Father, I’m sorry I waited so long to give you my answer. I was a coward and feared disappointing you. But I can’t—I really cannot—please don’t make me marry Lord Drayton.”
It was still a very real possibility that Sir Walter would make her marry him, especially now if he didn’t want their name sullied with talk of a failed match. No one would wonder what was wrong with Lord Drayton, they’d wonder what was wrong with her. It would make it all the harder for her to find a new suitor as rejected goods. Oh, God, had Tristan heard of her so-called engagement? She sank to the edge of her chair, thinking she may throw up.
“Child, I would never force you to marry someone you didn’t love. It would break my heart to see you unhappy. And I do believe your dear mother would haunt me.”
“You believe in love, then?” she asked.
He smiled ruefully. “Indeed. When I was your age I didn’t. I only wanted land and glory. I got those and found I wasn’t as happy as I thought I would be. Until, of course, I met your mother. Ah, but you know the story, she told it to you so many times when you two girls were small. I won’t bother you with repeating it.”
She longed to hear the story she was supposed to have heard so many times, but there was no way she could ask him. He’d only worry more than he did now. “I tried,” she said. “It’s another reason I waited so long. I promise I tried to only think of his good qualities, tried to picture a life with him.”
“But your heart won’t hear of it?” he asked in all sincerity.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. Sorry she wasn’t his real daughter, mostly. Glad he thought she was. “What will happen now?”
“Don’t worry yourself over that,” he said briskly. His face had cleared of its worry and she could see shades of the fierce warrior he’d once been. It seemed where his daughters were concerned, he would always be. “Go gather your sister and anyone else you can find and hie yourselves to the chapel to pray that this rain finally ceases.”
She stood and curtseyed, then took a risk and pressed a kiss to his bristly cheek. “I wish you really were my father,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t hear the words she actually spoke.
“And I love you, my dear. Make sure Anne is properly bundled, we can’t have her sick again.”
She nodded and scampered off, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.